The offensive kid in the chapter is based on a cousin, and not Eric Cartman. Sorry I couldn't get this chapter up before the holiday, but the site was down. Talos, I'll write more of that other story early next year. For more, I posted something on my Blog.


"In the general course of human nature, a power over a man's subsistence amounts to a power over his will."

-Alexander Hamilton

"Underlying most arguments against the free market is a lack of belief in freedom itself."

-Milton Friedman

"Distance does not decide who is your brother and who is not. The church is going to have to become the conscience of the free market if it's to have any meaning in this world - and stop being its apologist."

-Bono

Okay, one more quote:

"After four years at the United Nations I sometimes yearn for the peace and tranquility of a political convention."

-Adlai Stevenson, Diplomat to the UN during the Cuban Missile Crisis

Macao

Roger Gordian knew Machiavelli well, knew his history, his major work, and most importantly, how to sum it up. The author of The Prince died without power, in complete exile, with no influential friends. This man, Gordian concluded, seemed more a snobby charlatan than a true expert at anything.

The renegade businessman started up his firm with some principles running contrary to Machiavellian ideas. Concerning auxiliaries, often called "mercenaries," Gordian believed they'd suit him well. Concerning low intensity conflict, again, Gordian believed these were worth undertaking. His ideas didn't mesh with the renaissance Italian's, but still, he may have had something.

Niccolo Machiavelli did recognize that a leader should oversee a subjugated people from up close, allow them their local customs and beliefs, and generally leave them alone. But he didn't invent these concepts, Alexander did. He led sixty thousand Greeks into Mesopotamia and Hellenized the known world. He was the true model for conquest.

He demonstrated that this region could be ruled by an external power long-term, and that the people of this region could be taught to like Western ways. Mesopotamians had been Greek once, and they could be American, too. What's so bad about the American lifestyle, anyway? The government doesn't sanction the book-burnings, after all. These people will go for it, if central control is slackened.

Gord pondered all these thing a few moments before commencing a gravelling session to a crowd in Macao, an island in the stable Pacific Rim.

"I extend my warm thanks to my collaborators in this conference. You've all done a wonderful job bringing a very diverse set of interests together, and it's a privilege to discuss a number of important issues with all of you."

He collected a beat of breathing space, and moved to the body of the letter.

"A friend recently told me of a story about a single mother from Baltimore, Maryland. This woman, young for a mother, lived in the low budget projects, a neighborhood with little day-to-day interest too involved capitalists like ourselves, but she valued her community, house, and children.

Well, she worked a little during school hours, then came home every evening before school was out, to keep her kids from trouble. But trouble lived in that neighborhood, and while she kept her home as neat and secure as one woman could, pushers ran shop on the curb. Well, she didn't like it, and informed the police, and the officers would come by in cruisers and flash the lights a few times, and the pushers would vacate for a while.

You all know this story. All of us have stayed in plush hotels long enough to flip on the televisions and tune in to a cop program. You see the thugs, you see complaint, you see the patrol drive by, but there's always a following episode. Why is that? How do the villains return episode after episode? I should remind all of you, Cops is a reality program that's been running consistently since 1989, and some of the scripted shows are based on the dossiers from real precincts.

Let me tell you, community policing is hard work. We give officers fast cars and the flashers to circumvent traffic, but we still have high crime districts, effectively in control of pushers very much like the ones based in the Baltimore woman's street.

I'll tell you a few things. Organized perps look for vacant lots, boarded windows, peeling paint, all that decay, for some reason. Perhaps, I've been grasping this theory, perhaps, they're fighting us in a very definite asymmetric way.

Conventionally, our armed forces hold onto the high ground, tenable locations, for their own survival, and strategically important locations, because guys like us can mold these things into something useful to our civilization. We put our people where they can survive, and where our industry can prosper. This is smart strategic-thinking maneuver warfare. Our enemies can't compete in this way. At the turn of the twentieth century, there was a baseball player with a higher batting average than anybody else. He just had this way of getting on base all the time. When asked what his secret was, he replied, "you hit it where they ain't."

Apparently, we "ain't" where the perps are, not often enough, and the reason seems to be economic. We don't protect low rent areas, places where businesses are viable. We have zones full of crime and violence. In, say, Europe or America, where political affiliations distribute revenue to their pet special interests, crime is going to fluctuate in the regions where the losing interests live."

Roger clicks a power point map. The famous red/blue county map appears.

"The results of the US of A's 2000 election, county-by-county, as compares to the FBI's compiled criminal statistics map. In the following years, the victor's counties become safer, and the loser's counties become more dangerous. That says something else about pork barreling in the US, but for my purposes, it also says our reallocating of capital also reallocates crime. In this war, we've internally had winners," a map of Iraq, divided up into different interests.

"In the center, losers, here, where Christians live, apprehensive winners, in the south, people with little to lose, and plenty to gain, and in the North, a people with a degree of autonomy in the last twelve years, but nationhood to gain. The Kurds are broken in factions as well. You have a communist democratic party that has less reason to like us businessmen, and the free market democratic party. Both embrace "freedom," which makes Washington happy, but they embrace differing visions of what "freedom" is. The outcome of things up north won't necessarily end in a zero-sum situation, but they see industry differently, and in my country, you touch social security, the other side kills you."

He breaks during some brief laughter, sips some Evian by the podium, and jumps back in.

"Let's review the key points again.

1.Government forces are going to jealously guard the important stuff

2.In turn, the perps are going to seize the vulnerable slums.

3. The losers are to become roomies with the perps.

I knew the rules a long time ago; that's why I dedicated UpLink to connecting the Third World into the global market years ago. You guys watched me base satellite relay stations and fiber optic cable hubs in certain impoverished nations over the years, and thought I was nuts, but I knew what I was doing.

It all occurred to me years ago as a captive, around the time Ho Chi Minh became a good communist; I watched my captives, wondered exactly what separated them from my own military. A code of laws? Communist literature is full of rules. I knew it wasn't firepower, or brains, or anything else that basic.

I figured it out later when I came home, and picked up a phone for the first time. Somebody was playing a… Crosby Stills and Nash record about a shooting in Ohio.

I think I figured it out. We need unimpeded information flows, trade of goods, and the protection to perform both. We all learned this in business school, but we never listened to the printed word of an eighteenth century Scot.

Gentlemen, I don't blame any of you for protecting your stashes in Iraq, and I don't blame the governments for doing it, either, but we need to forge a cooperative venture to take the dry countryside and slums from the enemy.

What we need is cheap backbone in these regions, an international force of peacekeepers like the UN Teal Berets, the hired out infantry of nations willing to dispatch forces for as little as $1,200 a month.

Now, the United Nations won't come to a resolution to do this for a long time, so we need a brand new ultra-national organization under the same MO, the United Corporations."

Applause broke out sporadically. These guys weren't enthusiastic about more expenses, but appreciated the grand vision of Gordian's plan. A moderating speaker took the stage.

"These guys aren't enthusiastic about more expenses, but we sure appreciate the grand vision of your plan, Mr. Gordian."

He introduced a new speaker, and Roger fled the stage, into his entourage, consisting of his Sword personnel recently relieved from the Iraqi theater.

Ricci had kept an anxious expression all evening, a condition set on by his ongoing distrust of Rollie.

"Pete, I don't know how to order a drink," he'd said, as the entourage shifted to the right corner of the hall. Tom leaned against the Taiwanese-catered bar, near enough to Pete to carry a whisper over.

His voice became a little raspy as he made a request.

"Could you please order a beer?"

Pete nodded.

"Certainly," he spent a moment collecting various words together, then committed.

"Nee yio may-yio bing pee-jiou?"

Ricci intruded.

"Did I just hear you order pee juice?"

"I think I asked for a cold beer," replied Nimec, "you see, the barmaid is using the beer tap!"

Ricci gladly accepted a full mug, and congratulated his buddy.

"Good work, but I thought you only learned survival Mandarin."

Nimec laughed.

"In the quarters my old man and I walked in, beer is equated with survival- plus I'm a Firefly nut."

With some alcohol in his system, the Italian-American visually relaxed.

"Hah. This security arrangement is a bit much, even for me, but I guess nobody wanted to take any chances."

Indeed, Macao, a former Portuguese colony similar to Hong Kong, is far removed from the Moslem World. Nimec took in what his partner said, and kicked in around, and speaking.

"We don't truly have a place definitively out of their reach, but this is the best we could come up with. I suppose," he mused, tumbling a wine glass in one hand, "Brazil would be a place to go. These guys would enjoy Rio. Eh, I just hope the bad guys didn't intercept any of the mail from GordianKnot.mo… Well, Gahn-bay!"

Bottoms up


Eastern United States (Specifically, Baltimore)

"In action be primitive; in foresight, a strategist."

-Ed Koch, former mayor of New York City

"Vladimir, no, she's passed on, I don't want to linger in the hospital."

Mikhail Ruzhyo stuffed his hands in the front pockets of his red sweater, and buried his down-turned head under the hood.

"Where are you, comrade?"

The Russian hesitated on the Transatlantic line.

"Dover, England. Okay, you don't have to stay in the hospital, but please, don't do anything rash. They fed her the anti-angiogenesis meds as I ordered, and their care was great. Pancreatic Cancer just isn't very treatable, what with the low response to Chemoradiation, even with the Gemcitabine…"

Ruzhyo silenced him.

"Nyet, I don't need the whole laundry list, I know they always try saving lives. I'm not upset at them, Vlad. I just want to return her home, then go back to work. Immediately."

The Russian listened.

"So where you going?"

"Right now? Just to get some rest before flying out. You'll handle the arrangements?"

Ruzhyo rested the cellular phone a notch, noticing a pack of teens, all in team warm-ups, crowded around a recording video camera. All but the cameraman had fists clinched tightly within sweater pouches. A lanky white kid angled to Mikhail's left flank.

The Chechen let his left eye trace him, and willed his muscles not to grow rigid.

Purple color flashed head-level. A fist preceded the purple blur. The youth impacted empty-handed against Ruzhyo's hard cranium, precisely where the closed hand didn't want to land.

"Aiii!"

In a crescent motion Ruzhyo bats his unsheathed Shirasaya Wakizashi, follows through the Raven fan's jugular artery. He springs forward off the lead left foot, and sails for the camera, whipping the samurai blade from left to center.

"Yikes!"

The polymer casing and lens rain apart for the blade's passage, and clatter underfoot. The sword swaths the Baltimore team logo. Another leap, hard right. A mugger casts a chain overhead, but Ruzhyo ducks low, sweeps at belly level. The grooved tip opens a bag of viscera. One body plunges to the concrete, and the guy at the Chechen's face kneels.

The victor pivots, blade extended, to clear his surrounding space. The Wakizashi returns home to the sheath, secure in his sweater pouch. Mikhail, feeling secure, lifts his right hand to his ear.

"Hello, you still there? Good, come to think of it, I need to fly out right away. Can you arrange for my flight? To Germany? Wundervoll!"


Dover, England

"Wundervoll, indeed my friend," Plenkanov absently read off his instructions, as his eyes wandered over the Cliffside long ago used as a jumping point for early aviators. Motivated by the incentives of prestige and a reward, scores of otherwise sane European males strapped on wings and committed faith in their contraptions. The first crossing wasn't from this side, however, for Louis Bleriot made the crossing from Calais.

Just as well, the British needed taken down a peg at the time, mused the Russian, but darn if the Americans wouldn't be counted out, sending the first woman over.

"I'll see you soon," he disconnected, and corked his iPod In-Ear Headphones in his ears. Luciano Pavarotti's rich Italian tenor crooned luxuriantly at 80db. Time to get to work.

He settled his laptop in place, and entered his preferred world.

Suppose, he mused, I have an email account visually identical to Mr. Tom Ricci's of UpLink's roster, TomRicciHotmail, except I, being Russian, use the Cyrillic 'C.'

While musing, He registered such an address at MSN, all the while scheming to integrate the move into his larger plan.

(Author's note: currently, Hotmail doesn't offer Russian as an available language, and I wasn't able to get the registration to recognize Russia as my country, so this scheme isn't workable anymore. I'm not admitting to any illegal activity, but I test a lot of what I write about.)

"Mission complete, now to fit it into my other components," he muttered, pulling up the altered form of the Trojan horse he'd been modifying. When attaching a malicious file to an email, one must then attach an innocent file after that, so only the most innocent file extension can be seen. Most go with .JPG, but .PDF or .MPEG work just fine.

He didn't go for such shaky ploys, preferring to go with an HTML header file commonly attached to UpLink mail.

And finally, the last step, mailing it to MBreenDSL.

And with a flourish, he stood atop the grassy cliff, and lofted the physical evidence over the cliff. The laptop met the same fate as plenty of the early flyers.


Maryland

A slight detour, but the wet works agent belatedly realized he needed to find a clean retirement for the concealed weapon.

Step one, find an unattended carwash.

Somewhere near the beltway, he found one. Ruzhyo had the sword tied to the roof rack of his station wagon, so even if someone witnessed him washing the car, nothing would seem unusual. As it happened, an aged Vietnamese woman, owner/operator of the truck stop, happened to see him, and dismiss him just as quickly.

Step two, buy a few miscellaneous pieces of junk.

He u-turned to the parking lot, and briskly trotted inside, and pawed some of the junk souvenirs a Maryland truck stop has to offer.

"Excuse me, Miss?"

He could only see her bent over posterior, but she seemed busy.

"Patrick, you get the counter, okay?"

A young half-Vietnamese half-Caucasian boy manned the cash register. His eyes attentively appraised the LCD readout.

"Are you buying any gas?"

"Gas? Nyet, I'm just buying these items."

The boy looked at the counter.

"Keychains, tobacco pipes, and a country compilation CD? You Russians are oddballs!"

His mother, overhearing, shouted.

"Patrick, don't insult the customers!"

"Sorry, mama!"

He added up the price.

"$21.83," he said flatly, sounding either shamed or dull.

Ruzhyo slapped down an Andrew Jackson and an Abraham Lincoln.

The boy saved the money, and shouted toward the lady.

"Mama, Uncle Jack is in!"

The boy handed out the proper change, and dismissed his customer.

"Sure, I don't need a bag or anything," muttered the Russian, as he turned into the tall dark-haired white guy behind him.

"Pardon me," he said politely.

"No problem," replied Mikhail.

He didn't look back, he just vacated the scene, and lobbed the junk into the passenger seat, and reversed the vehicle.

Step three, park beside the sprawl that is an outdoor flea market, and peddle goods from the hatchback.

Mikhail found a large rutted area filled with rainwater beside a white-on-puke hail-beaten recreational vehicle. He bundled up the tacky items, and rested them on the tailgate.

One Shirasaya sword and later, he had his market, and one toothpick and nonchalant posture late, he had the proper flea market salesman look correct.

This sloppy appearance is more Grigory's livelihood, he amusedly thought, idly picking away at teeth that didn't need cleaning. He slouched for effect, watching every variety of the species mingle and gawk at items no individual has a need for, until a pudgy teen or preteen boy of alabaster color focused in one exactly what Ruzhyo had leaning on his chest.

"Gawd! That's one of the swords from Rouroni Kenshin! How much, how much?"

The Chechnya native made a spirited effort to stretch out a lazy southern drawl.

"Lemme figer… Awe, I'll take a fiver fur th' sword. Cheaper in Walmart, ahuh."

The KGB had taught him to always say "cheaper than Walmart," if he ever had the need to sell his weapon in the Southern United States. Supposedly, the phrase will sound native.

"Five bucks? Sure!"

The boy dug deep within the pockets of his oversized trousers, but after a time of wrangling, his pale hand surfaced with a wad of cash.

"Take care now, ya hear?!"


"Ha! I am the Ronin Samurai, looking for love and gold! Ah!"

In the near-privacy of a wooded park several meters from an RV park, the kid bounced from a friend's trampoline, striking overhead with his new Shirasaya. The blade dragged through the drenched sod upturned by his lead foot.

He held a striking pose as his stereo pumped out his anthem, Godsmack's contribution to The Scorpion King. He let the ethereal instrumental bridge to wrap up, then made a show of pointing the Wakizashi toward heaven, then one more stylish striking pose, before slowly housing it away in the scabbard within his improvised sash.

Everybody's going to feel so gay not being a swordsman like me, he thought.

As his favorite Creed song got underway, he practiced flicking the sword underhand with his wrists. He kept a stern look while he channeled fierceness and angst. His slashes grew faster and more sure, until he felt confident enough to slash and sing simultaneously.

"Now I saw a face on the water
It looked humble but willing to fight
I saw the will of a warrior
His yoke is easy and His burden is light…"

The school bus let the trailer park kids, so he climbed back atop the big trampoline.

"Hiya!" He fell facing a pack of girls, all toting oversized backpacks.

"I am a lonely ronin samurai, on a quest for love and gold!"

They barely glanced at him.

"You are so queer, it isn't even funny," then they walked on.

"Oh yeah? You're the gay-wads!" In the middle of his outrage, someone shutoff 'Bullets' during the chorus.

"Look at me... look at me
At least look at me when you shoot a bullet through my head
Through my head
Through my head
Through my head"

Angrily, he swiveled around.

"That's my music, fag-!"

Oops, cops.

"Yeah, we have a don't ask, don't tell policy in our department, so it wasn't a nice idea to blurt my secret. I'm Detective Walther, this is Detective Morrison," Morrison tipped her hat, "and we're here over a complaint that someone's been swinging a sword around the community."

"Thing is, there's actually more to the story. You see, we just answered a call about some people with sword wounds in the hospital parking lot, and we're wondering if there's some correlation," said Morrison.

"I wouldn't know anything about that," evaded the kid, "I-I, I use my sword for peace."

Walther leaned his elbows on the trampoline and sneered.

"Well that's interesting, because I could have sworn I heard you say you fight for gold."

The boy balled both fists.

"Are you a retard? That's just my motto!"

"Ha, so your motto has no relation to reality? The kid's a future politician, I can tell that!"

The kid looked ready to bolt.

"This is gay. I'm going inside."

And he did bolt, an action aborted by Morrison's talons.

"Hold on, we just want to take you to the department for a while. How can we contact, say, a parent or guardian?"

"You act less like a homo!"

Good grief.

"Alright, you can call them when we're at the station. Come on."


A Shirasaya is a thin block of wood with a hidden Japanese blade inside, and Wakizashi is a short blade a Samurai is allowed to carry in establishments that don't allow them to take their Katana inside. Together, a Shirasaya Wakizashi is a dangerous concealed weapon, as seen in samurai films and manga.

I thank everyone but myself for the reviews, and I hope everyone appreciates how human and flawed the characters are in this chapter.

A few chapters back, I tried adding a hyperlink concerning former FBI Director Louie Freeh in here. I'll try something different: Hotel Tango TangoPoppa (Colon slash slash) Saudi-us-relations (dot) Oscar Romeo Golf (slash) Khobar-towers(dot) Hotel Tango Mike Lima