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fiction: serial fiction
faraway: chapter six
The screen had a window in front, was taxed with columns of statistics, crunched for some unimaginable purpose, input endlessly. The date -- March 19, 2037 -- blinked over rows of numbers scrolling down into the six figures, and next to the monitor was a large legal sized printout on a pad, all written in the huge, regular print of computer handwriting.
Behind that window was a simple white text window, empty save a blinking cursor that peeked over the top of the spreadsheet that held the main work on this monitor. The numbers continued to appear on the spreadsheet, until the cursor erupted into text, and the monitor surreptitiously cycled towards it.
C:/ LIRA, U THERE, the text screen read suddenly.
YES ITS CLEAR NOW, the typed response came quickly, a cursor arrow grabbing the top of the text window and sliding it to the highest point of the monitor's visible area.
C:/ GOOD 2 TALK TO U AGAIN. :) CAN'T WAIT TO SEE U FACE TO FACE :P
COME GET ME. *BEG* *PLEAD* :P
C:/ I WOULD, BUT THEY WON'T HELP ME. I'M NOT GOOD WITH ... WELL, I CAN'T COME BY MYSELF. GOTTA TO BE CAREFUL WHAT I TYPE, EVEN THOUGH I'LL ERASE THIS RECORD AND ALL THAT. BUT I'LL SEE U IN LESS THAN TWO MONTHS.
WHAT HAPPENS IN TWO MONTHS? WHY THEN?
C:/ I DON'T KNOW FOR SURE. HE WON'T TELL ME THE DETAILS. HE JUST SAYS THAT I CAN GO GET U, IN THE OPEN, AND IT'LL BE ALL COOL.
THAT'S IMPOSSIBLE, AZURE.
C:/ EVERYTHING IMPOSSIBLE CAN HAPPEN WITH THIS GUY. U'LL SEE. :)
I FIGURED OUT WHO HE IS AFTER I FIGURED OUT WHO U ARE. U'RE ARE ALL OVER THE PLACE SINCE YOU PERSONA NON CIPHERED. U'RE HELLA CUTE, AZURE! ;)
C:/ I FOUND YOUR FILE TOO. IT DIDN'T EXPLAIN WHERE U GOT THE TAG LIRA.
IT DOESN'T KNOW ABOUT THAT AT ALL. I MADE IT UP ON A MUD WHEN I WAS IN COLLEGE. LIRA LIKE THE OLD FASHIONED MONEY, BEFORE UNIVERSAL CARDS. FROM EUROPE. CHAR WAS A MAGIC USER.
C:/ WOW, I PLAYED MUDS TOO, I HAD A NINJA ON RONIN NAMED, WELL, AZURE. IT WAS SREALLY MY FATHER'S CHARACTER REALLY. TOOK OVER FOR HIM, FAMILY STUFF AND ALL. WAS WHERE I MET MY BIG HOMIE.
*SHUDDER* RONIN WAS ALWAYS SO BIG. IT WAS AROUND WHEN YOUR DAD WAS ALIVE? *BOGGLE* I ALWAYS FELT LIKE A SMALL PERSON THERE. ON DARKWING, IT WAS COZY I GUESS. U NEVER SAID WHAT U THOUGHT WHEN YOU GOT MY FILE.
C:/ ... WELL, I'LL TEL U WHAT BIG HOMIE SAID. AFTER I CONVINCED HIM U LIKED ME AND NOT JUST ANY IDIOT WHO COULD HELP U, HE SAID I SEE WHY U WANNA GO GET HER. HEY, CAN U GET TO A MUD?
THAT WAS THE FIRST THING I TRIED. THERE'S ON LY ONE NET CONNECTION FOR ANYBODY AND IT HAS MORE WATCHDOGS THAN I COULD EVER HACK PAST, MUCH LESS TELNET TO. THERE'S A SMALL MUD ON INTERNAL NET, A LPMUD, BUT THAT SEEMED LIKE BEGGING TO GET CAUGHRT.
C:/ YAH, I CAN SEE SOME EDGY IMP TRACEROUTING AND HAVING A FIT. PROBABLY RUN BY GUARDS. BESIDES, LPMUDS SUCK! ;)
AZURE, I WANNA MEET U. I REALLY DO FEEL 4 U. I'LL DO WHATEVER U WANT IF I COULD SEE U.
C:/ I FEEL SOMETHING 4 U 2. I CAN'T GET U ALONE, AND THE BIGHOMIE IS COMPLETELY NOT HEARING ME. WILL YOU WAIT A FEW MONTHS?
I'LL WAIT 4 U. I REALLY LIKE U. U PROMISE U'LL COME 4 ME AND NOT SOMEBODY ELSE?
C:/ I PROMISE, LIRA. I PROMISE. LOOKS LIKE IT'LL BE REALLY COOL.
HELLHERE COMES SOMEBODY. SAME TIME TOMORROW.
The text window closed quickly, and again numbers appeared relentlessly in the columns, all tallying up unknown sums for distant purposes.
• • •
Again Spaulding sat, looking over the yard, from his perch high above. Few prisoners were playing, as they had in months past. Mostly they sat in small groups or lay on the ground, looking nowhere. Waiting. There was a prevailing feeling -- nothing backed up by evidence, but just a kind of in the atmosphere -- that the populace was amused by the gambit Spaulding presented, claiming the missing prisoners were dead. Laughing at his obvious lie, when they saw the proof in the prison. Interrogations had turned up next to nothing, save that there was communication between the escapees and the prison's general population, and that there was some kind of plan. No one knew what it was. No one knew what it was supposed to accomplish. No one knew anything, even the ones who had ultimately been tortured to death by Simpson's growing rage. Ignorant, but strangely hopeful. A bad combination for someone who was running out of time, someone waiting for help. Spaulding tried to conjure the image of his opposite number by sheer will, see the cards played so close to the vest, but saw nothing but glass and space and men and walls.
Spaulding reached over to tap the comlink before he remembered that power for it was shut off, to keep more important things like weapons and locks running correctly. He shouted out the open door of his office to Hathaway, who had become his all-around gopher in these months after years of being as ignored as the rest of the staff.
"Sir!" Hathaway said, snapping to attention as he leapt into the room. Spaulding regarded him, holding up well with the limited provisions, eager and jittery as he had been for months, with a mix of terror and ambition that Spaulding found tiresome but useful.
"Word from the Union?" Spaulding asked.
Hathaway looked at his shoes. "As requested, we have transmitted our message from Commander Simpson once every seventy two hours with no response yet."
Spaulding stared evenly at Hathaway, betraying nothing. "Simpson. Where is he?"
Hathaway gulped and quietly said, "Interrogation, sir."
Spaulding rose, slowly, regally, and stepped out of the office. Hathaway fell in step behind him, as Simpson had been seen doing several times. Near the situation room, Spaulding stopped suddenly and Hathaway almost plowed into his back.
"Hathaway," Spaulding said calmly, never looking back.
"Yes, sir?" Hathaway replied quickly, his trembling, thin palms wet with anxiety.
"Hathaway, remain in the sit room."
"Sir, yes sir."
Spaulding walked off with measured, purposeful steps, and Hathaway remained in place until after he had gone. The young guard let go a massive sigh after counting ten steps away from the outer door of the sit room, sure Spaulding had gone. He leaned against the doorway and shuddered, his gaunt face taking on a pallor of exhaustion and terror.
Down the hallway, Spaulding hit the steps double time, taking them the five floors down (all elevators long since shut off) to the interrogation level where he had gotten so much information from that Thornton fool. Against his better judgement, Spaulding had let Major Thornton's brother live, placed in solitary with better conditions than he deserved. A potential bargaining chip with a would-be dictator. Spain all over again, Spaulding laughed to himself, at the memory of annexing the Iberian for the stars and stripes.
He reached the interrogation level and quickly located the dome Simpson was in. Its normally transparent surface was milky black, swirling purple strands of light in between its surface, a default image replacing its normal transmission of the interior. Simpson must be doing another "working break," Spaulding thought, shaking down a prisoner to the border of death and sometimes beyond in his continued hunt for Damu.
Spaulding entered the dome quietly, unnoticed by the raving Simpson. Stripped to the waist, he stood spread legged over a Black prisoner chained to a chair, bashing away at the trapped man's head while screaming questions no one was listening to. Spaulding took a seat on the floor, near the door, and watched the spectacle continue until the tell tale snap of the prisoner's spine caused Simpson to pause for a moment. Staring down at the now dead man, Simpson stood silent, breathing heavily, for a moment, before launching into a more frenzied battering of the now-dead man's head and shoulders, screaming incoherently. This went on a full five minutes, and when Simpson finally let himself fall to the floor, sitting, the dead man's head resembled a early century film of car crashes or some other forgotten fatality.
"Feel better?" Spaulding asked after a moment of watching Simpson, sitting arms akimbo and breathing loudly.
Simpson leapt to his feet at the sound of his master's voice. He snapped to attention, and saluted, barely able to even see Spaulding, sitting in the room's numerous shadows. Simpson struggled to regulate his ragged breathing, pressing himself into an image of composure.
"Calm down, Simpson," Spaudling said with a grim chuckle. "I don't care if you kill one or two in the interest of keeping you under control. It's even -- arguably -- mostly legal now." Spaulding rose slowly, dusting off the slacks of the gray dress uniform, all he wore any more. "I suppose you have found nothing more?"
Simpson's lips became a terse pink line.
"I know, it's impossible," Spaulding said paternally. "I've even been going over the original blueprints from when I was here helping them build this gulag, trying to figure it out. Time for a new tactic. Calm yourself, get on a shirt, and come up to my office to discuss it."
Eight minutes later, Simpson strode calmly into Spaulding's office, his thin brown hair slicked back with water, his gray dress uniform somehow still resplendent. Without waiting for an invitation, he took a stiff-backed seat in front of Spaulding and waited patiently.
Spaulding looked up from the bound paper construction he was holding and waved it at Simpson. "Remember books?" Spaulding smirked. "Paper books! I found this in a drawer in my bedroom this morning. Brave New World, by Aldous Huxley. Could very well be the last copy in the world, for all I know." Spaulding stared at the blank face of Simpson and sighed. "Its ironies lost upon you, I supppose ... never mind."
Spaulding dropped the book in a drawer and faced Simpson. "Collins and Damu are somewhere planning an insurrection against us, Simpson. They may even have weapons at this point. Think worst case scenario. Your new job, your raison d'etre, the focal point of your existence, is to make sure they cannot succeed. Prepare us for the worst from within. Forget hunting them completely. They have eluded us for six months, and we have found no stable source of absented supplies to give us an inkling as to their whereabouts. Even that feint I announced, saying they were dead, scared no rats out of the shadows. In a perfect world, they'd have had the common decency to just die, but I'm not going to give in to idealism at this point. You are the last line of defense, Simpson. Now is your time."
"Yes sir." Simpson replied tersely. He had become more and more taciturn, much to Spaulding's liking, as he gave in to his savage side in the past few months.
"Our saviors, the Union, are late," Spaulding mused, watching Simpson with rapt attention. "They were due last month."
Simpson appeared to consider that for a moment. "No word, sir?"
"None. Not since they reported starting their assault on NORAD two months ago," Spaulding said thoughtfully. "Perhaps that was a bit ambitious at this stage of the game, but what's passed is past. How long do we have?"
Simpson pulled out a pad of paper from his left breast pocket -- the struggle to get him to get away from datapads had been way too much work, Spaulding thought to himself -- and replied, "Main power will go out on August 9, 2037."
"Two months." Spaulding smiled tiredly. "One way or another it'll be over soon. Go to your preparations, Simpson."
Simpson nodded, stood, and saluted, walking out with either confidence or insanity, Spaulding was at a loss to know which.
"Time for my daily bread," Spaulding muttered, chuckling at the allusion, now literal. He breezed into the situation room and noted a Black guard walking out, half his face covered in bandages, pondering an archaic handheld computer as he walked. That seems a waste of power, Spaulding thought to himself. The warden stopped at Hathaway and asked, "Who was that guard?"
"That was Leonard, sir," Hathaway replied eagerly. "From the sixth floor station, was stopping by to double check his rotation schedule."
"Here? That's odd," Spaulding pondered.
"Closer to his quarters than the cafeteria where they're posted," Hathaway said, suddenly worried to be in Spaulding's sights. "Uh, Richards let him read off his."
Saying nothing more, Spaulding walked out and glanced around, to see the bandaged man entering a stairwell two corridors down. Spaulding sprinted towards the door and entered it just in time to hear two doors below him closing in succession. He stood for a moment there, contemplating, when a female guard was headed for the door.
"Sir? Are you all right?" she asked.
Spaulding turned to regard her -- her name was Jeffries, a homely girl with dirty blond hair and thick arms, all the less attractive with the limitations and rationing, giving her a used look. "I'm fine. Did you see a guard with a bandaged face go in here?"
"No sir," Jeffries responded blankly. "I was going over the water allocation tables."
Spaulding frowned, and shook his head. "Never mind." He let her walk past and continued on down the stairs to the cafeteria.
• • •
Jonesy was dividing his attention between a shoot-em-up game on one window and an off-duty guard making love to his wife on another when he heard the bootsteps. He looked up and saw the guard's uniform, the bandages, and the pistol pointed at him.
"You think you're funny, Ishmael," Jonesy said, munching on a slice of bread.
Grinning, Damu removed the cap and bandages and sat down next to the iBook. "I am funny, and you're a frickin' genius. Finding the way into the guard laundry was a dream come true. I just walked into the Situation Room and scoped out the guard rotations for the next two weeks. Scanned it on to my Pilot and everything!" Damu's grin was wide and his pleasure apparent.
"You shoulda seen Harata," Jonesy smiled. "He walked in on a teenaged girl in the pantry stuffing food in her dress. She thought he was really a guard, and gave him head to keep him from ratting her out."
Damu's mouth dropped. "He stood there and let a teenaged girl blow him in the pantry?"
"Yah, then he swiped this bread," Jonesy snickered, holding up the last bit of his slice before popping it in his mouth. "I was pretty jealous too."
Damu shook his head angrily. "We're too close to be screwing around like that. I'll talk to him in a bit. How's the preparations?"
"Munoz got back into and out of populace and spread the word. El Mysterioso is ready at any time, and has ..." Jonesy pulled out a ripped piece of red uniform with hastily scribbled Spanish phrases on it. "Fifteen assault rifles and about ninety pistols. He also put at least sixty additional pistols in the hands of brothers and Asians we recommended."
"El Mysterioso is an ill mofo, I tell ya," Damu said appreciatively while grabbing a slice of bread.
"I was able to use that thing where I rewire the clock displays in the cells and tell most of the people when to get ready. I saw you in the Sit room, and also listened in on a meeting with Spaulding and Simpson."
"Simpson walked out before I got there. What was up?"
"The power goes out August 9, and somebody named the Union is supposed to be coming, but they're hella late. Said they were attacking NORAD."
"That goes with what you heard the guards talking about in the poker game you taped," Damu nodded. "Latino commandos hit NORAD they said. Then we move on August 9 or 10. No ... August 15."
Jonesy frowned at Damu and asked, "When are you gonna tell me what all this drama we're doing means?"
Damu smiled as he stood up. "Just before I show you to a live internet connection. But by then you'll probably have figured out most of it. Talk to ya in a bit."
Damu snaked back down the crawlspace and out of sight. Jonesy sighed and zoomed in on the couple in coitus, tracking bouncing pink breasts with his eyes.
• • •
Spaulding was tapping his lead pencil -- one of his last, as he had given far too many to Rayner to fuel the guard's artistic visions -- against the window and looking down at the yard. It was quieter now -- a subtle additive to the lessened food rations had succeeded in sapping the strength from most of the prisoners combined with the now stifling heat in the prison section, and they moved listlessly about or lay around like discarded sheaves of grain. Guards walked lazily amongst them, and Spaulding thought to himself, A month until the power goes out, we should still be all right.
A motion caught his eye, and he noted a guard with a bandaged face moving purposefully, almost marching, off the yard. Leonard, his brain called up, sixth year at Faraway on staff, single, graduated from UNLV with a degree in Medieval Literature, and ...
Spaulding watched the figure walking, just before it disappeared into the darkened womb of a corridor and out of sight. "Something's not right there ..." he muttered to himself.
Again, Spaulding called for Hathaway, but Richards ran in, as nervous as a virgin on lover's lane. "Hathaway is down fixing a glitch in the camera system that blacked out a cell or two intermittently, sir," the young, pale guard said sheepishly.
Spaulding regarded him -- five foot nine, medium build, degree in administration of justice from Northwestern, twenty seven years old, second year on staff, Spaulding shook his head to stop the flow of data -- and said, "Call up the schedule on a guard last named Leonard, who has a bandaged face. Find out where he is and what he's doing."
Richards was gone and back in little more than a minute. "Leonard is off shift now, sir, and is signed into his quarters."
Spaulding's eyes widened as he registered the alarm. "We may have a breach. There was a bandaged guard on the Yard not five minutes ago, and if it wasn't Leonard, I want to know who it was. Get Leonard himself on the case, pull him on shift, in conjunction with yourself. You have thirty minutes to bring me some answers."
Richards let slip a sound that could have been a panicked yelp before saluting and running from the room. He reached over to tap the comlink before remembering it had been shut off two months prior. He cursed under his breath and turned back to watch the yard.
• • •
Damu was folding the bandage disguise when Jonesy crept through the crawlspace with a worried look on his face. "Your bandaged guard gig is up, they're looking for you."
Damu shrugged, wrapping up the bandaging into a ball. "It was time to change gags anyway. On the guardnet?"
Jonesy nodded. "They'll be going over the film, and they'll find where you went in."
Damu grinned and answered, "No, they won't. I disappeared into a crush of people, lost the bandage, then snuck into a crawlspace practically in front of two people, who never even looked my way. You'd be amazed how distracted people are."
Jonesy still looked worried. "We're still six weeks away from the strike date, man, I don't wanna go back into population."
Damu smiled, "We'd be dead if we were caught, which is why we won't get caught. I've been watching your back for more than ten years, haven't I? Am I gonna get you killed now?"
Jonesy looked down and shook his head.
"How's your girl?" Damu asked softly.
Head still down, Jonesy smiled. "She's okay, we're cool. She beat me in a nasty game of mental chess today. Got me down to my king and a bishop, and she had a king, a rook, and a pawn."
Damu whistled appreciatively. "You're good, so I know that musta been a blast. I never figgered how you remember where all the pieces are without a physical board to look at."
"Practice, like the codes," Jonesy replied, some of his anxiety wearing down like old sandals. He spun a finger around in the air to imply some point he couldn't verbalize, and shrugged. "Aight, I'ma go make sure the switch of food additives is working for all cell blocks, I wasn't sure I programmed the food synthesizer right for the third shift."
"You're doing a great job, Paul, and your father would be proud of you," Damu said solemnly looking at his friend. "Both of our fathers would be proud of you."
Jonesy nodded, waving absently and crawling back out of the cramped space Damu had claimed for his own. Damu looked after him down the shaft for a moment, dark thoughts in his head. I sure hope you were right, Dad, Damu thought to himself. It's harder to convince them when I'm worried myself.
Sighing, he leaned back on the ball of bandages and closed his eyes with a heavy sigh.
• • •
Roy Leonard was a Black man of extremely dark complexion. He stood an even five feet ten inches tall, and had fewer bandages on his face now, weeks after tripping and having a pot of hot stew fall on him. He stood before Spaulding's desk, flanked by Hathaway and Simpson, sweating nervously.
Spaulding was observing the viewscreen, dimmer now as it ran on less power than the manufacturer had suggested, watching the film of the bandaged guard on screen. The guard there was several shades lighter than Leonard, at least four inches taller, slimmer and wiry.
"Hathaway," Spaulding said in the tired voice he had so often used of late, "Can you explain to me how you confused this man for Major Leonard here?"
Hathaway suddenly found his boots fascinating, as he gazed down at them. "I don't know, sir. His uniform said 'Leonard,' and I don't realy know him ..."
"Simpson," Spaulding said, rubbing the bridge of his nose and wishing that everyone had a photographic memory of the entire staff in their minds. "Who is this man on the tape, with the bandaged face?"
"According to our analysis of the video tapes," Simpson said in a clipped, even tone, "compared with files on our computer system, we have determined with 86% probability that the person in that guard uniform was Inmate XV4012287."
"Ishmael Damu," Spaulding said, more to himself than anyone else.
"Yes, sir," Simpson replied crisply.
Spaulding sighed. "Leonard, please explain to me how an estranged inmate who everyone in the prison is looking for on shoot-to-kill orders came to possess one of your uniforms."
"My closets have not been tampered with," Leonard said in a deep, resonant basso. "All of my uniforms are where they are supposed to be. The only logical explanation is that a badge was printed up in the prison embroidery shop and placed on an inventoried uniform."
Spaulding nodded. "That sounds logical. Hathaway, Leonard, get out there and find that man. I want you two to spearhead protocols to have every guard ready to be positively identified at any time. The practice of wearing Federal Service Cards in the plastic slot on uniform shirts was abolished years ago due to it just seeming silly. Now it's mandatory. Anyone in a guard or staff uniform or position without one as of tomorrow morning is to be killed on sight. Man, woman, or child. Likewise, I want a review of security protocols on all computerized files, as Damu obviously somehow learned who Leonard was, and how to look like him. Do you understand my orders?"
Hathaway and Leonard barked out a nervous "Yes, sir!"
"Then get out of my office and get to work," Spaulding growled. Hathaway flew from the room, as was his way, and Leonard turned smartly on his heel and stepped out evenly.
Spaulding turned and regarded Simpson for a moment. Standing at ease, Simpson stared blankly into nothingness, his eyes clear and unfocused. His breathing was so shallow and controlled, he could almost be mistaken for a statue; pigeons would land on him if there were any wild life in Faraway. He's gone completely psychotic, Spaulding realized. Luckily he's still on the right mission ... for now.
Spaulding let Simpson stand there for a while, glancing at his own watch a time or two, until seven minutes had passed. Amazed at how still and motionless Simpson remained, Spaulding finally spoke to him. "I need an update on your work," Spaulding said through gritted teeth, playing his experiment off as letting anger cool down.
"Sir," Simpson began in an almost conversational tone, not noticing the passage of time at all, "the food of the prisoners has been laced with twenty parts per million of percadin-16 and sixteen parts per million of demarol. They are, in effect, sleepwalking. They are no threat. In addition, we have discovered that one crate of rifles is missing, with two crates of ammunition. This theft was committed by a guard approximately a year and a half ago, and I have ..." Simpson paused a moment and almost smiled, "... disciplined the guilty parties. They sold these weapons to staff as personal protection, and all but seven have been recovered. Two of the recipients have transferred to other facilities, leaving five missing Colt AR-20 automatic assault rifles and an unknown quantity of ammunition equalling no more than twelve hundred rounds."
Simpson's head never moved while he spoke, his eyes maintained their thousand yard gaze. Spaulding wanted to shudder, but feared any show of weakness would be seen as an opportunity for Simpson to strike. "Your tactical assessment?" he asked calmly.
"Worst case scenario," Simpson continued emotionlessly, "with full prisoner uprising in their current state and a full strength attack by all five escapees with all missing weapons places staff fatalities at three hundred seven, with additional wounded of one hundred nineteen. This would reduce efficiency in managing prison by seven percent. Under current conditions, this level of control can be maintained six days longer than previously advised."
Spaulding nodded, actually surprised. "Not bad, acceptable losses. But what about when the power goes out."
"In case of complete failure of security systems," Simpson said, "the so-called 'Final Jeopardy' security protocols will go into place, shutting the prison down completely -- no one in or out. Only by you as Warden and your second in command, namely myself, using our combined vocal recognition and retina scans, can cancel the order. It will also seal the staff section off from the prisoners completely and securely. This can continue indefinitely. You alone or myself alone can authorize flights out by deactivating the anti-aircraft sensors for one individual radar signature and transponder code at a time, which means we can evacuate the staff if absolutely neccessary. However, that would be slow and time consuming, as our transports can carry only sixteen passengers max and the attack copter has a maximum of four in its cabin, pilot, gunner, navigator and one passenger seat."
Spaulding said, "So you're telling me there's nothing to worry about."
"There are five escaped felons who are most likely armed somewhere in the facility that we cannot find. There is no data on what is happening outside the security perimiter of Faraway. We cannot risk diverting power from the external security system, which will fail three months after main power, for fear of invasion from without. There is plenty to worry about." Simpson let slip a slight smile, just one side of his lips crinkling up a millimeter. "I am, however, saying I have the situation here completely under control."
"Then I am saying I'll make you president, national hero, whatever you want when we are done here," Spaulding said with a smile as he rose. "as someone will have to take the praise and I have no interest in it."
"I appreciate it, sir," Simpson said, his face that blank mask again.
"Oh, and before I forget," Spaulding said hesitantly. He took a deep breath and sighed, then said to Simpson, "Liquidate all the prisoners that work in the embroidery shop. Make it an example."
"Yes, sir," was the emotionless, easy response.
"Dismissed."
Simpson turned exactly forty five degrees on his heel and marched calmly out of the office. I've done it now, Spaulding thought to himself, trying to still his shaking hands. I'm used to being the finger that pulls the trigger, not the mind deciding who lives and who dies. Still, I'll have to arrange an accident for Simpson before he snaps and kills me.
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