Artificial Intelligence

When he got to the scene, he sensed right away that this was no “accident” of the careless motorist variety. Something didn’t smell right. Of course, he couldn’t smell (or hear) anything in space, hence the recycled gases in his helmet, but it was tangible all right. The odd angle at which the broken vehicles lay in relationship to each other. The lack of any movement from the cockpits of both vehicles. Honed from years on the beat, his instincts summed up the situation in totality that something was amiss.

The heads-up-display in his helmet beeped. It highlighted a cloud of dust particles leaking out of a wrecked vehicle. He narrowed his eyes and noticed some flecks twinkle purple and blue as they reflected light from the local star. He thought to himself, “Nobody I know turns into N-Dust when he dies.” The helmet display turned red and confirmed that indeed, the cloud was composed primarily of N-Dust. He estimated from the cloud’s size and density that this particular batch would have fetched a few million Alliance dollars on the streets.

N-Dust was the latest incarnation of hallucinogen processed from trees used to terraform planets—the leaves absorbed a planet’s mix of gases as it created an atmosphere fit for human life. N-Dust abusers described the sensation of being transported to another realm, often described as the nth dimension, hence the name. The cloud of N-Dust floated away from the wrecked vehicles, pulled into the vacuum of space. It was like money had disintegrated into powder and vanished before his eyes.

From atop his cruiser, he needed to remind himself why he had joined law enforcement when there was so much more dough on the other side of the fence. Illegal activities essentially required the same set of hustling skills he used now. But on the side of the ruling class, slightly above the law, he could get more kicks.

He hovered the cruiser in place and waited. “Only a matter of time now,” he thought. A small combustion went off in the the wrecked vehicle to his right. A metallic cylinder streaked across his vision and barreled toward the planet below. “Ah, the other car must contain the law-abiding driver.” He loved it when the criminals ran—kicks—he lived for them. With his index finger he drew a circle on the navigation computer and dotted the center of the gesture.

His cruiser took ten seconds to slide the heat shield over the vehicle and shift into a more streamlined bullet shape; the whole process reminded him of one of those old Earth convertibles that emitted mechanical whirs and clunks. Thus was the problem with government expenditures: for the employees essential to the foundations of society, buy the cheapest equipment but splurge on the benefits for bureaucrats. Perhaps more fairly, no government agency could keep up with the accelerated pace of technological advancement as fueled by free market competition. Moore’s Law, that processor speeds doubled every two years, was no longer valid. The time frame had reduced to every six months. Criminals did not follow bureaucratic protocol or purchase contracts—their equipment advanced all the time. No matter how many times the department upgraded, it always became a junker in short time.

When the cruiser finished preparation for atmospheric entry, he sent a Datalink transmission back to base, “Officer Zeta in hot pursuit of suspected narcotics courier. Requesting backup in Sector G23. Suspect most likely armed and under the influence of hallucinogens.” Dispatch chirped back on the nav screen: “Copy that. Ten officers and ten drones have been deployed to your location. Use extreme caution.” Overwhelming backup. He groaned inwardly. More governmental waste.

He knew exactly what game both parties had in mind—they knew that the local media conglomerates would video broadcast the chase via satellite. The police chief planned to use the cameras to a) intimidate the populace with a display of power and b) kiss up to the local council member up for re-election that year. The drug courier planned to use the cameras to claim police brutality during trial, since the suspect wouldn’t have any drugs at the time of the arrest. Those scenarios didn’t sound very appealing to him; however, he concluded that those plans rested on the assumption that the reporters and camera drones arrived in time to capture footage of the chase.

On the front porch of his home, John banged on the door, “Let me in!” He had spent the night out drinking with his buddies, and in retaliation, his wife Maria had deadbolted him out. She alone had took care of their baby daughter that Sunday. She alone fed and walked the dog. “Maria, open this door!” He banged on it more forcefully. The glass on the front door shattered when the drug courier’s pod hurtled by. John fell on top of the broken glass, “Oh god. Oh god it hurts. Shit.” He moaned in pain. Maria ran out the front door holding their baby daughter, “Are you okay, darling? Oh my god, darling, oh my god.” He gurgled and made some more unintelligible noises. The pod headed toward the geriatric theme park where the elderly bowled and played shuffleboard. Across the street, a junior high school, many who entered the theme park from a side entrance, where they paid a small fee to watch the elderly behind one-way glass and get some immature laughs. The new phase of reality entertainment, a theme park within a theme park.

“Perfect”, Zeta thought, “Just the excuse I need.” He tried intimidation first, even though he knew that someone who bolted a crime scene did not understand that escalation increased in degrees. “Pull over to the right. I said RIGHT. Make a RIGHT, make the RIGHT now.” He put on a good show of restraint to shoot down any questions of excessive force later on. “Excessive” was such a subjective term anyway. Well, he could think of one situation that might have warranted the term “excessive”.

After Zeta had been awarded a city council award of valor, councilman Hancock paid him a visit. Zeta had thought it was for a customary photo-op, but then he noticed no paparazzi trail. A retired agent had called in a favor to the city council because his classic Moldovian had been stolen from his driveway. Councilman Hancock offered Zeta the “opportunity” to recover the classic red car. In reality, Hancock wanted to know if Zeta was going to play ball or not. Zeta figured that if he were fired, he’d never be able to get back at Hancocksucker; hey, at least from the inside he could plot out his revenge. So Zeta had agreed to the humiliating waste of his time and intercepted the Moldovian on its way to a black market shop. The grateful retiree turned out to be a handy ally after all: he had illegally stockpiled munitions for self-defense in his retirement years. Now that, maybe that qualified as excessive.

No criminal ever saw the Predator missile coming, nor could any recall the events that led up to the explosion. It was too easy really: tap a spot on the nav display and a rocket shaped like a two-liter Coke bottle fired from a position in the sky. Did it violate communication guidelines set down by the IFCC? Probably. Did it violate the planet’s air space guidelines? Maybe, but he reasoned that planes never flew at such low altitudes. Was the satellite-guided explosive too much power for any individual, regardless of governmental role, to wield? Somewhere in his brain he knew the answer was “yes”, but somewhere in his heart he repressed the thought. Was it effective? Every single time, and in the end that was all the logic that Zeta allowed to surface. Suspects who thought that they could waste two hours of his time on a high-speed chase were upside-down before the television crews ever arrived.

Although currently stuck in the harness of a pod flipped like a beetle onto its belly, Jake had been having a good day. Jake had had an immaculate “driving record”, so he had been promoted to deliver a mother lode shipment of dust. One delivery and he could leave to live on a planet where where no one knew from where he had come. He could recreate himself. He had had an immaculate record, that is, until he had parked for one minute in some empty expanse of space and some idiot hyperspace jumped into his ship. The driver was probably balls deep drunk and couldn’t see or hear the warnings about ten overlapped coordinates. Here he was sober, and bam, he lost his payload for the first time in his career as a courier. He inhaled a of the dust, and so he panicked. The cops were gonna bust him; the supplier was gonna kill him; he had nothing to lose and so he ran.

Jake pulled himself out of the overturned vehicle amidst the cars that zoomed by. He felt the drug creep up the back of his brain and hit him hard. He towered above the city as a giant, and the humans, what were they but just ants, milling around each other in endless pursuit of food and resources. Wrong. At least ants contributed to the prosperity of the colony; human beings could not grasp the evolutionary advantages of cooperation. Because they were merely ants, crushing them would not be much of a loss. Here came one now, the insignificant pest that had followed his vehicle since the accident. Jake swung his arms in wide arcs, wild, powerful punches, the blood exhilarating as he felt it course through his veins. He flailed and let it all out until he pummeled the cop into nonexistence and the world turned into a muted white television screen.

“There’s no telling how much of that dust he’s inhaled,” Zeta thought, as he jumped out of his cruiser pod and approached the overturned vehicle. A tattered wreck of a man dragged himself out. Zeta analyzed the suspect, “Hmmm, no weapon, as expected from a skilled courier. Wild look in his eyes. What’s he going to do now? He’s turning this way. He can’t seriously be charging me. Oh, he is.” The suspect punched and elbowed like some juiced up mixed martial arts competitor. But Zeta wore padded body armor…and a helmet. After all that dust, the courier must have slipped beyond reason and even sensation to not notice that physical attacks would be of no effect. “Jake” (the courier wore a nametag so that he would look like some college-student technician at the SuperBuy) ranted on about ants and the mindless selfishness of the human race. Zeta couldn’t stand the self-limiting negativity of small-minded people: he saw the human race transcending along a path from self-gain to hive mind to force of nature. This small-time criminal stood in the way of such progress, ranting on about how messed up the world is while doing nothing but complaining. No matter how bad the world seems, no matter what any one person sets out to change, the only thing one has the power to change is one’s self. Officer Zeta, his weight pinning the courier down, lifted the courier off of the ground by the collar and slammed the unceremonially against the asphalt. The courier went unconscious. Zeta dragged him up and slammed the courier’s limp body down once again. Zeta repeated the action twice more before he heard a voice yell, “Officer, what the hell are you doing? Stop! He’s out cold. You’re gonna kill him!” Zeta turned his head sideways and in his peripheral vision saw the first of his backup, a single officer from the local precinct. Zeta cuffed the suspect, dragged the body into the backseat of the pod, and burst toward the police department just as the paparazzi pulled up at the scene.

Back at police headquarters, Zeta received two comlinks. One comlink was a copy of his report and that of the officer who had witnessed the arrest. Zeta searched through and saw that Officer Wheatstone mentioned nothing in regards to use of force. The heat around Zeta’s head wafted off. The other comlink came from Councilman Hancock. Zeta hoped that the comlink wasn’t another “request” for a “favor,” but he knew that the councilman was never one for pleasantries. Favor three already and only half of the year had ended.

Zeta had carried out the favors to bide his time, but unfortunately, he had inferred correctly that the councilman’s demands would grow increasingly risky for Zeta. The first favor merely annoyed him: he recovered a classic car from a small but violent drug ring. The second favor moved onto a level that Zeta considered as something hazily beyond abuse of power: he investigated Hanock’s challenger in the election, in order to drown a political opponent that according to polls stood to garner only 20% of the votes. Needless to say, after photos of Zeta’s prostitute entrapment were brought to the attention of the challenger, he changed his mind about running. The challenger dropped out a week before the election, citing as his reason a desire to spend more time with his family, making Councilman Hancock the winner of an uncontested election. Zeta’s mind drifted back to the screen. He opened the councilman’s comlink and wondered how much riskier this game could get.

Officer Zeta replied that he agreed to perform the favor and mentioned offhand that his work for the councilman strained Zeta’s interactions with the police chief. Councilman Hancock strolled in the next day unannounced like the self-important prick that he was. The votes he had cast in favor of “corporate “bailouts” to save fat, incompetent companies from the natural selection of capitalism, in conjunction with the votes he had cast in favor of budget cuts to education, apparently had angered someone. “I’ve received a death threat,” Councilman Hancock stated before he even completed his walk into Zeta’s office.

Annoyed already, Zeta let the councilman finish speaking. “The caller promised that if I showed up at the upcoming Children’s Parade as advertised, he would assassinate me.” Hancock paused to let the last statement sink in. “If I bow out in the face of a threat, I’ll look like a coward. The caller probably made an empty threat. I will be participating in the parade—the photo-op is priceless. I need this small favor from you: my bodyguards will secure all areas along the motorcade’s route, but I want you and your brains to investigate the perpetrator. I want you to arrest him if he actually has the guts to show up. My photo-op better go off without a hitch if you want to cement your career.” He smiled like a pedophile atop a bicycle at the local playground. “Besides, a promotion might be in it for you.” Zeta read the councilman’s face and knew that he was full of shit. If the parade did go off without a hitch, Hancock would nitpick at some trifle and claim that Zeta was remiss in his duties. As if Hancock would ever give up as purebred an attack dog as Zeta. The transparency of Hancock’s deception, his incompetence in artifice, annoyed Zeta the most.

Councilman Hancock had failed to mention that the parade would take place in two days. The suspect, like any skillful negotiator, had used time stress to his advantage. Only two days later, and Zeta stood on the asphalt next to the councilman’s black limousine, awaiting the start of the parade. But a lot of research could be in done in two days, if one didn’t let sleep take the wheel—a little laugh came up inside of Zeta, the tail end of which was verbalized, “Ha.” The parade lurched forward and began its leisurely march. He tensed his jaw to repress the urge to laugh again.

On a rooftop near the parade route, a different kind of muscle coordination occurred. Codename Tay fingered the rifle’s trigger and felt its pressure—a jittery habit bound to land him in trouble one day. Almost there. Ten more cars and the councilman’s black limousine would pass by. It was an impossible shot: Tay had assembled the tripod and rifle three kilometers from the parade route and would have only three seconds to shoot. In that brief span, Councilman Hancock would pass into the line of sight, a small gap between two dumpsters in an alley. Although the firing distance surpassed the military record of 2.4 kilometers, Tay had modified a scope to computed the real-time effects of wind and gravity. He relaxed but then quickly tensed on the trigger again. Five more cars. Almost there.

Councilman Hancock’s first offense: he came up with the proposal to cut in the GI bill that guaranteed Tay money for higher education. Tay’s scholarship to one of the top universities was rescinded unceremoniously. The number of universities could not keep pace with population growth, and so universities gave up their roles as the last bastions of social equality: Meritocracy eroded in the gulf that separated rich and poor. The councilman’s second offense: he spearheaded the movement to divert funds towards federal “bailouts,” a euphemism that meant saving major campaign donors from bankruptcy. The most ludicrous irony of all was that the government had entrusted billions of dollars to investment firms who had gone bankrupt because of inept money management. Perhaps he had a lost an eye, but politicians like Hancock were blind.

One more car. The front tire of Councilman Hancock’s limo edged its way into Tay’s scope. Tay cleared his mind and visualized a direct hit. His instincts registered an alert on the level of his consciousness: Something’s not right. He jerked his head to the left and glimpsed…something.

For the first step of the investigation, Officer Zeta needed to pinpoint the assassin’s location on the day of the parade. He traced that the original assassination threat was sent from a public computer in the education district. Because of that odd origination point and Councilman Hancock’s recent budget cuts to the local school system, Zeta inferred that the assassin carried a political vendetta. Zeta loaded up the security footage of the Horace War Memorial Statue in the education district; war memorial statues worked like flypaper to attract agitators and discontents. Who else these days would value history? Of the background checks of statue visitors, one profile stood out: that of a former military sniper, Codename Tay. Zeta knew then that on parade day, the assassin would not blend in with the spectators but rather would wait at a rooftop position.

Zeta couldn’t shoot because the noise and resultant chaos would disrupt the damn councilman’s perfect campaign opportunity, so Zeta had donned a “speed suit” to apprehend the suspect. As the councilman’s motorcade approached an alley, Zeta’s scanners picked up a heat signature from a sniper rifle. Right before Zeta’s charge made contact, the suspect turned left. With smooth agility, the suspect abandoned the shot, dodged Zeta’s body slam, and blinded Zeta with a hand-held flash beacon. As Zeta’s vision faded from white back into the drab browns and grays of the rooftop, he caught a faint outline enter the stairwell. He sprinted through the doorway, but the suspect had vanished. Impossible. An alarm triggered in Zeta’s brain; his eyes darted from shadow to shadow. Lucky me, wasn’t an ambush. No trap door…so how did he escape?

Zeta stood panting at the top of the stairs for a long time. Am I in danger? A cocktail of adrenaline and uncertainty focused his concentration down to a fine point. His mind returned to the profile he had compiled on the suspect. Codename Tay grew up in a tenement complex in a rundown neighborhood. The military recruiter offered Tay an enlistment bonus that, to an eighteen-year-old accustomed to meals of canned luncheon meat and government cheese, must have seemed like a fortune. Tay trained as a sniper so that he could be close to the action. He had a bright future ahead of him; that is, until he lost an eye in the last war. That is, until the city council cut the funds intended for his college degree. Zeta’s mind refused to divert commands to his feet until he figured out what just happened.

Well, actually, a few anomalies did pop up during Zeta’s research. The first: Tay had bragged to comrades that he had robbed a hundred homes in the wealthy gated communities of South Bay. In audio feeds taken from an unidentified mission, Tay stated vaguely that he had “literally hacked” his way into homes to take expensive handheld computers. Zeta had looked into the spate of unsolved robberies and not in one case did the house security alarms go off. The second: Tay stated that his codename was short for the Islamic belief of Tay Al-ard, a concept of teleportation in which the Earth rotated toward the traveler instead of vice versa, but this codename designation did not relate to Tay’s life in any meaningful way. In Zeta’s experience, when faced with two unexplainable facts, the answer to each lay in the other…Impossible.

Zeta had one last bit of research left to fall back on: the suspect’s squad mates would poke fun at the suspect’s attachment to a scope, a Helm357 modified to process real-time sniping data . Zeta scanned for the microchips’ heat signatures. I’m out of luck. Too much background noise. Too many electronics in the area. Hm…this cluster’s coordinates change ever so slightly. Zeta spun in the stairwell and ran back out onto the rooftop. He caught up to the suspect easily after that. No vanishing tricks this time. The adrenaline took over; the small part of him that cared about other people switched to the “off” position. A little laugh came up inside of him again, but this time he let it out. Did that just happen? No one actually laughs sinisterly…do they? Zeta regarded the unconscious figure, a mass of flesh at his feet. What a waste. He spent all that energy to fuel his vindictiveness when those energies could have cultivated his potential. To think, he had achieved short-range teleportation, but he had thought only of the short term. And now he would spend a long time in prison.

Zeta realized that his own vendetta against Councilman Hancock wasted time and energy, and so Zeta gave up his destructive plans; instead, he would accumulate power on his own accord and leave Councilman Hancock’s thumb from a position of strength, options wide open. When Zeta returned to department headquarters, he again found an urgent comlink awaiting his attention. How much worse would the councilman’s next “favor” be? Would Zeta have to break up a drug ring? Would he have to perform a coronary artery bypass on a man who has previously had four heart attacks? To his surprise, the comlink instead contained a news story: Councilman Hancock Dead. Food Poisoning. Apparently, the councilman had eaten a salad contaminated with E.coli bacteria, which wouldn’t have been a big deal, except that the councilman suffered from a history of respiratory ailments. The food poisoning complicated his condition, and set off an allergic chain reaction that killed him before medics could rush him to the emergency room. A spate of arugula food poisoning deaths had erupted across the country just a few days before the parade. The local reporters spun the councilman’s death into yet another story about the need for more legislation and taxes on public safety standards. Zeta read the story in a daze. My vindictive plans, moot after all.

With an assassination thwarted a day earlier, Zeta knew that Councilman Hancock’s death from food poisoning wasn’t the full story. The true details lay with Codename Tay, who faced a life sentence and who, understandably, did not want to exacerbate his situation. A perfectionist, Tay had taken out an insurance policy days before the parade. Tay had bribed an airplane repair technician to place a gateway device in one of the aircraft’s bathrooms. As the passengers and crew prepared for takeoff, Tay teleported from an airport bathroom stall into the airplane’s lavatory. He switched the meal intended for the councilman with one containing a pre-contaminated side salad. Tay wanted to embarrass the councilman publicly, but if all did not go according to plan, Tay would still exact revenge. Zeta realized that, technically, he had failed to protect the councilman. But because of the nationwide E.coli outbreak, no one would ever know. Zeta smiled. Oh well…can’t win ‘em all.

The headline news featured in the comlink arrived accompanied by a message from Minister Sterns. Sterns governed—some would say ruled—the country of Daley, one of the 179 countries in the 300 or so protectorate worlds. “It is an unfortunate what has happened to Councilman Hancock. I have watched the video data record in regards to your performance on the day of the parade—I have a great use for someone like yourself. Come to the nation of Daley and work under me.” If there was one duty Officer Zeta could not neglect, it was his commitment to power. He transferred to Daley.

Zeta noticed on his surveillance screen what looked like a fire. From a cruiser in the stratosphere, he patrolled over the country of Daley. He loved the grid of lights, their ordered beauty, their efficient serenity. The little orange-red dot grew and cried for his attention to the screen. Hm…interesting. Some may consider a fire an unfortunate accident, but fires are a sign that critical mass has been reached. And out of that destruction, new life springs forth.

Zeta didn’t react to the anomaly at first because of an overwhelming misanthropy. So what if it was a fire? Human beings were but a cancer; they consumed with the arrogance that intelligence and power justified all; they bred without goal, without improving conditions; rather, they raised more dysfunctional, unhappy, close-minded individuals. Perhaps, Zeta thought, he was witnessing the death throes of his world, the same progression that had ended all of the “great” civilizations. Organization. Innovation. Acceleration. Hubris. Decay. Death. And then would the cycle just begin anew? What a pointless endeavor: to aspire to nothing more than what has already come before. Let them burn. Fewer people meant less ignorance with which to inflict suffering on themselves and others. He drifted back from his reverie when the onscreen nav confirmed a massive conflagration. He punched in the coordinates for Pier City and glided down to investigate.

Hours after firefighters and national guard contained the blaze, Zeta released an arson probe into the middle of Pier City. The fire had ripped through the urban sprawl in a matter of hours. Pier City, one of the three major metropolitan centers in the country, now was an ash forest. News coverage stated that it was impossible to determine how the largest fire in the country’s history had started. Investigators were ordered to expend their energies on more fruitful endeavors. Give up on solving the biggest case of my career? Yeah right. Zeta’s curiosity caused him too much discontent. He contacted the retired spy again, who lent Zeta classified technology. As the arson robot read burn patterns and carbon fallout, it zipped around the city with Zeta tailing close behind like he was on some childish scavenger hunt. As much as he hated people, without the retired agent’s help, Zeta would have had no leads to follow.

Although Zeta hated the masses, he harbored a secret hope in the few points of light, the few hard-working honest souls who did their best without complaints. The few whose life goals included self-improvement. The resilient characters who would not let social pressures and social customs erode their values. In short, he placed his hopes in those still in contact with their humanity. And then there was Faith.

A video call patched into Zeta’s cruiser. Faith appeared on the screen. “Hey,” she said with a smile. He wouldn’t admiit it consciously, but she was the only point of light in his life recently.
“Hey stranger,” he said. He didn’t really know how to move the conversation forward. He just wanted to be in the glow of her warmth, if only just for now. So he waited.
“What did you eat today?” she asked. He appreciated her because she always showed care for his personal well-being, even if it was just food.
“Just grabbed a burger. Didn’t have much time to eat. I’m investigating the fire in Pier City. I think I’m almost at the epicenter,” he said.
“Let’s get dinner and shoot some pool tonight,” she said. She changed the subject whenever she wasn’t interested. It wasn’t too subtle, but it got the job done. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he said, and she ended the call soon after. In his disillusionment, she was his only refuge. An impossible role, to have to be another’s sole source of comfort, when unconditional love makes sense only between mother and child but not between a grown man and woman. Well, Zeta figured, it was either that or workaholism, the socially acceptable coping mechanism. Between those two alternatives, he much preferred Faith. And because of people like Faith, he continued to try.

A queued call appeared at the bottom of the nav display: Minister Sterns. Zeta answered the call within a melody bar; the Minister was pleased. Zeta knew just how massage the ego of a politician like Sterns, a former middle class yokel marrying for his wife’s wealth, desperately eager for any sort of pat on the head from the true moneyed powers that be, hanging onto his reputation for dear life. “Commander Class Captain reporting.” That’s right. Eat it up.
“Captain, where are you headed?” Minister Sterns demanded.
“Following up on a tip about an old unsolved case,” Zeta lied and didn’t lie at the same time.
“Drop that case, because I have an immediate need for your presence. We have received a warning that the Water Tower is under target by anarchists. Investigate and stop any suspicious activity,” said Sterns.
“Affirmative. deploying to those coordinates,” replied Zeta. Finally, some action.

Zeta spotted trouble immediately. Ten men in hazard suits appeared to be reconstructing an already-halfway-finished water tower. He was outnumbered and so he pulled out the electric whip which buzzed at the men. They stopped their work before he could say, “Halt.”
“Who is in charge here?” Zeta asked.
The one to his right replied, “I am.”
“What are you and your men doing here?” Zeta asked.
“We are rebuilding the water tower,” the foreman responded.
“Present your work permit,” Zeta said.
“We have it back at the office. We didn’t carry it with us in case another fire broke out. If I can leave and you stay here while my men continue to work, I will return to the office and bring it back to you in under an hour,” the foreman said.
“Not an option. Everyone halt activities immediately.” Zeta said, as he turned up the weapon’s power and its hum gained volume. He rasped a discreet “Code 31-4.” He was surprised by a backup squad that happened to be in the area and appeared like clockwork.

“So are you serious about this one?” Sarah asked.
“I have my doubts. He doesn’t quite fit in with how I had envisioned the rest of my life.” Faith replied.
“I know what you mean. I keep meeting these losers. I want a guy who’s super tall and who will provide the life that I deserve,” Sarah said.
“Sarah, you’re only 155 centimeters tall. Don’t you think that’s a little unrealistic?” Faith also failed to mention Sarah’s glaring lack of education, charm, and sophistication. Sarah had become a statistic, of the countless lonely, entitled people variety.

After Zeta stopped the suspicious construction workers, he resumed pursuit of the arson probe. When the yellow, gourd-shaped bot stopped in a desolate wasteland, he knew that the fire had originated here. A woman sat in front of a trashcan fire next to a lean-to shack.
“It took you long enough. I’ve been waiting here for days,” she said without looking up.
“For?” Zeta asked.
“Someone to tell what happened. This charred building is…was my house. It was my fault; I have this antique oil lantern in my den which I use to read at night. The window was open—and well, when I came back downstairs, the lantern had broken onto the floor and the fire was everywhere. The wind must have blown it over, but I didn’t think that could ever happen—the lantern weighed at least 10 kilograms. When I got outside and called the fire department, the fire had already spread to my neighbors’ houses.”
She has accepted blame but her explanation is unrealistic…no way could a lantern have ignited a blaze that spread across Pier City in hours. Hmm, is she lying? Probably not. Do I have any doubt? Yes. “Could I bother you for something to drink?” Zeta asked.
“Why of course. How rude of me,“ she replied, and turned to walk back toward the shack.
Zeta lifted his gloved hand quickly, leveled it, and released a tiny dart into her back. She paused for just a bit, as if in thought, and then resumed her walk. The sodium pentathol kicked in by the time she returned to fire, in a daze, forgetting the bottle of water she had originally went to retrieve. His instincts proved correct. She had not lied, and indeed, her story corroborated the arson probe’s pinpointing that the fire did start here. But something nagged on his brain stem. Something just didn’t seem right. As he tried to coalesce the feeling into a thought, he was interrupted by another call from Minister Sterns.

Minister Sterns appeared on the nav. “What are you still doing in Pier City? Well, it’s convenient because I have another matter there requires your attention.”
“Roger. Go ahead.” Zeta replied, unable to hide his suspicion. Why is he monitoring my location?
“We have reports of suspicious activity at the remains of the Pier Art Museum. I want you investigate and secure the area. I don’t want anyone sabotaging the city in its vulnerable state. ”
When Zeta arrived downtown, he felt déjà vu pass through him. Different men, but the same hats, the same situation.
“Present your work permit.” Zeta commanded. The foreman pulled a yellow slip of folded paper from his pocket. Zeta called the civil department, which said that the work permit number did not exist in the system. He halted their work as before. And backup appeared right on schedule.

Zeta didn’t have much time to consider the details, because he had his own schedule to keep. Faith showed up to their date in a rush from the rest of her life, like she always did. They left for the restaurant, her in a black dress, him in a black blazer. He wondered why black, the color of choice for funerals, had become the color associated with going on a date. He soon found out.
“What’s on your mind?” she asked.
He refocused his distant gaze, “Just work stress. This fire and the Minister sending me out like his errand boy. Got a lot on my mind.”
“But I’m here right now,” she said and smiled.
“I just want to solve this case—nobody else seems to care. There’s a lot I want to accomplish in the future and I feel like this case is linked directly,” he explained, somewhat agitated.
“Work’s always going to be there. What about us?” she asked.
“How will there be a future with us if I’m trapped in a life I don’t want?” he countered.
They both ate their steaks in strained conversation, stuck in their own worries, and afterwards, they drove home separately.

Strained personal relationships, although damaging, always provided time with which he needed to think. The previous incident at the art museum and the water tower were too eerily similar to be merely a coincidence. He thought about the details so far. The water tower provided potable water. The art museum provided entertainment. Hm…perhaps that determination was too simplistic to find a common thread. The art museum had showcased the talents of veterans of the last planetary war. Now accepted as a valid form of therapy, the museum gave veterans suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder an outlet for their rage and disillusionment. Now, the museum’s goal was clear but didn’t seem linked to the water tower. If the water tower supplied a common need, what common need did the art museum supply? His mind switched into high gear. Art drew the starving artists and hipsters. The rich soon followed after to buy themselves culture, and then they opened businesses that trickled down income to the rest of the working class. And then he knew he had arrived at a truth: both water and art populated a city. Minister Sterns had tracked his progress in Pier City and had ensured that backup was ready to halt the activities of both. Zeta now worked from the assumption that Minister Sterns was out to block Pier City’s reconstruction.

Zeta called in a favor to do some digging on Minister Sterns’ background. Because Sterns had been the commander-in-chief of the country of Daley for two terms already, the minister’s life was supposedly already public; however, Zeta knew that decisions stressed him not from the conditions themselves but from a lack of information, so he wanted to know more about the minister. He met with Nadine for coffee. He met Nadine lurking in hacker chatrooms, way back when researchers first linked the Internet between planets. They shared life philosophies, so a favor wasn’t so much a favor as an unexplored desire.
“Yes, executor?” she said tongue-in-cheek. She wore a green sweater with diagonal grey stripes.
“Comlink me, categorized according to your talents, a summary of Minister Sterns,” he said.
“My, my my, stalking our boss are we? That’s a little too controlling, even for you,” she smirked.

Zeta called in a favor to do some digging on Minister Sterns’ background. Because Sterns had been the commander-in-chief of the country of Daley for two terms already, the minister’s life was supposedly already public; however, Zeta knew that decisions stressed him not from the conditions themselves but from a lack of information, so he wanted to know more about the minister. He met with Nadine for coffee. He met Nadine lurking in hacker chatrooms, way back when researchers first linked the Internet between planets. They shared life philosophies, so a favor wasn’t so much a favor as an unexplored desire.
“Yes, executor?” she said tongue-in-cheek. She wore a green sweater with diagonal grey stripes.
“Comlink me, categorized according to your talents, a summary of Minister Sterns,” he said.
“My, my my, stalking our boss are we? That’s a little too controlling, even for you,” she smirked.

Sarah picked up the video call, “Hey there.”
“Hi Sarah,” Faith said. “How are you doing?”
“What that question really means is, Faith has a dilemma. What’s wrong?” Sarah asked.
Faith sighed. “Hitting some rough patches with the guy. He gets stressed out and so unstable. I don’t want to be some footnote to the other events in his life.”
“Yeah, a girl needs attention. So whatcha gonna do?” Sarah asked, afraid to say anything that might come off preachy.
“I don’t really know. Should love in a romantic partnership be unconditional? If I give, give, give without expecting anything in return, is that practical?” Faith said.
“Unconditional love is great in theory and idealistic, but romantic relationships are concrete, aren’t they?” Sarah said.
“Meanwhile I give all of my time, while the people who want to spend quality time with me, my sister Quinn, my best friend Caroline, all take a backseat to his schedule,” Faith said.
“I don’t know Faith…” Sarah paused to choose her words carefully, “Maybe a romantic relationship is just one of those unknowns that you can’t exert any control over.”

Nadine appeared on his console, “Here’s the report chief,” she winked and blipped out. Zeta opened the file. Nadine had done it again, information categorized to be ingeniously useful. The top half of the report she put under the subtype Known. The standard fare everyone knew about Minster Sterns, war veteran, married a corporate heiress and into the power structure, fast-tracked into position as prime minister by the Global Party. Medical problems: wore contacts, high cholesterol, suffered a heart attack. Squeaky clean. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nadine categorized the second half of the report as Commonly Unknown. Very funny Nadine. Paid an exorbitant sum on the black market to receive a heart transplant. He read Nadine’s footnote: “Not sure how you could use this information, but rumored that Sterns received therapy for an identity crisis shortly after the operation. Having someone else’s heart would give me issues too.”

Second Unknown: the recent thousand-page bill to increase taxes snuck-in clauses that channeled extra tax revenue into fat government contracts to his cronies. Well, nothing new to Zeta. The feudal system is as old as time; in modern times, instead of enforcing crop tithes, the king’s collections are hidden in bureaucratic tax statutes. The crime that you can’t ever get away with: tax evasion, also known as stealing money from the rulers. Stealing is their forte, and ain’t no one going to muscle in on their turf. Why would Nadine include in the report something so common as government-sanctioned extortion?

Third Unknown: years before his election as prime minister, under a pen name Sterns published a “white paper” under a pen name for a political think tank. The Comprehensive Plan, as he titled the paper, detailed how to structure cities to maximize efficiency and consequently tax revenues for the national government. Zeta looked through the schematics of the Comprehensive Plan. Brilliant…almost perfect.In what Sterns had referred to as a “biomimicry system,” the residential, commercial, industrial, and agricultural zones were placed geographically so that each specific entity could utilize each other’s wastes with the least amount of time spent in transport. In one of the proposed configurations, sewage treatment plant wastes were used to cultivate farm fields next door, which provided the livestock for the meat factories next door, the waste methane from which would be funneled to heat houses nearby with natural gas. A human city that behaved more like a wild ecosystem which eliminated waste, produced more profit for its inhabitants, and loaded up the city’s coffers, a percentage of which would naturally kickback to the national government.

A video call from Faith beeped on Zeta’s console.
“Hey stranger,” he said, glad for a break from his train of thought.
“Love, let’s go away this weekend. I want to spend some quality time with you, instead of the domestic hang-out-together-while-we-run-errands kind of time,“ she joked, made more humorous by the element of truth.
He felt relieved by her sunny amnesia when it came to problems in their relationship, that she didn’t bring up the tensions and how they ended their last dinner together.
“I’d love to babe, but I have to do more research on this case. Instinctively, I know the pieces don’t fit: somebody’s hiding the details of the fire. This case will either make or break my career,” he said, somewhat impatiently. “And once I’m settled, we could have a future together. Plan things out, you know?”
“It’s what you think is best for us, right?” she asked, a bitter taste in her mouth.
“Faith…” he paused, “you don’t have to say it like that.”
“It is what it is, love,” she countered.
“What do you want me to do? I’m a man—it’s what I have to do. It’s just how I see things,” he explained.
“Don’t rationalize like it’s about men and women. Everyone’s different. This situation is what you want,”
He sighed inwardly because he knew that she was right and that he had turned the conversation into a petty argument. He felt like he would lose her now, so he acted in the only way he knew how…he went along with what whatever was thrown at him.

They flew out for the weekend to the Daley’s casino hot spot. In cocktails, shows, gambling, hotel room, and especially in the wild rush of emotion in each other’s presence, he could ignore for now his all-consuming need to free himself from the shackles of modern life and she could forget for the moment her fear of an uncertain future. They were in love, a bright spark speeding together across the city landscape. But eventually, they did have to face the realities waiting for them at home.

When Zeta returned to the investigation, Zeta did what most people had given up in the convoluted political system in which spending was a virtue: he followed the money trail. He traced the flow of contracts to corporations and dummy corporations and subsidiaries and dummy subsidiaries. Eventually, he found an interesting branch of cash flow. Sterns had diverted national funds towards his own future campaign expenses; apparently, Minister Sterns had wagered a lot of money on a push to win in the next election as World Minister. While following the rivulets down which the money flowed, he caught an error in the balance sheet. Two hundred thousand dollars missing, a number so round that Zeta assumed he had made a minor calculation error. But when he rechecked the math, he encountered the same discrepancy.

And now suddenly Zeta realized why Minister Sterns had hired a city officer without former command, with no experience that warranted promotion to a national level. Zeta had not been noticed because of his talent, but rather because he remained a loose end in the councilman’s assassination. Keep your enemies closer. Councilman Hancock had cultivated a subtle, ongoing feud with Minister Sterns. As a leader of one of the biggest cities in Daley, Hancock balked at the minister’s national authority. On one occasion, Hancock hired bulldozers to come to a small airstrip in the middle of the night and smash up the runway. The next morning, when the minister’s helicopter arrived in the city, the pilots looked down in dismay to see giant X’s carved into the formerly smooth asphalt, in addition to the bulldozers left abandoned on the runway. The minister was diverted to land in Pier City instead. Councilman Hancock concealed this act of insubordination under the guise of national security, and thought he had gotten away with it. When Zeta had arrested the sniper, he assumed the motive was revenge. He had discovered Zeta discovered two hundred thousand dollars in cash in the assassin’s getaway vehicle, and assumed that was money to go into hiding. In fact, the other alternative explanation is that the money was the bankroll for the operation. And after the assassin was branded a nutjob and thrown in prison for life, the councilman dead, Zeta remained the only person that could link the minister to the crime; thus, he hired Zeta to more closely monitor his activities. Conveniently, Minister Sterns also found someone that he could manipulate, someone he could exploit, a career-man easy to fool with insincere compliments and circumlocutions. A devious strategist indeed.

And now the pieces all fit. Minister Sterns killed his only political enemy to enact his Comprehensive Plan nationwide. But the Plan contained an inherent flaw: the efficient city structure of the Comprehensive Plan could not evolve from the currently existing urban sprawl. The city needed to be built from scratch. And after he burned the city to the ground, Sterns could rebuild the city in his image in order to exert control over the external to cope with his inability to control his conflicts internally, bolster his reputation as a crisis leader, and increase his tax revenue so that he could embezzle more funds to a massive financial campaign necessary to win a world body election. Sterns just couldn’t control one variable: he assumed Zeta would not change.

And Zeta might have been content not to make waves, that is, if Faith hadn’t left. When relationships end, can anyone be said to be at fault? Both parties contributed to the situation; nothing can mend a course that is inevitable when Timing has set on its own cruel schedule the time of departure at the moment of initial contact. “I love you. Goodbye.” But for the more skeptical sort, perhaps a different explanation is required. A romantic partnership is a joint venture. Joint ventures, although more likely to prosper than sole proprietorships, still face astonishing failure rates within the first three years of formation. Three factors reduce the chance of failure: 1) capital to weather the difficult times, 2) experience to make sound decisions, and 3) time to work out the kinks. Zeta and Faith may have had fair amounts of money and past relationships, but without time, a resource which cannot be created nor purchased, their relationship crumbled under the practicalities of the daily dysfunctional grind. Minister Sterns had bombarded Zeta with assignments so that Zeta would not have time to think about the fire that burned Pier City to the ground. His relationship with Faith took the hit instead. And now with nothing to lose, his only refuge gone, he would make waves all right.

Zeta flew to Daley’s Capitol Building to confront Minister Sterns. Faith had always told him that he needed to be more diplomatic, to “find a way to express what you want without burning bridges,” but this time she wasn’t around to check his impulses. Zeta waltzed up to the executive assistant, “I need to see the prime minister on a matter of national emergency.”
“I’m sorry officer, but the prime minister doesn’t just meet with anyone, and certainly not without an appointment,” she smiled diplomatically.
“I’m a commander class captain and have received word of an imminent terrorist attack in Pier City. The lives of millions are at stake. Do you understand?” Zeta stared into her pupils.
She in turn analyzed whether he was lying. She punched in a code on the display console embedded into the desk, “Extension 254 here. Officer claims he has information regarding a matter of urgent national emergency.”
A suit with a crew cut appeared, patted Zeta down, and confiscated (most of) Zeta’s weapons. The suit scanned Zeta’s ID and credentials and called in a background check. The secretary’s console beeped, “The background check won’t be necessary. The minister has greenlighted an appointment. Go right on in.”

“Captain, this matter must be urgent for an officer of your integrity to show up in person. What have you learned?” Sterns clasped his fingers together.
“Call a news conference. Resign today and you’ll leave with your precious reputation intact,” Zeta smirked, his vindictive nature threatening to leap out of his scalp, over the oak cherry desk, and strangle the minister to death.
“Excuse me? Who do you think you’re talking to? You cross dangerously into direct insubordination.” Sterns said.
“You destroyed all those homes. Innocents killed, just so you could increase taxes and squeeze more blood from a stone. Resign today, and I won’t release the evidence.”
“In case you’ve lost your senses, let I remind you that I am the most powerful man in this hemisphere. You’ll become a laughing stock lumped in with the lunatic fringe, spouting a ludicrous idea that the prime minister burned down Pier City and gave up billions of dollars of revenue simply to further my career. Pack up your things. You’re fired. Your career in law enforcement will be effectively over.” Sterns pushed a button on his console, “Escort this man out immediately.”
Four suits with crew cuts burst into the room, weapons drawn.
“If it’s a game of chicken you want, you’ve got it. I’ve gained much experience in leveraging power as your servant; and now, I have surpassed you. You don’t want to cross me,” Zeta said.

As Zeta accelerated along the city’s magnetic rails in a personnel mobile unit back to his “former” office, he noticed six personnel mobile units in his rear. He turned two corners, the agile suit bending beautifully in tune with his commands. The six suits remained on Zeta’s tail. Did Sterns really have to send his personal security detail, an entire squad of commander class enforcers just to follow me around? In his rear optical lens, Zeta saw one of the units rear up slightly to take a flash picture. He thought it was a picture, that is, until he flipped uncontrollably through the air, his world a blur of lights. The squad on the street paused collectively, probably surprised that he didn’t smash into the skyscraper with a spectacular noise and shattering of glass. With a few nimble adjustments, Zeta managed to correct his trajectory and land back on the streets. No doubt about it now. Sterns intended to kill me the moment I left the office. He criss-crossed along the city’s grid, doubling back on his position multiple times as he fired flares and explosives to keep the hunters at bay. The black squadron split into two groups and began to criss-cross each other through the city’s grid. When the two groups merged again, and converged on their prey in an alley, they hesitated: the one mobile unit they had been chasing had somehow become two. Perched atop the alley in his smashed up mobile unit, Zeta lined the squadron up in his sights. The hunters looked up as the missile corkscrewed towards them, leaving behind an alluring trail of purple smoke. The night sky lit up. The hunters were no more. “Amateurs,” Zeta said. The drivers of Zeta’s two decoys emerged from the vehicles. He had diverted some of the minister’s campaign funds to hire private military contractors, a euphemism for mercenaries. It was the first time he felt that tax money had been well spent.

As Zeta accelerated along the city’s magnetic rails in a personnel mobile unit back to his “former” office, he noticed six personnel mobile units in his rear. He turned two corners, the agile suit bending beautifully in tune with his commands. The six suits remained on Zeta’s tail. Did Sterns really have to send his personal security detail, an entire squad of commander class enforcers just to follow me around? In his rear optical lens, Zeta saw one of the units rear up slightly to take a flash picture. He thought it was a picture, that is, until he flipped uncontrollably through the air, his world a blur of lights. The squad on the street paused collectively, probably surprised that he didn’t smash into the skyscraper with a spectacular noise and shattering of glass. With a few nimble adjustments, Zeta managed to correct his trajectory and land back on the streets. No doubt about it now. Sterns intended to kill me the moment I left the office. He criss-crossed along the city’s grid, doubling back on his position multiple times as he fired flares and explosives to keep the hunters at bay. The black squadron split into two groups and began to criss-cross each other through the city’s grid. When the two groups merged again, and converged on their prey in an alley, they hesitated: the one mobile unit they had been chasing had somehow become two. Perched atop the alley in his smashed up mobile unit, Zeta lined the squadron up in his sights. The hunters looked up as the missile corkscrewed towards them, leaving behind an alluring trail of purple smoke. The night sky lit up. The hunters were no more. “Amateurs,” Zeta said. The drivers of Zeta’s two decoys emerged from the vehicles. He had diverted some of the minister’s campaign funds to hire private military contractors, a euphemism for mercenaries. It was the first time he felt that tax money had been well spent.

Minister Sterns, his reputation lost, lost all sense of self-worth. Ever since the heart transplant, he had based his identity upon achievements, afraid to trust in who he was at the core. His political victories propped up his identity for awhile, as long as everything was riding high. But now that his reputation had been virtually destroyed almost overnight, he didn’t know who he was. Plagued with lawsuit after lawsuit from private companies and finally an official investigation initiated by the global government, Sterns couldn’t take the stress any more. His heart gave out.

Zeta called his men into the mission room. “Alpha, tap all of the enemy’s transmissions. Beta, heavy intimidation lighting at all exits. Omega, you’re in charge of the raid. I’ll investigate how arms still get smuggled to these street terrorists.” After the death of Sterns and subsequent investigations cleared his names, Zeta transferred a few light years away to a star system where he was unknown. He founded a private security firm, mercenaries in suits if you will. The world government on Pleiku contracted out high risk work which his hand-picked team handled with ease. Wiser to the machinations of the ruling parties, he chose missions he believed in, on his own terms. The power afforded to him by his current position ensured that he didn’t have to deal with the deadening attitudes of the small-minded.