I roll over and wake to the distant roar of thunder. I glance at the clock: 2:35. My clothes stink. I peel them off, use the bathroom, and fall back into bed. My apartment shakes from nearby rumblings; I get up again and go to my computer. Marsec Security is still inside it, peeling the plaster off the walls and checking beneath the floorboards. I cannot access anything; the security hacks have completely tied up its systems. I switch on the radio and tune it to the only station in English. ". . . continuing atmospheric disturbances from unusually heavy meteor showers and electrical storms," it reports. "Megapol is advising all non-military ground and air vehicles to remain inactive for the duration of the night," it suggests. I don't have an automobile, not even a scooter. I disregard the message, and go back to bed. After a particularly dreamless night, I wake, bathe, and eat before heading out for work. So this is what corporate life is like, I think, putting on my uniform, tired, not particularly enthused about marching in every day at 8:30 to perform miracles in mundanity. My lapcomputer's screen blinks. There is a message for me. I read it and swear and read it again. "Managerial Assistant Karl Williams please report to Front Desk Internal Affairs at 8:45 AM Wednesday 12 March," it most uneloquently orders, and my stomach is already running laps around my thorax to the quickening beat of my heart. Marsec internal security. Not good, not good at all even for someone like me who has been on the job for all of (maybe) eight hours and might not even want to keep it. Still . . . I go. I'm shaking by the time I step off the people tubes, and almost need to be caught by the receptionists there like some old guy. But I regain my composure long enough to walk through the outer security perimeter; no pack of baying security thugs attach themselves to my legs and arms and no half-grey blood is inside my head and I'm through. I walk over to "J. Thorpe, Chief Receptionist" "Where's the Internal Affairs Front Desk?" I ask. She clucks like the nun that she is and wordlessly motions to a distant lift tube platform to my right. It is framed in heavy alloy blast doors, just like the ones at the lobby entrance. The lift to Internal Affairs only goes down. Down beyond parking ramps; down, past environmental machinery and backup generators; down, in between the tremendous columns of reinforced polymers that hold up the bulk that is the Marsec Building, to its very foundations-- someplace a little south of its bowels. Here, the air is thick as cotton, humid with the recycled moistures of thirty thousand men and women and grey bloods all breathing in and out to the pulse of the four fusion reactors far above. Down here, where it is so damp that a thick fur of mold grows over everything, is the reason that nobody messes with Marsec. Hundreds of vehicles stretch off into the velvet darkness, from lightly armored ground cars to distant, insect-like heavy flyers, great moss-covered giants waiting for a signal from above to shake loose their cloaks of mold and lichen. This is the three-fourths of the company's heavy machinery which doesn't get sold . . . This is Marsec's balls. The Internal Affairs Front Desk is a little, badly lit alloy shack at the base of the grav lift. Two very bored receptionists sit behind the desk, a drab, gray affair whose only decorations are the few scrapes and dents in its sides. "Karl Williams?" asks one of them. "Yes?" I answer. He points at a dirty metal door off to the side. It opens before I touch its handle. "Williams?" inquires the face which appears from within. "Huh?" I gracelessly answer. "I'm Mike Hageny, Vice President in charge of Security. Step into my office, please." Hageny sits me down in the steel chair across from his desk. My seat may as well have been made from scrap alloy as a failed project in secondary school; it lacks armrests, is entirely too narrow, and its back and seat form a perfect ninety-degree angle, forcing me to sit up straight. Hageny takes his own chair, a plush leather deal, nearly as wide as it is tall. The Vice President fits nicely in it, as he carries more poundage on his average-sized frame than government regulations would allow. Heavy-set, balding, and equipped with huge porkchop sideburns, this VP, unlike Kaleta, was certainly not chosen for his beauty. But there is a rough sort of appeal to this man. He does not wear a suit, instead favoring a buttoned-up old cotton flannel, his ample stomach restrained by it and a belt. His shirtsleeves are rolled up, revealing massive, hairy arms ending in sudden, swollen fists. He should not be a Vice President; he should smoke a fat, heinously expensive cigar and stand at the door of the Purple Lotus every Thursday, Friday and Saturday night, manhandling troublemakers to the techno beat of college music. Instead, Hageny sits--looms--across his solid mahogany desk, flanked by a pair of bodyguards. One is a grey blood; wide, black sun goggles mask his equally wide, black alien eyes. The other guard is a human, short and not particularly memorable with the exception that I cannot shake the feeling that I have seen him before. His facial hair is all shaved down to a half- centimeter stubble, gray and greasy in the waxen florescent light. His dark brow is thus accented, and it is an overhang, jutting out of his face to guard the sunken black caves of his small, beady eyes and thin, lipless mouth. He lacks so much as a wrinkle, yet his bland, babyish face strikes me as that of an old man . . . and while some pale white skin he does have is smooth and flawless, a vicious scar weaves its way down his left cheek. A dark serpent it is, and it has siblings on his forehead and scalp. A bit of his right ear is missing, healed badly, as if some famished creature had nearly feasted . . . I realize that Hageny has not said another word since showing me my seat . . . and that I have been staring at the second guard for some time. "Sir?" I ask quite hesitantly. Hageny focuses his eyes on me. I get the distinct impression that he has been thinking along some other topic for the duration of my silence--and that he is annoyed and even surprised at my presence before him. He opens his mouth but checks his voice. In his eyes, I can nearly see some sort of internal debate taking place, as if he too were somewhat unsure of my purpose. "Karl, how have your parents been recently?" Hageny asks, the words not quite sounding right. He frowns somewhat, perhaps disliking their aftertaste in his mouth. I raise an eyebrow, putting my brain to work. "They're just fine . . ." I manage. "That's good," smiles Hageny, his voice still dour. The Vice President sits there, staring at me, for a long moment. Suddenly, it seems as if he has remembered something. "Karl, last night our systems analysts ran a fairly thorough scan of your computer. Just part of standard procedure, you know, verifying your system's fidelity. Basic housekeeping, really." I nod. They have found something on my computer. "Now, I'm going to ask you a little question that won't have any bearing on your employment with the company--just a personal question . . ." Hageny puts his elbows down on the top of his desk and leans towards me. "Karl, are you affiliated with SELF?" I frown. They searched my damn disk cache . . . at least Security doesn't have any problems with a fairly extensive pornography collection. "No," I answer. "I've read some of their material, but I'm no sympathizer." Hageny leans back, his chair creaking only slightly. "Just read their stuff, eh? What do you make of it?" I shrug. "It's so . . . hysterical. They make little problems seem so catastrophic." Hageny nods his head. He likes the answer--at least I want to think that the expression on his face means that he likes the answer. "SELF. Beautiful fuckin' jackasses," he mumbles, and smiles at me. "Not that I have any problem with SELF. Wonderful organization, just fuckin' wonderful . . ." He closes his eyes, opens them, looks at the ceiling, closes them, and looks at me. "You're a good kid, Karl. Don't disappoint your parents." Hageny shakes my hand. I grin and shrug. "I already have." I report to my 'office'--that infamous maintenance closet--and log in. A message alerts me that Kaleta, the slimy bastard, wants to 'chat' with me in his Executive Lounge again. I sigh and secure my lapcomputer. My God, Security thoroughly ransacked my computer. I'm a frequenter of all things civil liberties on MegaPrime's Intranet, and I don't just read SELF's material. I believe it. I step into the up grav lift and am immediately sucked upwards. SELF . . . the Sentient Engine Liberation Front. In this age of apocalypses, humanity wants to remain as human as possible--so if your eyes happen to be big black bug eyes, you better register with the government. Same goes for the walking computers created back in the '60's--androids. I nod to the two security bloods at the door to the lounge. And some rainy day, when the Popo is bored, they send over some thugs to bash in your fat grey head or permanently rewire your insides. "Karl! Sit down, sit down," smiles Kaleta. I sit down across from the VP. So some 'droids got it into their neuroprocessors that getting dead was not good. So they got some mechanics to build them leaner, meaner bodies, and some lawyers to build them a political lobby, and they called themselves SELF. "Did you have a nice chat with Security?" I glare at the VP. It's either that or work for Marsec out in the Oort Cloud. The grey bloods have the same choice, only their political faction is called 'Alliance'. "Yeah, real fun," I answer. Kaleta grins, acting nonchalant, but not even touching his salad. "What did they say?" I repress the urge to scream 'why don't you tell me?' and instead mutter, "Just the usual: keep your nose clean, et cetera." Kaleta nods and the grin drops clean off his powdered face. "Karl, if those neanderthals play any games with you, don't hesitate to tell me. I've got a few strings I can pull," he says, his old shark's grin returning. "Huh," I mumble. He stands up and pushes in his chair. "Don't worry about Security. They'll be getting their due soon enough." And with those words he strides away. I am puzzled. I have just spoken with two of Marsec's top Vice Presidents in one morning. Between Hageny and Kaleta, a good third of the company is represented. I am a Managerial Assistant; I draw the lowest salary of anybody here, anyone of thirty-thousand other people. I have just spoken with two Vice Presidents . . . And I have no idea what I'm supposed to do the rest of the day. I wander out the Executive Lounge, not in the direction of the Executive Offices, but towards the lift to the lobby. A small hand touches on my shoulder. "Mr. Williams," he says, and I turn. It is a grey. "Who the hell are you?" "Call me Ben--and please quiet down, people are staring." I stagger over to a bench at the side of the hallway, somewhat shaken. Ben follows me, but opts to remain standing. "Who-" I begin to repeat my previous inquiry, but I am silenced by the alien. "Speak in your mind," he says, small lipless mouth moving slightly. Huh? I wonder. Like this? Ben nods his approval. So what the fuck are you and why are you talking to me of all people? I ask. "A long story," he answers, "but it suffices to say that this is rather unusual." You're telling me! A pair of techs walk into Ben, but instead of knocking over the small gray alien, they walk right through him, enlarged hairless cerebrum and all. "What the f-" I almost swear. Ben smiles most artificially, the very corners of his small mouth pricking up. "You are correct--I am not physically at your location." Astral projection? "No, the illusion is limited to your central nervous system." Why? "People have a tendency to assume that they're going insane when they start hearing voices," he answers, smiling again. I nod, lacking any other response. Ben continues, "Anyway, the idea of a living, breathing grey wandering the corridors of Mars Security is ludicrous! After all, didn't your kind kill off my species way back in the First 'Alien' War?" Then what are you, I ask, staring intently at his nonexistent black eyes. He shrugs, a wry frown etched on his little face. "Mars Security has many secrets, more than a few of which you will learn during your tenure here. I am one of the lesser mysteries." You still didn't answer my question. "The 'grey bloods' as you so charmingly refer to my half- brothers and half-sisters aren't all high level psis. They're simply the front end of Mars Security's vast psionic network. They feed me information, and I store it; when they need background on someone or something, the process reverses. You could call me--somewhat unromantically--a psionic server." You sit in some back room? "No," he replies, flashing that half-humorous, half-pained smile. "I coordinate psionic activities throughout this complex . . . as for my physical manifestation . . . I'm pretty much a cerebrum floating in a nutrient bath, cloned from genetic material and raised to serve a single purpose." Oh. I look away and Ben is silent for a moment. "But enough about me. A few minutes ago, you were suffering from a bit of self-induced vertigo--'I have just spoken with two Vice Presidents' or something on that vein." Yeah. What's going on here? "I've watched an awful number of bright, promising human youth like yourself sign up with Mars Security, usually in the hopes of money, power, sex--the general motives. However, you're right--not too many first week recruits get the amount of VIP treatment you get." Ben seems to focus his twin black eyes on me. "Karl, you are a pawn in a very big chess match." What's chess? "Let's just say Karl Williams is NOT the person in charge of your life right now." Then who is? "Did I say chess? I meant shoji. As in, you might be under the control of one Very Powerful person right now, but that could easily change--tomorrow you might be fighting against your previous master." I still don't have a fucking clue--what are you trying to say? "I like you, Karl, and that's a very rare thing for me to say about a full human. You still possess a cloak of idealism, and while it may cover your eyes when it comes to some things, it protects you from all this . . . filth that your kind seem to create every time they go after money, power, or sex. Don't let them play blind man's bluff with you, Karl. Don't let them turn that idealism against yourself, because if they do, it will destroy you." What? You're getting more vague! "Very well then--let me phrase it this way: choose your friends--and enemies--wisely, with both eyes open, and you will emerge from this . . . chess match . . . intact. Ally yourself incorrectly, though, and you will die--or worse." I blink and the grey is gone. Ben--what the fuck? "Ben?" I calmly gaze around the hallway, knowing that my new acquaintance is long departed. Calmly, but it is only a guise. My nerves are stripped of their insulation--I am shorting out inside. A drink--or six--would do me a world of good. It is midday Wednesday. The Lotus is not crowded. I pick a stool in the center of the long bar, looking around. There are precious few other patrons present at this ungodly hour, the only two I spot college kids skipping taking there lectures by remote. Some of Gaudin's help lounge around, sweeping the place up, wiping clean the bar--the little tasks that shouldn't require a cleaning robot. Gaudin, his wrinkled holy self, is not tending the bar. He is probably sleeping or drinking or whoreing in the rear areas of his establishment. Lucas, a bouncer recently promoted, runs a too-wet rag over the long marble slab. He peers at me from under purple, bruised eyelids. "You," he grunts, more an acknowledgment of my presence than a greeting. He reaches under the bar and pulls out a stained brown paper bag. I inspect it gingerly and pull out a bottle of red wine, circa last night. I raise an eyebrow. "Kay freaks," mumbles Lucas. I open the plastic cap to the bottle and take a pull off of it. Sweet stuff--not expensive or particularly tasty. But wine. The barkeep slides by again, this time with a dryer rag. "Damn kids these days, don't know good booze from their own piss," he mutters. I grunt, and he is mildly pleased at his witticism. My stomach rumbles slightly. "Eggroll," I order, and Lucas throws one in the heater. A minute later, he slides a round plastic tray over the counter. I bathe the 'food' perched atop it in sweet and sour sauce, and down it quickly, before it cools off. I wash my mouth out with wine. I clean my stomach out, too. I hand Lucas a small note. He makes change for it. "Keep it," I say, shaking the wine bottle. "Call it a service charge." Lucas nods, somewhat pleased. I finish off the bottle, feeling a mild lightness in my movements. Time to go home--I've got better food there, and hell, Marsec might want to contact me. I shake my head. I'll be damned if in two weeks I'm working for Marsec. VIP treatment? What the hell. Grey 'psionic server'? Something is in the food there; health inspectors had better take a look. Food. God, that eggroll was bad. My mom can make a better eggroll and she is a half Japanese corporate officer who hasn't seen the insides of a real kitchen for ages. Sweet and sour sauce? More like ketchup with some brown sugar mixed in. I hate bad Chinese food. I slide off my bar stool and head out the door. 12/28/97
X-COM (and XCOM) are trademarks of MicroProse Software. Get yourself a copy!
X-COM: UFO Defence is copyright 1996 by Microprose Software, Inc. All rights reserved.
X-COM is based on characters and design by Mythos Games.