The Dinner (Chapter 4)

It wasn’t long before a man in a white labcoat appeared.  He brought my clothes with him.  The thirty something Deteis gentlemen stepped out while I changed, but waited just outside the door to the interrogation cell.  It was clear my clothes had been cleaned, but upon further inspection I noticed they had been tampered with.  There were hidden compartments built into my clothing that had previously hid weapons.  Most were composite bladed weapons, fashioned in such a way that made them appear to be normal parts of the clothing.   In addition to those, was a wire built into the lining of my pants that could be used as a garrote.  My belt was missing as well, and the belt was just a belt.  
         
         Irritating.  
         
         When I was ready I stepped outside.

“If you’ll follow me please,”  the Deteis said, motioning for me to follow.

I walked a step behind him down a well lit series of grey concrete corridors.  There were many steel doors but no windows.  I could make out a faint humming noise coming from somewhere down the hall, but was unable to discern its source.  There was a faint odor of bleach in the air, as if this area had been disinfected recently.  I got the distinct impression that we were underground.     

I felt an odd mix of relief and anxiety.  On the positive side of things, I wasn’t captured or awaiting torture.  On the downside I had undergone surgery without my knowledge or consent.  Compounding the issue, there were far more questions than answers, especially when it came to the socket at the base of my skull.  To make matters worse Allison would likely continue to grill me about my past.

The unhealthy interest Dr. Krieger seemed to have in my employers was troubling.  Aside from information regarding assignments I had played a direct and incriminating role in, there wasn’t much information about the organization I could have given her, and certainly nothing that she could have acted on. 

Within the organization, I was kept on a need to know basis.  Information and assignments were compartmentalized in such a way that I was not made aware of other operatives activities, whereabouts, names of the members of other units unless it was deemed necessary.  I'm not sure how many units existed.  I wouldn't even be able to estimate that sort of thing.  
          Discretion was very important to our overall health and well-being.  A lack of discretion usually resulted in an unpleasant death.  If operators had family it wasn’t unheard of for them to share in the burden of that operator’s indiscretion.  The word burden in that last sentence being synonymous with unpleasant death.  They were secretive about many things, but went out of their way to show us the consequences of actions they didn't approve of.  Despite the plethora of reasons to keep quiet, we were all viewed as liabilities to the operation as a whole.

The mantra of compartmentalization was maintained even at Center, the training facility for operators like myself.   Units were kept separate as much as possible during training.  Active communication attempts between training units was forbidden, and violations were punished harshly.  
           Center itself, was a mystery even to the people who trained at the facility.  It's location was kept a secret to the trainees.  I suspected it was located within the belly of a large cloaked ship that moved around to avoid detection.  Some within my unit seemed to believe it was underground.  Nobody within my unit knew for sure, and handlers usually discouraged conversation on the topic.  It seemed as if nobody within the unit had ever returned to Center after the completion of training.  As a result nobody knew where it was or how to find it.  
          I had no idea who comprised the organization’s core leadership, or even how many of them there were.  As for the operation’s true purpose and goals, only the person(s) at the top knew for sure.  What I did know was that agents operated in independent cells of 4-6 operatives that were overseen by a handler.  Handlers reported to, and received assignments from someone up the chain of command.  I was never made aware of how this occurred, I just knew it did.  Operations ranged from anything from reconnaissance and espionage to sabotage and assassination.  Targets were usually foreign or domestic threats to the State.  

How pervasive and far reaching was the influence of the organization?  I couldn't say for sure, but I had seen things, done things, and gotten access to places that would not have been possible without influential forces pulling the strings.  

Early in my career, within the organization, I was a member of a small team of five other operatives.  I was told my talents drew the attention of someone further up the chain of command, and it wasn’t long before I was singled out for special training which prepared me to work alone, primarily to do wet-work.  In the beginning the missions were against targets and assets that belonged to non State factions, but as I continued to succeed I noticed that the missions became increasingly aimed toward domestic targets within the State itself.  I was often sent on assignments that would have gotten me branded as a traitor, and likely executed as one, had I been caught.  Such operations became increasingly frequent and concomitantly disturbing, and although I tried not to show my discomfort my handler eventually picked up on it.

I remember him taking me aside after a mission I wasn't comfortable with. He gave me a long metaphorical speech about how the Caldari State was a lot like a living organism, in which each of the mega-corporations played the role of an organ.  In an organism, the organs worked together seamlessly for the continued life and growth of the whole body.  Under ideal circumstances the State functioned in the same manner, but in actuality each corporation was more like an organ working toward it’s own rapacious self interest, which would have fine as long as it did not harm the organism while it did so.  The problem was that this was often not the case.  

The Caldari State theoretically had institutional as well as social checks and balances in place to help insure corporations didn’t attempt to better their positions at the expense of the State as a whole.  In practice, the checks and balances failed often.  The kind of men that typically rose to the top, within the corporate power structures, were ruthless individuals that hid in the shadows behind lies and proxy stooges.  They accumulated power for its own sake.  Some inevitably become malignant cancers within the organism of the State, requiring intervention to bring things back into balance; surgery to save the organism.  Sometimes that meant killing a director, sometimes that meant planting falsified evidence to implicate a military leader in a crime, and sometimes that meant something far more extreme.

It was a good metaphor, but I wasn’t naive.  I believed that he believed what he said was true.  Perhaps on some level it was, but I had seen first hand what ambition, deep pockets, and a lack of accountability could do.  I'd been sent to take down rogue operatives or intelligence outfits on several separate occasions in the past.  They went off the reservation fairly often, especially when they operated on the fringes of space, far from the watchful eyes of those they were held accountable to.  Even intelligence outfits that were started with the best intentions could take on a life of their own over time, eventually becoming a problem that had to be dealt with.  It wasn’t a stretch to assume we had fallen victim to the same corruption.  After all, while we were watching the State who was watching us?

In the end it was something for me to ponder while brooding over a drink at night.  There was no use losing any sleep over it, and it was a distraction from what was really important, accomplishing the mission and surviving to do it again.  Anything else was just a distraction.  Besides, most of us were raised to see the world in black in white, the brighter among us see things as they really are, shades of grey.    

“This way sir,” the Deteis said as he opened a metal door and motioned for me to step inside.  He didn’t follow.  The door slid closed behind me, as I stepped into the dining room.

It was a large brightly lit room with white walls.  To the left side of the room was a large aquarium that nearly took up the entire wall. It was filled with colorful exotic freshwater fish.  They weaved in and out of the rocks and submerged aquatic plants.  In the center of the room was a sleek looking long table with several chairs.  There were two places set at the center of the table opposite each other, and several dishes laid out under platters.  After walking through spartan hallways that looked like the inside of an underground bunker I wasn’t expecting a room so lavish in appearance.  

“Have a seat I’ll be out in a moment,” I heard Allison shout from an adjacent room.

I sat down in the chair behind the plate nearest to me.  There was the unmistakable odor of long limed roes in the air. Someone pulled out all the stops tonight.

Allison emerged from the next room wearing a grey form fitting dress with matching heels.  The dress showed a conservative amount of skin, but left little up to the imagination about the shape of the fit body below it.  It was sleeveless, showing off her thin but athletically toned arms. Her straight dark brunette hair draped down over her shoulders.  She moved for the chair opposite mine, on the other side of the table.  

“I’m sure you’ve noticed by now, but I had security remove some of your more...weaponized accessories.  You won’t be needing them here.  Some of them were rather creative,” she said as she sat down gracefully.  “The garrote trouser lining was an especially nice touch.”

“I’m more upset about my missing belt.”

“What was so special about the belt?”  she asked.

“It helped hold up my pants,” I said, reaching for a glass of what appeared to be water.  I passed it under my nose to confirm my assumption.  Satisfied I was correct, I took a sip.  

“I’ll see what I can do about getting it back to you,” she said with a smile.  She lifted her tray off her plate, and motioned for me to follow suit. “Help yourself.  I’m sure you’re hungry.”  

I nursed the water slowly, taking small sips.  “How long was I kept unconscious?”

“About three days,” she said, starting on her roes with her fork.     
          I watched her closely for a few moments as she ate.  She made brief eye contact and turned her attention back to her long limbed roes.  I changed my focus to my platter.  Lifting it, I discovered roes, various vegetables, and a steak.  The steak was unquestionably real, not the protein "delicacy" crap that most people throughout the galaxy ate.  The dishes were well seasoned and professionally garnished.  It was a meal worthy of a corporate CEO.

I decided to break the silence first.  “The socket seems a lot like a capsuleer neural socket.”

“Yes it does doesn’t it?” she said between bites.  She paused in thought for a few moments, before looking me directly in the eye.  “But that’s business and we have plenty of time to get to that after we finish eating.  You’re my dinner guest and I don’t know about you, but I prefer light hearted dinner conversation.”  She smirked.            
           I stared back at her blankly.  She continued to eat, but met my stare as she chewed.  An uncomfortable silence settled in.  

“You’re not much of a talker are you?” she quipped.

“Frankly, I find it a little difficult to have a casual dinner conversation when my host drilled a hole into the base of my head nature didn’t intend,”  I said, making no attempt to hide my irritation.

She smiled but said nothing, and continued to eat.  The uncomfortable silence returned.  I decided to try the roes.  They were as genuine as the steak, and very savory.  As I ate them I began to feel a little more generous.

“Okay, lets start over.  So you’re a doctor.  A doctor of what exactly?”  I asked mockingly.

“I hold a doctorate in the field of neurobiology, specializing in neuroplasticity.  I also hold doctorates in psychology, and of course medicine,” she answered happily, ignoring my tone.

“That’s pretty impressive.” I nodded in genuine approval.

“I’d like to think so.” She said, flashing a cat like smile.

“So, why choose those particular fields?  I’ve been told whenever someone wanted to study psychology it was because they were trying to figure out what was wrong with themselves,” I said with a malicious grin.

She ignored the jab.  “I’ve always been fascinated with with the human form.  Especially the human brain, the mind as well of course.  Many people consider them separate...I don’t.  On top of everything else, I like to consider myself a student of human behavior.  Why do people act the way they do?  Why do they feel the way they feel?  The psychology behind people in your line of work is particularly fascinating to me.”

“Why is that?” I asked, reaching across the table to pour more water into my glass.

“There are a lot of reasons.  Take for example, the way different individuals react to combat stress, or more specifically, the myriad of factors which go into determining why an individual performs bravely in combat while another has a complete mental break down under identical circumstances,” she said, sipping from the wine glass before continuing.  “Military psychologists have employed psychological tests and various other methods in the attempt to identify and eliminate people who are less suited to combat roles before they reach the battlefield.  They met with varying degrees of success, but despite the effort they have never really been able to find a truly accurate model for predicting an individuals predisposition to combat stressors, at least not one that didn’t involve a history that detailed past combat performance."
          I nodded, listening with mild interest as I ate.  
          "Predicting an individual's predilection to violent behavior is just as difficult. Even predictive brain scan technology hasn’t been able to crack the puzzle.  Sure, the scanners usually do a fairly good job of singling out risky individuals just before they carry out violent acts, but they can’t really predict what that same person would or wouldn’t be capable of doing down the line.”

“Wolves and sheep,”  I mused.

“Wolves and sheep?”  she repeated inquisitively.  Her eyes narrowed slightly as she cocked her head to one side.

“In my experience there are two types of people in the universe.  There are wolves, people who are the hunters, the predators.  For them aggression comes easy, it’s attractive, even natural.  Then there are the sheep, or carebears as the capsuleers so aptly name the egger equivalent.  The fearful masses.  They avoid serious conflicts that can result in bodily harm to themselves or others.  The overwhelming majority of people fall into the sheep category.”  I paused considering my next words.  Her bright green eyes watched me with an unwavering gaze.  “There are many sheep that think they are wolves, it’s some sort of coping or defense mechanism.  I suppose there are rare circumstances where a wolf thinks they are a sheep.  There really isn’t a way to know which group you fall into until you’re put to the test, I guess.”  

“I suppose you fall into the wolf category,”  she said as a mischievous grin appeared on her face.

 I nodded slowly.

 “And when did you come to that realization?”  
            She turned her knife and fork on her steak while waiting for me to respond.  I was silent for a while before finally deciding to answer.  
           “A few years ago I was on a reconnaissance patrol in a dense jungle environment.  We had seen lots of guerrilla hit and run style fighting for the better part of two days.  I went out alone looking for signs of where the enemy unit had retreated after we broke contact.  It was my first time seeing real action.  I had been out there for a few hours and was fatigued by lack of sleep...but why it happened doesn’t matter now, I suppose," I mused.  "In any case I was uncharacteristically sloppy.  I was following a trail through rough terrain when a soldier, probably the same one who’s trail I had been following, jumped out from behind a tree.  He had the drop on me, was real close...ten meters or so.”  

I shook my head slowly, and took a long sip of water before I spoke again.  
          “He had me dead to rights.  Rifle was pointed right at me.  He could have opened up on me with his eyes closed, and he’d have killed me anyway...he was that close.  I turned my head to look at him because I wanted to at least get a glimpse of the face of the person who was about to kill me... and we locked eyes.  Then something I didn’t expect happened...he just...froze up.  I was waiting for him to pull the trigger or for him to yell at me to drop my weapon and surrender, but he just stood there with the rifle pointed at me.  His eyes were open as wide as dinner plates.  I could see him shaking like a leaf.  Apparently he was alone.  I guess he had gotten separated from the rest of his unit somehow.  I can still remember his face like it was yesterday...those wide eyes.  He was roughly my same age maybe younger...just a scared kid.”  My voiced trailed off.

“What happened?”  Allison asked.

“I snapshot him in the head, no hesitation, boom.  He went limp and crumpled straight to the ground under the weight of his equipment.  He just dropped straight down.  That wasn’t the first person I had ever killed, but that was the first I time I had been so close, the first time I watched someone I killed die.  It was in that moment, as I looked down at him, at that star shaped hole in his head that used to be an eyeball, watching the life drain out of him...that’s when I knew...I had always suspected, but in that moment I was sure.”

She nodded, staring at me intently.  “How did it make you feel?”

“I remember being a little upset he got the jump on me in the first place, but other than that I was just glad it was him and not me.  I felt...satisfied, I guess.”

“Interesting,” Allison said.

 “I’ve seen people freeze up when push came to shove.  It’s pretty common.  Killing just isn’t in most people’s natures.  There's the common belief that mankind as a whole is some kind of killing machine, but for the most part it simply isn’t true.  It's just a rumor the scared sheep spread.  Those who haven’t seen wolves prefer to live as if they don’t exist, and those that have seen wolves see them everywhere, regardless of whether they are really there.”  

She nodded again.  “I’ve done research that would agree with you.  There is a strong genetic imperative amongst most mammalian species that creates a strong resistance to killing members of their own species.  It’s not easy for most to overcome even with training,” she said while cutting into a piece of meat. “Even amongst the capsuleers roughly 10% of them are responsible for 90% of the violence against other capsuleers in a given day, and they aren't even killing each other face to face.  Although they don’t seem to have an issue with turning their guns against mortals.”  She paused for a bite before continuing.  “Interestingly enough evidence shows most psychiatric casualties in warfare don’t stem from threat of death, but from the fear or guilt associated with killing.”

I gave a knowing nod. “You can train sheep to kill each other, but at the end of the day it’s against their nature.  There are consequences that come after.” 
           I inspected some of the vegetables in front of me.  There was some sort of exotic tuber I hadn’t seen before.  I took a small bite of it, and encouraged by the taste I ate the rest of it.

           “What do you think motivates people to kill?”  she asked.
           “Heh, I think the harder question is why don’t they do it more often?”
           “Well?” she insisted.
           “There are a lot of reasons to kill.  Mankind never runs out of reasons to kill.  Some kill in the name of a god, some faceless, unseen, all powerful being that apparently needs his peons to do the dirty work in his name,”  I said, sneering.
           “It’s safe to say you don’t believe in a god then?  I was always under the impression there were no atheists in foxholes.” Her tone was noticeably facetious .
           “I don’t know about you, but I don’t consider yelling god damn it repeatedly while under fire a sign of religious belief.  It’s just something you say.”
           “Ah,” she smiled, “I didn’t mean to interrupt.  Continue.”
            I took a moment to regain my train of thought.  “Some believe they kill for the greater good,” I said, making quotes in the air with my fingers, “then proceed to declare, in their arrogance, what that greater good is.  Then there are some that kill out of duty or loyalty to a cause.  It’s all basically killing in the name of something larger than oneself.  Which, I suppose,  is really not all that different from killing in the name of a god, except it’s being done for something a little more tangible.  There countless reasons to kill.  So many justifications to give, and most of it is just that...justifications.”  I paused in thought for a few moments, while cutting a few pieces from my steak. “Some do it out of necessity, self defense, or defense of friends or family.  Some simply enjoy it, but in nearly all cases people usually find a way to shift the responsibility their actions off on some sort of excuse.  Blame it on society or not being hugged enough as a child.”
           “How do you justify it?  If that’s not too personal a question to ask.”
           “I figured that question was coming," I said, wincing slightly.  "I don’t know... I don't really feel the need to.  I enjoy what I do.  There is a satisfaction that comes with seeing a target go down.  I don’t normally take much pleasure in the act of killing, itself.”
           Was that a lie?

  “There have been times though, when I felt the target really deserved it," I said.  "So, to answer your question, I never really felt the need to justify it to myself.  The existence of killing is merely confirmation of a truth about the nature of the universe playing out.”

          “And what truth is that?” she asked.
          “Life must end life in order to live.  Everyone and everything that lives does so at the expense of something else.
       "What about plants?"
       "Even with plants.  They compete for sunlight and root space without regard to anything around them.  Some of them trap other organisms for nutrients.  The law applies to them as well."
       "I see what you mean, go on."
       "It’s an intrinsic and unpleasant truth that civilization has gone through a great deal of trouble to hide.  People don’t even have to kill for a meal anymore.”  I said, while cutting my steak into additional pieces with the knife.  “The killing is done behind the closed doors of some processing plant, away from the watching eyes of those who will eventually eat it, and by the time it reaches the dinner table it doesn’t even remotely resemble the living thing it once was.”  I slowly shook a forked piece of steak in front of my face to illustrate my point.  “That would be an...unpleasant reminder that something had to pay for the cost of your meal with its life.”  I paused to examine the meat for a moment.   “Most people don’t like their meal to have a face.  They certainly don’t want to look at it while they eat.”
           She nodded.
           “But even within a civilization that basic truth of the universe plays out.  Especially when there is some sort of resource scarcity,  such as a dire shortage of food or medicine, on a colony.  The speed with which things get primal and ugly can be shocking, even to the initiated,”  I said.  
        She gave a knowing nod.  
        “Even in the best of times distribution of goods and resources never ends up even or even equitable...not really.  The wolves ultimately rise to the top in society and guide the sheep to fleecing or slaughter.  The victims of civilization are created with the boardroom instead of with the battle-axe but the end result is largely the same.  Death just comes a bit slower than it otherwise would have.  The inevitable casualties are justified in the name of progress...towards what, who can say for sure?  The wheels must keep turning.  Economic choices, goods, resources, industry...in order to keep the machine running it has to be done at the expense of someone somewhere.”  I motioned with an open hand in the direction of the aquarium.  “We can’t all live like kings. It is easy to see the truth no matter how much society tries to hide it.  In the end I’m essentially no different than someone working in a meat processing plant.  I do an ugly, but necessary, job so that others can sleep at night under the pleasant blanket of an illusion.  People like me exist so that everyone else doesn't have to stare their steaks in the face.”  I bit the steak off the end of the fork and chewed.
          “You have a rather dark conceptualization of the world around you,” she said, with a mischievous smirk.
           I shrugged.  “Hard to see the universe as sunshine and rainbows when you do what I do for a living.  Speaking of dark, if this is your idea of pleasant dinner conversation, I’d hate to see you being unpleasant.  You were all too happy to steer the conversation toward the morbid.”
           She smiled slightly.  “Does it make you uncomfortable?”
          “No, of course not,” I said shaking my head.
           She shifted around in her chair.  “So we have established the fact you don’t believe in a god,” she said, raising her hand to take a sip from her wine glass, “but I’m curious as to whether or not you believe there is anything after death.”
          “I don’t,” I replied.
           She had a look of surprise at that answer.  “You’ve had your share of close calls while on assignments have you not?  How many of those exactly?”
           I thought about it for a second.  “I’m not sure.  I don’t keep count of things like that.  I’ve had more close scrapes than I would like to admit.  What exactly are you getting at?”  I frowned.
          “I’m curious how you can hold the belief that there is nothing after this, and still put yourself in harms way, as your occupation requires.  I’m assuming you don’t have a death wish.”
           I shrugged my shoulders.  “I don’t usually think about dying.  I spend most of my attention on trying to stay alive and accomplish the mission.  Outside of that I’ve accepted the fact that despite my luck or skill my death is going to happen eventually.  Maybe it’s because I make a mistake, or maybe it’s because someone gets lucky.”

“Or maybe because someone is just better than you,” she interjected with a small smile.

“Well, I’d like to think it wouldn’t be because of that, but at that point I guess it wouldn’t matter would it?”  I said with a smile.  “The point is, my death is going to happen eventually it’s just a matter of when... but that’s the case no matter what my occupation.”

            She nodded, and took another sip from her glass.  Then she stared silently for a time before speaking.  The gaze from her green eyes didn’t waver an inch.  “What if I told you that didn’t have to be the case?”
           “You would have my full attention.”  I replied.
           She took a deep breath.  “You were brought here because we have developed the technology to reliably perform infomorph transfers outside of the capsule.”
           “You can transfer the consciousness of a foot-soldier to a clone body?”  As I asked I could feel my eyes widen slightly.
           “Precisely.”
           “Has it been tested?”  I asked with a raised eyebrow.
           “It has.”
           “And?”
           “The system is compatible with individuals with a certain...specific neurological and genetic make up.  One we have confirmed you possess.  You underwent procedures in the time you were unconscious so that we could interface you with the technology.  The transfers of consciousness usually go off without a hitch.”
            “Usually?”
            “Well, as with anything that has to function in an environment as unpredictable as combat, there have been the occasional equipment failures, but those which did occur in testing have been corrected.”
            “I suppose usually coming back to life beats the odds I’d have had without the technology.”
            “No doubt about that,” she said.  
            “How does it work?”
            “Without going into too much detail, we map out the physical structure of the brain of the subject down to the microscopic level.  Memories and experiences, essentially everything that makes us us, are encoded within the physical and chemical structures of the brain.  Personality has as much to do with the typical firing order of an person’s individual neurons, within their brain, as their upbringing or genetics.  There is no divine spark as some would have you believe.”  She paused to see my reaction to that last sentence, and seeing none continued.  “Using the new passive scanning technology, we are able to record the changes that are made from that base mapping, rather than having to take a flash shot of the whole brain just before death, like happens with the capsuleers.  A flash scan creates massive damage to the brain, but the passive method allows periodic updates without damage to the subject.  If a subject was killed in an explosion or shot in the head, the memories and experiences of roughly 2 minutes before that point would be downloaded and transferred to the new clone.  If the subject bled to death or was killed with by some other means that did not damage the brain, there would be a flash-scan to get everything up to the point of death.
           “Wouldn’t that make them able to remember their own deaths?”
           “There is a distinct possibility of that, yes,” she replied calmly.
            “I see.”  I shifted uncomfortably in my chair.

“There is a great cost in time and resources that goes into training an individual soldier that is lost when that soldier...tragically expires in combat.  Not to mention the loss of the experiences, knowledge, and understanding of war that can only be earned in combat.  An immortal soldier could take on dangerous missions, die and then rise again with all his prior memories and experiences intact, and would be afforded the opportunity to learn from and avoid future mistakes.  Such a soldier would become a very formidable weapon on the battlefield.  Wouldn’t you agree?”

           I nodded.  “I’d imagine he would.”
           “Which is why I find it so curious that this organization you work for, knew about the work being done here despite its extremely confidential nature. They even knew enough about it to send a viable candidate, one we couldn’t refuse,” she said with a cocked brow.  “They probably can’t wait to get their hands on you as soon as we are done with evaluations.”    
           “Evaluations?” I asked.
           “Yes,” she said.  She stopped to consider her next words, gently tapping the edge of her plate with her fork.  “I mentioned a physiological and a genetic compatibility with the technology.  There is a psychological one as well.  Unfortunately despite our creation of a rough personality profile that we seek out, there is only one way to evaluate for the psychological component.”
          I don’t like where this sounds like it’s going.
          “And that is?” I knew the answer before I asked.
          “Dying in combat and having one’s consciousness transferred to a new body, in many cases with intact memories of physically traumatic events, can have a profound effect on the mental stability of a soldier.  There can be emotional and psychological scars which can occur and must be endured, even if there are no lasting physical ones.  In short, not everyone can handle it.”
          “It is an unnatural thing,” I mused. I pushed what little food I had left on my plate around with my fork.  Suddenly I wasn’t feeling so hungry.
          “Yes it is.  To prepare soldiers for it we have a challenging training and orientation program to help with the transition.  The program will also serve to weed out those that can’t handle the strain.  It’s all part of the process.  You and the other soldiers have all been given numbers to use in the place of names.  For security reasons nobody will be giving their real names or be allowed to talk about which units they come from or their past operational histories.  I’m sure that won’t be a problem for you.  Yours will be number 11.”
           “How were the others selected?”
           “We screened the psychological profiles of soldiers from other State special forces teams to eliminate individuals who probably wouldn’t emerge from the program successfully, but since I have no background or psychological profile for you, we will have to assume you meet the profile of one that would.  For your sake I hope you do.”
           “I see,” I said.
           “The people you will be entering the program with are all combat veterans, all have confirmed kills under their belts, and are all highly trained.  They meet the profile of what you would consider wolves.  One thing is for certain.  By the end of your time here you are going to find out how much of a wolf you really are.”

The Shellgame (Chapter 1)

JANUARY YC107
Korama III Ishukone Watch Station
                 


       There are many ways to check your watch without letting anyone know you're doing it, even if they are observing you closely. I raised my right hand to cover my mouth while I faked a cough, glancing over at the time, 2:32. I was slightly behind schedule so I quickened my pace. There are many reasons why I wouldn't want someone to see me check my watch. Maybe I was being followed. Maybe I was being monitored. Checking my watch might telescope my next action. It tells them I'm on a time-line, and it lets them know that something is about to happen. I was probably not being followed or actively observed at that moment, but that's force of habit for you.

           I emerged through the airlock and into the the station terminal. It had the same look of the other five Caldari stations I had visited that day.  The same harsh florescent lighting, same grey steel and concrete infrastructure, and what nearly all Caldari stations had in common, people.  Masses of them. Even at this early hour there were a surprisingly high number of travelers moving on about their lives. Some coming, some going, but the majority waiting for their turn to do one of the two.

            With no delay I left gate 11 and settled into a brisk walk along the terminal. I looked around to get myself oriented. There were gates for shuttles to my left and various shops, stands, and vendors to my right. They extended for several hundred yards in front of me and behind me. This particular terminal was located in a large docking ring. It was designed to funnel travelers along a single slowly curving path that exposed them to the long wall of corporate commerce on their way to their arrival or departure points. The storefronts and shops were brightly lit, most with several neon signs with attractive eye catching designs. It offered a stark contrast to the plain dull utilitarian design of the shuttle gates, but that too was by design. They wanted you looking in the direction you were most likely to spend your money. Along the winding corridor there were many kiosks scattered amongst the middle of the path, displaying anything from ads, to station maps, to flight times and cancellations.

             I soaked in the many voices of the people, all droning each other out and blending together into a chorus of mostly indiscernible garble. I could make out some of the voices and conversations of those I passed by, the ones that stood out strongest either by proximity or sheer volume.

     Someone nearby argued with a gate attendant about a delayed flight. As I looked to my left I saw the gate attendant typing into his terminal and shaking his head apologetically.  The traveler threw up his arms in frustration. A female voice behind me and to my left commented about how tired they were and how they couldn't wait to get home. Another voice nearby, a male one, expressed agreement.

             Home, I can’t even remember what that feels like...

             Periodically a terminal wide announcement about a delay in a flight, or an advertisement for some product or service was made, and it would drown out everything else as it echoed off the terminal ceiling a few meters above.

            I made my way through groups of people who were walking slower than I needed to be going. I was in a hurry but I didn’t want to arouse suspicion or attract attention so I didn't move too quickly. I flowed with the crowd, finding a small group of fast walkers and moved with them. There is safety in numbers. It's an old adage for a reason.

            I spotted two Ishukone Watch guards forty meters up ahead. They were standing side by side in front of one of the many drinking establishments that lined the terminal.  Thirty meters from them I relaxed, acted natural, but secretly looked for avenues of potential escape or evasion. There were really only two options, continue forward, or turn back the way I came. The latter wasn't really a valid option at all, I had a job to do. Confrontation probably wouldn't be necessary but one never can be sure. Twenty yards to go. They looked alert and vigilant. Both dressed in black lightly armored uniforms, armed with semi automatic widow-maker class sub-machine guns slung at their sides. Their backs were to the wall, their faces turned outward, scanning the passing crowds for any sign of trouble. Ten yards left. I opted for walking by at close proximity, and as I passed one of the guards, the one standing closest to me shot a glance my way. We made eye contact, and I smiled and nodded.

Look away, there’s nothing to see here.

He glanced away and continued to scan the crowd without acknowledging me.  They are trained to look for people that meet a certain profile.  People who are nervous, suspiciously dressed, who look out of place, or give off signals of being stressed get watched closely. People who appear relaxed, smile, and can make direct eye contact with security don't typically cause a hell of a lot of trouble. They also stand the best chance of making it through station security without being randomly stopped and searched. I liked to take advantage of that fact.

I caught sight of them in the reflection in the glass of a kiosk to my left. They didn’t move or watch me as I walked away.  

Good. Everything is as it should be.  I was never here.

        I took careful note of everyone around me, including the people who were behind me, memorizing their clothing, or what I could make out of their faces in whatever reflective surfaces I could find. I had been doing this since I got off the shuttle. I looked for the little warning signs of abnormal interest in my presence, signs which could take many forms such as staring just a little too long, eyes that dart away quickly to avoid eye contact, people who repeatedly show up elsewhere on the station, or someone who matched me stride for stride, a mistake even seasoned tails frequently made.         
        So far, it didn’t look like anyone had an unhealthy interest in the back of my head. It had been that way all day, but I couldn’t afford the luxury of assuming things would be the same here. Again, that's force of habit for you.

   

            I left the terminal and made my way to a maglev tram station which would take me to one of the financial districts closer to the heart of the station. The tram station had the same harsh florescent lighting as the shuttle terminal, and smelled vaguely of a mix of odors that reminded me of burned match heads and melted plastic. The tram was mostly empty at this time of night, save for the odd businessman or maintenance worker. I made no direct eye contact and engaged in no conversation with anyone on the tram, although it didn't appear as if anyone there had the time or desire for either. My orders were very specific. Keep a low profile, and engage in no unnecessary interaction.

        After a few minutes the tram stopped. A female disembodied voice spoke loudly through hidden speakers in the tram car. Welcome to Financial District 1, if you are disembarking please exit in a swift and orderly fashion. The voice spoke with an unpleasant tone that seemed to imply that last sentence should have been followed by an or else. The threat wasn’t just an implied one either. Holding up a tram, even for a little while, could get you forcibly removed by security. By removed I mean beaten and dragged away.

I made sure I was the last to get off at the stop. There was no need to watch my own back with everyone in front of me. I found myself moving in behind a well dressed Deteis gentleman who was very preoccupied with his data-pad. He nearly tripped on his way out of the tram itself, and once more a few meters later over a cleaner drone. It beeped in apparent displeasure.

        I saw more security up ahead, flanking the corridor leading up and out of the tram station. They were as well armed as the previous guards in the terminal, but paying far less attention. There were five of them. Two to the left of the security stand and two to the right. They conversed with each other casually. The one in the middle drank something from a blue mug while staring sleepily at his security monitors. The Deteis gentleman, still engrossed in his data-pad, collided with one of them. The mistake prompted a random search despite his protests that he was running late to an important meeting. The protest only encouraged the guards judging by the chuckles it incited.

Better you than me, I thought to myself.

I took advantage of the momentarily distracted security to quickly pass and continue on into the financial district of the station.

   

        The ceilings were much higher in this part of the station, serving to alleviate the claustrophobia often encountered in space travel. The smell of matches and fuel was gone. The air had a pleasant odor here. Smelled like decadence. The financial district level was laid out in a grid like fashion like the city blocks of any urbanized development you might encounter planet side.  It had the tall compartmentalized buildings to match, many of them were hundreds of meters high.

        High above the ceilings of all but the tallest structures was a dome like ceiling with a faux night sky. This particular station did not have a real dome. Most Caldari stations didn't, as they are considered an unnecessary structural weakness, and there was very little room made for weakness in Caldari society.

The lighting on this level was turned down to simulate a night cycle, paying homage to the circadian rhythms of the wealthier station inhabitants. Sections of the station with less wealthy concentrations of people had round the clock daytime lighting. They didn’t give a damn about your circadian rhythm if you didn’t have the money to pay for it. At this time of night the majority of the lighting came from windows and storefronts as well as the passing vehicles, some at ground level, some hovering above at various different altitudes.

            I flagged down a shuttle. The driver, a Brutor female, accepted my credit chit and opened one of the rear doors. I stepped inside and sat down. “State and Region Bank section 7 block 112,” I said in a calm monotone voice. “Quickly please,” I add in afterthought.

           She nodded, and the transport rose off the ground and sped towards its destination. The steady hum of the cab was soothing. I looked out the window and watched as the scenery passed by.  This area of the station was prime real-estate, generally reserved for the upper middle class to the ridiculously rich. Most stations had sections like this. They stand in stark contrast to the areas of the station reserved for the less fortunate.

I saw the driver glance at me periodically through the mirror, as if she was looking for signs I was open to conversation. I ignored her and continued to stare out the window. Sensing I wasn’t in the mood to chat she remained quiet. She had a facial Voluval tattoo. I noticed it as soon as I had seen her face, and I snuck a quick sidelong glance at her while she was looking away. In many regions of Minmatar space the tattoo on her face would set her apart as destined for something special. Here she was just a cab driver, the punchline of some cruel cosmic joke. I'm sure she had an interesting tale about how she ended up here but I wasn’t curious enough to start a conversation about it, and that would fall under the category of unnecessary interaction. I didn't really care to hear her life story anyway.

           After a few minutes the taxi slowed, descended and touched down softly on the street next to my destination.

           “Here we are. I would like to take this time to thank you for your business and hope you found the experience pleasant.” She didn't speak with a Brutor accent. She was probably trained by the company she worked for to mask it. That or she had been here a long time. “Would you like me to wait for you here Mr, Black?” She made eye contact with me through her rear view mirror as she spoke. That wasn't my real name, of course, it was the name that was on the ID strip of the chit I had handed her, a personal touch on her part. Her company probably trained her to do that too.

           “No I may be a while, but thank you,” I replied. I stepped out of the shuttle, onto the sidewalk, and proceed for the door of State and Region Bank.

   

           The lobby was lavish and well lit; bathed in a warm, almost orange, incandescent hue. As good field-craft dictates, I quickly took note of the security. Four visible security cameras, one behind the teller at the counter I was approaching, one behind me I caught a glance of as I was coming in, one to my right near the molding of the ceiling, and the fourth pointing down a corridor at the far side of the room. There were two visible guards, one at the entrance of the bank, and a second at a desk at the far side of the room. Both appeared to be private security, armed with Marakel compact machine pistols.  Both wore light armor vests, the lining of which was visible under their tacky light grey uniforms. There was probably more personnel somewhere else in the building. Places like this usually had a small army of security and most of it wasn’t kept visible. Analyzing the security was part force of training, and part force of habit, I wasn’t here to rob the place.

        “Hello, my name is Lerin. How may I assist you today?” The teller smiled politely. She was an attractive blonde Deteis with blue eyes and soft features. She wore a light blue uniform.  Her collared shirt had the top two buttons undone.

Curious. For a Deteis in the workplace one button undone was casual, two buttons undone was a party.

It seemed she was meant to serve in an aesthetically pleasing role in addition to her utilitarian role behind the desk. Lending further evidence to the theory, her name tag was pinned suspiciously close to her visible cleavage... I stopped the thought process short. I'm here on business.

        “I'm here to access my safety deposit box.” I pulled out an identification card and passed it over a scanner in the middle of the table. She peered down at the screen and typed for a moment on her terminal.

        “Everything appears to be in order Mr. Black.”

        Not my name.

“Would you follow me please?”

She seems nice.

        Lerin motioned to her left, and stepped out from behind the desk, leading me across the lobby and down the corridor to the right of the front desk. It was a long hallway with several doors on each side. Some were obviously offices for the bank staff. Some I wasn't so sure about. We passed what appeared to be a conference room of some sort. A few meters later we arrived at a group of doors that had no windows to hint at what was inside. She opened one of them with a key-card and motioned for me to step inside.

        I followed her into a small gray room. In the center was a plain but strong looking table with a single chair. I walked over to it and sat down. Built into the wall at the far side of the room, was a square shaped armored terminal which resembled a wall safe. It registered a light that turned from red to green, signaling that the correct safety deposit box was inside.  She walked over to it and keyed in a pass-code. The door on the terminal opened. She reached inside, removing the black deposit box within.

        My eyes drifted towards her legs and ass involuntarily. Okay, maybe not entirely involuntarily. She was wearing a short skirt that skirted a thin line between appropriate for work in a bank, and appropriate for work on the street corner behind the bank. I joke of course; she wouldn't actually be able to do that there. She would be arrested. You had go to the less savory areas of the station to find street walkers. One thing was clear though; she was definitely serving, at least in part, a decorative function.

Rich businessmen love their eye candy.

        “Here you go Mr. Black,” she said as she placed the case on the table in front of me.

        “Thank you,” I replied.

        “Will there be anything else?”

        “No, that will be all.” I nodded in the direction of the door dropping the not so subtle hint for her to leave. I gave a small smile to take the edge off the dismissive gesture.

        “I'll leave you to it then,” she said with a knowing grin. As she turned to leave she glanced back over her shoulder. “Oh, when you're ready, press the intercom button on the side of the desk. It's on the panel to your right. Give it a push and I'll come back.” She left, closing the door behind her.

        Time to go to work.

A quick look around the room showed no obvious surveillance equipment. The room was extremely bare by design, for client privacy. Plain gray concrete walls with no windows, pictures, decorations, or furniture short of the desk and chair make it much harder to hide cameras or listening devices.

On the side of the locked case, on the table before me, was a keypad. I entered the proper combination into the pad and the screen blinked green to confirm that the code was entered correctly. It unlocked, allowing me to open the case. I did so carefully.  In my line of work these things were occasionally rigged to explode. It's our idea of an early retirement package for those who have proven undesirable for whatever reason. I glanced inside. The first thing that caught my attention was the scanner. It was placed there so that I could check the room for bugs and other listening devices. Rising from the table with the scanner in hand I activated it and walked around the room.

        This was the first drop of the day that was made in this manner. The previous drops in the other stations were dead drops in random unsecured locations hidden in plain sight; each one giving me the location of the next one. This one was in a secure place.  I wondered if that meant I was close to the end of the goose chase. Usually when I was sent station hopping it meant the mission was the assassination of a high level political figure, military leader, corporate figurehead, or something equally sensitive. I was hoping it was an assassination. Corrupt politicians were my favorite, but any politician would do...    

        Many people get involved in setting up an operation such as this, but none of those people ever have a complete enough picture to know what was actually going down. At that moment I didn’t even know what was going on. The operation was built on a variation of the shell game played out in real life. The job of the opposition was to seek out me, the pea, hidden by the confusing movement of several pieces of an orchestrated plan, the shells. Opposing forces would have to track me as I moved, and would inevitably reveal themselves as they tried to follow. Under ideal circumstances the opposition had no idea I was coming, and that was usually the case, but not always.

        To make things difficult on anyone that might be interested in me I made myself nearly impossible to track electronically. It forced them, whoever they were, to use their boots on the ground. At each station I changed identity and my station ID number, sometimes several times in a short period of time. If the mission called for it I changed my physical appearance in various ways by altering my clothing, facial hair, hair color and style, sometimes even body mods if I was trying to blend in with the fucking Gallente. It made no difference where I was in the galaxy, I was expected to blend into my surroundings, and leave as little evidence of my existence as possible.

        I sometimes injected myself with nanites which were programmed to make subtle changes to my body. They caused my fingerprints to change patterns, or altered the capillaries in my irises. They were a well kept secret of the Caldari special forces, and use outside of that realm would have been highly illegal. They could even be programmed to alter my biometrics to that of other people if the mission so required it. It allowed me to focus on more important matters than having to worry about cleaning my fingerprints off of everything I touched, not that my real prints would have been linked back to me. I didn't exist in any State database, but it was important to prevent anyone from being able to use that kind of evidence to create links between "incidents". I was expected to move invisibly, and to leave no trail that could be followed back to myself or my employer.    

        In an operation like this if I so much as suspected I was being followed the mission would usually be aborted. I would go into escape and evade mode and disappear. If I didn't make a drop within a small allotted window, for whatever reason, the entire operation was aborted. If anyone setting up drops for me suspected or received intelligence that the mission was compromised, they’d leave evidence of it at the drop or by some other means, and the mission would be aborted, although there have been some exceptions to that, which I remember quite well. If opposing forces managed to somehow covertly track and capture me before I reached the final drop, the one containing details of the mission objective, I wouldn’t be able to give away the details because I simply wouldn’t know them.

        In many cases if my mission was aborted a contingency plan would be activated and another operator moved for the final objective in my place.  In some cases I probably was the contingency plan, but the way we operated there was usually no way for me to know that for sure. For all I knew several operatives might be held in a station hopping holding pattern, shuffling about until they were needed. In addition to the contingency plans there were safeguards in place to prevent the enemy from following the trail and uncovering the full plot should they somehow manage to capture a drop's contents.            

        Like the shell game, once everything was put into motion, it was hard to follow and there was plenty of misdirection and distraction involved to throw off anyone that might be watching. Sticking with the metaphor, even the person moving the shells around might not know where the pea went. They might not want to know.  Additionally, there might be more than one pea, and there might be more than one shell game going on at a time.

The mechanism, once it was started, was very difficult to stop from the outside. If my employer wanted someone dead it was only a matter of time, money, and resolve.  From what I understood he, she, or they, I didn't know which of those pronouns truly applied, had high reserves of all three.  The operators of the organization I worked for were the tools of subtlety and precision.  We got in did the job, usually without collateral damage, and disappeared like ghosts.  If my employer wanted a person dead and didn’t care about how obvious it was, or how big a mess was left afterwards, they would probably just send a capsuleer.

Deniability was everything in this business.  Even in failure we couldn’t be traced back to the organization that sent us.  I didn’t even really know who it was I was working for, and sometimes I’ve been left wondering who’s side I was really on. They seemed to be a highly organized and well funded entity that operated from within the State, although there have been some times I was left wondering if that was true. 
 

        The scanner wasn’t picking up anything. The room was clean. I sat back down at the table. A folder inside the case had my new set of identification. It had to be opened a very specific way or the contents inside would be destroyed. Mr. Aaron White came out of the folder and Mr. Nathan Black went into the folder. I resealed the folder and intentionally activated the folder’s fail safe security measure. The contents inside dissolved in an acid bath. Just like that, Mr. Black was no more. I put the new ID and credit chit into my jacket pocket.

        The picture on both of the ID's was of me. They didn't have the same picture but in each I was grinning ear to ear. It made me seem nice and non threatening. I liked to seem nice and non threatening. If security asked for identification and saw the huge goofy grin in the photo they would be less prone to think, hey this guy might be a highly trained killer; sneaking around, murdering people, and making it look like an accident. Perhaps I should search his nefarious looking person for weapons. Again, people who smile don't typically run around causing a hell of a lot of trouble. Experience has shown me that smiling can help someone avoid a lot of trouble. It alleviates suspicion, and puts people at ease. Experience has also shown me that there are time's where smiling has the opposite affect, like when I'm killing someone, then it just seemed to make the people around me really nervous.

        Also inside the case was a data pad. I glanced at my watch. I was on time and within the designated window. I entered the correct combination of buttons and the screen flickered on. The data pad was a perfect example of one of the safeguards in place to make sure no one aside from myself made the drops. Guess the pass-code incorrectly 3 times and it fries itself. Miss the pre-programed window and attempt to access the data and it fries itself. Try to tamper with the device and get the data directly from the drive and it fries itself and then explodes. Not a small explosion, but a big enough one to kill everyone in the god damned room. Only I had the information to access it so only I could view its contents. What happens if I'm captured and tortured you might ask? In the highly unlikely event I am taken alive I only have to hold out long enough to miss the window in which it can be accessed, and the whole game is over. They still don't have shit to work with.

        I glanced over the data-pad's contents, and immediately furrowed my brow. There was a map detailing the location of a gate in terminal 9 I would need to reach for departure. It was on the lower levels of the station.

Great, more station jumping and I still have no idea what this is all about.

But wait whats this?  Reading further it became clear that terminal 9, the departure point, was different than the others. All the egress and ingress points to any of the stations I’d been to before that point, were operating public shuttle terminals, but terminal 9 was closed for renovations. This likely meant the ship launch would be completely off the books.

Whatever this was all leading up to it must be close.

        There were details on the pad of a second drop on the station. An indication of what was at the dead drop wasn’t in the message.  I guessed it would have the details of how I was going to gain access to the terminal. The map showed the drop would be in a VR booth in a bar in terminal 10.

I looked at my watch again. I had to get going soon because the time table was tight. There wouldn’t be much margin for error. It was like that by design. The closer one gets to the end of these sorts of things the tighter the time table becomes. To the left of where the data-pad was sitting, there was a boarding pass for a shuttle flight out of terminal 10, gate 6. I did not appear to be leaving the station from terminal 10 so I assumed the boarding pass was just to get me past terminal security. People were not allowed past terminal security without a valid shuttle boarding pass in most Caldari stations.

        I quickly gathered up everything, placed it back into the case and closed it, reengaging the locking mechanism in the process. I pressed the intercom button on the desk, and it wasn't long before the attractive blond banking assistant returned.

        “Everything to your satisfaction I trust, Mr. Black?”

        “Yes I believe everything is in order Lerin, thank you.” I returned her smile. She moved to the case and placed it back into the armored box for transfer directly back to the vault. After I verified the case was secure I moved for the door. “I don't mean to rush you,” that's exactly what I meant, “but I need to get moving.”

        “Oh that's no trouble, sir. If you'll come with me I'll show you out.” She smiled and winked.

Ok, she seems really nice. Although, she probably does that for all the male customers.

         I followed her as she ushered me back down the same hallway as before. We reached the lobby. “Hope to see you again soon Mr. Black,” she said.  I knew that wasn’t going to happen. I didn't look back as I moved for the door to exit out into the street.

   

         Out on the street I quickly managed to hail down another cab. There were far more cabs, hovering about than fares to be had at 3:45 in the morning. The driver was a fifty something looking male Caldari Achura with small build. His hair was beginning to turn white. I got inside the transport and handed him my credit chit.

         “Were you headin Mr. White?”

 Not my real name either.

         “Tram station with the closest access to docking terminal 10,” I said. “I'll pay you extra if you make good time.”

Station shuttle drivers commonly took longer routes than they needed in order to run their meters up. There wasn’t time for that in this case, so I offered a little extra incentive to move quickly.

I'm not sure what this was all leading up to, but it was getting close now...I could feel it.

* * *

   

        Stepping off the tram and into the tram station, I moved with a small crowd of people heading for terminal 10. The goal was terminal 9 but being closed off from public access meant tram access would be restricted as well. The message in the data-pad indicated that the drop was located in a bar named The Traveler’s Tavern. From what I saw of the map of the area, the bar was adjacent a maintenance access hatch which seemed to be the most direct access route to terminal 9, and logically that would be the way in, but I assumed that route would be locked up tight.

        I could see terminal security up ahead. Four well armed Ishukone Watch guards stood around as two terminal security workers manned the scanners.  There was no line this early in the day. I pulled out my ID and boarding pass as I approached. The man working the scanner looked at the picture on my ID, then up at me. I smiled with the same goofy smile as the picture. He laughed.

        “What are you so damned happy for?” he said.

        “I'm getting out of here aren’t I?” I replied, still holding the grin.

        “Yeah we'll see. Step through the scanner,” the security worker said in a tired tone. I walked through. No alarms, which didn’t come as a surprise. I wasn’t carrying anything detectable. “You're clean,” he said as he waved me through.

         From the security station, I proceeded straight ahead along a straight well lit corridor. The floor inclined upwards at a shallow angle after about thirty meters, and continued on that way for another fifty before leveling off. As I continued on I eventually approached a T shaped intersection. To the left was the entrance to terminal 9, but a large steel blast door closed it off. To the right side of the blast door, straight ahead of me, was a guard post.  It was essentially a small 3 foot high cubicle shaped desk, behind which sat a bored looking Ishukone Watch guard. Behind him and up a short set of stairs was a 2.5 meter high maintenance access hatch which could be used to access to terminal 9. That had to be the way in. There was a keypad on the hatch, as well as a camera on the opposite wall that was facing the hatch.  It became visible as I reached the intersection.

        To the right was the long winding corridor of terminal 10. It was very similar to the terminal I entered the station from, but not as crowded. As a result many of the stores that lined the wall opposite the shuttle gates were closed. The Traveler’s Tavern was the first door on the right corner of the intersection.

   

        I pushed through the glass door into the Tavern, and was immediately hit with a mixed odor of booze and fried food, and the sound of loud music. The Tavern was poorly lit with blue neon lights that lined the ceiling. Additional lighting came from the many vidscreens on the walls which displayed various sporting events from around the solar system.  Gallentian trance music played loudly, droning out much of the conversation and occasional yelling that was coming from a crowd in the left corner of the room. They were watching a mind-clash match between two opponents I’d never even heard of before.

        I moved to the rear of the Tavern, towards the bar. I hadn’t eaten yet and now was as good a time as any to get something. It would serve the double purpose of making it look like I was here for the food, as opposed to the VR booth near the wall to my right.

        “Whats your poison?” the bartender yelled over the music. She was a young scantily clad Gallente woman with bright red hair. There must have been a black light somewhere, because her facial tattoo, some sort of new agey design, glowed a brightly radiant iridescent blue that matched the lighting. Behind her was a well lit wall of various colored alcohols from around the cosmos. Quite the impressive collection.

        I leaned in close so she could hear me. “Quafe, and a steak sandwich, medium rare,” I said loudly.

       “Be out in a bit. Have a seat somewhere. I'll find you,” she shouted back.

        I nodded and walked over to the VR booth. The message at the bank wasn't entirely clear about what to do when I got here. I opened the booth and peered inside. It appeared empty. I ran my hand under the console within the booth. There was nothing there.

        “I just tried to use that thing a few minutes ago. I don't think it's working,” said a female voice behind me. I looked over my shoulder to see a brunette Civire woman peering back at me between sips of spiced wine. She had dark circles under her eyes that were visible even in the low light of the bar.

       “Maybe I'll take a closer look,” I replied.

I removed the credit chit from my jacket pocket and placed it on the scanner. I had the feeling the booth might work for me. I stepped inside and closed the booth door. The loud music outside was immediately muffled by the booths soundproofed insulation. I sat down in the seat and leaned back into the U -shaped headrest. Ordinarily I'd have expected to find a program menu on the screen in front of me.  There wasn't one. Before I could touch anything to inspect the booth further it activated

   

       I suddenly found myself sitting in a cushioned armless chair in the middle of a dark room. A red light from some unseen point above me shined down on me like a spotlight. I could hear music playing softly. It seemed to be coming from all around me. It made for a disorienting but pleasant ambiance. The light around me slowly changed from red to blue, then to gray, then to green, faded to black, and then finally to a bright white. Then the cycle repeated. I realized immediately the colors matched, in order, the last names of the aliases I had used in the last few stations. The drop was within the VR program itself, that poured its information into my head using a form of Egonic technology.

        The music was steadily getting louder. It was a slow moody beat. I could hear footsteps in the darkness. They were getting louder as someone drew closer. A figure moved in the shadows. It was slowly approaching. I could hear a female voice singing now, but like the music, it seemed to surround and echo all around me, leaving me unable to discern the source.

Is this world the way,

The way it is supposed to be?

Impulse or impulsion?

Condemns me now?

What is real today?

What I seem to see?

Or what they seem to say?

        Out of the shadows emerged an athletic exotic looking Achura woman with legs that seemed to go on forever. She was wearing black high heels and a skintight black leather suit that left her golden tan legs and arms uncovered. Her forearms were wrapped with what appeared to be some sort of leather straps that formed a pattern of strap skin strap skin and ran the length from her wrists to her elbows. Her suit, if you could even call it that, left very little to the imagination. Her cleavage was visible through the mesh portion of the suit that ran from around her neck and shoulders down to a deep “v” to meet the leather. I didn't know who made the program but I got the feeling they might know me personally, or at least shared my taste in women. Strangely, I was positive I had seen this woman before...exactly where escaped me though.

        “I've been waiting for you Mr. White,” she said in a sultry voice as she circled around me slowly at close distance. She took long slow deliberate steps as she walked. She made direct eye contact which I returned unwaveringly. My eyes followed her as far as I could until she circled in behind me. She leaned in closely over the back of the chair and her long dark hair fell, brushing the back of my neck as she whispered into my right ear, “Or is it Mr. Black?” she said teasingly.

        “Why do I get the feeling you're not just a computer program?” My right eyebrow raised.

        She rose, standing up straight, and put her hands gently on my shoulders. “Because I'm not,” she said softly. She circled around my right side closely and threw a long leg over my lap, straddling me. She locked her fingers together behind my neck, holding herself up as she leaned back. She was looking directly into my eyes. Her eyes narrowed, and she cocked her head to one side. “Were you followed?”

         “Not to my knowledge, no.”

         “Good,” she replied, “I didn't think you were.”

         My eyes narrowed, now. “You've been watching me?”

         “Yup.”

         “How?” I was visibly concerned. She took notice, and apparently found it humorous.

         “A magician never reveals her secrets,” she said with a sly smile.

If she thinks that trick was good she should see one of mine. I disappear bodies.

        “How long have you been watching?” I asked.

        “Long enough to make sure you didn't pick up a tail and were lying to me.” Her tone lightened. “You can relax. I could only track you because I was supposed to.  I knew who and what to look for.”

That was good news at least. I was beginning to think I had made a mistake.

I relaxed a little. I thought about asking her who she was but thought better of it. Her name, even if she gave it probably wouldn't be her real one.

        “Is this line secure?” I asked suspiciously.

        “Of course,” she said with a smile.” It's just us two here...all alone.” Her voice trailed off.

         She began to slowly dance on my lap in time with the music. It was fast becoming the strangest drop I'd ever had. Very...arousing. I reached up with my left hand to run my hand up her thigh. She quickly and playfully slapped it away.

        “Nuh uh,” she said while wagging a finger in my face. “Everybody knows you don't touch the dancers unless they say you can. That's a party foul.” She made a pouty face, sticking her bottom lip out for a moment, then continued to dance slowly, whipping her head around sending her hair flying around behind her and over her shoulder.

She’s flaunting herself in front of me. Tease.

She ran her hands over her body as she continued to gyrate. She watched closely for my reaction. I tried not to have one but that was getting harder by the second, and she knew it.

        “So how do I get into terminal 9?” I asked. “Is that even where I'm supposed to go?”

        She looked over to her left, stretching out slowly in a flowing motion with her left arm. Her finger pointed to an image materializing in the darkness. I recognized it as the view of the camera monitoring the guard post at the maintenance hatch. She was tapped into station security. No doubt how she had been monitoring me.

        “Your food is almost ready.” She said as she leaned in close. “I'll wait for you to finish.”

For a second I wasn't sure exactly what she meant by that. She saw the blank look on my face. She paused quizzically as if to wonder where she had lost me.

        “Oh, you meant eating!” I said sarcastically.

        She rolled her eyes playfully as she continued. “When you tip your waitress I'll take that as a signal you're ready to continue.” She leaned forward to whisper into my ear. “The guard will be called away to deal with a...distraction.” She pointed in the direction of the image of the guard sitting at his post. “That will be your cue to slip through that hatch. I'll open it remotely from here.” She leaned back again.  “You will only have a few minutes to make your move before he comes back so don't hesitate when you get your chance.”

         “Anything I have to be worried about after I go through that hatch?”

        “I'm told no. I wasn't allowed eyes in there so I can't verify that for you. You will be boarding at gate 20 though.” She continued to dance slowly, locking eyes with me again. “One last thing. Leave the boarding pass under the console in front of you.” The music was getting noticeably quieter now.

        “Have we met before? I get the strangest feeling this isn't the first time I've seen you,” I said.

        She tilted her head to the side. “Maybe.” She paused for a moment. Her eyes looked up and to the left as if trying to recall a memory. The expression was purposely exaggerated.  She smirked. “Maybe not.” She was being coy, but I’m pretty sure that was a yes. “You should get a move on... Good luck,” she said while leaning in slowly for a kiss. As our lips were about to touch everything went dark, and the music fell silent.

Well, that was interesting.

        I opened my eyes to find myself staring at the inside of the VR booth. Reaching into my jacket pocket I removed the boarding pass and slipped it under the console. There was a small crease in the wall of the booth where the console met the front wall, and the boarding pass fit perfectly, concealed by anyone who didn't know it was there.

        I opened the booth door and stepped outside. The Gallente barkeep saw me emerge and crossed the length of the floor with my food on a tray.

“I thought that was you in there,” she yelled over the music. “I didn't think that thing was working,” she said nodding toward the booth.  “It's been acting up all day.”

        “Believe me it still is,” I shouted as I took a seat near the booth. She gave me a brief quizzical look, then sat the food down on the table.

         “Enjoy,” she said, turning to walk back to the bar.

         I ate quickly. It's wasn’t the best fare I'd had, but it wasn’t terrible. I wondered if the meat I was eating was real. Close enough. The Quafe was...well it was Quafe. I would rather drink beer but I didn’t booze while on the job.

        As I was finishing my meal I noticed a male Civire, who looked somewhat like me but older and out of shape, enter the tavern. His eyes darted around the room quickly as if he was looking for something. He looked tense. His eyes locked onto the VR booth. He approached, winding his way in between the tables and chair's in his path. His eyes were bloodshot, and he looked to be zonked out on some sort of narcotic. I pretended to ignore him as he stepped into the booth and closed the door behind him.

Who is that guy? He definitely doesn’t look like an operator or a soldier.

I heard the door of the booth open again. I pushed my napkin off the table and bent over nonchalantly to get a good look at him as I picked it back up. I saw him slip the boarding pass into his pocket as he headed for the tavern exit. I had a funny feeling this guy was going to be the source of the disturbance my dancing Achura friend was talking about.

        I finished my meal quickly, then ran my credit chit over the scanner in the middle of the table to tip the barkeep. I took the Quafe with me to sip on, as I walked over to a heavily cushioned chair near the tavern exit. I could see the guard through the tavern window. The vidscreen on the wall in front of me provided the perfect cover. I pretended to watch a hovercar race, while I kept an eye on the guard.

        After a few moments, I saw the guard glance down and tilt his head off to one side. He was being radioed. His eyes widened suddently, his expression turned serious. I could see his mouth moving as he radioed something in response. He quickly unslung his Widow-maker sub-machine gun and ran off down the terminal corridor. After about a minute a security alarm went off. The terminal would soon be locked down by security. That was my cue to leave.

        I made my way over to the maintenance hatch. After a quick look around to make sure nobody was looking I opened the hatch and slipped inside, closing it behind me.  The maintenance corridor, leading to the terminal proper, was badly lit and dusty. Exposed power conduits and water mains ran along the walls and the ceiling.

Most station sections have maintenance shafts that hide the less aesthetic aspects of station functionality. Most of them are securely locked down to unauthorized personnel, but despite the best efforts of station security many have been known to house vagrants. The passageway was a mess, janitorial equipment was left about in a haphazard way, and the upkeep appeared to be poor. There didn’t seem to be evidence of anyone living in this one. That was a good thing considering I’d have to kill anyone I ran across at that point. My handler generally frowned upon the killing of the innocent, but understood I couldn’t leave witnesses while skulking around in a place I wasn’t supposed to be.

        I moved silently and with purpose, keeping an eye out for anything that looked suspicious. It wasn’t long before I located the hatch to terminal 9. It had been left cracked open. I took up position behind the wall to the left of the hatch and slowly pushed it open the rest of the way. The metal hinges of the hatch creaked loudly.

Fuuuuuuck.  So much for being stealthy. 
It was dark, but I could see down the corridor to one side. Ambient light, reflecting off the moon the station orbited, filtered in from the gate windows and cast eerie alternating spaces of pale white light and shadow down the terminal hall. I wished I had a gun. I quickly crossed over the doorway to the opposite side so that I could get an angle to view anything or anyone to the left side of the hatch. Nothing. I slowly stepped out into the terminal and checked behind the hatch itself, as well as the portion of the terminal corridor I couldn't see before. There was nobody there.

        I made my way quietly down the terminal corridor towards gate 20, sticking to the shadows wherever possible. The store and business fronts that lined the left side of the terminal were dark, their doors and entryways locked down securely by steel gates. It looked almost as if there was no power in that section of the station. There was construction equipment strewn about, and there was a thin layer of undisturbed dust which had settled over everything.  Clearly nobody had been in here for quite a while.

        Gate 20 was up ahead. I could make out the figure of a man standing in the middle off the corridor. I continued to approach.

        “This way Mr. White,” he shouted. “Get on board, and we'll get underway.”

        As I walked towards him I got a good look at him, a male Achura dressed in black. He looked like the stereotypical Caldari spook you sometimes see in Gallentean holovids.  He even walked like a spook. He led me to the open airlock. Through the gate window I could see the docked ship, it was a Buzzard, one of the new covert ops frigates capable of maintaining cloak when warping. This was starting to look serious.

   

        We made our way from the airlock to a small passenger cabin within the Buzzard. I'd only been on board one of these twice before, and neither of them looked like this one. There were only two seats in the cabin and one of them was occupied by a Deteis male. His hair was cut short, and he had the look of a soldier. He took notice of me, nodding to acknowledge my presence. I gave a nod back.

        Spooky closed the hatch to the airlock, and then walked to the front of the room.

        “Your mission details are in sealed folders,” the Achura said. “They are under your seats. Do not discuss the specific details of your assignments. In fact it's preferable you don't talk to each other at all.” He turned to open the hatch at the front of the cabin. “I'll tell the pilot you are both on board and we will depart shortly.  Strap yourselves in.  The pilot is a bit wild.” He left the room and closed the hatch behind him. The Deteis and I exchanged glances. He made a face that seemed to say, that guy fucking creeps me out. The spook seemed a little uptight but he didn't really bother me.

        I reached for the packet underneath my seat. It was a bulky gray packet with DESTROY AFTER READING in large block lettering written on the cover. I broke the seal on the folder and removed the papers inside. There was a lot of information in it. I hoped this trip was a long one. It was going to take some time to sort through all of it.

        I could feel the ship shudder slightly as it departed the gate and moved to exit the station.

Okay, this is strange, I thought to myself.  The information in the folder was jumbled. If there was a method or reason for why the file was organized like it was, I couldn’t find it. I yawned. I was starting to feel tired. I decided to flip through the packet, maybe if I skimmed it quickly I could get a better overall picture of what it was all about.

        After a minute or two of flipping and skimming it still just looked like a random bunch of unrelated files thrown into a folder with some pictures. My eyelids were getting heavy. I knew I’d been up for a while but I shouldn't have been that tired yet. I glanced over at the Deteis sitting next to me. My eyes widened suddenly. He was slumped over in his chair unconscious.

Oh shit...What the fuck is going on?

I fumbled for my harness buckle in the attempt to undo it, but my vision became blurry. I got a horrible sinking feeling, as I came to a sudden realization.

It's a fucking trap!  I need to get out of here!

I struggled to get my harness off but my fingers were going numb, and my blurry vision was fading to black. I was only moments away from losing consciousness.

I needed to...I needed to...God damn it.