Fuck, fuck, fuck, it was just one bottle . . . I realize that this series of concussions is not coming from the space between my ears, but instead, from somewhere outside, though uncomfortably near, my apartment. I glance at the clock. 12:10--early in the morning? Late at night? Yesterday I was stricken by a rather serious case of ennui, so I simply went to sleep at three in the afternoon. The thrashing deceases, but the fidelity of my rest is already compromised. None the less, I lay in bed for another half hour before conceding defeat. I crawl out of bed and perch myself on a low stool before my computer, working the device's trackball. A hideously antiquidated input device, the trackball possesses a few traits which beautify it in my eyes: one, I feel that it reduces tension in my hand when I use it; and two, potential thieves in college were put off by its dinosaur looks. I have mail! My heart soars with the blissful knowledge that somebody, anybody is out there, perhaps overtaken with anxiety, awaiting my response. Spam, spam, spam, an invitation to join the Church of Sirius, spam--ooh, factory refurbished lapcomputers at half price--even at my new income it could take a half year for these models new--and more spam. Wait . . . fuckin' SELF is throwing a mass protest at the Senate on the twenty-first. Neat. It's been a while since the last major riots in MegaPrime . . . you can be that Sensovision will be there. As for the Popo; I'm sure they're already conducting numerous exercises in how to turn a peaceful political demonstration into a titantic orgy of wanton violence and senseless destruction. Hmm, let me check. Nope. Can't make it. I might tape it, though. One message from Marsec, too. From Kaleta? Goddamnit, I'm moving to another office . . . is that good? Considering my present quartering, anything is an improvement. A massive explosion rocks my apartment; something has hit the arcology, my arcology--Petrograd Block! The lights go out; my computer automatically switches to its internal batteries. This sucks. Annoyed, I switch my lapcomputer off and stumble back to bed. I hear the shouts and whistles of Popo officers running by in the hallway. I don't feel like losing my head or any other parts of my anatomy, so I stay put and trace the new network of cracks in my ceiling. I awake at seven, wash up, and head off to work. Down the stairs in the atrium, I notice that Ramirez and his general store are once again open for business. I step in through the canvas tarp which currently serves as a door. Inside, the shop is still a mess. Battered racks and shattered glass are everywhere, with a thick layer of spoiling produce strewn about. Here and there are small piles of dirt and glass; Ramirez and his wife sweep the debris up into big black sacks for recycling. I wave tentatively to the shopkeeper. "Hello," I mumble. Ramirez gives a look to his wife and turns to me. Mrs. Ramirez leaves for the back room. "Good morning," he spits. I survey the damage again. "The bast-" Ramirez waves his hand, tells me to shut up. I step over a heap of crunched plastic water bottles. "I'm sorry," I say to him. The shopkeeper shakes his shoulders. "Shit happens," he mutters dejectedly, pointing to some sort of recording device Megapol has left attached to the back wall. "So . . . where do you go from here?" I ask him. He sighs and looks at the floor. "All I know is I can't stay here. They," he points again at the back wall, "will come back. And they froze my money, too." I start to speak, but instead reach into my trouser pocket for what paper notes I have. Ramirez halts me. "No. I have lost my store but not my pride." None the less, I pull out a wad of bills, mainly ones, some fives, a ten. And a hundred, the last of my first day's wages. I grasp him by the shoulder and press the money into his hand. "Take it," I whisper into his ear. He still refuses, but I insist. "You, you're a tough guy. This Popo mess is nothing to you. But think about Cecilia and the kids. You're tough, but you have to take care of them." He closes his eyes and nods. Machismo dies a quiet death versus pragmatism. The money disappears into one of the many pockets of his shop apron. "Eres un buen hombre, Carlos. Gracias." I am moved--Ramirez the shopkeeper only speaks his native tongue to those he considers close friends. For customers, it is Mandarin or Japanese or English. But for his family, his boyhood friends, and now for me, it is Spanish. Mrs. Ramirez peeks out from the back room. I must be off to work. I pat Ramirez on the shoulder and mutter "buen viaje, amigo" and I am off to the people tube entrance. God, I hope they make it alright in the slums or wherever they head. After all, there's only one easy way to go in MegaPrime-- straight down. "This, Mr. Karl Williams, Special Assistant to the Vice President of Personnel, is your new office." I try not to show it, but I am impressed. Easily a hundred square meters, this pad is more than several times the size of my apartment. Greenery--real plants--is tastefully interspaced with a variety of low furniture, ranging from the prerequisite coffee table and couch to a variety of lounging chairs clustered around a big, dark metal desk--my desk. The thick, padded, pseudo-leather chair behind it turns around to face an entire wall of windows: windows over a tremendous cavern within the Marsec arcology, that same tremendous cavern filled with acre after acre of honest-to-God bamboo . . . I try not to show it, but Kaleta knows. "Christ, when did I earn this?" I ask, a vague residue of suspicion still clinging to me. "Karl, when you were writing that term final on the aftermath of the First Alien War, who were you expecting to read it?" I shrug. "Pretty much my professor." Term paper? "You should have seen the Board of Directors after they read it--cover to cover, I may add." Kaleta smiles and I'm not so sure of what to make of him now. Slimeball or not, he seems to have taken a quite paternal stance to the advancement of my career at Marsec. The Lifetree prospect slips just that much more out of my mind . . . "Quite impressed, all of them. So we didn't recruit you by any accident--we wanted you--here," Kaleta jabs a finger at the floor. That term paper . . . God, now I know why. For my junior year at Lifetree, I had an old codger of a professor, completely anal retentive. Totally ran roughshod over our little honors class--he subjected us to some of the most long-winded monologues known to man. Spiteful, too. Some of my friends who missed a few 'discussion groups' barely passed their midterms, and not for want of trying. It was I who finally figured out how to kiss that old motherfucker's wrinkled ass--about two-thirds of the way through the class, I finally noticed that the jaundiced blotch on his right hand corresponded exactly with the trident on the owner of the Purple Lotus. So one day, I asked the prof whether he knew any 'Gaudin' . . . he talked for two and a half hours about him and his sarge at the Battle of T' Eleth or something--the final showdown of the Second Alien War. He spouted endless, flowery praise of the current barkeeper, saying that between Gaudin and Jacob Schancer--the team's psi--the war was won. After that, I knew the topic of my term paper. My lips hurt afterwards, but I had thirty some pages--hard copy--justifying the rape and pillage of Mars by corporations--and the subsequent abuse of the sea floor following the Second Alien War. Of course, those massive business entities were headed by veterans of both wars, so I appealed to the professor's sense of poetic justice--a just reward earned by a heroic defense of one's species, et cetera--and I had a friend for life. Aced the damn class, too. I survey my new digs. A month in the library, scouring through old microfilm and computer archives, and this is my just desert. I am not one to complain. ". . . writing talent like yours should not be put to waste--I may have to swallow my pride and get you transferred to Public Relations," continues Kaleta, obviously full of himself for his excellent catch. The door opens, and in strides the most striking blonde . . . in the whole wide world. Slim, tall, and with legs that seem to go up and up and up--only ending underneath an all-too short skirt--she strides up to the Vice President and me. Money and power and sex! Kaleta flashes a smile, and I read the implicit message: 'hands off, kid--this is mine.' Somewhat disappointed, I almost don't spot the second person through the doorway, a petite brunette. Kaleta's woman speaks. "Beecroft, this is Karl Williams, Special Assistant to Mister Kaleta. You'll be serving under him." I survey what I can only assume is my secretary. Her long brown hair quite straight--cut in bangs, too--and her uniform the standard receptionist's, she reeks of schoolgirlishness. But, as my eyes stray, I notice that she is quite well-proportioned, though short. She smiles at me. I return the smile. Kaleta, most unprofessionally, loosens his thin hitman's tie and throws an arm around his woman friend. "Miss Barbee and I have certain matters to attend to, Williams. Why don't you and Miss Beecroft get acquainted in the meantime?" The Vice President and companion slink out of my office. A moment of tense silence passes. "Um, hello, I'm Karl Williams," I stutter, extending my hand. She takes it. Hers is pleasantly warm. "Charmed," she replies. I look about the office for something, anything to do--I spot my ragged little satchel, lying on the sofa like a dead little animal. I snatch it up and ceremonially haul it over to the wide desk--my desk. I pull out my lapcomputer and slowly hook it up to the desk's power and data links, frantically thinking of something to say. I complete the task and stall for time by filing away the half-dozen lead-encased magnetic disks in a half-dozen desk drawers. My satchel goes in the largest drawer; there is a leather suitcase in there. I inspect the other desk drawer; a collection of fine liquors ranging from mediocre wine to aged whiskey populate that location. I pull out the cheap wine and set in the middle of desk. Two tumblers follow it. "So, Beecroft, who the hell are you?" What the fuck? Where did that come from? I'm kicking my left ankle before I realize that she's laughing. "I guess I never introduced myself; Helen has that way around people--she makes everybody shut up--anyway, I'm Lara Beecroft, Personal Assistant to the um, 'Special Assistant to the Vice President of Personnel' or whatever you are." She stops; her words flow in that graceless pattern of an entire bookshelf collapsing. A sudden calamity as the encyclopedias are pitched to the floor; quickly lessening to a trickle and nothing. "Um, sir," she finishes . . . that would be the old heavy dictionary which finally made up its mind to follow the rest. I open up the wine bottle and pour myself a healthy serving of the stuff. "You?" I ask, offering the bottle to her, realizing that not only am I giving off a less-than-angelic first impression, but that Kaleta could come charging through that door and have me fired. I stop the glass centimeters from my lips. "Um, no," she responds, somewhat embarrassed. I set down my implements of bacchanalia. "So what do you make of Vice President Kaleta?" I finally say, pushing aside the bottle, kicking myself again. Beecroft looks back at the door. "I don't think we'll be seeing any of him for the rest of the day," she whispers, and we laugh. It is a good, tension-killing laugh, reducing the background hum of my id to a manageable level. "That Helen--Ms. Barbee--she his girlfriend?" "I think so--she's another 'Special Assistant' attached to the receptionist pool." I take a sip of wine. "All I can say is 'bully for you, Kenny!'" She laughs, but her face takes a subtle, mischievous look. The corners of her dainty little mouth twist up a millimeter or two, and her twin brown eyes glance up to her left. "Oh, I think the Mister Vice President had her special ordered . . ." I raise an eyebrow. "Do tell?" Staring straight at me, she makes that same elfish smile. "She's stock genes." Meaning she stinks of genetic engineering. "Really . . ." I pause for a moment. "Did you come from the same litter?" Lara blushes; I am glad she took it as a compliment. "No," she replies. "You?" I shake my head. "They don't carry 'freaky kid' DNA down at Sanctuary. I mean, I don't think 'ugly fucker' is one of their forty-nine flavors." She smiles; I gulp down a swallow of grape juice. "No, I'm completely free birth. No genetic hacks fooling with my sequences. In fact, my parents came back to Earth just to have me in normal gravity." "What were they--Mars engineers?" "That was my dad. My mom ran one of the original Oort mining operations. Lived at Cydonia, though." "Wow. Cydonia? Have you . . . ?" I shake my head, again, and smile wryly. "My parents decided to get out of the business once they had me . . . they sold to Marsec and bought an island with some of the cash. Never been to Mars, not even once." Lara looks at me in a strange way--fear? Or maybe she's simply impressed. "Sold to Marsec? I thought that company--er, we, had a habit of taking whatever we wanted." "Marsec, Benson-Thompson, pirates--everybody wanted a piece of Mom's business. She might not have been the first, but she was the best when it came to welding laser turrets and nuke launchers on every hardpoint of her platforms and transports. I like to think that she gave Marsec a run for its money." I am silent for a moment, long enough to abuse myself again for dominating conversation. "But that's probably more than you wanted to know. You said you're freeborn too--I think you're lying. You're too pretty to not be stock genes." Lara blushes. My second helping of wine is depleted. I decide to up the flattery. "Obviously someone upstairs made a mistake; I'm supposed to get the big, fat secretary that goes by the name 'Bubba.' Get out of my office, Beautiful." The buzzing in my head grows. I try for a third glass of the purple stuff, but my hands are already going clumsy . . . though it may be attributable to the nauseating levels of nervousness coursing through my veins. I tip over the glass; Beecroft reaches over the table to help me. I get an ample eyeful of her chest. My dumb hand twitches. She smiles at me, that same damn elfish look in her eyes and I want to kiss her- "Money, power . . . sex," drones an instantly recognizable voice. I sit up in a flash, my hands safely stowed under my thighs. Lara jumps back at my sudden movement; the wine goes flying and spills onto the floor. "Ben, get out of my head," I snarl. "Karl, this is your superego speaking. Do not fall for temptation, Karl. You are better than this." "Ben, you grey fuck, you're not my parents." I slap myself on the side of my head, hoping to jar the voice loose. Lara frowns, glances at the spilled liquor, and stares at me again, puzzled. "Karl, I can't call this one for you. If you give in to your animal desires, you can rest assured that Vice President Kaleta will have you watching yourself--in true, three-dee holovision--dicking around in your executive 'bedroom'. You will then be his servant, and you know as well as I do that you don't want that." "Ben, shut the fuck up. Ben, shut the fuck up." "Fine, but I hate to lose you." Ben audibly sighs, or at least replicates the sound in my head. "There's a small red switch in the side of the long, wide drawer in your desk. It activates a small psionic disruption field built into your office. Once it is operational, I will be capable of neither reading your mind or speaking to it." I immediately pull open the said drawer and touch the switch. It glows yellow, then green. The only sound between my ears is the fuzziness of my drunken state. "Eat that, you headfucker," I triumphantly yell before realizing that the psi cannot hear me. Lara is clutching her belly, completely overtaken with bouts of hysterical laughter. She is on her knees, and then lying on the floor. "You're . . . so . . . funny!" she manages between wild fits of laughter. Still enraged at Ben the floating lump of gray matter, my face is flush red and my knuckles are bone white. It takes me a few seconds to realize that I must be a pretty damn hilarious sight, shaking my fists, beating myself, and screaming at a nonexistent person. I start chuckling, and pretty soon, I am on the floor, laughing also. I lay by Lara and think of the things I had wanted to do . . . and of Ben's dire warning. So, stinking of wine and somewhat disheveled is how Kaleta finds us as he rushes into the office with a pair of bodyguards in tow. "Karl, are you OK?" he asks as a human guard helps me to my feet. I am a bit unsteady, but considering how I smell, that is to be expected. I snort, still bathing in the ludicrousness of my situation. Lara is quicker to realize the severity of matters. She bolts up and immediately straightens her blouse and skirt and scarf. Her shoes are off. She eyes them lying at Kaleta's feet. She doesn't move. But the Vice President doesn't seem quite as concerned about whatever we may have been doing--instead, he and the human guard impotently eye the surroundings and the massive garden outside, blithely unaware of the spilled wine. The other guard, a grey blood, grimaces with displeasure. He shoulders his way past me, nearly toppling me from my less-than- steady footing, and opens my desk, shutting off the disruption field. Kaleta steps up to me, impervious of my odors. "Karl--what happened?" I open my mouth, floundering for an answer. There is the obvious. But I am not one to end this chess match so quickly. "I was . . . joking sir. Just a hoax. Really." His gray eyes--sniper's eyes--stare into my soul at a meter's range. He looks for a long time, but already knowing the telltale brush of a psionic probe, I feel nothing. Kaleta is no psi. He might long for their powers, but he lacks what even the least perceptive grey blood is naturally granted. I drunkenly smile back at him, and barely repress a belch. That new odor comes drifting out my nostrils in a manner most becoming to carbonated beverages. Kaleta's face twitches subtly, and I spot a sneer flash by in the rapid shuffle of guises and expressions. He finally settles on that of mild dissatisfaction, much as if he had just stepped in a small pile of shit. He snaps his fingers, and the human guard hands him a towel, which he immediately thrusts into my arms. "Clean yourself up, Karl." He turns and strides out of my office as fast as he entered it. He has sniffed something suspicious, and like any good hound, he will not forget. I must be more cautious in the future, should I choose to continue my correspondence with Ben. The human guard looks over the office one last time. His eyes brush past Lara, mental undressing her in a flash. He grins rudely and salutes me as he backs out the door, muttering something about 'lucky bloke'. The grey is slower to leave, once again nudging me as he exits. A wave of cold air sweeps through my mind, and a small voice asserts, 'if you cannot trust us, you cannot trust anyone.' I frown upon his back as the door swings shut. A scant moment of silence passes before Lara resumes giggling. "For a moment, I thought we were deep shit," she smiles. I stumble over to a chair and seat myself. Right now more than ever I want to be at the Lotus. The trashed sensation I'm feeling is best created by good music and good liquor, and I'm at an all-time low of both. But I don't think I'll be heading to subbasement three of the Juventus Building tonight. Tonight is Thursday night--five bucks a pint of beer tonight, so the frat brats are going to be hitting the Lotus hard. I don't need to be in the presence of excessively annoying and stupid people--I need a shower and a good nap. And wow, it's not even noon. "Ms. Beecroft, call maintenance to get a droid up here on this . . . accident, after which you may use the rest of the day as you like it." Continuing, I announce, "I am going to the men's room to freshen up. See you tomorrow." Lara frowns at me. "Are you feeling alright?" I unsteadily stand up and limp over to her side. Trying not to breath down her cleavage, I whisper, "That was no jest." She raises an eyebrow. "You're . . . not well, are you?" Smiling crookedly, I lean on the couch. "No, dear, I never have been." 12/31/97
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