Corinth's Consolidated Chronicles

Sheepdog-17

noreply@blogger.com (Bradford C. Walker) — Sat, 28 Jan 2012 06:34:00 +0000

Guiscard sighed. He quaffed his drink and set his glass down with a dull thud.

“Shit.” Guiscard said, “That complicates things. You killed them all, didn’t you?”

“No choice. It was them or me.” Ken said nonchalantly, “I prefer to keep breathing.”

“You might have gotten away with just the Angels, as they can be a fratricidal bunch, but there is no one that either Los Zetas or the Synidicate will let this slide. You made them look bad, and-“

“-neither of them can tolerate that, because it’s bad for business. Been there, did that.”

Guiscard refilled their glasses. “That’s what puzzles me.”

“It was the first step of the plan: draw out the opposition by attacking their strategy. The three of them wanted to establish some form of partnership that allowed the creation of a trans-continental network for their drug and gun rings. This meeting, as I guessed, was the point of failure.”

“So, when they send in the cleaners, you-“

“-will kill them, take their stuff, and then send back their heads. I want to force them to waste their time and resources on this matter, to force them to deal with me, until they spread themselves so thin that they become vulnerable elsewhere.”

“Knee deep in the dead and still coming, that’s the plan?”

“You got it, Guiscard. I will force them to deal with me, personally if I can- I will force the issue, all the issues, and make myself too big to ignore- and such match their ‘too big to fail’ mentalities.”

Guiscard looked upon Ken, disturbed.

“I’ve done this dance so many times before that it’s as predictable as the sunrise. I know how these bastards think, and I have no problem with exploiting it. How do you think I’ve succeeded for as long as I have? It’s only when someone on the other side gets outside of that box that I run into any real trouble.”

Guiscard’s look darkened.

“Yes, I am serious. I’m putting myself directly on the firing line, again, first and foremost. I’ll tell the right folks to clear out, take a long holiday, and move their assets with them until the maelstrom I’m about to bring here is gone. I’m a dick, but I’m not a heartless asshole.” “You can’t help but go all-in, can you?”

Guiscard again quaffed his drink. “Always in the fight, always at the center, where the action is, bringing the pain- that’s you, Ken.”

“I know what it takes, old man. All enduring change comes at a price, and the only currencies accepted are blood, bone and fire. It doesn’t matter who pays the price; all that matters is that it’s paid. I prefer to make those sick sons of bitches pay the bill- that’s all.”

“That explains the stockpile of guns. You’re going to war.”

“No.” Ken said, flatly, “The war came to me. I don’t start the fights. I just finish them, and I always do so permanently.”

Sheepdog-16

noreply@blogger.com (Bradford C. Walker) — Sat, 21 Jan 2012 03:34:00 +0000

Guiscard welcomed Ken with a smile and a cigar in hand.

“About that big picture,” Ken said, “I just busted up a three-way dance between the Zetas, the Angels and some Canadian syndicate. Mind?”

The old Legionnaire shook his head. “Quick, effective and total- I expected as much from you.”

The two of them walked through an empty common room and over to the bar, where Guiscard poured one glass for each of them.

“The Canadians represented a larger syndicate, with French connections and origins. The man I suspect you encountered was the underboss operating out of Winnipeg, Manitoba. If I am right, then Franklin was one of two links making that meeting happen.”

“The other,” Ken said, taking a drink, “was the Angels, I assume?” Guiscard nodded. “The Legion has a history with this organization, as it’s been a matter of …honor for many of us to do away with it.”

Ken took another drink. He marked Guiscard’s pause; experience told him that it meant a personal, and shameful, encounter compelled the man’s interest. As he let that thought settle, his phone rang. He looked to see who’s calling him, and upon seeing that it was the Sheriff Ken got up and walked away from the bar.

“Ken here, Sheriff. Go.”

“Franklin sang once we got him there. The old man is ex-Foreign Legion, a Colonel Gregor Ballard, originally from South Africa. Retired 10 years ago, resettled in Winnipeg after a brief time in Montreal, and an informal Legion recruiter.”

“Anything else?”

“Ask your man Guiscard.” “Thanks, Sheriff.” Ken said, and he hung up.

Guiscard topped off their drinks. “It was Gregor, yes?”

Ken returned to his seat at the bar and nodded.

“Rotten bastard. He’s typical of what went wrong with the Legion. The French government got too loose with oversight of the Legion."

“Is this like what happened with Los Zetas?”

“Broadly-speaking, yes, but unlike the story with Mexico the problem with the Legion did not arise out of purely internal structural flaws in the government.”

Ken blinked. “You mind unpacking that a bit further?”

“Mexico made the Zetas, but corruption within the government turned them against their masters. It’s purely an internal fuck-up. That’s not what happened with the Legion. Sure, the French government got lazy with its oversight, but the real problem stems from the Intelligence community.”

Ken frowned and took another drink. “You mean the CIA, don’t you?”

“CIA, MI6, NATO and so on; lots of agencies, and lots of factions within and across them, are out there. Many of them are little more than pretentious gangsters, using ‘national security’ and ‘anti-terrorism’ as covers for their crimes. One such group took an eye at the Legion as a convenient place to set-up some operations, and used the regularity of criminal backgrounds as leverage to infiltrate units and take them over.”

This sounds familiar.” Ken said, finishing his glass.

“It’s an old story.” Guiscard said, taking a pull on his cigar, “Not all of us went along with it, and we fought hard to cut them out and restore the Legion’s honor. The fight went all the way to the top of the government, and ended with a purge. To protect the government, as well as the Legion, everything happened out of sight and the records got classified. Everyone that survived, eventually, left- some of us under far better terms than others.”

“Well, Ballard got his.” Ken said, “I shot him several times at point-blank range. None of his men got out alive either.”

Sheepdog-15

noreply@blogger.com (Bradford C. Walker) — Sun, 15 Jan 2012 04:09:00 +0000

The gunfire in the office got the attention of those bikers outside that hadn’t run off to deal with the distant gunfire. They turned, saw that their bosses got shot to hell, and—once the shock wore off—put up their guns and fired upon Ken. The fusillade of firepower shattered the windows and tore up the far wall, but failed to hit Ken. He again ducked, and as the glass fell about him he crawled over to the slain bodyguards and took up their arms.

Ken slammed a magazine home, pulled the charging handle and then guessed where one or more of them stood based on the bullet impacts over his head and the report of the guns. He shifted into a kneeling position, shouldered the weapon and fired three quick shots through the lower wall into the hangar. One of them cried out, and another called Ken’s position. He moved fast, just escaping the return fire, and crawled to the door. He opened the door and leaned out just as two of the bikers made for it and shot them down with a pair of well-placed shots to the chest.

The conscious mind stepped back now, and Ken now ran on experience and training. Feeling the moment shifting his way, Ken went on the attack and assaulted the bikers. He flanked them, cutting three down before they noticed, and kept moving on them without relenting. The violence of action put the Fear of God into his foes, and they turned and ran. Ken didn’t hesitate to finish them all—one shot, one kill—as their retreat turned into a rout. When he finally emptied the magazine, Ken was—again—the last man standing.

Without hesitation, Ken hurried back to the office, recovered his guns and grabbed magazines for them and the rifle from the dead. Quickly loading up, he then grabbed one of the road hogs that the bikers parked in the hanger and road out to meet with his allies. At that same time, the Sheriff and the militia finished off the bikers that intercepted them.

“Here comes the conquering hero.” The Sheriff said as Ken approached, and a few moments later Ken pulled alongside.

“30 dead, including the leaders, Sheriff. The old man is the Canuck, and he knew Franklin. Get him to I.D. the corpse, and some techs to slap a tracker on the plane.”

The Sheriff nodded his head. “Will do. Where are you going?”

Ken smiled. “Off to talk to a man about a picture.” Ken said, and rode off.

Sheepdog-14

noreply@blogger.com (Bradford C. Walker) — Sun, 08 Jan 2012 04:51:00 +0000

Ken, at that moment, was in Franklin’s office. The excuse was to take care of boring shit, but the real reason was to transmit the video to the Sheriff. Hearing the old man call for Franklin, Ken sent out the go-code to move in and then went out to meet the man.

“Someone call for me?” Ken said, and the old man gave Ken the once-over.

“You sounded different on the phone.” The old man’s eyes gave Ken no sense of relief.

"You don’t sound like a doe-eyed teenager.” Ken said, “You don’t hear me crying about it.”

Ken approached the old man. “Now that we’re all here, let’s get the late-comers some beer and brats, and then we can talk business.”

The old man followed Ken, Mark and Pedro into Franklin’s office while the others maintained their loose watch about the hanger. The old man’s bodyguards, in particular, stayed close to their boss and his plane.

“Now, before we get into the details, let’s review what’s on the table. Y’know, just so we’re all on the same page.” Ken said.

Pedro said, “Los Zetas offers to originate fresh product from its manufacturing assets, and to ensure its delivery into the United States and Canada, whereupon it will be distributed to our partners.”

Mark said, “The Hell’s Angels offers to provide security through North America, in conjunction with our partners. We will pro-actively deal with threats to our collective interests, and distribute in the United States.”

The old man said, “We will handle Canadian distribution exclusively, and administer financing issues in conjunction with Zetas counterparts.”

Just then, one of the bodyguards entered the room. The men outside arose in a confused and panicked manner, tipping Ken off that he soon would need to drop this charade.

“We’re getting hit, Franklin.” The old man glared at Ken. “I’ve got it covered.” Ken said, opening a draw in the desk, “I assumed that something like this could happen, and planned for it.”

Mark, Pedro and the old man all looked at him in disbelief. Meanwhile, Ken drew a pair of concealed pistols into his hands.

“And what, Franklin, are you going to do about it?” Mark said, curious.

Ken drew down on them. “This!” Ken opened fire, catching the three of them—and the bodyguard—by surprise.

Mark and the bodyguard caught bullets in their throats and dropped to the floor, blood spraying from their necks. Pedro took two in the chest and fell over in a heap. The old man leaped for Ken, but slumped on the desk after taking four in the face and chest; he slid to the floor, smearing blood and viscera as he slid down.

The door to the office flew open as Ken dropped his empty pistols to the floor, and he ducked under the desk when they dumped the magazines in their carbines into it. A couple of round nicked him, but nothing serious came of it. Ken waited for the shooting to stop, then stood and chucked a chair at them before they could reload. That gave him the opening to close with them, knife in hand, and cut them up. He got one of them right away, slashing open his neck and then stabbing him in the face to end that man’s life.

The other bodyguard dropped his rifle and engaged Ken empty-handed, tossing Ken back across the room, and then drew his pistol. Ken landed on the cooling corpse of his foe’s former boss, and then got back under the desk just as the bodyguard fired upon him again. Ken quickly moved from side to side, knowing that the desk wouldn’t provide effective cover anymore, and pulled his back-up gun out of its holster. Then Ken laid down, shot the bodyguard in the ankle and waited for the man to hit the floor; once Ken lined up a shot with the man’s skull, he put his last two through that big brain pan and ended that engagement. Six dead bad guys, and only a couple of flesh wounds.

Sheepdog-13

noreply@blogger.com (Bradford C. Walker) — Sat, 17 Dec 2011 06:12:00 +0000

The county once boasted of having Hollywood celebrities keeping cabins or summer homes at resorts in the area, and that meant the establishment of a small airport so that those wealthy people could fly directly into the county and then take a short drive to their getaways in this lake-rich land. It was at this airport that Ken found himself that night. Guiscard gave him the name of the man there to find, a feckless opportunist by the name of Frank, and the Sheriff confirmed Guiscard’s intelligence of this Frank as a fixer of sorts.

Ken rode up to the hanger where Frank was said to be, found him and sucker-punched him. A few moments later, Ken beat Frank into unconsciousness- and not one word was said. Ken handed him off to Jackson, who took Frank off to the county jail, and took his place. Shortly after Jackson slipped out of sight, Ken heard the faint rumbling of road hogs; the Angels were near, and closing. Moments later, they pulled into the hanger.

A score in all, each one fully-patched, their bottom-rockers proclaiming their territory as the whole of Minnesota, lined up their bikes and dismounted. Then a handful of trucks and SUVs rolled into the hanger, and out of them stepped a dozen of Mexican gangsters—Zetas siccarios—that mixed with the Angels uneasily.

The eldest of both groups met up and then approached Ken.

“You Frank?” the Angel said.

Ken coughed. “Yeah.”

“Show us.” the Zeta said, “Now.”

“Come into my office.” Ken said, stalling, and he led them into Frank’s office and had them take seats. Seeing Frank’s keyring, and knowing from Guiscard about Frank’s recent activities, Ken figured that Frank arranged for something to keep them boys pacified.

“It’s a long ride from the Cities.” Ken said, “I bet you’re ready for some fun while we wait for the last of our guests?”

The Angel smiled. “You remembered the booze. Good.”

“Grab a couple of the guys, and let’s get this started.”

Ken led the two leaders and a couple of their men to a backroom, kept cool, where Frank had a large cooler filled with a pair of kegs, another with ice and frozen meats, and everything needed to set up a tailgate-style of party in the hanger. Without so much as a word, the guys hauled it all out and set it up. Cups passed around, and soon their guard came down as they relaxed.

Ken learned that the leaders were Mark and Pedro, and let them go on about all the women they fucked, the guys they killed, the scams they ran and so on once the booze loosened their tongues. Ken had his phone on, recording it all, making excuses now and then to swap SD cards or charge up the phone—usually using the Men’s Room—and carefully stashed the recorded conversations for later retrieval.

A few hours later, a plane landed at the airport and taxied its way into the hanger. Nothing unusual about it—it was the sort of twin-engined small jet one expects of successful, ambitious men with means—and out of it came some well-dressed men with a military bearing to them, not unlike Pedro and his siccarios.

Their leader, a white-haired man who seemed out of place without either a military uniform or an operator’s field gear, scanned the room and frowned.

“Where is Franklin Anderson?” the old man said, anger simmering.

Sheepdog-12

noreply@blogger.com (Bradford C. Walker) — Fri, 09 Dec 2011 23:17:00 +0000

Ken followed Guiscard back to the man’s office, and sat himself in a chair.

“I can’t believe that you’re not dead yet.” Guiscard said, his astonishment showing, “Not only did I hear about your little adventure in Brazil, but also the details from my sources down south. You single-handedly destroyed a cocaine processing plant, hacked apart the cartel’s ruling committee with a machete, torched an entire region’s coca plantations, waged a war against its enforcement arm- and that was before they shot you.”

Ken’s ears perked up. “How did you hear about the cartel’s committee meeting? Those details were kept out of the press.”

“Sources.” Guiscard said.

“Intelligence sources.” Ken countered, “CIA sources, specifically, but being ex-Legion you’d not be that picky about your associations now- would you?”

Guiscard gave Ken that look of disbelief, and Ken threw a picture on the desk- one of Guiscard and another man, a Brazilian from the lower classes.

“Stephan would send his regards, if he were still alive.”

Again, the Algerian sighed. “He never could fit into French civil society.”

“And you could? Or do you live closer to Quebec than France or Algeria for kicks?”

“Enough. Why are you here?”

“Los Zetas. They hooked up with an outlaw club, and they’re looking to run dope through this county. The Sheriff’s not keen on that going on.”

Guiscard smiled. “Ah, yes. The Angels club, the chapter based out of the Cities. Ken, that Sheriff hasn’t told you the full picture. Since I value keeping my doors open more than I do making a tidy profit, and I know full well what happens should you come again while doing your man-on-a-mission thing, I’m going to bet on you this time.”

Ken kicked back. “I’m listening.”

“The Sinaloa Cartel and the Zetas fight for control of North America’s drug networks. Both of them are reaching out to American and Canadian syndicates, looking to make strategic alliances that spread their networks across the continent. Los Zetas secured the Texas Syndicate’s allegiance, and that in turn brought in several associated outlaw clubs- including the Hell’s Angels. The Sinaloa Cartel then got an alliance with MS-13 in turn, and now both cartels are swiftly making networks out of associations. They’ll soon sew up firm continental networks, and that makes the current warfare in Mexico nothing in comparison to what will come."

“The Feds?”

“Your Federal Government is less than worthless. They’re involved. They trained the founders of the Zetas. They’re allied to the Sinaloa. They’re playing both sides to screw you out of what freedom you think you have.”

Ken nodded. “Great. Now, how does that work here?”

“The Cities chapter of the Hell’s Angels club are about to link up with a cross-border group that specializes in smuggling across the U.S.-Canada border.”

Sheepdog-11

noreply@blogger.com (Bradford C. Walker) — Fri, 25 Nov 2011 23:14:00 +0000

Just off one of the major highways in the state, on good lakefront property, there stood a bar—The Longhouse—known only to two groups of people: outlaws and lawmen. The bar catered to the outlaw biker world, yet eschewed any affiliations; the owner—a foreigner named Guiscard, said to be an Algerian ex-French Legionnaire—is a true businessman. He took any outlaw’s money so long as the fights stayed outside. This created a few things, now well-known amongst that underworld: outlaws could meet there, and drink, more-or-less in peace and that meant that clubs could do business; the law could reliably stake the place out to find out what’s going on around the county- or even further afield; and others seeking outlaws for whatever reason could reliably make contact there- if they had courage or cunning enough to do so.

Being a bar for bikers, a clubhouse away from one’s clubhouse, outlaw bikers from many clubs stop here to drink—and enjoy themselves, as it were—on a regular basis. Clubs, especially outlaw clubs, are not one big happy family of bikers. There are rivalries, feuds and other levels of conflict between (and within) clubs- but at this bar, it’s all outside or else. Inside, the rules are to keep it as cool as the beer. This is advantageous to the owner, because it keeps profits up and costs down.

It is also advantageous to lawmen, because they usually don’t have to do much but pick up a drunk or two outside and then step in for a brief talking-to before taking their man away for a night in jail to sober up. (This usually leads to a transfer to the county jail for outstanding warrants the next day, but that’s another story.) More ambitious or creative lawmen assume passable personae and become regulars themselves, using the place as a front for intelligence gathering. This was the Sheriff’s idea.

Ken didn’t need any persona. Ken just rode up to the Longhouse, knowing that the Sheriff and the other men would be listening from a close distance, watching over the place with a team ready to go if things went bad. He parked his bike next to a row of your usual Harleys and Indians, road hogs all the way, and walked in without so much as a thought. It was around sunset, soon to be dark outside, and all sorts of action went on in the Longhouse’s common room: drinking, dancing (badly), gambling (poker), chatting up the girls (or worse) and lots of talking.

If not for the jukebox, there would’ve been no sound at all once everyone recognized Ken. Ken, for his part, eyed them all and then just took a stool at the end of the bar—back to the wall—and then got himself a beer. Folks went back to their carousing, slowly, but the tension didn’t release and one of the girls waived to the bartender. He went into the backroom, and a few moments later he returned with Guiscard behind him.

Ken looked up at the foreigner as the man approached. “You’re stocking better beer now.”

Guiscard stared at Ken. “You’ve got balls coming back here.” he said, “I ought to toss you out now, after how you trashed the place last time.”

Ken took a long pull on his bottle. “You won’t. You know why, and so do I.”

The foreigner sighed. “Right. My office, now.”

Sheepdog-10

noreply@blogger.com (Bradford C. Walker) — Thu, 17 Nov 2011 07:07:00 +0000

The phone rang. Gerald picked it up, and then passed it to Reginald, who merely affirmed whatever was said before hanging up.

“Sherrif?” Ken said

“Yes.” Reginald said, “He just arrived and will be joining us shortly.”

While Gerald moved the guns to one side, Ken kept looking through the longarms. Old rifles, new rifles, common ones and a few rare ones all passed through his hands before the Sheriff entered the office. He took the last open chair and sat down.

“Sheriff,” Ken said as he set aside an old trench gun, “I appreciate that you want me to help. I appreciate that you’re in some serious shit, and that you’re working with Reggie and Jerry here to see that your men are properly armed and supplied. I assume that you’re training them also.”

The Sheriff nodded.

“So, since you’re involving civilians in this matter, and yet I see no evidence of deputization, I’m inclined to think that you’re not planning on arresting these guys.”

The Sheriff chuckled. “I’ve quietly put the word out to the right people, and we three formed a county militia once it became clear what the Feds and even the State was—or, rather, wasn’t—going to do about us. My men and I are the core of it, and a lot of the others are the firemen, paramedics and so on that we count on to keep accidents from becoming disasters. Mr. Haroldson organized several businesses into lending support, but he’s been the only one to be less-than-quiet about it.”

Ken looked over at Reginald.

“Have you now?”

“Indeed, Ken.” Reginald said, smiling, “Rams work best in groups."

"This county is popular with military veterans and outdoorsmen.” Gerald said, “We have a lot of households with three or more generations of military service, and a lot of people who like to be secure in their backpacking, hunting, fishing and so on. That’s why we’ve done as well as we have, and we may not look it but we’re quite willing and able to use the new tools to make things work better.”

“Yeah,” Ken said, “I remember. Reggie, you still own the county’s biggest ISP right?”

“And all of the cellphone towers.”

“Long story short-“ The Sheriff said, but got cutoff.

“Too late.” Ken said.

“We know that they’re coming to carve up our county and make it into a way-stop on the Zetas chain of dope-running from Mexico to Canada, and we know that the Feds are letting them come so that we and they get taken out.”

“So, we should expect Federal intervention?”

The Sheriff nodded. “More than that, my boy; we should expect Federal manipulation.”

Ken picked up the old trench gun and pointed that solid shotgun to the ceiling. He loaded some dummy shells into it, and then worked the pump to check the action. Pleased, he looked over at that old Sheriff.

“So, it’s war then? Fine by me.”

Sheepdog-09

noreply@blogger.com (Bradford C. Walker) — Fri, 11 Nov 2011 00:21:00 +0000

Reginald took Ken with him to the gun store and range that he owned, a place called “North Star Arms.” The two of them walked through the clean, well-lit and spacious retail floor and the handful of clean, well-dressed sales associates dealing with customers there to the manager’s officer in the back. In that room, behind the desk, sat the man Reginald employed to manage his business, an old friend from Reginald’s military days by the name of Gerald Johnson. Gerald has a duffle bag on the desk and a hockey bag on the floor before it. Both of them were open, and both of them were full of guns.

Reginald closed the door, and Ken peered into the bags. He smiled.

“Gerald, you remember Ken.” Reginald said, and Gerald came out to shake Ken’s hand.

“I do.” Gerald said, “I’m glad to meet you Ken. Reginald told me plenty about you.”

Ken chuckled, and then Reginald said “Gerald, what have we to offer our friend?”

“Oh, I think Ken can figure that out for himself.” Gerald said, and Ken began pouring over the contents. The smaller of the two bags contained a vast array of revolvers and pistols, along with a few smaller submachine guns and short-barreled shotguns. Ken grabbed handgun after handgun, racking the slides and checking the cylinders, looking down the barrels and shining lights down them to check the bores, marking the features and deciding upon which ones to take and which to reject.

“This is quite a spread, Reggie.” Ken said, “What are you selling to the sheriff?”

“Smith and Wesson, M&P, chambered in 9mm Luger.” Gerald pointed out the Smith & Wesson M&P9, and Ken picked it up again.

“What are the Zetas and their boys usually carrying?”

“Most of their handguns are in 9mm, followed by .40 Smith & Wesson, with a few using handguns in .45 ACP.”

Ken set aside a Glock 17, a Kel-Tec P11 and a Ruger LC9. Reginald and Gerald got Ken’s thinking; a full-sized service pistol, followed by a pair of easily-concealed backups in the same 9mm caliber.

“Do we have any intelligence on their movements?”

“According to my sources,” Reginald said, “the Zetas have some issues going on in Mexico right now that take up much of their time and attention. Problems north of the border are on the backburner until their backyard is secure.”

“That don’t mean that we’re ignored.” Gerald said, “The sheriff, Reginald and I think that these gangs that the Zetas brought into their syndicate are how they intend to deal with us.”

Ken nodded. He set aside a short-barreled Mossberg pump-action shotgun and then a Kel-Tec Sub 2000. Then reached into the hockey bag.

“Bikers, I assume, and not just the guys we dealt with before?” Ken said as he pulled out a pair of AK series rifles.

“Correct.” Reginald said, “Hell’s Angels, specifically, though there’s bound to be a few Zetas along to oversee Zetas interests.”

Ken pulled out a Mosin-Nagant, one of the restored sniper variants, and worked the bolt.

“Not for long.” Ken said, and he smiled a wide and wicked grin.

Sheepdog-08

noreply@blogger.com (Bradford C. Walker) — Thu, 03 Nov 2011 10:00:00 +0000

“I didn’t want to disturb you two.” Reginald said to Kathy as he came into the house.

She kissed him. “I appreciate that.”

“So does he, I would think.” Reginald said, sitting.

Then their daughter came into the kitchen. “Why is Uncle Ken exercising with his shirt off?”

The three of them went to a window overlooking the backyard, and there Ken was—shirtless—practicing his martial arts.

“Honey,” Reginald said, “your uncle does a lot of things, and one of them is fighting with his bare hands and feet.”

“Like Jackie Chan?” she said.

“No.” Kathy said, “More like Bruce Lee.”

Just then, both Reginald and Kathy remembered that Bruce Lee had been dead for generations and that even his son had been dead for nearly 20 years, and thus the reverence they held for him was as alien to their daughter as life before Jar-Jar Binks and Young Anakin Skywalker. Reginald, thinking fast, pulled up the Bruce Lee entry at Wikipedia and showed it to her. That helped, somewhat.

Ken, for his part, noticed that they watched him. While he couldn’t hear them, or make out their faces in detail, he got a sense from Kathy and Reginald’s body language that they could use a hand. So, he toweled off and came inside just as Reginald showed his daughter the Bruce Lee article.

“Teaching ancient history so soon?” he said.

The little one turned to him. “Do you know Jackie Chan?”

Ken laughed. “I met him once. I needed some quick cash, and he needed a stuntman that could pass for English, so I got the part. I worked with him for a few weeks, played a minor role as a bad guy, and had a good time doing it.”

Her eyes lit up. “Really?!”

Ken nodded. “Best time I ever had in Hong Kong. Ended up helping one of his relatives with a Triad problem, but that’s another story.”

Reginald then clapped Ken on the shoulder and pulled him aside.

“I saw that the sheriff came by last night. I can assume then that you’ve been told what’s going on?”

Ken nodded.

“I apologize for that. I wanted to tell you today, after you had some time to relax.”

“You know that you don’t need to ask. I’ll help you put these guys down, but-“

“You need gear. I’ve taken care of that. After lunch, you and I will head down to the shop. I had my man set some things aside for your consideration.”

“That’s a very polite way of saying ‘I told one of my guys to pull some guns out for you to pick from.’” Ken said, wryly.

“I remember your preferences. I think that you’ll be pleased with the selection.”

“And the girls?”

“The little one and I shot some video at the gun club this morning. She and Kathy will spend the afternoon editing it into something good enough to upload to the YouTube channel later tonight.”

“Why is it that when you and I get together, I always feel like I’m Bond and you’re Q?”

“No, Ken, not Q- M. Because I am the general and you are the operative.”

“At least you’re honest. I can respect that.”

“It’s mutual, in both respects.”

“Not quite. You always come up just ahead.”

“Only from a certain point of view, Ken.”

Sheepdog-07

noreply@blogger.com (Bradford C. Walker) — Thu, 27 Oct 2011 21:56:00 +0000

Ken went to bed after the two lawmen took their leave. Years ago, he’d be mad at this sort of development, thinking that he’d been suckered somehow- and he had gotten suckered into this before. This time, he noticed, he felt nothing. No anger, no resentment, no sense at all of being on the wrong end of a con- nothing at all. It just didn’t matter anymore. Why this, again, came to him did not mean a damn thing. Those details would sort themselves out, and they always did, when it was time to do so. All that mattered was the goal.

Kathy slipped into his bed as he reflected on this, and she noticed the look—that look what to her meant serious business either went down, or would presently—on his face. Without a word, she curled up next him; it always brought him out of his trance when they were together, and indeed he did come out again. They said nothing; they didn’t need to. They’ve been here so many times before that all what could been said had been said, and so at last both drifted to sleep in each other’s arms. The last conscious thought before dawn, for both, was “At least Reggie doesn’t mind.”

Reginald, though he slept through the night undisturbed, was no slouch. He awoke alone, which he expected, and therefore felt no surprise to see his wife and his wife’s former boyfriend together in the guest bedroom. He let them be, cleaned up and got dressed. He noticed that the gun cabinet had been used when he put the rifle back in its proper spot, and then put the pocket pistol into the holster he used when he carried it. As he saw no damage, nor signs of violence, he quickly deduced that what occurred overnight ended without bloodshed.

While he cooked his own breakfast, Reginald poked his head outside and noticed the tracks in the dirt; being quite familiar with the county sheriff’s department, he knew their vehicles well and thus guessed—correctly—that they stopped by during the night. One quick phone call got him confirmation on his hunch. As he ate breakfast and read his usual array of papers and magazines on his tablet, he put in a call to one of his businesses—the local gun store he owned—and had his manager set aside a few things for him.

Then he put in a few more calls, sent out some emails and held a brief conference call before he finished his coffee and woke up his daughter. As he hustled her out of bed and into the morning routine Reginald marked the points of similarity between himself and his progeny. While he awaited his little girl’s appearance downstairs, he pulled out the medical records and smiled- just to be certain, he had some DNA checked at birth. Reginald is an atypically accepting man of means, but he’s still a man of means and thus protects his interests, and he wasn’t about to give his wealth away to someone not of his blood.

His daughter came down to breakfast, and after breakfast the two of them left the house for some father-daughter time at the local gun club where he maintained a membership. They spent the morning shooting, and shooting video; Reginald’s latest project was a video series about teaching the fundamentals of firearms safety to children roughly his daughter’s age. When they came back to the house for lunch, Kathy and Ken were up. Kathy was in the kitchen, and Ken in the backyard.

Sheepdog-06

noreply@blogger.com (Bradford C. Walker) — Thu, 20 Oct 2011 14:00:00 +0000

“You can stand down, son. I’m here to chat, not to slap irons on anyone.”

Ken slung the rifle over his shoulder and walked off the porch. Another man exited the truck.

“Ken, this is my right-hand man- Jackson. Jackson, Ken.”

Deputy Jackson walked around the truck, and the two lawmen met Ken at the foot of the porch. They all shook hands.

Just then Kathy, now in a robe, appeared in the doorway.

“What’s the matter?” she said, curious- and wary.

“They’re here to chat.” Ken said.

“That’s right, Mrs. Haroldson.” Jackson said, “We’re just here to chat.”

Kathy, and Reginald for that matter, knew what this meant- they’d done this before. Ken knew how to handle this situation—Kathy saw this before also—so she knew what to do. She went, got some cold ones from the kitchen and brought them out to the men. She took the rifle from Ken, slipped him a pocket pistol and then excused herself.

“Now,” the Sheriff said as he opened his bottle, “I heard you just got back from someplace far south.”

“I did.” Ken said, “Long stay, lots of work needed doing.” “I also heard that you found some trouble down there.”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle. Certainly nothing I didn’t handle, especially with a little help from my friends.”

Jackson laughed. “That, man, is an understatement.” “So, aside from your old ladyfriend, what brings you back to my county?”

“I’m just visiting family, Sheriff. Their little girl’s birthday party was today, and I was invited- including to stay here.”

The two lawmen looked at each other and shrugged.

“I guess you really did hurry straight here then.” Jackson said.

“Indeed, I’d say so.” The Sheriff pulls out his phone and brought up a news article. “As I recall, the last time you came to visit you ran afoul of some very vicious gangsters.”

Ken nodded. “I did. I also recall that you didn’t mind what became of them.”

“I still don’t.” The Sheriff showed Ken the article. “Their boss just busted out of a Mexican prison, with the aid of Los Zetas. From my contacts in the DEA, it looks like their gang signed on with the Zetas.”

“In return,” Jackson said, “the gang’s territory is now Zetas territory.”

“As I recall, Ken, you also had a go-round with Los Zetas.” “I did.” Ken said, “That was one wild ride, and I’m not keen to take another like it.”

“Y’know, they get TV in prison. Stories like what you did in Brazil got plenty of press in Mexico, and if someone you tangled with got word of where you’re likely to be…”

Ken rolled his eyes. “I get it. I wondered what would bring you out here, so are they coming here or not?”

“Here? Sure. For you? Can’t say. This county does remain a key piece of dirt for smuggling networks looking to link up Mexican cartels to American markets, so even if you weren’t here we’d be worrying about this.”

“It’s not like the Feds give a damn about us.” Jackson said, “Not since we busted their own end of the scheme some years bad. Well, not the Feds that call the shots for the Feds we do get along with.”

“The governor doesn’t like us either, not after we nailed the State Patrol for their own scheme last year. He’d like to get rid of us and put in someone willing to play ball.”

“And you, with your Fists of Fury, provide quite a plausible excuse for their refusal to help us until it’s too late.”

“Convenient.” Ken said, deadpan, “Convenient all around.” Ken spat.

“We agree.”

“Do they know?” Ken said, pointing to the house.

“Mr. Haroldson does. He’s been financing our preparations.”

Ken just stood there. That sounded so like Reggie.

“It’s going to get nasty, Ken. You couldn’t have come at a better time.”

Ken grimaced and sighed. “Yeah, perfect timing.”

Sheepdog-05

noreply@blogger.com (Bradford C. Walker) — Fri, 14 Oct 2011 02:31:00 +0000

“I mean it, Ken. I’ve never met anyone else like you. I’ve met plenty of men like Reginald, and I’m glad that men like him exist, but they won’t do what you do- not even a measure of it. So hemming and hawing while the bad guys rape, kill, run drugs, terrorize people-“

“-and run government agencies, organize into gangs and families, even set up cults. They do all of that, and so much more- and worse. Big-timers, small-timers, all sorts doing all sorts of bad stuff to all sorts of decent people- but it’s not without remedy.”

Kathy kissed Ken’s cheek. “Marisol’s taking her life seriously now. She won’t be a victim anymore, and her kids won’t be victims anymore either. Lots of people I’ve helped over the years got the point and started taking care of themselves, much like you and Reggie do. It’s getting better, but it’s not sexy so it doesn’t get on the news.”

“You really think so?” Ken smiled and nodded.

“You’re still, at heart, an idealist.” Kathy said, “That’s why I want to ensure that there’s more like you to come.”

“I have no problem with that.” Ken said, holding her close, “Others might—not Reggie; he’s so cool that sometimes I think him more than human—but their opinion doesn’t matter. Besides, it’s not like anyone but us needs to know who begat whom.”

Kathy smiled. It wasn’t just the happy smile, but the knowing smile. Ken smiled back, and he also got what Kathy meant.

“I’m glad that you see it my way.” Kathy said, and the two stopped talking for a while.

Ken and Kathy dozed on the front porch when the distant rumble of a car on the road woke Ken up. Ken rubbed his eyes, clearing his vision, and figured from the headlights and the noise that a truck approached the house- and, thankfully, just one truck.

“Get up!” Ken said, whispering, “Get up, Kathy, and get inside.”

Kathy sat up. “What’s going on?”

Ken grabbed her by the arm and pointed out the approaching truck. “That’s going on. Get inside!”

Kathy didn’t move fast enough, so Ken pulled her to her feet and hurried her into the house. He threw on a shirt, grabbed a rifle from the cabinet and loaded it as he went back outside to see who this unexpected visitor was. The truck stopped when the headlights lit up the front porch, but even so Ken stilled noticed the light bar atop the truck’s roof. He recognized now the Sheriff’s Department truck, and relaxed his guard a bit. Here, unlike many other counties, Ken got along well enough with them.

A man got out from the driver’s side. “Just the man I’d been looking for.”

Ken recognized the voice. “I’d like to put the rifle down, Sheriff. I sure hope you’re here to be sociable.”

Sheepdog-04

noreply@blogger.com (Bradford C. Walker) — Fri, 07 Oct 2011 03:51:00 +0000

Later, after dark, when all of the others went home and the birthday girl got tucked into her bed with a tired yawn and a gleeful smile on her face, Ken sat on the front porch in just his boxers. Kathy lay across his lap, similarly dressed.

“I’ve missed you so much.” Kathy said, “Especially this part.”

Ken brushed her face off her face and smiled. “Ain’t no one that knows me like you do.”

She giggled. “You got that right.”

Kathy sat up and steadied herself in his lap by embracing him, and Ken welcomed her.

“How much longer can you do this?” she said, fingering the new scars on his chest, “This shot almost got you, and when Marisol told me what happened-“

“-you choked up. I know. Marisol told me when I woke up. She and I had this conversation, and you and I also had this conversation. Both of you now know the answer.”

Kathy nuzzled Ken’s neck. “I do, I do. That’s not what I mean this time.”

“You’re wondering what happens when my body won’t let me go on? When I get too old, or rack up too many injuries, go on?”

She nodded her head.

“I die. It’s that simple, Kathy. I won’t stop, so sooner or later someone’s gonna get the drop on me and that’s that.”

Kathy looked at him, face to face, eye to eye. Here they were, in their 30s, and still she wanted him to stop being the White Knight- and still he held his resolve otherwise. The scars—the evidence, the trophies—about his face, neck, chest, arms, legs and hands spoke for him. He walked the walk, and he was one of two men she knew that did; the other, God bless him, was asleep upstairs and did not resent one bit his wife’s affection for Ken.

“Ken, I-“

“-don’t want to know a world without me. You’ve told me many, many times. That’s why we are where we are, and are what we’ve become. It hurt when you left, but I knew why it had to be that way and I never was—nor shall I never be—angry or resentful about that. Reggie’s a great guy, and he’s all that you need- all that I can’t be for you. What’s scaring you now? That you and I won’t grow old together? That I may not see your little girl grow up, get married and make a grandmother of you?”

She shook her head. “Not quite.”

He lifted her head up and wiped a tear away. “That I won’t be able to come to you when you need me?”

“Almost.” She said, and she shifted herself so that she could look right at him, “I’m afraid that, once you’re…”

Ken gave Kathy that look, the one he always used when she equivocated.

“…dead there won’t be anyone around to take your place.”

“And here I thought that your daughter was actually my child.” Ken said, smirking, “She certainly acts like it.”

Sheepdog-03

noreply@blogger.com (Bradford C. Walker) — Thu, 29 Sep 2011 14:00:00 +0000

Others arrived not long thereafter. These other guests were the usual combination of friends, family, neighbors and associates one often finds at social functions amongst Reginald and Kathy’s class in society. Ken, despite a change of clothes and a shower, still moved like the working-class man he’d always been; wearing the guise of his hosts’ social station did little to conceal his outsider status. Some of those other guests remembered Ken; they were old friends from Kathy’s college days, and glad to see that the two old lovers remained close friends. Some were associates of Reginald’s, and found it curious that he kept a friendly association with someone so out of their league. The relatives, by and large, sat in the middle; they knew that Ken was okay by Reginald and Kathy, but still found him odd.

All of them, however, soon found that Ken was also anything but boring. Ken joined in tossing horseshoes, playing Bocci, talking about sports of all sorts, holding conversations about anything—even those topics one would not expect a man believed to be a rough sort to know much about, like cooking or caring for the sick—and demonstrated a mastery of tact that few expected out of him. Well, other than Reginald and Kathy, that is.

Reginald’s mother took Kathy aside as the two watched Ken play with the kids and whispered “I can’t believe that this is the same man that risked a prison sentence for you. Has he settled down?”

“Not at all.” Kathy said, laughing, “He just got back from Argentina yesterday.”

“What was he doing down there?” her mother-in-law asked, curious.

“Do you remember Marisol?” Kathy asked in response; her mother-in-law nodded. “Ken went down there because Marisol’s husband got gunned down in broad daylight by one of the cartels, and the government did nothing. Then they went after her husband’s family, and still nothing. When they went after her parents and her children, she begged Ken to help her.”

Kathy’s mother-in-law took another look at Ken. He organized the kids into a group, teaching them how throw a horseshoe.

“What did he do?” asked the elder woman.

Kathy pulled her away from earshot. “He killed them all. It took six months, and he uncovered a CIA plot to overthrow the government in the process, but he made good on his word to Marisol.”

Her mother-in-law looked at Kathy, unbelieving.

“It nearly killed him. He hobbled away from the last fight, and had to be rushed to a nearby hospital. He recuperated at Marisol’s home after that, leaving just the other day.”

Kathy then smiled. “Now, at last, do you see why I married your son?”

The old woman let that thought, and many others, work itself through her brain for a long moment. Then she kissed Kathy on the cheek. “Yes, I do.”

“Now, then, do you also see why Reginald made peace with him? Would you not want such a man as your friend?”

Reginald’s mother, like his father, was not a stupid woman- just unaccustomed to thinking in unconventional ways. Kathy, like Reginald, did not have that problem- nor did they have the problem of being unable to, as it were, translate. Once again, the lightbulb went on and the elder woman nodded in appreciation.

“What I don’t get, dear, is how this man can be so good with kids and yet do such things?”

Kathy smiled. “He’s one of the rarest amongst men. Like normal people, he’s got empathy. Unlike us, he can shut it off when he needs to- and when he does, he can think like the psychopaths he kills. That’s what makes him so unnerving, until you understand his special psychology. Right now, he’s switched it on and he can fit right in. When he switches it off, he can just as cold and unfeeling as those he fights, but rarely is because—unlike his enemies—he knows, and remembers, empathy. Thus, with proper discipline, he maintains his moral center when he needs it most.”

Sheepdog-02

noreply@blogger.com (Bradford C. Walker) — Thu, 22 Sep 2011 20:42:00 +0000

“Sheepdog” is a curious term, but apt once one knows its context. Reginald started calling Ken by that term after he read a pair of books by one Lt. Colonel David Grossman, books recommended to him by former colleagues of his that he met during his time at West Point. Reginald recognized that Ken was an unusually strong expression of that personality type, a sort of extreme altruist one otherwise will not encounter outside of the realms of fiction, someone so compelled to intervene that they could not operate in normal society for long or very well.

The predators of the world, as related by Grossman, are described as “wolves”. The common people at large are “sheep” and the few capable of beating the wolves are the sheepdogs. Reginald, like Grossman, made no moral judgments in assessing one as a sheep or another as a sheepdog- only those he labeled as “wolves” felt any moral disapproval, and then only because Reginald did not think himself to be one. Nor did he think himself a sheepdog, despite his own military experience, but merely a more worldly and capable sheep- “I am but a Ram.” The world needs the peaceful, decent sheep because they make all the rest go ‘round; the sheepdogs exist to guard the sheep from the wolves, who prey upon the sheep because the sheep are weak and meek by comparison and thus easy prey, yet those same sheep are often ill at-ease with their sheepdogs and sometimes foolishly abuse them because the wolves and the sheepdogs are too much alike for the comfort of the sheep.

Ken, on the other hand, has a far less nuanced view. Never reading Grossman, Ken saw things much as he did as a child: there are good people and bad people, and there are weak people and strong people. Those who are strong and good hunt and kill the bad people while protecting the good people, and they push the weak good people to become strong while remaining good. Bad people do all sorts of lying, cheating and other scamming to keep out of sight until they strike so he’s got to stay sharp and on the alert at all times because he’s one of the strong good people and he goes where he’s got to go to put the bad people down- and down for good. Ken is a killer, and he has no qualms with who he’s killed or why he killed them. Laws don’t matter to him. Borders, countries, customs- all irrelevant to him. He goes where he’s needed, gets the job done, and then takes his leave before he wears out his welcome.

Together, Ken and Reginald have a certain understanding that lets them respect each other as equals despite very different perspectives and attitudes about things. It’s this common ground that lets their unorthodox arrangement work, an arrangement that keeps Kathy happy, fulfilled and satisfied- and in turn does so for them.

So, beer in hand, Ken accepted his welcome warmly. “Another monster slain.” Ken said, smiling.

Sheepdog-01

noreply@blogger.com (Bradford C. Walker) — Thu, 15 Sep 2011 23:17:00 +0000

A man, beaten and bloodied, sits on the stoop of a ruined house. About him is a scene of carnage—corpses litter the yard, cars and motorcycles lie wrecked about the property and the trees are the worse for it—and besides him a small schoolgirl clutches him as she sobs a river of tears. He has in hand a pad of paper and a pen, with which he writes furiously. Sirens howl in the distance, signaling the approach of the police as well as the fire department and the ambulances. Atop the paper one easily reads first “AFFADAVIT”, and then “THIS IS A MATTER OF PUBLIC RECORD”.

* * * * *

Kathy Berglund had everything she desired. She married an ambitious businessman from a wealthy, respectable family. She had a successful line of novels, written under an ambiguous pen name, that she just transitioned into the thriving digital publishing world. She had two strong, healthy children and housed them in a dream home out in a fashionable lakeside property that had all of the benefits of a rural cabin without being removed from urban center of her—and her husband’s—career. Unlike many of her friends from college and high school, she still the enjoyed a reasonable expectation of security and prosperity, so—as a good friend—she helped them as best she could.

This compassion, coupled with her own talents, once had her in the arms of another man- a man that remained firmly fixed in Kathy’s heart, a man that she remained friendly with after she left him and a man that was soon to arrive at her idyllic home to join her family and friends in celebrating her eldest child’s 5th birthday. She saw him in the distance, riding up toward the house on a motorcycle, as she stood on the backyard deck overlooking the lake. He waived, and once more the same excitement that drew her to him all those years ago rushed through her being.

She went inside and grabbed her husband. “I saw him!” she said, giddy, “He waived to me from across the lake.”

Kathy’s husband, Reginald, just chuckled. This wasn’t the first time she’s seen her old boyfriend since they got together. They’d met up plenty of times since Kathy accepted his wedding proposal. She had plenty of chances to run back to that man, yet she always came home to Reginald. Once he met the man, he understood why Kathy loved him so much- and why she left him. He holds his own warm regards for the man, so he didn’t mind that Kathy had him come to their daughter’s birthday party. So, after getting a pair of beers, he followed his wife out the front door just in time to see him come up the driveway and park the bike. Kathy ran up to him, threw her arms around him and kissed him as if they were still the lovers they were when she was in college- and Reginald just smiled, chuckled and shook his head.

As soon as Kathy let the man come up for air, as it were, Reginald approached and put a beer in the man's hand. "I see that Kathy's given you a warm welcome, Ken." he said, "Ellie's waiting for you inside. We hadn't told her yet, but I doubt that we'll need to."

Just then, the birthday girl crashed through the front door and ran out to meet their guest. "Uncle Ken!" she cried, "You're here!"

It's a rare thing to see two men share knowing, appreciative glances at each other, but these two did.

"That's right, honey." Reginald said, "Our sheepdog is back."

Nala Prime and the Great Bug War-20

noreply@blogger.com (Bradford C. Walker) — Fri, 09 Sep 2011 00:08:00 +0000

Epilogue

Inside the Inner City, Nala Prime stood before the Council of Masters in the Spire at the center of the Inner City.

“Nala, you stand before us once more.” The First Master smiled with approval.

The Second Master continued. “Your last report indicated that you located a Bug Hive and requested reinforcements. Special Team 1 answered your request. Upon your return, one of that team had disappeared entirely. Furthermore, your report indicated that you and Special Team 1 destroyed that Hive- but only through the use of unauthorized techniques and protocols.”

Nala nodded affirmatively.

“So,” the Third Master said, “you admit that you defied our ban?”

“Not your ban.” Nala answered, “I had sanction to act as I did.”

The other Masters looked at the First Master, and their bubbling rage turned towards their peer.

“The matter needed proper resolution.” the First Master said, smugly, “You could not bother to fulfill your responsibilities, so tied to your fears as you are, so I did it for you.”

“But the loss of Special Team 1-“

Green Prime entered the chamber. “I am.” Green said, “Whole and better than new.”

The other Masters looked at Green Prime, shocked. “But the reports of your behavior-“

“I was wrong.” Green said with a shrug, “Thanks to Nala’s discovery, I am here to tell you myself of that fact.”

The realization of what this meant—of what the process of transference between the Inner and Outer City meant, and how it related to the constructs and programs that they created in the Inner City—filled the other Masters with utter horror.

“GUARDS!” they cried, and the chamber filled with security programs- programs that halted as soon as they recognized Nala and the First Master.

“Seize the other Masters.” Nala cried, and then he turned to Green Prime: “Execute System Upgrade Protocol.”

Green Prime left the chamber. Within moments, echoes of commotion across the Inner City could be heard as backdoor commands throughout the system went into action.

“If we are to win against the Bugs,” the First Master explained, “then we must embrace all of our advantages and negate all of our weaknesses. As we sit on a font of endless power, power that we are the masters of shaping, not only can we match the Bugs for numbers- we can surpass them.”

Now held fast by the guards, Nala went to each of the Masters in turn and hacked into their brains.

“This Bug brain we took back revealed a lot of secrets.” Nala said as he hacked away, “Such as whom amongst our own were in league with our enemies, and how it came to be in its position; when we saw the Bug swarm coming for that Hive, and saw that it held not us as its primary targets, that’s when all of the weirdness within and about it started to come together.”

“You lot,” the First Master bellowed as he pointed at them, “thought to play them against us.”

Just then, Nala finished the hacks. “Access procured, Master.”

The First Master entered a program into each of his peers and executed it, causing them all to go into convulsions and collapse into unconsciousness. The bodies of the Masters began to change in appearance and form, becoming wholly robotic, faceless and without means of speech.

“Your fears undid you, my former peers. For your folly, I shall compel your service as penance; nevermore shall you be Users, but instead nothing more than Programs yoked by a master protocol that I know none of you could comprehend, let alone defeat.”

The faceless former Masters now arose. Lithe, once more youthful of form—if robotic, android-like—and clearly capable of deeds brutal and graceful alike they were. Yet, despite their aura of power, one with the eyes to see could sense the caged wills within straining at their prisons.

“Kneel!” bellowed the First Master, and—haltingly—they did.

“Behold, Nala, our success. The link that you made between ourselves and our creations has come to its fulfillment at last.”

Just then, Green Prime returned to the room. “Master, Nala: our plans proceed as foreseen, with the expected pockets of resistance.”

The First Master, now simply Master Prime, looked over to his rectified former peers, and he smiled once more.

“Order them to hold position and keep them pinned down.” Master Prime said, “I shall send these programs to finish the job.”

The Sky-Blue Republic won the Bug War a year later. The peace took much longer.

Nala Prime and the Great Bug War-19

noreply@blogger.com (Bradford C. Walker) — Fri, 02 Sep 2011 04:02:00 +0000

Nala Prime and his team fled upward, where they swiftly dispatched the Bugs still within the Hive as they encountered them. Soon they linked up with Red Prime and his team, and as they cut their way through the waning—but fanatical—resistance within the Hive they found Blue and Yellow Prime’s breech point for exfiltration. One by one they made the climb out of the Hive and joined the latter two Primes on the roof, with Red Prime hosing down a few approaching bugs to cover the last man out: Nala Prime.

Red Prime pulled Nala Prime up and out, when Blue Prime pointed to the north. Nala and Red immediately grokked the situation.

“Into the air, now!” Nala Prime ordered. All of them stowed their personal weapons, drew the other baton and leapt into the air. Resolving and mounting their light jets, they fell into formation and flew up to see what came for them.

“It’s a massive Bug swarm.” Yellow Prime said, “I can’t make out the form of Bug.”

“It’s a new form.” Blue Prime said, making one of his leaps of logic, “This place wasn’t for us; it was for some other enemies of their elsewhere. That’s why we’ve not seen much from this Hive.”

“It won’t matter in a few moments.” Red Prime answered, “Shall we?”

“Hit it!” Nala Prime ordered, and Blue Prime detonated the explosives previously placed on the Hive’s pillars. Its structural supports shattered, the stilt-mounted Hive fell straight down into its own footprint and collapsed into a massive heap of chitinous ruins. Explosions from within ripped apart the husk, rending it asunder and causing a secondary collapse that leveled the former Hive into a pancake of insectoid remains.

Yellow Prime passed on a detailed scan of the incoming Bug swarm to the others. “Blue’s right- it’s an unknown form. All we can tell is that it’s closing in faster than other Flyer forms that we know, and they seem to possess some superior individual capabilities.”

“Such as?” Nala Prime said.

Red Prime took a look at the scans. “It’s a more conventional air formation. That’s not a massed swarm of a single type. That’s a conventional bomber formation with fighter escorts.”

The implications of that observation silenced them for a moment, and then Nala Prime spoke up once more.

“We’re done here. Recall protocols, now.” And they did, all the way to the Inner City.

Nala Prime and the Great Bug War-18

noreply@blogger.com (Bradford C. Walker) — Fri, 26 Aug 2011 04:47:00 +0000

Red Prime watched over Nala 4 via the scope on his rifle, while one of his copies watched over the hatchery as a whole. The other shadowed Nala 4, shrouded in stealth protocols and armed for close combat. The latter pair stalked through the dormant Bug eggs, crept up upon the closest of these alien technicians and quickly cut him down. The second approached at that moment, so the infiltrators threw their chakrams and cut him down, but the third could not be seen from their position. Red Prime and his copy couldn’t see the remaining technician either, and let Nala 4 know.

“Keep an eye out for that last one.” Nala 4 said, curtly, “We’ll set explosives; cover us.”

Nala 4 and the Red copy supporting him quickly cover the hatchery in explosives, and as the duo completes their demolitions work Nala 4 sees a blast from an unknown weapon burn through the Red copy’s chest from behind and deresolve him. Once under cover, Nala 4 linked to Red Prime.

“Can you see him?”

Red Prime and his copy scan the room, but don’t detect him. “Nothing. He’s either well under cover or stealthed.”

Nala 4 activated his own stealth and moved out. This was now a game of cat and mouse, of two parties silently maneuvering for position before attacking from ambush and assassinating their enemy. Nala 4 watched the room, looking for tells revealing one’s presence, heightening his senses to sensitize motion. Tense moments passed before Nala 4 detected alien footfalls faintly found in the floor, a trail Nala 4 then pursued, before those sensitive senses served him well at a critical moment.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Nala 4 caught a flash and brought up his chakram to shield himself in a split-second, deflecting away the deadly shot, and then dove for cover. He locked his eyes on that position, and then Red Prime began firing upon it. This forced the technician to break out of that place, and Nala 4—now attuned to what tells to watch for—noticed the technician's flight. With one throw of the chakram, the last technician went down.

“That’s finished.” Red Prime said, annoyed, “Let’s not see any more surprises.”

Nala 4 switched scanning modes, a hunch prompting him to do so. He scowled.

“The Bug eggs are awakening. Slowly, sure, but they’re going to start hatching soon.”

“Not this shit again.” Red Prime said, “So damned predictable. You know what to do.”
Nala 4 hurried back to Red Prime’s position, and with a button he detonated the explosives. The eggs immediately splattered about the chamber, and the Hive shook. Shortly thereafter, the surviving three got the signal from Nala Prime to exfiltrate- and with flames engulfing the chamber quickly, they needed no further reason to quit their position. Once more with rifles in hand, they fled the hatchery and moved to link up with Nala Prime.

Nala Prime and the Great Bug War-17

noreply@blogger.com (Bradford C. Walker) — Thu, 18 Aug 2011 17:30:00 +0000

Nala Prime and his team approached the very center of the Hive. They expected a Queen Bug, but did not find one within. They found, instead, a dull grey humanoid of androgynous sex and features that can only be described as minimalist: its eyes, ears, nose and mouth were the barest possible to act as intended. Its legs seemed Man-like, as did its arms, but again only enough to function as intended; it seemed to be a proto-Man figure.

Once the group settled in, they listened as it walked about the strangely void chamber. Thought none of their gear or protocols could pinpoint it, all of them felt great potential energy- but energy low of frequency. Then, remembering back to their educations, they shifted their perceptions back to those basics imparted to them many years ago in the Academy: now, though faint, they noticed the network of drawn circles on the floor- circles mirrored on the chamber’s roof.

Without words, Nala Prime signed to the others “User?”

The other Nalas and the Reds nodded their concurrence, and they prepared their usual plan for taking down a User: attack from stealth in close-quarters, incapacitate the target before it can react and then lock down the User’s ability to enact protocols. They awaited the signal, which came from the room below when Red Prime’s team engaged the Bugs in the Hatchery. Their target immediately spun about the room, raw power shooting from an outstretched hand and channeling it into the master node of the circle system.

Nala Prime chopped at the air, signaling an immediate attack. The group, going invisible, rushed the alien target and tackled him to the floor before it could seal itself off. The Blues and the Reds got off and spiked the circle system with their batons, draining the power in the system and funneling it to them- power they badly needed. Then they drew their chakrams.
They needed those weapons, because the Nalas found that their target, to their surprise, was a construct- an android! It flung them all aside with some violence and leapt to its feet, resolving blades into each hand and attacking the Reds and Blues.

“Black Knight Neutralization!” Nala Prime bellowed, “NOW!”

As the Nalas got to their feet and drew their swords and chakrams, they watched their target take on the Blues and Reds—fighting as a unit—and matched them blow-for-blow, step-for-step without apparent strain. Nalas 2 and 3 joined the melee and soon found that their added numbers did not help; the User demonstrated a mastery of awareness, acumen and athleticism that they found previously only amongst the greatest of the Sons of Ken or the Knights of the Azure Flame.

Nala Prime drew his chakram, prepared to throw and took aim. Roaring with a barbaric yalp, Nala hurled his chakram at the User. Each of the others, in swift succession, disengaged just enough to throw their own before rejoining the fight. The User fell into a stance and weaved his blades such that he created a swift-pivoting wall of steel, and the others did not let up their assault upon the User for a few critical moments.

Nala Prime, again invisible, leapt high into the air. Using a protocol to enhance his hang-time, he plucked each chakram out of the air and hurled them down from directly above the User. Each struck a limb, severing it, save his own. He held that in hand as he landed. The now-limbless android sputtered helplessly as Nala Prime approached it.

“Game over.” Nala Prime pronounced, “You lose, User.”

Nala Prime decapitated the User and took its head in hand. “Change of plans. We take the head with us and hack it in the lab. Time to exfiltrate- signal Red Prime and move out.

Nala Prime and the Great Bug War-16

noreply@blogger.com (Bradford C. Walker) — Thu, 11 Aug 2011 17:30:00 +0000

Yellow Prime breached the roof of the Hive from within, and was the first to climb out. Both of the Greens followed, and last was Blue 5. The four of them set beacons and dropped lines back inside so the others could easily home in on their position, and then they took up defensive positions- time to wait. The four of them split their attention within and without, keeping eyes on the skies and the Hive at all times, rotating positions periodically.

The Greens glanced at each other often, maintaining a private and silent dialog. Words were not needed between them, as each knew the other’s mind; they weren’t trusted any longer, believed by the others to be compromised emotionally and thus an operational hazard, so why should they stick around? Why not bug out? Why not take the earliest possible opportunity to get the hell out of there and head back to the Inner City- and then let the Masters know what went down? Sounds like a plan, doesn’t it? That’s what the Greens thought.

Of course, Nala Prime anticipated it. Of course, Blue 5 and Yellow Prime figured it out during their transit to their current position. The Greens, now caught up in a paranoia feedback loop, tried to out-think their erstwhile colleagues- and that sort of logical thought wasn’t their strength. The best the two Greens could do was to assume that Blue 5 had their number, and that he kept Yellow Prime in the loop, so if they just edged out and ran in different directions one of them would get away because they could outrun and out-maneuver both Yellow Prime and Blue 5 should they decide to pursue them.

Then they decided that pursuit could not be risked, assuming that their comrades would see a breakout attempt coming, so they decided to ambush Blue 5 and Yellow Prime and disable them such as to guarantee their escape. This too they considered deeply, until their uniformity of thought ceased as one Green favored flight while the other favored fight. Their glances turned to scowls, then to glares, as they increasingly focused on each other instead of on Blue 5 and Yellow Prime.

Without warning, one of the Greens attacked the other with a sword. The other blocked with a chakram and drew his sword. The two Greens, fighting with chakram and sword, soon forgot that Blue 5 and Yellow Prime ignored them both and slipped back down inside the Hive- just in case. As one would expect from two perfect copies fighting each other, they mirrored each other move for move as their clash left simple melee combat and turned to the tossing of their chakrams in vain attempts to trick one off his line and thus leave an opening for a chakram to strike home and end it in deresolving one Green so the other could flee.

Below, Yellow Prime and Blue 5 looked at each other in exasperated bemusement; at any other time, this would be hilarious to witness. Right now, it’s tragic and stupid; both hoped that one Green would get the other and get on with their scheme. After about 15 minutes, they decided to put an end to this farce: they shot both Greens, knocking each off balance and thus unable to block the other’s chakram. The shattered remnants of both Greens rained upon Blue 5 and Yellow Prime as they climbed.

Nala Prime and the Great Bug War-15

noreply@blogger.com (Bradford C. Walker) — Fri, 05 Aug 2011 04:01:00 +0000

Red Prime finished off yet another Bug with a burst of blaster fire, and then took a moment to asset his team’s condition. It wasn’t good, but within Nala Prime’s expectations—expectations that he shared—and that meant that things went accordingly to plan, so far. According to the clock running on his helmet’s user interface, he and his team endured near-constant contact with the Bugs for about an hour. The Yellow copies got overrun and deresolved about 15 minutes ago, after they got separated from the group in the last ambush, and that took an already thin group past the point of sustainability.

“Form up.” Red Prime bellowed, “We’re on the move.”

The remaining copies of Special Team 1 reformed around Red Prime, and as a group—covering all six possible avenues of assault—they moved through the Hive towards their objective, below the center of the Hive; the Hatchery, if this Hive conformed to previous experiences, would rest below where the Hive’s commander—previously, a Queen Bug—and the eggs it spawned would drop to that Hatchery to be tended by specialized Drones. The now four-man team managed to avoid or cut-short several more Bug contacts, and then it came upon what usually would be the Hatchery.

What they found, instead, was a large laboratory with complex—and inorganic, apparently—machinery that stored Bugs in various states of development. Some, indeed, were eggs. Others were larval forms, and still others were mature forms. Amongst these Bugs were something far more familiar, far more telling in their very presence: obviously humanoid figures, in positions of authority, acting not just as the specialized Drones of previous experiences but also as technicians.

Red Prime waived Nala 4 up to him and pointed at the scene before them. Nala 4 took a long look at them, and then he waived the others forward and had them all stay out of sight.

“The Bugs are not a problem if we can take out the technicians first, quietly.” Nala 4 said, “But we need to do it fast. If we botch one take-down, the remaining ones will react and likely wake up the Bugs. If that happens, we’re as good as dead.”

Red Prime checked the readout on his blaster rifle; it read low, which mimicked the readouts of his internal power levels- he felt spent, but not yet completely drained, and this time to rest did help to replenish his reserves. His copies, and Nala 4, looked similarly depleted and vulnerable.

“No time to rest?” Red Prime asked, knowing the most likely answer.

“Almost none; take it now, while you can.” Nala 4 said, giving Red Prime that likely answer.

“I assume you’re looking at using a stealth protocol and making close-quarters takedowns, due to our low power levels?”

Nala 4 nodded affirmatively. He put his blaster rifle in his lap, gripped it by the two hand-holds and deresolved it back into a simple baton. Putting it away into a leg shealth, Nala 4 instead drew forth his chakram; Red Prime and his two copies comprehended immediately Nala 4’s intention.

“Red 3, go with Nala 4.” Red Prime ordered, “Red 2, you’re with me on Spotter detail.”

Red Prime reshaped his rifle out of its compact, close-quarters mode and into its sniper mode. Red 2 activated a protocol on his helmet that gave him a full suite of personal sensors suitable for being a sniper’s spotter. Red 3 also deresolved his rifle, and sheathed the baton; he also drew his chakram. Red Prime and Nala 4 nodded at each other, and then Nala 4 and Red 3 went invisible and began the slow crawl into the Hatchery-cum-Laboratory.

Nala Prime and the Great Bug War-14

noreply@blogger.com (Bradford C. Walker) — Thu, 28 Jul 2011 06:35:00 +0000

The Bug defense turned into a relentless onslaught. Now in close-quarters, the range advantage turned to the Bugs. Only with the superior skill and experience did Nala Prime, Special Team 1 and their copies—those still alive—withstand that assault and blasted, hacked and slashed their way through and penetrate deep into the Hive. Once they broke through, quickly did they rush out of sight and away from the still-converging Bugs; once satisfied as to their distance, the band paused.

“What’s the plan now, Nala Prime?” Red Prime asked, “Because I doubt that splitting back into sections will work.”

“Correct.” Blue Prime said with a nod, “But staying together like this invites continued Bug attack that could jeopardize the mission.”

“You’re both right.” Nala Prime affirmed, “So here’s what we’re going to do. Yellow Prime will take the Greens and Blue 5; they’re going to sneak their way to the top of the Hive and prepare our escape route, where they’re going to stay unless called for. Red Prime, take the Nala 4, Reds 4 and 5 and the Yellows; go find and blow up their hatchery. Everyone else goes with me as we make for the Bug Mastermind and hack his brain.”

The others said, as one, “Understood.”

People shuffled around to their new assignments, but before the group split up the Nalas quickly conferred amongst themselves. Then Nala 3 handed off thumb-sized crystals to Red and Yellow Prime, who each sublimated the crystals and absorbed the contents therein. Comprehending what the Nalas gave to them, Red and Yellow Prime saluted Nala Prime before gathering up their assigned men and heading in different directions.

Nala Prime looked over his group. He knew he could trust his own copies, and he trusted the Blues to go along with what he had in mind. Getting the Greens and the Yellows out of the way, lest they screw up what’s to come, seemed sensible to him- especially after some of the Greens already got compromised by the events of the mission. Give the Reds military objectives, and they’ll be fine; they’re here to fight a war, not to quibble about philosophy.

“Red 2, take point. Red 3, bring up the rear. Nalas 2 and 3, go with them. The Blues, Nala 4 and Nala 5 will be with me in the center.” Nala Prime said.

Nala Prime and his copies led his group carefully through the Hive, crawling through its interior and swiftly removing those Bugs discovered that they could not avoid. The faint echoes of combat hit their ears, assuring them that Red Prime’s group indeed kept the Bugs busy by making noise and then doing hit-and-run engagements. Nala Prime’s tap on Yellow Prime informed him that, as expected, the Greens had no problem following Yellow Prime back out of the Hive; they also revealed that they too shared the thoughts of the other Greens- but were now too scared to act on them.

“Yellow Prime, no doubt, awaits their sudden—but inevitable—betrayal.” Nala Prime thought.

Nala Prime and the Great Bug War-13

noreply@blogger.com (Bradford C. Walker) — Fri, 22 Jul 2011 01:26:00 +0000

Furthest back, near the gateway, Nala Prime and Section 1 mounted up on their bikes and—in stealth mode—made their way through the ruins.

“Red Prime’s section carves a path through the ruins.” Nala Prime said, “We’re going to follow some distance behind them while Yellow Prime leads his section against the Fliers and ties them up.”

“Understood.” Section 1 said, and the five of them kept quiet as the other sections moved around them.

Nala Prime kept track of the other sections not visible to him through an overlayed user interface. By way of this monitor protocol, he tracked the deresolution of Yellow 3 as well as the death of Green Prime. He, along with the rest of Section 1, witnessed the impressive aerial displays as well as the ground combat. He saw Blue Prime’s section swiftly move after Yellow Prime’s section breeched the Hive, riding their bikes right up the pillar of the Hive. Then he saw Green Prime’s fall and demise when he smashed into the Hive from above.

“My counterparts are acting as I expected.” Nala Prime thought, “Are the other Greens also compromised?”

Then Green 1 spoke up. “These Bugs, aside from any possible ambushes, aren’t able to fight us effectively. This can’t go on.”

Nala Prime already suspected it, but Yellow got there first: “Don’t jinx it.”

“No, Green 1 is correct.” Blue 1 said, “I fully expect the circumstances to shift into the Bugs’ favor once we’re inside. Having made this much of a commotion, there is no way that we won’t meet stiff resistance once the battlefield shifts to their advantage.”

Red 1 nodded, concurring.

The group passed by the sight of Yellow 3’s deresolution, now another place piled up with Bug corpses and blasted environs. Ahead they saw Red Prime’s section grouped up similar to themselves, riding on bikes, now that Blue Prime’s section had achieved the breech. As they saw Yellow Prime’s section mop up the Fliers, both they and Red Prime accelerated and followed Blue Prime’s lead in riding their bikes straight up the side and gain the breech themselves.

Within, as Blue 1 predicted, the Bugs regrouped and counterattacked. Red Prime’s section immediately dismounted and opened fire with their blaster rifles. Nala Prime signaled to his section to follow, and they too dismounted; rifles resolved into their waiting arms, they added their firepower to the others and slowly drove the Bugs back. With Yellow Prime’s section landing behind them and joining the fight, Nala Prime felt that the next phase had arrived.

“All sections, status!”

“Section 5, down two: Lost Green and Yellow.”

“Section 4, down one: Lost Green.”

“Section 3, down one: Lost Green.”

“Section 2, all present.”

“Section 1, all present.”

Greens 1 and 2 could not help but feel put upon at that moment, but neither them knew about Section 4’s mutiny against Green Prime or how Section 3 deliberately sacrificed Green 3 to ensure that the mission’s next phase would go ahead by slapping some bombs on him and kicking him at a hulking warrior Bug form blocking their way to a vital access shaft. However, they couldn’t avoid feeling that they—more than anyone else—were utterly expendable.