Dream: The Dollar is Too Big (Weekend Edition)
Saturday, December 31st:
We penetrated their perimeter like a slow autumn breeze, silent and cold. Shortly after we took the outbuilding, something went wrong and the shooting started. The five of us suppressed the patrolling infantry after a brief engagement; we were better equipped, and they still weren't sure what was happening.
[In a glimmer of recognition, I remembered I'd had this dream before, lead the same squad of mercenaries, narrowly avoided the Goliaths in the hallway. So why was cloudscudding here? This worried me. She'd just shown up in street clothes, like she was following us around, oblivious to body armor and assault rifles and the terse tactical chatter. Something will go wrong, I thought.]
We hustled along a hexagonal hallway, stopping at a large intersection. beltramgregor and the other firearms specialist aimed shortened muzzles into the neighboring artery from the cover of the open bulkhead. I took the third post while a dark-haired woman and her backup jogged down a side passage to plant the Device on the Objective. I cast beltramgregor a heavy glance as cloudscudding strode after us, casually inquiring about our tactics.
The junction echoed with brief, loud violence, leaving us tense but unscathed. Our accomplices returned and we ran farther into the compound, angling back behind the garrison service bays. We broke left at a T-junction and stopped in a tall, octagonal room where ranks of red pipes preened beneath the glossy black floor grating.
Huge servos hummed into action and massive footsteps clanked out from the garage at the other end of the junction. A pair of Terran Goliaths stomped into the hallway. Everyone nervously adjusted their weapons and pressed back against the walls, hoping to hide behind nonexistent structural flanges. "It's not going to work like last time," cloudscudding told us, calmly standing in plain sight. "They're bigger; you can't hurt them."
The robots drew closer, then turned left at the T and loped towards a distant exist. We slowly exhaled, then confirmed the new plan. We'd hide here another few minutes while search teams deployed, then slip out undetected while the Device provided a distraction. Half an hour later we laughed and joked as we hiked away from their perimeter fence.
Our squad folded through the alleys and apartments of Old Town, a squatter's slough of half-demolished tenement housing and cardboard shantytowns. We spread quietly through a damp suite, unheard over the banter of the target gang in the next room. I slipped around the corner to fire the burst that would signal the gang's massacre, but I paused.
The chattering stopped cold and a dozen eyes fixed on me in surprise. They were kids, yuppie punks, none older than 14. They'd made quite a mess of the utility grid with their pranks, but I couldn't kill them for that, contract or no contract. I marched into the room.
The nearest kid scowled and wound up for a punch. I stepped in and slammed the butt of my rifle stock into the side of his face. He dropped, and I kicked him hard in the stomach for good measure. A ganger by the wall leveled a hand weapon while I stepped over his compatriot. A pair of hawk-shaped blasts screamed into my shoulder, their fuchsia glow briefly scampering across the wet bricks. I looked up and shot him a dark glance. My body armor had taken most of blast, and the riot gun wouldn't have killed me anyway, but two hits at that range would've knocked me senseless for hours, maybe days.
I concussed the next kid with knees and elbows, doing my best to break his arm against a nearby table. He probably got away with a fracture. The kid with the riot gun backed up and aimed as I stalked closer. Four more kids raced into the room, drawn by the noise.
My team had been watching reluctantly, but now they stepped in. Young faces fell as their eight-to-one advantage disappeared. I pressed eagerly into the mob for a brief, nasty melee, smashing hard objects against the miscreants' soft spots until they gave up, and I had to stop.
After achieving our Objective and evading the Goliaths, we changed out of our tactical gear and parted ways. The sun guessed it might be 2:30, so I headed for the courthouse to see if I could catch my mother. I jogged up the broad steps and found her in the Anteroom, an odd space filled with steep stairs and plush aquamarine wall-to-wall carpeting. She smiled to see me unexpectedly on a work day, but explained she couldn't get away just now; she had to watch Dad. I followed her up the stairs to the balcony level above the courthouse floor, where we joined the other observers.
Suits and tables filled the chamber below. A man in his early 50's rose behind a large desk at the front. He stood on the short side of average and the light end of heavy-set; he had a light gray beard and dark skin. He finished outlining his plan for the New Dollar, which would be worth 60-80% as much as our current dollars. This would improve economic efficiency... it had something to do with rounding and the tendency of expenses to group around dollar amounts, but his terminology was over my head.
Most of the suited men nodded vaguely, but one immediately asked a pointed question. I though that out of keeping with procedure--you usually announce yourself or wait to be recognized, don't you?--but everyone else on the floor took it in stride. Maybe the bearded fellow had been responding to this guy's question, but didn't answer it satisfactorily.... Wait, that's my dad.
Shortbeard shifted uncomfortably as the court room rustled in agreement. My father let him stumble through three sentences before he interjected again to force him back on topic. I glanced around the room. Even the spectators leaned forward tensely to watch the confirmation proceedings. Other people asked questions or offered supporting points, but my father pressed Shortbeard relentlessly.
As the debate wound towards a vote, a block of observers on the far end of the balcony all stood up. They filled all four rows in their section, at least thirty people in white dress shirts with maroon vests and hats. Discussion paused, and the maroon spokeswoman announced that their bloc would vote immediately. (An uncommon but legal tactic to hasten the end of debates and influence other voters.) At a table below, my father sighed.
"Meat-packers," he chuckled derisively. "Just like them to try that."
The man beside him leaned close, warning my father not to dismiss them. He said their bloc was influential, and this late in the debate it might even work.
The spokeswoman called for a vote, and a couple dozen maroon arms raised high, their hands bent into exaggerated hook-shapes (their way of signaling a response was different because they were meat-packers). She then called for the counter-vote, and raised both her arms in a circle over her head. Only a few other supervisors raised circles with her. They all sat again.
Dad sighed. He wasn't sure, but he guessed they'd just voted in favor of Shortbeard. The debate continued another fifteen minutes or so as people made closing remarks. My father got the last word. He began summarizing his arguments against Shortbeard, but paused when his friend grabbed his elbow a few sentences in. He leaned down to hear the man's whispers, then stood straight. He made a few general statements about rising medical costs and the plight of doctors, then sat.
After a quick general vote, the speaker made an announcement and the assembly cheered; Dad had become the new Treasurer. He stood, smiling and bewildered. His friend clapped him on the back, and Dad made a couple short remarks of acceptance, something like, "I said I thought I could do the job. Thank you for your confidence." The meat-packers cheered (except for their supervisors, who'd favored Shortbeard). I raced downstairs and found my dad. He'd just finished signing some large, official book, and the assembly milled around the exit.
"You know," he said quietly, leaning close, "I thought I could do the job, and the debate over confirmation was exciting, but now I'm a little nervous. And afraid." I hugged him. "But it'll be good. Let's find your mother."
We penetrated their perimeter like a slow autumn breeze, silent and cold. Shortly after we took the outbuilding, something went wrong and the shooting started. The five of us suppressed the patrolling infantry after a brief engagement; we were better equipped, and they still weren't sure what was happening.
[In a glimmer of recognition, I remembered I'd had this dream before, lead the same squad of mercenaries, narrowly avoided the Goliaths in the hallway. So why was cloudscudding here? This worried me. She'd just shown up in street clothes, like she was following us around, oblivious to body armor and assault rifles and the terse tactical chatter. Something will go wrong, I thought.]
We hustled along a hexagonal hallway, stopping at a large intersection. beltramgregor and the other firearms specialist aimed shortened muzzles into the neighboring artery from the cover of the open bulkhead. I took the third post while a dark-haired woman and her backup jogged down a side passage to plant the Device on the Objective. I cast beltramgregor a heavy glance as cloudscudding strode after us, casually inquiring about our tactics.
The junction echoed with brief, loud violence, leaving us tense but unscathed. Our accomplices returned and we ran farther into the compound, angling back behind the garrison service bays. We broke left at a T-junction and stopped in a tall, octagonal room where ranks of red pipes preened beneath the glossy black floor grating.
Huge servos hummed into action and massive footsteps clanked out from the garage at the other end of the junction. A pair of Terran Goliaths stomped into the hallway. Everyone nervously adjusted their weapons and pressed back against the walls, hoping to hide behind nonexistent structural flanges. "It's not going to work like last time," cloudscudding told us, calmly standing in plain sight. "They're bigger; you can't hurt them."
The robots drew closer, then turned left at the T and loped towards a distant exist. We slowly exhaled, then confirmed the new plan. We'd hide here another few minutes while search teams deployed, then slip out undetected while the Device provided a distraction. Half an hour later we laughed and joked as we hiked away from their perimeter fence.
Our squad folded through the alleys and apartments of Old Town, a squatter's slough of half-demolished tenement housing and cardboard shantytowns. We spread quietly through a damp suite, unheard over the banter of the target gang in the next room. I slipped around the corner to fire the burst that would signal the gang's massacre, but I paused.
The chattering stopped cold and a dozen eyes fixed on me in surprise. They were kids, yuppie punks, none older than 14. They'd made quite a mess of the utility grid with their pranks, but I couldn't kill them for that, contract or no contract. I marched into the room.
The nearest kid scowled and wound up for a punch. I stepped in and slammed the butt of my rifle stock into the side of his face. He dropped, and I kicked him hard in the stomach for good measure. A ganger by the wall leveled a hand weapon while I stepped over his compatriot. A pair of hawk-shaped blasts screamed into my shoulder, their fuchsia glow briefly scampering across the wet bricks. I looked up and shot him a dark glance. My body armor had taken most of blast, and the riot gun wouldn't have killed me anyway, but two hits at that range would've knocked me senseless for hours, maybe days.
I concussed the next kid with knees and elbows, doing my best to break his arm against a nearby table. He probably got away with a fracture. The kid with the riot gun backed up and aimed as I stalked closer. Four more kids raced into the room, drawn by the noise.
My team had been watching reluctantly, but now they stepped in. Young faces fell as their eight-to-one advantage disappeared. I pressed eagerly into the mob for a brief, nasty melee, smashing hard objects against the miscreants' soft spots until they gave up, and I had to stop.
After achieving our Objective and evading the Goliaths, we changed out of our tactical gear and parted ways. The sun guessed it might be 2:30, so I headed for the courthouse to see if I could catch my mother. I jogged up the broad steps and found her in the Anteroom, an odd space filled with steep stairs and plush aquamarine wall-to-wall carpeting. She smiled to see me unexpectedly on a work day, but explained she couldn't get away just now; she had to watch Dad. I followed her up the stairs to the balcony level above the courthouse floor, where we joined the other observers.
Suits and tables filled the chamber below. A man in his early 50's rose behind a large desk at the front. He stood on the short side of average and the light end of heavy-set; he had a light gray beard and dark skin. He finished outlining his plan for the New Dollar, which would be worth 60-80% as much as our current dollars. This would improve economic efficiency... it had something to do with rounding and the tendency of expenses to group around dollar amounts, but his terminology was over my head.
Most of the suited men nodded vaguely, but one immediately asked a pointed question. I though that out of keeping with procedure--you usually announce yourself or wait to be recognized, don't you?--but everyone else on the floor took it in stride. Maybe the bearded fellow had been responding to this guy's question, but didn't answer it satisfactorily.... Wait, that's my dad.
Shortbeard shifted uncomfortably as the court room rustled in agreement. My father let him stumble through three sentences before he interjected again to force him back on topic. I glanced around the room. Even the spectators leaned forward tensely to watch the confirmation proceedings. Other people asked questions or offered supporting points, but my father pressed Shortbeard relentlessly.
As the debate wound towards a vote, a block of observers on the far end of the balcony all stood up. They filled all four rows in their section, at least thirty people in white dress shirts with maroon vests and hats. Discussion paused, and the maroon spokeswoman announced that their bloc would vote immediately. (An uncommon but legal tactic to hasten the end of debates and influence other voters.) At a table below, my father sighed.
"Meat-packers," he chuckled derisively. "Just like them to try that."
The man beside him leaned close, warning my father not to dismiss them. He said their bloc was influential, and this late in the debate it might even work.
The spokeswoman called for a vote, and a couple dozen maroon arms raised high, their hands bent into exaggerated hook-shapes (their way of signaling a response was different because they were meat-packers). She then called for the counter-vote, and raised both her arms in a circle over her head. Only a few other supervisors raised circles with her. They all sat again.
Dad sighed. He wasn't sure, but he guessed they'd just voted in favor of Shortbeard. The debate continued another fifteen minutes or so as people made closing remarks. My father got the last word. He began summarizing his arguments against Shortbeard, but paused when his friend grabbed his elbow a few sentences in. He leaned down to hear the man's whispers, then stood straight. He made a few general statements about rising medical costs and the plight of doctors, then sat.
After a quick general vote, the speaker made an announcement and the assembly cheered; Dad had become the new Treasurer. He stood, smiling and bewildered. His friend clapped him on the back, and Dad made a couple short remarks of acceptance, something like, "I said I thought I could do the job. Thank you for your confidence." The meat-packers cheered (except for their supervisors, who'd favored Shortbeard). I raced downstairs and found my dad. He'd just finished signing some large, official book, and the assembly milled around the exit.
"You know," he said quietly, leaning close, "I thought I could do the job, and the debate over confirmation was exciting, but now I'm a little nervous. And afraid." I hugged him. "But it'll be good. Let's find your mother."