Post by sammyfun on May 17, 2012 17:55:14 GMT -6
"If you tell a lie big enough, and keep repeating it, people will eventually come to believe it. The lie can be maintained only for such time as the State can shield the people from the political and/or military consequences of the lie. It thus becomes vitally important for the State to use all of its powers to repress dissent, for the truth is the greatest enemy of the State."
- Joseph Goebbels
Prologue:
Manhattan, 2006
The Frigid night air should have stung Derek's face, but it didn't. Tonight, he noticed very little about his surroundings, operating solely on instinct. All his faculties were taxed to the limit with the battle that was raging within him, a battle that had begun that afternoon, a battle that was steadily marching onward to its inevitable conclusion.
A child! His weathered face contorted with his thoughts, his natural, carnal self breaking through the years of carefully built-up training, the stoic facade that had somehow come crashing down in one fateful moment. He had killed before. He had killed Americans before. All under orders, of course. All for the good of the country. But never before had he killed a child.
What danger could a child really have posed? Derek's thoughts continued, more a stream of answerless questions than a real quest for understanding. It was obvious which side would win his internal battle. He had decided its end when he left the apartment. He had determined what its outcome would be when he packed the heavy briefcase he carried at his side, its weight hardly noticeable compared to the gravity of its implications for Derek, for Meggido, and maybe one day, for the country.
The rules were simple. Someone pokes their nose in the wrong place, starts sharing "improper" ideas, ideas that get uncomfortably close to that uncomfortable truth that he was sworn to protect. A red flag goes up. Third Echelon stakes out the individual-or the "traitor" as Meggido liked to call such people, for, according to protocol, anyone who even entertained such ideas, were considered enemies of the state, regardless of their intentions- then verifies the extent of the "ideological contamination." Elimination - or the "Cleansers" as they were sometimes colloquially called, as they removed the stain that the traitor made on Meggido's integrity - moves in and removes the threat. Then EDA removes any loose ends to make the whole thing disappear. Of course, if the Cleanser did his job properly, there wouldn't be anything to tie up. And after every one of Derek's missions, there never was. At least, not until today.
***
He had received the mission from one of Meggido’s special couriers this morning, the message itself was encrypted to protect against interception. Short, to the point. The traitor’s name, physical description, place of residence, and the like. Personal habits observed by Third Echelon that could be used to help stage the scene. The usual requisite information that would allow Derek to do his job. Death was nothing new to him. It was as normal as going to the office for a banker or an executive: it was his job. No thrill of the kill, no sadistic pleasure from taking the life of another human being. Just the cold, stoic orchestration of death, as prescribed by his faceless superiors. Emotion of one kind led to hesitance; of another, sloppiness. Meggido could not abide either.
Derek had thought nothing of the target’s age. Raymond Jade, Age: seven, forty-eight inches tall, and fifty-one pounds. A child, obviously, but none of this had struck a chord with the veteran assassin that morning. It was just another job. He’d never had to kill a child before, but faced it as he would any other job: without emotion, without doubt. If Meggido had decided the boy was a threat, then Derek would fulfill his duty without a second thought.
He had arrived outside the boy’s school fifteen minutes before the students were due to be released. Sitting on the park bench across the street, an open newspaper in his lap, Derek stared intently at the photograph of the boy. Derek, like all of the Cleaners within Meggido, had been trained extensively in facial recognition, so that from his close study of this one picture, he would be able to pick out little Raymond from a crowd of his peers. His knowing the route the boy would be taking home, as well as having a description of the clothes he wore to school this morning, would also be helpful. There was no room for error. There never was.
The boy’s face was just a face, like many others he had studied before. Like many others he had seen before death. A bit rounder, more cherubic, perhaps, but just a face nonetheless. It was just business for Derek. It had to be that way.
The ringing of the school bell jerked his attention from the picture and back to the park bench. He had allowed himself to lose track of time, the plan having been to study the immediate area and its denizens at least five minutes prior to school being released. Now he had only seconds to survey the area for any potential interference or witnesses before the students began pouring out the front doors.
He subconsciously checked himself, something arising inside that had to be pushed back down. Fear about his need to rush? No, fear wouldn’t have made him lose track of time in the first place. It was something different. Something in the picture. Something far more dangerous than fear.
Derek sighted the boy. Red jacket, buttoned up and covering the white shirt underneath, blue jeans, brown shoes, his books tucked under his left arm, his right motioning wildly as he chatted with two other boys his age.
Derek cursed himself silently. He hadn’t prepared for this possibility, a possibility that he should have treated as a likelihood. Of course the boy would have friends at school. A loner like Derek, a man who dealt in death and had long since left interpersonal relationships behind him – this was an alien world to him.
A world of acceptance and peace. Of wonder.
Of innocence.
Derek found the image of the boy’s face, the close-up of his ingenuous countenance weaseling its way back into his mind. His well-trained subconscious went through the required motions to repress the subversive thought. He had made the identification. The picture was now superfluous. That face, that haunting face, was no longer any use to him. But, like the effects of tremors beneath a body of water, the usually placid surface of Derek’s mind was no longer without ripples.
Slowly, cautiously, he arose, casually folding the newspaper in his lap and tucking it beneath his arm. Though he was focused on seven-year-old Raymond, his senses still took in the rest of the scene. Anything and anyone that could prove useful. Or that could potentially compromise the integrity of his mission.
Feeling assured that he was aware of all the variables in his environment, he began to follow the boys, walking across the street, just behind them, maintaining a casual pace while studying the children with his peripheral vision. As they walked, groups of students turned down side streets toward their homes. Most of the children came from poorer families that couldn’t get by on just one income, so both parents were at work when the school day ended. Thus, the children walked themselves home. This would have made matters easier for Derek, but there was one problem: Raymond’s mother was home with the flu. With each step homeward, the window of opportunity was closing. And with each passing second, echoes of that innocent face spawned more and more ripples in the long-stagnant waters of a long forsaken corner of Derek’s mind.
The crowd was thinning. The boys were alone now, a pair of older girls walking a few paces behind. One of the girls motioned to Derek’s direction. Whispered something to the other girl. They giggled. He forced himself not to wince.
The cardinal rule: don’t draw attention to yourself. He didn’t exist. He couldn’t. Standing out, being seen, being remembered: that was unacceptable for a Meggido agent. How had he been so careless as to draw their attention? What had he done that made the girls notice him?
The girls glanced in his direction again. Derek started to quicken his pace when a hobo shambled past him, a tin can in his hand. The can was empty. Thus, the hobo’s relatively silent approached that Derek hadn’t noticed. Thus, the girls laughter, confirmed by the outstretched finger of one of the girls, pointing at the hobo who now ambled several paces ahead of Derek. Derek breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn’t been sloppy. At least, not yet. He had to get his act together though, he told himself, or mistakes would be made. And he never made a mistake.
Raymond and one of his friends reached a crosswalk, a line of taxis and cars stopped at the intersection. They waved farewell to the other boy as he continued down the street toward his house. The girls turned the corner and headed in the opposite direction from Raymond’s house. And then there were two.
A policeman directing traffic blew a piercing whistle and thrust his plam out to stop the line of vehicles, beckoning to the boys with his hands. As the boys crossed behind the policeman, Derek was sure the officer had glanced in his direction. Why shouldn’t he? Derek tried to assure himself. A man didn’t have to look suspicious for someone, officer of the law or not, to glance at him. Derek decided not to slow his pace, though. He had to turn the corner before the boys got there, to continue on the path that he knew Raymond would take home. To loiter in view of the police officer – that was just asking for trouble. He knew Raymond’s route, and walking in front of the boy instead of behind, that just seemed a better way to avoid suspicion. Especially now that it seemed he had no choice. Given, he wouldn’t have a clear line of sight on the target while he walked in front, but his other senses, especially his hearing, would make up the difference. Besides, tricks of the trade he’d learned, like using the reflections in storefront windows to get glimpses of the boy, would help fill in the gaps.
Turning the corner, he heard the voices of the boys coming up behind him. He couldn’t tell which was Raymond’s, but he knew that for one of the voices, it would be the last conversation it ever took part in.
The boys were yammering on about God-knows-what. Something from one of their other classmates, it sounded like. “Hey guess what?” changed the subject. Now they were talking about… something about – oh God no. Derek almost stopped dead in his tracks, his right leg stiffening with fear before he forced it to continue its downward motion into the next step. The boys were talking about Meggido. Not knowledgeably, of course, but they were poking in the right – or as it were, wrong – direction nonetheless. How in the world had children run across this seed of thought?
- Joseph Goebbels
Prologue:
Manhattan, 2006
The Frigid night air should have stung Derek's face, but it didn't. Tonight, he noticed very little about his surroundings, operating solely on instinct. All his faculties were taxed to the limit with the battle that was raging within him, a battle that had begun that afternoon, a battle that was steadily marching onward to its inevitable conclusion.
A child! His weathered face contorted with his thoughts, his natural, carnal self breaking through the years of carefully built-up training, the stoic facade that had somehow come crashing down in one fateful moment. He had killed before. He had killed Americans before. All under orders, of course. All for the good of the country. But never before had he killed a child.
What danger could a child really have posed? Derek's thoughts continued, more a stream of answerless questions than a real quest for understanding. It was obvious which side would win his internal battle. He had decided its end when he left the apartment. He had determined what its outcome would be when he packed the heavy briefcase he carried at his side, its weight hardly noticeable compared to the gravity of its implications for Derek, for Meggido, and maybe one day, for the country.
The rules were simple. Someone pokes their nose in the wrong place, starts sharing "improper" ideas, ideas that get uncomfortably close to that uncomfortable truth that he was sworn to protect. A red flag goes up. Third Echelon stakes out the individual-or the "traitor" as Meggido liked to call such people, for, according to protocol, anyone who even entertained such ideas, were considered enemies of the state, regardless of their intentions- then verifies the extent of the "ideological contamination." Elimination - or the "Cleansers" as they were sometimes colloquially called, as they removed the stain that the traitor made on Meggido's integrity - moves in and removes the threat. Then EDA removes any loose ends to make the whole thing disappear. Of course, if the Cleanser did his job properly, there wouldn't be anything to tie up. And after every one of Derek's missions, there never was. At least, not until today.
***
He had received the mission from one of Meggido’s special couriers this morning, the message itself was encrypted to protect against interception. Short, to the point. The traitor’s name, physical description, place of residence, and the like. Personal habits observed by Third Echelon that could be used to help stage the scene. The usual requisite information that would allow Derek to do his job. Death was nothing new to him. It was as normal as going to the office for a banker or an executive: it was his job. No thrill of the kill, no sadistic pleasure from taking the life of another human being. Just the cold, stoic orchestration of death, as prescribed by his faceless superiors. Emotion of one kind led to hesitance; of another, sloppiness. Meggido could not abide either.
Derek had thought nothing of the target’s age. Raymond Jade, Age: seven, forty-eight inches tall, and fifty-one pounds. A child, obviously, but none of this had struck a chord with the veteran assassin that morning. It was just another job. He’d never had to kill a child before, but faced it as he would any other job: without emotion, without doubt. If Meggido had decided the boy was a threat, then Derek would fulfill his duty without a second thought.
He had arrived outside the boy’s school fifteen minutes before the students were due to be released. Sitting on the park bench across the street, an open newspaper in his lap, Derek stared intently at the photograph of the boy. Derek, like all of the Cleaners within Meggido, had been trained extensively in facial recognition, so that from his close study of this one picture, he would be able to pick out little Raymond from a crowd of his peers. His knowing the route the boy would be taking home, as well as having a description of the clothes he wore to school this morning, would also be helpful. There was no room for error. There never was.
The boy’s face was just a face, like many others he had studied before. Like many others he had seen before death. A bit rounder, more cherubic, perhaps, but just a face nonetheless. It was just business for Derek. It had to be that way.
The ringing of the school bell jerked his attention from the picture and back to the park bench. He had allowed himself to lose track of time, the plan having been to study the immediate area and its denizens at least five minutes prior to school being released. Now he had only seconds to survey the area for any potential interference or witnesses before the students began pouring out the front doors.
He subconsciously checked himself, something arising inside that had to be pushed back down. Fear about his need to rush? No, fear wouldn’t have made him lose track of time in the first place. It was something different. Something in the picture. Something far more dangerous than fear.
Derek sighted the boy. Red jacket, buttoned up and covering the white shirt underneath, blue jeans, brown shoes, his books tucked under his left arm, his right motioning wildly as he chatted with two other boys his age.
Derek cursed himself silently. He hadn’t prepared for this possibility, a possibility that he should have treated as a likelihood. Of course the boy would have friends at school. A loner like Derek, a man who dealt in death and had long since left interpersonal relationships behind him – this was an alien world to him.
A world of acceptance and peace. Of wonder.
Of innocence.
Derek found the image of the boy’s face, the close-up of his ingenuous countenance weaseling its way back into his mind. His well-trained subconscious went through the required motions to repress the subversive thought. He had made the identification. The picture was now superfluous. That face, that haunting face, was no longer any use to him. But, like the effects of tremors beneath a body of water, the usually placid surface of Derek’s mind was no longer without ripples.
Slowly, cautiously, he arose, casually folding the newspaper in his lap and tucking it beneath his arm. Though he was focused on seven-year-old Raymond, his senses still took in the rest of the scene. Anything and anyone that could prove useful. Or that could potentially compromise the integrity of his mission.
Feeling assured that he was aware of all the variables in his environment, he began to follow the boys, walking across the street, just behind them, maintaining a casual pace while studying the children with his peripheral vision. As they walked, groups of students turned down side streets toward their homes. Most of the children came from poorer families that couldn’t get by on just one income, so both parents were at work when the school day ended. Thus, the children walked themselves home. This would have made matters easier for Derek, but there was one problem: Raymond’s mother was home with the flu. With each step homeward, the window of opportunity was closing. And with each passing second, echoes of that innocent face spawned more and more ripples in the long-stagnant waters of a long forsaken corner of Derek’s mind.
The crowd was thinning. The boys were alone now, a pair of older girls walking a few paces behind. One of the girls motioned to Derek’s direction. Whispered something to the other girl. They giggled. He forced himself not to wince.
The cardinal rule: don’t draw attention to yourself. He didn’t exist. He couldn’t. Standing out, being seen, being remembered: that was unacceptable for a Meggido agent. How had he been so careless as to draw their attention? What had he done that made the girls notice him?
The girls glanced in his direction again. Derek started to quicken his pace when a hobo shambled past him, a tin can in his hand. The can was empty. Thus, the hobo’s relatively silent approached that Derek hadn’t noticed. Thus, the girls laughter, confirmed by the outstretched finger of one of the girls, pointing at the hobo who now ambled several paces ahead of Derek. Derek breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn’t been sloppy. At least, not yet. He had to get his act together though, he told himself, or mistakes would be made. And he never made a mistake.
Raymond and one of his friends reached a crosswalk, a line of taxis and cars stopped at the intersection. They waved farewell to the other boy as he continued down the street toward his house. The girls turned the corner and headed in the opposite direction from Raymond’s house. And then there were two.
A policeman directing traffic blew a piercing whistle and thrust his plam out to stop the line of vehicles, beckoning to the boys with his hands. As the boys crossed behind the policeman, Derek was sure the officer had glanced in his direction. Why shouldn’t he? Derek tried to assure himself. A man didn’t have to look suspicious for someone, officer of the law or not, to glance at him. Derek decided not to slow his pace, though. He had to turn the corner before the boys got there, to continue on the path that he knew Raymond would take home. To loiter in view of the police officer – that was just asking for trouble. He knew Raymond’s route, and walking in front of the boy instead of behind, that just seemed a better way to avoid suspicion. Especially now that it seemed he had no choice. Given, he wouldn’t have a clear line of sight on the target while he walked in front, but his other senses, especially his hearing, would make up the difference. Besides, tricks of the trade he’d learned, like using the reflections in storefront windows to get glimpses of the boy, would help fill in the gaps.
Turning the corner, he heard the voices of the boys coming up behind him. He couldn’t tell which was Raymond’s, but he knew that for one of the voices, it would be the last conversation it ever took part in.
The boys were yammering on about God-knows-what. Something from one of their other classmates, it sounded like. “Hey guess what?” changed the subject. Now they were talking about… something about – oh God no. Derek almost stopped dead in his tracks, his right leg stiffening with fear before he forced it to continue its downward motion into the next step. The boys were talking about Meggido. Not knowledgeably, of course, but they were poking in the right – or as it were, wrong – direction nonetheless. How in the world had children run across this seed of thought?
