Iteration 0001 - Retirement
The microphone squealed as the speaker's voice rose, but few of the well-wishers took note. To be sure, they heard it. All but the most oblivious had stopped eating when the guest of honor first took the microphone, and it was too early for even the most dedicated drunks to miss the sparkling-crackle of an overdriven speaker. No, this omission was a deliberate one, the sort of memory-shaping done when someone had predetermined that an event in their lives should possess a specific emotional tenor.
After all, the retirement of a legend was at hand. The sort of human error that might cause an aging man to grab a microphone too firmly, hold it too tightly, or speak too emotionally was utterly lost on a room which had come to witness the dignified ending of an age.
The crackle subsided, and Colonel William Halstead finished his speech, "It's been a great run, ladies and gentlemen, and I wanted to thank you, all of you, for everything. Soon, I'll be lying on a sunny beach, but I'll never forget-" His words failed him. He tried again, "Here's to… here's to the ones that never made it." The colonel might have attempted to end with a joke. The rhythm of the speech seemed to call for it, but he couldn't stick the landing. Instead, his eyes focused on something in the air halfway down the rows of white-topped tables, and he choked on his own tongue. He squinted at his notes, folded them, and retreated from the lectern. Not that anyone in the room marked his hasty withdrawal or noted the way he hid his face.
Applause rippled through the "borrowed" hangar, bounced from one blue-and-gold frocked tablecloth to another. In the back, Sergeant First Class Brian Clausen might have clapped loudest of all. At just shy of two meters tall and built with all the subtle grace of a barn door, he'd been accidentally intimidating strangers since secondary school. He'd long learned to smile quickly, speak softly, and make copious use of "sir" and "ma'am" to put nerves at ease. Here, though, he resembled nothing so much as a besuited grizzly bear, perched improbably upon a folding chair before a child's tea-table. If the guests around him glanced too harshly at his clapping, they would have to turn away in gratitude that he had not stood and started yelling. After all, the stripes on his dress jacket made it quite clear that Clausen was one of the enlisted, and manners were not prerequisite from that lot.
Clausen couldn't blame them for their consternation. If he wasn't the type of man expected at this caliber of event, he wasn't the kind of guy who came them, either. With the stand-down, the retirement halls were overbooked, but none of those other ceremonies were filled with so many striped jackets. Halstead was different, and he'd insisted that his teams be given passes. Likewise, those teams were more than willing to clean up, suit up, and show up for his final song. He'd earned that respect.
Clausen turned over towards his fiance and whispered down, "I still can't believe they let us in."
Sarah Deacon, in shimmering green, used her wine-glass as cover and whispered back, "Just don't start yelling."
"I'm not gonna." He protested. He almost pretended offense, but that would have been dishonest. After all, his men had nearly talked him into bringing a bullhorn and bringing this retirement's high-culture facade back down to the ASOC level. Instead, he argued, "Bill Halstead's a goddamn hero."
Before he could turn his attention back to the stage, the scrape of a chair indicated that someone had just dropped in beside him. Lieutenant Nathan Poole, his jacket adorned with proper silver bars, slipped into his seat with an understated show, just subtle enough to be noticed for his deftness. He excused, "Sorry, had to go politic."
Nathan Poole contrasted against his platoon sergeant. Where Clausen was blunt, Poole was artful. Where Clausen was direct, Poole subtle. Clausen was an enlisted man, through and through. He grew up playing soldier and would wither away his twilight in a veterans' hall. Poole, on the other hand, was well-polished, well-spoken, and well-financed. He'd come straight out of the Citadel dripping of old money. He was prone to quotes of pre-Collapse literature, impromptu philosophy, and smuggled a renegade streak of blue humor that complimented his otherwise spit-shined persona. In another setting, the two of them might have conflicted, but there wasn't room for that within ASOC. They were institutionally obliged to synergize and, fortunately, the one thing they shared was that they were both the kind of soldiers who demanded to be in the teams.
"El tee." Clausen acknowledged. "Glad you could make it back. Thought you got lost in the head."
"And miss my designated seat when the handshaking starts? Jesus, that kind of faux pas would send my career straight into Transport Corps." Poole shot back.
"Everyone needs trucks, sir." Clausen deadpanned.
From initial professionalism had developed camaraderie and trust, the kind that all units needed at their head. A well-functioning officer-noncom pair meant the difference between a decorated team and a dead one. This was not, of course, to suggest that their partnership was unique. To the contrary, it was the exact output desired by the cogs and gears of the Authority's leadership machine. Each set of unit leaders was novel, in that they brought different a personality mesh to the table, but the output - a stable, adaptable command pairing - was the industrialized result. In this case, the fact that the two men considered each other friends was merely a happy accident from an otherwise efficient engine.
Poole echoed Clausen with a sarcastic mimic, “Everyone needs trucks." He shot a mock-glare as he reached for his wine-glass, then turned to Sarah for moral support, "Honestly, madam, I don't know how you put up with this boor. After a tour with his lot, I've lost half my good graces, most of my manners, and I think I'm probably ruined as an officer."
Unlike Clausen, Poole was not career ASOC. He was here to punch his ticket. That was the difference between officers and enlisted in the community. Enlisted, once they passed selection, tended to stay in special forces until they retired. At most, they might get vanished into the ISA Special Operations Group. Usually, though, they just drifted between branches, stayed in the same tight pool, stuck to the same cookouts, and sent their kids to the same schools. Every generation handed off a cycle of ownership, a proud tradition as old as unification. Ruiz had been Clausen's platoon sergeant when he'd been a punk kid. If things went well, Clausen would tap Rutman to succeed him. There were rivalries, sure, but every soldier on the teams knew every other, if not by name then by type, and recognized the unspoken bond of service.
Officers, on the other hand, generally moved right through on a rapid ascent in the ranks. ASOC, like its sister services, was a primo punch on the ticket, and the climbers fought hard for postings. That had its drawbacks, sure, but it also meant a large pool of eager and capable young officers was at the ready, and only the best were selected. It might be charitably understood, then, that ASOC wasn't a free ride to flag ranks, but that it the best showcase of the next generation's fire-eaters, a proving ground for the few who'd been marked for top service.
Poole was one of those best. He'd come out of the Citadel with his shiny first-in-class plaque and immediately begun bucking for ASOC. A stint in the Pathfinders had warmed him up, and he'd passed selection with flying colors. He'd done two tours in the teams, the standard affair. One more, and he'd be out the door. He'd probably land a line company at captain. Clausen didn't hold it against him. That's how the Authority ran, and it ran well. It ran better than scavs, tribals, or Pathies, at least. Those people were proof that there were worse things left on this planet than ticket punchers.
Poole put down his glass, not spilling a single drop on his dress-whites, and asked Sarah, "Brian didn't get too enthusiastic while I was away, did he? I'd heard rumors of a bullhorn."
Immediately, Sarah responded. "No, no, never. He just expressed his respect for the colonel with very polite and stuffy clapping."
"Good for him. I'm impressed. I was squealing into a take-home bag at the back of the junior officer line." Poole said. He glanced towards the stage, and his voice took on a distant tone. "Imagine being there, Bry. Back in the cowboy days - fast and dirty, the whole world on your back, just you and your team. No rules. No budget. The only things you have are a job that needs doing and the rough guide of a personal code. A lot of people got lost in that haze." He snatched his drink from the table, drank a little too deeply, and added, "He's the one that didn't. He's the one who gets to write the books."
Clausen turned towards his fiance and explained, "Halstead's mandatory reading for the teams. We do group sessions-"
"We give offerings." Poole added. "Tithes-"
"We have prayer circles."
"Ritual chants."
"Enough!" Sarah protested with mock indignation. "I get it. You're fans."
"I keep a shrine." Clausen finished, deadpan.
She turned to Poole, hoping for help.
Poole admitted, "Madam, I am an officer. I have afforded a temple and provisioned it accordingly."
She sighed. "Well, Brian's going to have to go without attending your clubhouse for a couple of weeks. Isn't that right?"
She glanced to Clausen, who offered an enthusiastic nod. "I think a week on the backwater will help him get over abstaining from your ritual ablutions."
Clausen pointed to her with his fork and said to Poole, "I can't even spell that word."
Poole asked, "Sarah, have you ever considered trading up?"
She glanced to Clausen in mock terror and stage-whispered, "He ties me up when I try to leave! Please, sir, help me escape his foul clutches!"
Clausen shrugged and said, "You enjoy my 'foul clutches'."
That earned him a kick under the table, but when Sarah spoke, her voice was nothing if not professional. She said, "The point is, Nathan, I'm dragging this lump out into the middle of nowhere, and we're going to have a lovely time. If you even think of calling him back, you'll be eating through a straw and shitting in a bag."
Poole nodded sagely. "I understand why you two get along so well. You share the same grace and charm."
That brought laughs from both of them.
"Now, what are we drinking?" Poole asked as he reached for the bottle-filled basket.
"Don't know. Don't care. State's paying." Clausen said.
"That usually that means the lowest bidder." Poole observed.
Sarah shook her head in disgust. She said, "It's a Reconstruction Bordeaux blend. Wasted on both of you."
Clausen nodded. Poole feigned insult.
Sarah added, "And it's State-paid. So chug away."
Poole helped himself to just a hair past the two-finger pour. The lieutenant must have caught Clausen's pointed glance because he waved the implied question, and Clausen went right back to his beer.
Sarah asked, "No date tonight, Nathan?"
Clausen almost choked. To his credit, Poole sighed and admitted, "You know how hard it is to find a respectable escort for something like this? One that doesn't look like an escort?"
"Sorry to hear it." She said.
Poole gave shrugged. "Don't worry about it. I'm not in that part of my career, anyway. Right now, I've gotta move fast, go where they say. There's only room for one passion, you know? Maybe when I make staff…" He trailed off. "I'm fine with it. But, as I said… late notice." He glanced to Clausen and changed the topic, "Speaking of staff, I'm surprised we got in. This was supposed to be light-bird and up."
"You know the old man pulled something." Clausen said. "He wouldn't let that fly."
"Well, good on him." Poole raised his glass in salute, and the others followed.
Clausen had barely set his glass back when Sarah ambushed him. She asked, "So, are you gonna do it?"
"Do what?" Poole asked. He leaned in like a gossipy schoolboy.
Clausen shook his head, tried to silently imply, 'not now'.
Sarah explained, "He's avoiding talking to your colonel."
Poole whirled towards his sergeant and demanded, "Do it!"
Clausen shook his head, tried to focus on his drink, and ignore the pressure.
Poole prodded, "What would the team think if they found out that Sarge chickened out."
Clausen shot him a glare that sent the smaller man reeling with laughter.
Sarah, though, tugged on his arm and implored, "You'd hate yourself, Bry."
He glanced to her, then Poole, and back.
"Fine." He sighed as he rose from the table.
"First to fight!" Poole enthused. He flashed a thumbs-up.
Clausen shot a glare back and answered, "Last to quit." His words were call-and-response, but his tone said, quite clearly, 'fuck you, sir'. Poole just laughed.
Clausen turned back to his fiance, but she waved him on. "Go! Do it! Bring back something nice!"
Clausen threaded the crowd. He had to tuck his shoulders in to avoid jostling the attendants. It was one of the drawbacks of his frame. He didn't want to embarrass himself with a scene, not here. Half these people were wearing clothes that cost as much as his house, and the other half probably stamped his payroll.
The band started up, blared syncopated jazz through the chamber. Clausen used the thump of the bass-line as cadence and slipped between the tables and hustling waiters. His objective lay at the front of the room. There, Colonel Halstead was encircled by a gaggle of suits and black dresses. The colonel's family tried to fade into the background, but the old man kept diverting to them. He would pull his wife forward or wave to a child, and angle the conversation onto something unrelated to the initial question.
Even from here, Clausen could feel implied beats of that discussion, and he paused. Maybe it wouldn't be best to bother the colonel for war stories when he was so clearly transitioning out of the service. Clausen hesitated, weighed his options, and chose discretion. He stepped back and folded into the crowd. That's when someone grabbed his arm and yanked him back towards the front.
"Why, hello there, Sergeant." The aggressor stated. The stranger was male, middle-aged and severe, with eyes that glinted like steel through a face like worn leather. The man locked his arm over Clausen's shoulder. The movement looked friendly, but Clausen recognized the setup for a grapple. "What brings you to this party?" The man asked, his rough face pulled into a scarecrow-smile. Clausen tried to break free, but the stranger stuck to him and drew Clausen into the hold.
The old man was stronger than he looked. His grip was iron. Clausen tested it, weighed his options. He could win a fight, but did he want to start one?
"Steady, boy." The man growled. "We're being friendly."
He controlled Clausen's steps and guided him through the crowd. Clausen tried to get a look at him. The man's smile was that of a pawnbroker, all teeth and shifting eyes. Clausen knew the look. The scan. His assailant was an old operator. Gray at the temples and wrinkled on the brow but still dangerous, aware, and playing an angle. The word 'shit' sprang to Clausen's mind, free of context. The man asked, "Now, why are you here?"
"I wanted to meet the colonel." Clausen replied.
"Another inspired youngster? Were you driven into the arms of the State by the shining example of the great William Halstead?" The man laughed at his own joke. A waitress drifted past, and the stranger snagged a mixed drink from her tray. He kept a tight grip on Clausen, even as he chugged the fifty-credit cocktail with a single gulp.
The waitress wheeled in shock, began to protest, "Sir, you can't-"
The man handed her his empty, and her eyes widened in horrified recognition. Suddenly deferent, she asked, "Sorry, sir, I didn't see you coming. Would you like another?"
The stranger snorted, a rasp that shook deep in his chest, and shot back, "God, no. That was trash. Bring me a bourbon, neat, top-shelf. And one for my friend." He glanced at Clausen and asked, "You do drink bourbon, don't you, Brian?" The way he said it wasn’t a question.
Clausen nodded, and the waitress scurried away.
Clausen asked, "Sir, who are you? How do you know my name?"
The man's smile grew. "I'm Agency, son. They pay me to know." He laughed again. "Section Chief Michael Raschel, at your service. I'm an old friend of Bill's. We go way back." His game ended, Raschel let Clausen go.
Clausen stepped clear and demanded, "Sir, why the goose march?"
"Because you were about to run away, and I cannot abide cowardice. There's no such thing as a retreat. Didn't they teach you that, sergeant?"
"Yes, sir." Clausen stepped back and feigned relaxation.
"You're here to meet Bill, correct?"
"Yes, s-"
"That was rhetorical. You already said it."
"Yes, s-"
"Goddamnit, don't let someone dominate like this. It makes you look like a pussy. You're trying to woo Miss Deacon, correct?"
Clausen glared silently.
Raschel chuckled. "Good. You may look like a fucking ox, but if you stay quiet, no one knows you are. Go with strong and silent, son, it works best."
The waitress returned, flowing through the crowd with professional grace. Not that it helped. As she lowered her tray to present the drinks, she found one missing, and Raschel holding out an empty glass. He'd pinched it as she turned, and she'd never felt the theft. The old man gave the ghost of a cough and offered up a magician's smile. "Much better drink, sweetheart. My friend will enjoy this a hell of a lot more than those sucrose suppositories you call cocktails."
The waitress stood, stunned, and accepted back the tumbler. Clausen tried to thank her, but she drifted back, still unsure what had happened.
Raschel called after her, "Come back with another round! Do it less than four minutes, and you'll get a tip!" With a disgusted snort, he turned back to Clausen, and waited for him to drink.
The bourbon was good, at least. It had just the right balance of honeyed heat and dryness. He didn't ask the price.
"Good stuff, isn't it?" Raschel asked. "Climb high enough up the pile, and they throw you a few perks."
Clausen had no reply that was polite enough to speak to power. His consternation only made the old man laugh, harder. Raschel advised, "Look, you're never gonna last in this rat-house unless you learn to take control. Steer a goddamn conversation. Work a fucking waitress. They're paid to be deferent!"
"How do you know the Colonel?" Clausen tried to take control.
"A long time ago, even Bill Halstead was just a goddamn mud-lieutenant trying to make bones. You know the classics: misread maps, wrongs coords – we had to use radios back then, no TACNET to hold your dick. Bill was just as fucking hapless as the rest, but along came a helpful, savvy, and altogether overqualified Field Agent who kept alive long enough to shit-kick the Pathies back into the stone age."
"You knew him in the War?"
"That's what I said. Don't ask questions like that. It proves you're stupid."
"But you asked me-"
"That was a rhetorical question! It's designed to keep control of the conversation. Basic Agency shit. Try and keep up, you're disappointing me. Your record said you were better than this."
Clausen had to fight the urge to punch the old man in the face. It might end his career, it might send him to jail, but it would still be worth it.
Wham! The punch landed against Clausen's ribs and knocked the air from his lungs. Clausen tried to stagger back, but the old man pulled him close. No one around noticed the blow.
Clausen demanded, "What the hell-"
"You were thinking about hitting me. Never do that."
"How did you know-"
"I deliberately provoked you."
"Why would you-"
"Dominance! Keep up!." Raschel glanced at his watch and sighed. "She's late. It's been three minutes, and she hasn't come out of the bar."
"The waitress?"
"No, the tooth fairy. Of course the fucking waitress. It takes two minutes to get from there to here in this crowd; she's going to be late. Fucking incompetence."
Clausen had had more than enough. Much longer, and wouldn't be leaving with a career. He nodded, as politely as he could, and excused, "Sir, I think I'd better get going."
"No retreat. You said you want to meet Bill. Let's do it. He'll always take social calls from an old friend."
"I don't think-"
"I've noticed. Come on. Fun's over. Let's go meet a goddamned hero." Raschel reached over to goose-step the younger man towards the table, but Clausen slipped free.
"I can walk myself."
"Good man. That's it, show some spine." Raschel said.
Colonel Halstead saw them coming. He stood, laughing, and raised his hand to toast a drink. Then he froze. His eyes narrowed, his jaw set. The glass never met his lips. Calmly, quickly, he whispered to his guests, and they folded into the crowd, his family with them. Only his wife turned back, a worried crease on her brow before the party swallowed her.
When Halstead faced them, again, his face was stone. He set his drink on the table and waited.
"Good evening, Bill, good to see you." Raschel stuck his hand out.
There was too long of a pause before Halstead reached back and replied, "Same."
Clausen looked for an escape.
Raschel said, "It's been too long."
"If you say so."
"Teresa looks lovely-"
"You stay away from her."
Raschel barely suppressed a chuckle. "Relax. I'm just here to wish you a happy retirement. You're a hero. The State must recognize you."
"I appreciate that. Now, if you'll excuse-"
"No."
Halstead froze once more and slowly turned back to face Raschel. He growled, "What was that?"
"This man," Raschel pointed at Clausen, "was under your command, and he's an admirer. Probably enlisted because of you. I promised him I'd get an audience. Don't make me a liar, Bill. I'd take it personally."
"Fine."
"And you enjoy your golf. You've earned it." Raschel said. The bite in his words faded, just for a moment, and he added, "Just so you know: I am sorry. For everything." With that, he vanished into the crowd and left Clausen holding the bag, alone with the furious guest-of-honor.
Clausen tried to slip away. The bad blood was palpable, and he wanted no part of it. He needed to disengage.
Halstead looked right at him, sighed, and demanded, "Well, out with it."
Clausen protested, "Sir, I am not associated with that man-"
Halstead snorted. He said, "I can tell. You look like you still have a soul." He pointed towards one of the abandoned chairs. "Please, have a seat. Was that your first time getting Raschel'd?"
"He does that to everyone?"
"Most. The rest end up in a ditch. Agency." Halstead snorted again, and his silvery mustache flared with the exhalation. "He said you wanted to talk? What's on your mind?"
Clausen dared not relax. He was sitting across from Colonel "Wild Bill" Halstead. His heart was pounding, blood rushed through his ears, and he had to keep from pinching himself to see if he was asleep. This couldn't be real. He forced himself to speak and said, "I just wanted to meet you, sir. I wanted to tell you how much you've inspired me, and to thank you, sir, for your service." The moment he closed his mouth, he regretted speaking. It was shameful to spill out like that. He was sure the colonel was going to walk away, embarrassed for both of them.
Instead, Halstead leaned in and admitted, "You know, I've heard that sentiment a lot tonight, but you're the first one who meant it. What's your name?"
"Brian Clausen, sir. Sergeant First Class."
"Nice to meet you, Brian." Halstead held out his hand. This handshake was far less forced than the one he'd shared with Raschel. The colonel added, "And thank you for carrying on the colors. It's boys like you that made everything I did possible. Us old folks, we've all made bad deals. Compromises. It's the boots on the ground that keep us on the straight and narrow. 'The blood of the young renews', they say, but I find myself wondering if it's worth it."
"Absolutely, sir."
Halstead nodded. "Fire and steel, son. I recognize that. It's been a long time since I've been in your shoes."
"You went mustang, sir, I know. I read your book. Loved it, sir."
"That damn record nearly ended my career. I called out too many pencil pushers and party men. Agency had me under a microscope for years."
"It needed to be said. There's too much politics, not enough honor."
"Oh, I know. But the cancer is deep, Brian. The wars were hell, but they kept us honest. Do you want straight truth? If something isn't done, this peace is going to kill us. Too many old officers care more for their payroll than their command."
"We'll recover, sir, we always do."
"You're probably right." The colonel paused. "You here with anyone?"
"My fiance. Sarah."
"Bring her over, why don't the two of you join us for dinner."
"Sir!" Clausen exclaimed. He glanced back, at the queued lines of the privileged and powerful.
Halstead scoffed. "Forget the stuffed shirts. I'm retired. I'm don't have to pretend to care anymore."
"Yes, sir!"
"Now don't you get caught talking like that, Sergeant. You've got a bright future." Halstead turned to the crowd, gave a practiced tilt of his head, and his family reappeared. He glanced back to Clausen and instructed, "Now, bring Miss Sarah over. You and I can swap war stories and horrify the civilized people at the table."
Seated between his hero and his fiance, Clausen enjoyed the best night of his life. Caught amidst laughter and banter, he never heeded the damning sight at the bar. There, Raschel stole one last drink from a server and raised it towards their table in silent salute. If Clausen had paid attention, he'd have known a funeral toast when he saw it.
After all, the retirement of a legend was at hand. The sort of human error that might cause an aging man to grab a microphone too firmly, hold it too tightly, or speak too emotionally was utterly lost on a room which had come to witness the dignified ending of an age.
The crackle subsided, and Colonel William Halstead finished his speech, "It's been a great run, ladies and gentlemen, and I wanted to thank you, all of you, for everything. Soon, I'll be lying on a sunny beach, but I'll never forget-" His words failed him. He tried again, "Here's to… here's to the ones that never made it." The colonel might have attempted to end with a joke. The rhythm of the speech seemed to call for it, but he couldn't stick the landing. Instead, his eyes focused on something in the air halfway down the rows of white-topped tables, and he choked on his own tongue. He squinted at his notes, folded them, and retreated from the lectern. Not that anyone in the room marked his hasty withdrawal or noted the way he hid his face.
Applause rippled through the "borrowed" hangar, bounced from one blue-and-gold frocked tablecloth to another. In the back, Sergeant First Class Brian Clausen might have clapped loudest of all. At just shy of two meters tall and built with all the subtle grace of a barn door, he'd been accidentally intimidating strangers since secondary school. He'd long learned to smile quickly, speak softly, and make copious use of "sir" and "ma'am" to put nerves at ease. Here, though, he resembled nothing so much as a besuited grizzly bear, perched improbably upon a folding chair before a child's tea-table. If the guests around him glanced too harshly at his clapping, they would have to turn away in gratitude that he had not stood and started yelling. After all, the stripes on his dress jacket made it quite clear that Clausen was one of the enlisted, and manners were not prerequisite from that lot.
Clausen couldn't blame them for their consternation. If he wasn't the type of man expected at this caliber of event, he wasn't the kind of guy who came them, either. With the stand-down, the retirement halls were overbooked, but none of those other ceremonies were filled with so many striped jackets. Halstead was different, and he'd insisted that his teams be given passes. Likewise, those teams were more than willing to clean up, suit up, and show up for his final song. He'd earned that respect.
Clausen turned over towards his fiance and whispered down, "I still can't believe they let us in."
Sarah Deacon, in shimmering green, used her wine-glass as cover and whispered back, "Just don't start yelling."
"I'm not gonna." He protested. He almost pretended offense, but that would have been dishonest. After all, his men had nearly talked him into bringing a bullhorn and bringing this retirement's high-culture facade back down to the ASOC level. Instead, he argued, "Bill Halstead's a goddamn hero."
Before he could turn his attention back to the stage, the scrape of a chair indicated that someone had just dropped in beside him. Lieutenant Nathan Poole, his jacket adorned with proper silver bars, slipped into his seat with an understated show, just subtle enough to be noticed for his deftness. He excused, "Sorry, had to go politic."
Nathan Poole contrasted against his platoon sergeant. Where Clausen was blunt, Poole was artful. Where Clausen was direct, Poole subtle. Clausen was an enlisted man, through and through. He grew up playing soldier and would wither away his twilight in a veterans' hall. Poole, on the other hand, was well-polished, well-spoken, and well-financed. He'd come straight out of the Citadel dripping of old money. He was prone to quotes of pre-Collapse literature, impromptu philosophy, and smuggled a renegade streak of blue humor that complimented his otherwise spit-shined persona. In another setting, the two of them might have conflicted, but there wasn't room for that within ASOC. They were institutionally obliged to synergize and, fortunately, the one thing they shared was that they were both the kind of soldiers who demanded to be in the teams.
"El tee." Clausen acknowledged. "Glad you could make it back. Thought you got lost in the head."
"And miss my designated seat when the handshaking starts? Jesus, that kind of faux pas would send my career straight into Transport Corps." Poole shot back.
"Everyone needs trucks, sir." Clausen deadpanned.
From initial professionalism had developed camaraderie and trust, the kind that all units needed at their head. A well-functioning officer-noncom pair meant the difference between a decorated team and a dead one. This was not, of course, to suggest that their partnership was unique. To the contrary, it was the exact output desired by the cogs and gears of the Authority's leadership machine. Each set of unit leaders was novel, in that they brought different a personality mesh to the table, but the output - a stable, adaptable command pairing - was the industrialized result. In this case, the fact that the two men considered each other friends was merely a happy accident from an otherwise efficient engine.
Poole echoed Clausen with a sarcastic mimic, “Everyone needs trucks." He shot a mock-glare as he reached for his wine-glass, then turned to Sarah for moral support, "Honestly, madam, I don't know how you put up with this boor. After a tour with his lot, I've lost half my good graces, most of my manners, and I think I'm probably ruined as an officer."
Unlike Clausen, Poole was not career ASOC. He was here to punch his ticket. That was the difference between officers and enlisted in the community. Enlisted, once they passed selection, tended to stay in special forces until they retired. At most, they might get vanished into the ISA Special Operations Group. Usually, though, they just drifted between branches, stayed in the same tight pool, stuck to the same cookouts, and sent their kids to the same schools. Every generation handed off a cycle of ownership, a proud tradition as old as unification. Ruiz had been Clausen's platoon sergeant when he'd been a punk kid. If things went well, Clausen would tap Rutman to succeed him. There were rivalries, sure, but every soldier on the teams knew every other, if not by name then by type, and recognized the unspoken bond of service.
Officers, on the other hand, generally moved right through on a rapid ascent in the ranks. ASOC, like its sister services, was a primo punch on the ticket, and the climbers fought hard for postings. That had its drawbacks, sure, but it also meant a large pool of eager and capable young officers was at the ready, and only the best were selected. It might be charitably understood, then, that ASOC wasn't a free ride to flag ranks, but that it the best showcase of the next generation's fire-eaters, a proving ground for the few who'd been marked for top service.
Poole was one of those best. He'd come out of the Citadel with his shiny first-in-class plaque and immediately begun bucking for ASOC. A stint in the Pathfinders had warmed him up, and he'd passed selection with flying colors. He'd done two tours in the teams, the standard affair. One more, and he'd be out the door. He'd probably land a line company at captain. Clausen didn't hold it against him. That's how the Authority ran, and it ran well. It ran better than scavs, tribals, or Pathies, at least. Those people were proof that there were worse things left on this planet than ticket punchers.
Poole put down his glass, not spilling a single drop on his dress-whites, and asked Sarah, "Brian didn't get too enthusiastic while I was away, did he? I'd heard rumors of a bullhorn."
Immediately, Sarah responded. "No, no, never. He just expressed his respect for the colonel with very polite and stuffy clapping."
"Good for him. I'm impressed. I was squealing into a take-home bag at the back of the junior officer line." Poole said. He glanced towards the stage, and his voice took on a distant tone. "Imagine being there, Bry. Back in the cowboy days - fast and dirty, the whole world on your back, just you and your team. No rules. No budget. The only things you have are a job that needs doing and the rough guide of a personal code. A lot of people got lost in that haze." He snatched his drink from the table, drank a little too deeply, and added, "He's the one that didn't. He's the one who gets to write the books."
Clausen turned towards his fiance and explained, "Halstead's mandatory reading for the teams. We do group sessions-"
"We give offerings." Poole added. "Tithes-"
"We have prayer circles."
"Ritual chants."
"Enough!" Sarah protested with mock indignation. "I get it. You're fans."
"I keep a shrine." Clausen finished, deadpan.
She turned to Poole, hoping for help.
Poole admitted, "Madam, I am an officer. I have afforded a temple and provisioned it accordingly."
She sighed. "Well, Brian's going to have to go without attending your clubhouse for a couple of weeks. Isn't that right?"
She glanced to Clausen, who offered an enthusiastic nod. "I think a week on the backwater will help him get over abstaining from your ritual ablutions."
Clausen pointed to her with his fork and said to Poole, "I can't even spell that word."
Poole asked, "Sarah, have you ever considered trading up?"
She glanced to Clausen in mock terror and stage-whispered, "He ties me up when I try to leave! Please, sir, help me escape his foul clutches!"
Clausen shrugged and said, "You enjoy my 'foul clutches'."
That earned him a kick under the table, but when Sarah spoke, her voice was nothing if not professional. She said, "The point is, Nathan, I'm dragging this lump out into the middle of nowhere, and we're going to have a lovely time. If you even think of calling him back, you'll be eating through a straw and shitting in a bag."
Poole nodded sagely. "I understand why you two get along so well. You share the same grace and charm."
That brought laughs from both of them.
"Now, what are we drinking?" Poole asked as he reached for the bottle-filled basket.
"Don't know. Don't care. State's paying." Clausen said.
"That usually that means the lowest bidder." Poole observed.
Sarah shook her head in disgust. She said, "It's a Reconstruction Bordeaux blend. Wasted on both of you."
Clausen nodded. Poole feigned insult.
Sarah added, "And it's State-paid. So chug away."
Poole helped himself to just a hair past the two-finger pour. The lieutenant must have caught Clausen's pointed glance because he waved the implied question, and Clausen went right back to his beer.
Sarah asked, "No date tonight, Nathan?"
Clausen almost choked. To his credit, Poole sighed and admitted, "You know how hard it is to find a respectable escort for something like this? One that doesn't look like an escort?"
"Sorry to hear it." She said.
Poole gave shrugged. "Don't worry about it. I'm not in that part of my career, anyway. Right now, I've gotta move fast, go where they say. There's only room for one passion, you know? Maybe when I make staff…" He trailed off. "I'm fine with it. But, as I said… late notice." He glanced to Clausen and changed the topic, "Speaking of staff, I'm surprised we got in. This was supposed to be light-bird and up."
"You know the old man pulled something." Clausen said. "He wouldn't let that fly."
"Well, good on him." Poole raised his glass in salute, and the others followed.
Clausen had barely set his glass back when Sarah ambushed him. She asked, "So, are you gonna do it?"
"Do what?" Poole asked. He leaned in like a gossipy schoolboy.
Clausen shook his head, tried to silently imply, 'not now'.
Sarah explained, "He's avoiding talking to your colonel."
Poole whirled towards his sergeant and demanded, "Do it!"
Clausen shook his head, tried to focus on his drink, and ignore the pressure.
Poole prodded, "What would the team think if they found out that Sarge chickened out."
Clausen shot him a glare that sent the smaller man reeling with laughter.
Sarah, though, tugged on his arm and implored, "You'd hate yourself, Bry."
He glanced to her, then Poole, and back.
"Fine." He sighed as he rose from the table.
"First to fight!" Poole enthused. He flashed a thumbs-up.
Clausen shot a glare back and answered, "Last to quit." His words were call-and-response, but his tone said, quite clearly, 'fuck you, sir'. Poole just laughed.
Clausen turned back to his fiance, but she waved him on. "Go! Do it! Bring back something nice!"
Clausen threaded the crowd. He had to tuck his shoulders in to avoid jostling the attendants. It was one of the drawbacks of his frame. He didn't want to embarrass himself with a scene, not here. Half these people were wearing clothes that cost as much as his house, and the other half probably stamped his payroll.
The band started up, blared syncopated jazz through the chamber. Clausen used the thump of the bass-line as cadence and slipped between the tables and hustling waiters. His objective lay at the front of the room. There, Colonel Halstead was encircled by a gaggle of suits and black dresses. The colonel's family tried to fade into the background, but the old man kept diverting to them. He would pull his wife forward or wave to a child, and angle the conversation onto something unrelated to the initial question.
Even from here, Clausen could feel implied beats of that discussion, and he paused. Maybe it wouldn't be best to bother the colonel for war stories when he was so clearly transitioning out of the service. Clausen hesitated, weighed his options, and chose discretion. He stepped back and folded into the crowd. That's when someone grabbed his arm and yanked him back towards the front.
"Why, hello there, Sergeant." The aggressor stated. The stranger was male, middle-aged and severe, with eyes that glinted like steel through a face like worn leather. The man locked his arm over Clausen's shoulder. The movement looked friendly, but Clausen recognized the setup for a grapple. "What brings you to this party?" The man asked, his rough face pulled into a scarecrow-smile. Clausen tried to break free, but the stranger stuck to him and drew Clausen into the hold.
The old man was stronger than he looked. His grip was iron. Clausen tested it, weighed his options. He could win a fight, but did he want to start one?
"Steady, boy." The man growled. "We're being friendly."
He controlled Clausen's steps and guided him through the crowd. Clausen tried to get a look at him. The man's smile was that of a pawnbroker, all teeth and shifting eyes. Clausen knew the look. The scan. His assailant was an old operator. Gray at the temples and wrinkled on the brow but still dangerous, aware, and playing an angle. The word 'shit' sprang to Clausen's mind, free of context. The man asked, "Now, why are you here?"
"I wanted to meet the colonel." Clausen replied.
"Another inspired youngster? Were you driven into the arms of the State by the shining example of the great William Halstead?" The man laughed at his own joke. A waitress drifted past, and the stranger snagged a mixed drink from her tray. He kept a tight grip on Clausen, even as he chugged the fifty-credit cocktail with a single gulp.
The waitress wheeled in shock, began to protest, "Sir, you can't-"
The man handed her his empty, and her eyes widened in horrified recognition. Suddenly deferent, she asked, "Sorry, sir, I didn't see you coming. Would you like another?"
The stranger snorted, a rasp that shook deep in his chest, and shot back, "God, no. That was trash. Bring me a bourbon, neat, top-shelf. And one for my friend." He glanced at Clausen and asked, "You do drink bourbon, don't you, Brian?" The way he said it wasn’t a question.
Clausen nodded, and the waitress scurried away.
Clausen asked, "Sir, who are you? How do you know my name?"
The man's smile grew. "I'm Agency, son. They pay me to know." He laughed again. "Section Chief Michael Raschel, at your service. I'm an old friend of Bill's. We go way back." His game ended, Raschel let Clausen go.
Clausen stepped clear and demanded, "Sir, why the goose march?"
"Because you were about to run away, and I cannot abide cowardice. There's no such thing as a retreat. Didn't they teach you that, sergeant?"
"Yes, sir." Clausen stepped back and feigned relaxation.
"You're here to meet Bill, correct?"
"Yes, s-"
"That was rhetorical. You already said it."
"Yes, s-"
"Goddamnit, don't let someone dominate like this. It makes you look like a pussy. You're trying to woo Miss Deacon, correct?"
Clausen glared silently.
Raschel chuckled. "Good. You may look like a fucking ox, but if you stay quiet, no one knows you are. Go with strong and silent, son, it works best."
The waitress returned, flowing through the crowd with professional grace. Not that it helped. As she lowered her tray to present the drinks, she found one missing, and Raschel holding out an empty glass. He'd pinched it as she turned, and she'd never felt the theft. The old man gave the ghost of a cough and offered up a magician's smile. "Much better drink, sweetheart. My friend will enjoy this a hell of a lot more than those sucrose suppositories you call cocktails."
The waitress stood, stunned, and accepted back the tumbler. Clausen tried to thank her, but she drifted back, still unsure what had happened.
Raschel called after her, "Come back with another round! Do it less than four minutes, and you'll get a tip!" With a disgusted snort, he turned back to Clausen, and waited for him to drink.
The bourbon was good, at least. It had just the right balance of honeyed heat and dryness. He didn't ask the price.
"Good stuff, isn't it?" Raschel asked. "Climb high enough up the pile, and they throw you a few perks."
Clausen had no reply that was polite enough to speak to power. His consternation only made the old man laugh, harder. Raschel advised, "Look, you're never gonna last in this rat-house unless you learn to take control. Steer a goddamn conversation. Work a fucking waitress. They're paid to be deferent!"
"How do you know the Colonel?" Clausen tried to take control.
"A long time ago, even Bill Halstead was just a goddamn mud-lieutenant trying to make bones. You know the classics: misread maps, wrongs coords – we had to use radios back then, no TACNET to hold your dick. Bill was just as fucking hapless as the rest, but along came a helpful, savvy, and altogether overqualified Field Agent who kept alive long enough to shit-kick the Pathies back into the stone age."
"You knew him in the War?"
"That's what I said. Don't ask questions like that. It proves you're stupid."
"But you asked me-"
"That was a rhetorical question! It's designed to keep control of the conversation. Basic Agency shit. Try and keep up, you're disappointing me. Your record said you were better than this."
Clausen had to fight the urge to punch the old man in the face. It might end his career, it might send him to jail, but it would still be worth it.
Wham! The punch landed against Clausen's ribs and knocked the air from his lungs. Clausen tried to stagger back, but the old man pulled him close. No one around noticed the blow.
Clausen demanded, "What the hell-"
"You were thinking about hitting me. Never do that."
"How did you know-"
"I deliberately provoked you."
"Why would you-"
"Dominance! Keep up!." Raschel glanced at his watch and sighed. "She's late. It's been three minutes, and she hasn't come out of the bar."
"The waitress?"
"No, the tooth fairy. Of course the fucking waitress. It takes two minutes to get from there to here in this crowd; she's going to be late. Fucking incompetence."
Clausen had had more than enough. Much longer, and wouldn't be leaving with a career. He nodded, as politely as he could, and excused, "Sir, I think I'd better get going."
"No retreat. You said you want to meet Bill. Let's do it. He'll always take social calls from an old friend."
"I don't think-"
"I've noticed. Come on. Fun's over. Let's go meet a goddamned hero." Raschel reached over to goose-step the younger man towards the table, but Clausen slipped free.
"I can walk myself."
"Good man. That's it, show some spine." Raschel said.
Colonel Halstead saw them coming. He stood, laughing, and raised his hand to toast a drink. Then he froze. His eyes narrowed, his jaw set. The glass never met his lips. Calmly, quickly, he whispered to his guests, and they folded into the crowd, his family with them. Only his wife turned back, a worried crease on her brow before the party swallowed her.
When Halstead faced them, again, his face was stone. He set his drink on the table and waited.
"Good evening, Bill, good to see you." Raschel stuck his hand out.
There was too long of a pause before Halstead reached back and replied, "Same."
Clausen looked for an escape.
Raschel said, "It's been too long."
"If you say so."
"Teresa looks lovely-"
"You stay away from her."
Raschel barely suppressed a chuckle. "Relax. I'm just here to wish you a happy retirement. You're a hero. The State must recognize you."
"I appreciate that. Now, if you'll excuse-"
"No."
Halstead froze once more and slowly turned back to face Raschel. He growled, "What was that?"
"This man," Raschel pointed at Clausen, "was under your command, and he's an admirer. Probably enlisted because of you. I promised him I'd get an audience. Don't make me a liar, Bill. I'd take it personally."
"Fine."
"And you enjoy your golf. You've earned it." Raschel said. The bite in his words faded, just for a moment, and he added, "Just so you know: I am sorry. For everything." With that, he vanished into the crowd and left Clausen holding the bag, alone with the furious guest-of-honor.
Clausen tried to slip away. The bad blood was palpable, and he wanted no part of it. He needed to disengage.
Halstead looked right at him, sighed, and demanded, "Well, out with it."
Clausen protested, "Sir, I am not associated with that man-"
Halstead snorted. He said, "I can tell. You look like you still have a soul." He pointed towards one of the abandoned chairs. "Please, have a seat. Was that your first time getting Raschel'd?"
"He does that to everyone?"
"Most. The rest end up in a ditch. Agency." Halstead snorted again, and his silvery mustache flared with the exhalation. "He said you wanted to talk? What's on your mind?"
Clausen dared not relax. He was sitting across from Colonel "Wild Bill" Halstead. His heart was pounding, blood rushed through his ears, and he had to keep from pinching himself to see if he was asleep. This couldn't be real. He forced himself to speak and said, "I just wanted to meet you, sir. I wanted to tell you how much you've inspired me, and to thank you, sir, for your service." The moment he closed his mouth, he regretted speaking. It was shameful to spill out like that. He was sure the colonel was going to walk away, embarrassed for both of them.
Instead, Halstead leaned in and admitted, "You know, I've heard that sentiment a lot tonight, but you're the first one who meant it. What's your name?"
"Brian Clausen, sir. Sergeant First Class."
"Nice to meet you, Brian." Halstead held out his hand. This handshake was far less forced than the one he'd shared with Raschel. The colonel added, "And thank you for carrying on the colors. It's boys like you that made everything I did possible. Us old folks, we've all made bad deals. Compromises. It's the boots on the ground that keep us on the straight and narrow. 'The blood of the young renews', they say, but I find myself wondering if it's worth it."
"Absolutely, sir."
Halstead nodded. "Fire and steel, son. I recognize that. It's been a long time since I've been in your shoes."
"You went mustang, sir, I know. I read your book. Loved it, sir."
"That damn record nearly ended my career. I called out too many pencil pushers and party men. Agency had me under a microscope for years."
"It needed to be said. There's too much politics, not enough honor."
"Oh, I know. But the cancer is deep, Brian. The wars were hell, but they kept us honest. Do you want straight truth? If something isn't done, this peace is going to kill us. Too many old officers care more for their payroll than their command."
"We'll recover, sir, we always do."
"You're probably right." The colonel paused. "You here with anyone?"
"My fiance. Sarah."
"Bring her over, why don't the two of you join us for dinner."
"Sir!" Clausen exclaimed. He glanced back, at the queued lines of the privileged and powerful.
Halstead scoffed. "Forget the stuffed shirts. I'm retired. I'm don't have to pretend to care anymore."
"Yes, sir!"
"Now don't you get caught talking like that, Sergeant. You've got a bright future." Halstead turned to the crowd, gave a practiced tilt of his head, and his family reappeared. He glanced back to Clausen and instructed, "Now, bring Miss Sarah over. You and I can swap war stories and horrify the civilized people at the table."
Seated between his hero and his fiance, Clausen enjoyed the best night of his life. Caught amidst laughter and banter, he never heeded the damning sight at the bar. There, Raschel stole one last drink from a server and raised it towards their table in silent salute. If Clausen had paid attention, he'd have known a funeral toast when he saw it.