-1-
“…I think she went to camp in Corpus. Marjorie was unhappy at first, but she liked to be near the coast. She’d never even seen the ocean before then…”
The gray haired old woman pauses to show an image of her granddaughter; her auburn hair pulled into a ponytail, the RLA flag waving behind her. She stared indifferently at the camera.
Kenneth Maxwell didn’t turn to see the picture.
He sat with his dark shades over his eyes, staring out the window as the elevated train speed through the desert. The dome of Ft. Perch now mercifully in sight.
This was what he hated about the uniform. It stood out in the civilian world and grieving parents thought it was open season to tell him about their drafted loved ones.
He’d much preferred the venomous reactions. They felt more
sincere. A group of young men at the Dresden
Air Field had told him to fuck off and a woman had tried to blatanly spit in
his face on the plane. He could sympathize with the hate for what he
represented to them, but he hated when they wanted his pity.
“Those bastards shot her company’s plane out of the sky for no reason,” the woman continued. “Her name was Marjorie Doning. Did you know her?”
Maxwell shakes his head
“Was it worth it?” she asked, her voice suddenly hard. "Was her death worth something ?,"
Maxwell knew enough to know this woman’s granddaughter’s plane wasn’t shot down for no reason, it’d most likely been carrying illegal bombs or stolen items. This conflict was a messy conflict and the RLA was far from pure.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Maxwell said dryly and stands to signal the train to stop.
He was getting off three stops early, but he needed to get away. Ft. Perch had become the RLA Headquarters and he was able to blend in better once he was on the ground. The citizens who lived here could afford to buy out of the draft and there was less hostility towards the RLA.
He reached into his pocket and took the last inhale of the cannibas from his pipe. He’d built up some tolerance, but it made him feel carefree about the fact that he was going to a review panel where he would likely be fired. His lips still burned with the memory of the morning . It was a mistake and he hoped Haley was smart enough not to tell anyone. For now Maxwell had to push it out of his head, afraid the evidence would show on his face.
As he rounds the 6th city block he is met by the architectural feat of glass and steel that is the RLA Headquarters. The building rises well above the tallest skyscraper in the old skyline and runs two city blocks. Two large RLA flags stand on either side of the gold engraved polycarbonate stair way.
Maxwell takes the stairs slowly, but his heart still begins to race. Pausing at the sliding door he refastens The Purple Heart and waits patiently through three body scans and a pat down before being allowed inside.
The vast atrium of Headquarters always reminded him of the courthouse with the murmured voices and clacks of heels on marble floor.
“Sergeant!,” a female voice calls in his direction.
Maxwell turns and for a moment it feels like the world had slowed and his brain was playing catch up to reconcile with what he was seeing. It was as if his past and present has collided in a lopsided way he couldn’t interpret.
Her copper curls and dimples were exactly the same but, he checks the name plate to be sure. The bars below her lapel catch him by surprise.
Lt. Winthrop
“Ma’am,” he salutes her.
“At ease.” Cassia says and then smirks.
He hadn’t seen her since the second year of law school when they’d had their final break up, he had no idea where she’d gone off too after graduation.
“You look great,” he tells
“You look better than I expected,” she smiles. “I’d like to have a late lunch with you--”
“I can’t. I have a meeting--,”
“I know,” she cuts him off. “I had your meeting moved to later. I made us reservations at the Officer’s Lounge.”
Maxwell glances just over her eyes to see if he can see any reflection of her Syndicate in her eyes. He can make out the outline of a tracking ware.
“You’ve been waiting for me,” he says. “What the hell is going on ?,”
“Nothing. Come on, I’m famished,” she says and walks towards the elevator.
He follows her to the elevator, his eyes lingered on the generous amount of her toned legs on display by her uniform skirt. He’d never seen the uniform worn with such high heels. Cassia swipes her wrist on the elevator censor and hits the button for the 100th floor, the top floor.
She raises an eyebrow at him as the elevator ascends and he remembers the countless times he’d spent pressed against her in campus elevators, his fingers tangled in her curls.
It also reminds him of how long it had been since he’d slept with anyone.
The doors pull open to a short hallway; on one end of the hall was a large door with an RLA crest and two heavily armed guards outside. The name Major General Barrister-Finch was engraved in gold above an RLA insignia.
On the opposite side of the hall a pair of open doors led to the Executive Officer’s Lounge.
The restaurant‘s patrons were the highest ranking Lieutenants, Majors and Generals who gave Cassia acknowledging looks, but unlike Maxwell she didn’t salute any of them. She walks through the dining room to the expansive outdoor balcony that was lined with candlelit corner booths.
While Cassia chooses a booth Maxwell wanders to the steel
balcony and looks over the edge of the barrier. He can see most of Ft. Perch sprawled
before him. He imagines having this view every day and it gives him both a
sense of longing and disquiet. When she clears her throat he takes the signal and walks over to the booth she's chosen.
“You seem to have done well for yourself, Lieutenant,” he says hoping she can’t detect bitterness.
Cassia swipes through the menu and chooses two meals and drinks without giving Maxwell a second look.
“Dad was smart and joined the ranks of the RLA early," she says nonchalantly. "He’s one of Barrister-Finch’s advisors and recommended me. I’m second in command of the Judiciary Department now.”
Daddy’s girl as always he thinks but doesn’t say.
“So you know why I am here?,” he asks.
“I do. And your superior asked me to speak to you--,”
“Hinkley knows about us ?,” he asks, his voice more tense than he meant.
“Monterey College wasn’t that big,” she says. “People talk--,”
“Shit.”
“She knows we were acquainted. It’s not like I told her about you had a fondness for leather straps and ball gags--,”
“You mean you had a fondness-,”
“Right. Because I put a knife to your neck--,”
“If I’m not mistaken you did.”
“Once--,”
“We shouldn’t be talking about this,” he say catching myself falling into familiarity with her. “I assume everything anyone says in this place is recorded.”
“It is. But not in here.” She says.
“Can we get back to business ?,” he asks.
“Right,” she says. “First you need to know you won’t be fired or court martialed.”
The news doesn’t give him the relief he expects. She smiles.
“In fact my analysts have found your RCP has the lowest recidivism rate of all 10 pilot sites.”
“My RCP ?,”
“Remote Correctional Productivity Center”
“You mean prison camp ?,”
She bristled at the term, the practiced bureaucrat she was, but kept going.
“The higher ups like your results. We are going to have contractors build you a real administrative office and quarters, in fact they are on their way now. We also want to allocate some of the space for a training camp to give you and your Corporals some leadership opportunities.”
“What are you hiding ?,” he asks. “If all they are doing is giving me more resources why do you need to talk with me in person.”
“Well,” she sighs. “You’d have to sign a renewable 7 year contract to lead the operation.”
“I’m not doing that,” he says.
The server circles the table with their meals and two martini glasses. Cassia signals him over to drop off their plates. In the few seconds of silence Maxwell’s frustration turns to anger. When the waiter leaves Cassia beats him to the first words.
“Listen, Ken--”
“No you listen. I refuse--,”
“Don’t interrupt me , Sergeant.” she commands.
She’s pulling rank on him. He stares her down powerlessly.
“One of the reasons you have the lowest recidivism rate is because two boys were killed in your camp. We covered that up for you and do you know why ? Because you know about Operation Risen Sun and how the RLA accidentally killed its own espionage team by mistake--,”
“You know about that ?,”
“Of course I do. I know everything. You shot our pilot--,”
“I should not have been there--,”
“But you were, Sargeant. Not to mention you used to work for Julian Walker, who committed the most notorious act of treason in the world--,”
“I was only a fellow. Does the RLA really think he told me he was trying to sell the country to the East ?,”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s all about optics.”
“Optics ?,” he says. “ I see. The RLA is keeping me in its ranks to watch me, but also sending me so far out of the way they never have to see my face. All while I do all the dirty work. What if I don’t sign it ?,”
She shakes her head and picks up the fork and slices through the grilled chicken breast.
“Then we pick our favorite charge we swept under the table and send you to jail.”
She picks up her the martini glass—the drink is most likely a sapphire sin, a drink she claimed to have invented. She motions for him to do the same. He picks it up and she clinks glasses before draining half of it.
Maxwell does the same out of old habits despite the fact he doesn’t drink gin.
“Let’s say I sign this contract,” he says. “What happens when the Conflict ends in a couple years ? Do I still have to be there for 7 years ?”
She smiles over the glass.
“You’re sweet,” she says in a condescending voice.
“Excuse me ?,”
“ At my last count the RLA is making 10,234 demands of the East. This conflict, although lets just say it, war, is never going to be over. The RLA is making a shit ton of money, crime in the Sprawl is actually down and Merry loves the power. ”
“Merry ?,” he questions
And she laughs the infectious laugh that make his lips quirk.
“Dad thinks the RLA will just take over the government anyway so it’s best to be on their good side. Besides Ken I know you, you like power and you’ll have that at the RCP. Here you’d be just another subordinate.”
“I’ll be 40 when the contract ends,” he says. “I wouldn’t have accomplished anything.”
“40 isn’t that old,” she says “And I didn’t even tell you about the raise.”
“You don’t get it, Cas. You wear your heels, have restaurant meals and I assume go out on the weekend. I’m in the middle of fucking nowhere on my own...It’s doing things to me.”
“It will be fine, Ken. I think it will be good for you. You’re single, you don’t have kids, you never visit your family. It’s better you than someone else. Besides you can probably negotiate a few sabbaticals.”
She scraps at the last of her chicken and moves to the vegetables.
“I don’t want to talk shop anymore--,” she declares.
“Shop is all I have,” he retorts
“Come on.”
“Fine,” he says. “If you knew about Operation Risen Sun and that that I was injured how come you never visited me in the hospital?,”
Her fork fumbles.
“I’m terrible--,” she admits. “I was just… busy.”
“You were busy for 9 months ?”
She sighs.
“I’m sorry. I really am.”
“I’m staying the weekend in Ft. Perch. I have a condo in Pacific Bay… if you’d like to come by. I’m sure you’d love to pull rank on me again.”
She gives him a withering look and raises her left hand to reveal a large wedding ring. He wondered if his subconsious been intentionally ignoring it.
“Of course,” he sighs. “Who is he?,”
“You don’t know him. He’s a district judge.”
“Does he let you do the things you did to me ?,”
“He lets me do a lot of things you’ll never hear about.” She laughs.
A beep sounds in his Syndicate and an alert tells him his review will begin with the Undersecretary of Arms in 30 minutes. He faintly hears the same alert go off in Cassia’s syndicate.
“I know this isn’t the career you wanted,” she said. “Hell, I don’t think any of us could have predicted the RLA, but this is a good chance for you to do some good. Don’t forget we are the good guys, Ken.”
***
-2-
20 minutes
Kenneth Maxwell had spent 2 hours in a transport van, 5 hours on a plane and 1 hour on a train for a review that only lasted 20 minutes.
General Hinkley and the Undersecretary sat on one end of a table, with lawyers on either side as they explained the terms of his contract. He didn’t even try to look like he didn’t know what was coming. At the end Hinkley slid a printed contract over to him and told him to bring it back on Monday either way.
He’d gone back to his condo, it was an efficiency filled with beautiful things he’d never had a chance to use. Even the designer clothes in the closet were too small from before he started working out.
He could go and see his parents, but then he’d have to explain that he’d be living in the middle of the desert for the next few years and they’d tell him to give it all up and quite the RLA. They’d fight and then his mother would try and patch it all up just in time for him to leave.
He could finish his trip down nostalgia land and see his last lover, the civil liberties law professor who introduced the word ultra-barbiturate into his vocabulary but he doubted the older man would seem as appealing as he once did.
Maxwell strips off the uniform and finds two dusty bottles bourbon in the mahogany liquor cabinet. He rinses out a shot glass and walks out to his balcony. The view made up half the price of the condo. It overlooked nothing but the rolling Pacific Ocean—giving the effect the building was right in the middle of the ocean.
Not having any balcony furniture, Maxwell spreads out on the balcony floor, the spray from the ocean cooling his body. He runs his fingers over the RLA tattoos and brands. He’d gotten them in basic training when he and his cohort of officers-in-training were amped on adrenaline and hope. They’d been told they’d be leaders and change the god damn world if they showed their loyalty. Maxwell never liked the idea of fucking with his own body, but he’d become addicted in those few months.
Tilting his head up he tips the first shot of bourbon into his mouth.
When he’d drained the 12th he could feel the sound of the ocean and alcohol lulling him to sleep. He opens his Syndicate and sends Audrina a single message
Look like you won’t be getting rid of my ass so easily.
---
A/N
SHV: Did we write a chapter about our fictional futuristic bureaucracy ?
Muse: I mean... yeah. Making up titles is fun! Now, let's take it to 10 and make an org chart for the RLA---
SHV: Why am I actually considering this ?