Night Soldiers

Night

Soldiers

A novel by

Peter Tuscarora

Peter Tuscarora 2013

Published at Smashwords

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{There came the age of the Trillionaires, and they ruled the world. But they needed muscle, so they used what were known as the Night Soldiers.}

Chapter 1

Most Night Soldiers were known for the vacant look they had in their eyes. It wasn’t a look of hatred, or passion, or love. It was rational and scientific—as if the man were constantly considering how to utilize the best cutting-edge technology to achieve a goal within a quantifiable reality. It was a cold, determined stare that would send ripples of fear down the spine of anyone who was unfortunate enough to see it before…

Yet, there were a few who were different. Quincy held the idea deep in the back of his mind that he could express emotions and feelings. He imagined a tiny pearl deeply embedded at the base of his brain where no one else could see it. In this pearl was his soul. But he dared not show it. He dared not feel it. He dared not believe it.

He repeated one of the axioms of the Night Soldiers as he wandered down a dark, bleak alleyway—searching. Sentimentality is the destroyer. Feelings are suicidal, he said. He hardened his gaze and quickly focused on movement up ahead. It was only a cat scurrying along the wall of an abandoned building.

He was in the red-light district of one of the world’s great cities. There was a contract on a twenty-five-year-old prostitute. He didn’t ask why. Although dispatching whores was considered a lowly way to make a buck in Night Soldier circles, he needed money for himself and his woman, who was expecting his second child.

The prostitute he was looking for was named Stacy, and she had blond hair, but they were all named Stacy and had blond hair. His own mother was named Stacy and had blond hair. He thought of his mother—always with tears on her face—as he took out his DNA scanner to detect any traces of this other Stacy. He remembered how, when he was young, his mother had told him she had had to run from one of the world’s great cities to another one of the world’s great cities across a national border— when there were national borders—in order to keep him. Yet every memory he had of her was of her crying, even during this adventurous tale that she would tell him over and over again. Don’t cry, Mommy. Let’s sing, he would say to her, and she would laugh and somehow muster up enough strength to bear another day. Then one day she disappeared.

The DNA scanner blipped, and he knew he had found Stacy’s trail again. As he looked at the scanner, it detected a cluster of DNA particles on a gutter on the edge of a brick house. The cluster glowed red on the scanner. She was nearby. Quincy repeated a Night Soldiers’ platitude and stalked around the corner.

Make a buck or die. This is the way of the world. Make a buck or die. This is the way of the world, he said.

He ran across a roadway and slinked onto a well-lit street. There were lots of people bustling along the sidewalks, and he realized if he dispatched Stacy here this could create some problems. He might even be arrested by the police—since murder was still illegal, even though prostitutes were little more than road kill in the modern world. At the very least, it would look unprofessional to be so public about it. He wasn’t afraid an arrest would lead to anything, because the police were all beholden to higher powers. But he could be detained for a few days, and this would cost him more money than this dispatchment was worth. Plus, if the FBI got involved, this could draw out the process even longer, because this organization was still beholden to the laws of the state, which was—at least in terms of propaganda—a republic.

Quincy’s mind was that of a thoroughly modern man: he weighed the costs of the time involved in waiting for Stacy to move to a less public place versus the possible—although unlikely—risks of spending a few days in jail. Quincy had— except for that pearl in the back of his mind—a clear mentality: He weighed his every action, his entire existence, in terms of monetary costs and benefits.

A second saved is a second earned, he mumbled this efficiency oriented saying to himself and was relieved to see another DNA blip on a darker, quieter street.

A boom box droned a beaty tune in the background. Trash littered the boulevard here and there. Streetwalkers paced in front of cheap gray-lighted liquor stores. OPEN 24 and 365 one such store’s neon lights blared. The odor that permeated the air along sidewalks was a mix of urine, stale alcohol, and sex. At less well-lighted places drug dealers negotiated terms, homeless old people held out begging hands, and twenty-dollar whores leaned into the windows of beat-up cars.

The scanner blipped wildly—showing a reddish-lighted figure leaning into a car door. Quincy quickly turned down the volume on the sounding device. The DNA match was certain. He crept quietly closer. Leaning down behind a trash bin, he pulled from his vest a Popgun™.

This weapon was cutting-edge dispatchment technology and was designed to minimize environmental disturbance while maximizing killing power. It would make only a slight popping noise when fired. The projectile was manufactured to be retractable, and it was guaranteed not to break the skin of the target, but it would hit with such impact that any tissues for five inches below the surface would be completely obliterated. However, there would be no bleeding—so no mess.

Stacy coughed loudly as she negotiated with the driver of an old, beat-up Ford Focus. Her legs and arms were covered with track marks, and her hair was turning prematurely gray. She pulled her head out of the car’s window to take a puff of her cigarette. Why would there be a contract on her? Quincy wondered. What possible threat could she be to them?

He shook this thought down as he connected the scanner to the Popgun. The manufacturer’s 100% guaranteed efficiency range for this weapon was only up to 30 yards. So Quincy would have to move in closer. But he wanted to be sure she didn’t see him before the moment. He wanted to eliminate as much fear as he could.

Slowly, he stood and crept forward—making certain not to be seen or heard by Stacy. She took another drag from her cigarette and was about to lean into the car window, but she stood still. The scanner light flashed red. Stacy turned as Quincy pulled the trigger.

The retractable projectile crashed into her head. Her knees buckled. She died instantly.

The driver of the Ford Focus looked bewilderedly out the window at the crumpled body of the prostitute. Quincy flashed a cold gray-eyed Night Soldier gaze at him. The driver immediately turned the key in the ignition, threw the car in gear, and sped off.

From a satchel that was slung over Quincy’s shoulder, he pulled out a carrying case, which contained the disposal equipment. As he looked down at the woman’s body, he ruminated, was this how my mother died? For an instant, he considered gently clasping her hand and comforting whatever spirit remained until the last of her soul flew off into the sky. But then he became angry with himself. Push down the pearl! he thought. Push down the pearl!

Huffing out a breath, he methodically reached into the disposal case and grasped the primer spray. This chemical, when properly applied, would enable the acids to eat away at tissues and bones more quickly, thus, saving time and money. After spraying the body, he placed a black encasing sheet over it to prevent any fumes from escaping. As he connected the first acid ball to the encasing sheet, he spotted a young boy peering out at him from around the corner of an old, abandoned car.

Get lost, kid, Quincy growled, and the child ran away.

When the first acid ball had melted into the encasing sheet, he attached the second one. Quickly, the ball collapsed into the shroud and melted away the bones and teeth. Finally, the entire wrapper began to bubble. After a slight hissing of the last chemical reactions, the body, the shroud, and the acids trickled into the sewer drain at the edge of the sidewalk and street. Nothing was left now but a black stain that would eventually be washed away by the rain.

Quincy closed up his disposal kit, checked to make sure his DNA scanner was off, and buttoned his coat. But his mind returned to what he’d felt earlier. These are unprofitable thoughts, he mumbled. Then a Night Soldier chant clicked on in his head.

Sentimentality is the destroyer, he said. Sentimentality is the destroyer.

He wandered slowly down the night-dark street.

Chapter 2

Like an ancient king or potentate, the Trillionaire strode before his ministers. In a hall that was grander than any throne room from the Old World, executives, directors, and managers stood and bowed their heads slightly as James J. Buchanan walked with majesty and grace along a yellow carpet. He would nod occasionally, but he didn’t look squarely at any of the ministers on each side of the aisle. Instead, he focused on maintaining an air of aloof confidence.

The clothes that enwrapped him were designed with the most up-to-date fibers—breathable yet warm while quickly and efficiently the light garments were put on or taken off. Buchanan was overweight, but his suit was manufactured with a sophisticated computer model. Therefore, his corpulence didn’t show very much. However, when he stepped too hard not even the silicone chips in his shoes could balance the weight quickly enough. A jet of pain shot through his hips as his osteoarthritis condition was aggravated. With effort, he held his face stone-like during the spasm and never did his gait waver. None of his executive ministers guessed there was anything wrong even though his hips creaked for an instant.

When Buchanan gazed to the left front of the room, his top accountants clapped with wild enthusiasm. The hall erupted in cheers. Buchanan concentrated on maintaining a steady stride and was reminded he would have to take a strong dose of his arthritis medication after today’s annual report. He had some intense physical activities planned for after the ceremonies.

All of the artwork along the walls was ever changing with the most advanced graphic designs. A sapphire bluish waterfall flowed on one screen. A swirling emerald galaxy shimmered on another. The lighting in the hall appeared to have no source, yet everyone had a soft glow—like figures illuminated by the embers of a burning hearth. There were no antiques, no paintings, or even books. In fact, Buchanan hated everything that smacked of the Old World. He would not allow any objects or devices in his presence that had not been manufactured in the last three years, because he felt anything from the past— especially ideas—were unprofitable. Yet, there were a few historic individuals he admired because he thought they were ahead of their time. His favorite quote was by Henry Ford: History is bunk.

Everything in Buchanan’s existence, from the food he ate, to the medicine he took, to the clothes that touched his skin, to the mechanisms in his daily proximity were all on the cutting edge of human evolutionary technology. Even his thoughts he would put through an efficiency rating. Even his sexuality was updated.

As he passed the ministers who would be on his right when he sat down, he acknowledged them individually by nodding to each one. Buchanan made eye contact with his lawyers, then his best scientists, then his computer experts, and finally his top accountants. His number one accountant sat closest to him and was considered a numeric genius—developing entirely new mathematic schemes designed to more precisely quantify human interrelations. This man’s name was Beauregard Tory, and he wore thick quattro-focal lenses. BoBo was his moniker.

With an almost jocund hop, Buchanan fearlessly and adroitly lifted himself onto the dais at the end of the hall, swung himself about, and plopped himself playfully into his ergonomically designed chair. BoBo’s hands shot into the air again, and he clapped with all his might. The entire chamber echoed with whistles, hurrahs, and clapping. The whole corporate headquarters might have started to quake except that Buchanan held up his finger and the noise faded away.

Briefly, without extending his gaze far enough to reach their faces, Buchanan nodded to the few Night Soldiers on his left. Dean Williams, who was the head of Buchanan’s Night Soldiers, was the closest. Quincy Daniels was next to him, and Jacob Moore was next in line.

Dean Williams was an older man and not very big, but he was lean and had a compact strength. His face had many scars and gouges from battles over the years—giving him a vicious countenance. However, whenever he smiled, his genuineness would shine through and melt away the harshness of his appearance.

Jacob Moore stood almost seven feet tall and had a big gash in the middle of his forehead, which had healed long ago and left ridged scar tissue. His ethnic heritage was a continuous source of amused debate among his associate Night Soldiers because he looked to be part African and part Mongolian, but he must have had a few white chromosomes mixed in because his left eye was green. He was nicknamed ChewChew because he never went anywhere without a huge wad of tobacco stuck between his cheek and gum. On special occasions—like today’s annual report—he would carry a small eighteen-carat golden spittoon with a retractable lid for discreet spits. On any other day he used a cheap Styrofoam cup, which was rumored to have a dual purpose: for tobacco juice drizzle and convenience in masturbation. Nobody would come straight-out and say to his face exactly what they thought that disgusting slime in the bottom of the white cup really was. It was more amusing to drop hints.

Quincy considered himself to be the handsomest of the Night Soldiers who worked for Buchanan because he had never been scarred in any of the clashes with competitors. Although even Quincy had to admit, Night Soldiers were hardly an Adonis-like group.

Beauregard Tory adjusted his spectacles and stepped forward. Then he wafted his hands into the air and held them there until the crowd quieted a little more. After some hushes from the audience, BoBo spoke. It is my pleasure to announce at this annual ceremony that as a result of recent mergers, acquisitions, and leveraged takeovers, His Excellency is now the world’s preeminent Trillionaire.

Hands shot into the air. Hurrahs shook the chamber. Buchanan tipped his head to the crowd.

This makes His Excellency, without question, the richest man in the history of humanity, BoBo said.

Again, there were whoops and claps, but Buchanan cut a cheer short by holding up his finger. The roaring room was brought to an almost deafening silence as Buchanan enunciated his words. His voice had a deep resonance and an assured cadence.

Thank you, he said. Thank you, we have by far surpassed all projected earnings from a year ago, and our success is due to hard work, dedication, and advanced thinking.

Another cheer began, but quickly died at a glance from Buchanan.

I would especially like to congratulate our accounting department for developing entirely new methods of monetary quantification, and our computer department for upgrading its software at a greater rate than ever, and our legal department for winning all its cases!

Bellowing cheers. Bellowing cheers. Bellowing cheers.

Actually, our rhetoricians didn’t win all our outstanding lawsuits, and if Jay Blystone would like to explain our legal ratio, it would be appreciated.

A little man stepped forward and cleared his throat. His voice had a high squeaky quality.

Of the three-thousand, four-hundred and forty-two lawsuits brought against us in interglobal courts, we defended successfully in two-thousand, one-hundred and twenty, he said. Of the six-thousand, three-hundred and four lawsuits we brought against, we won four-thousand, six-hundred and ninety eight—giving us a Legal Ratio Rating of almost seventy percent.

That’s an acceptable LRR for last year, Buchanan said. But you’ll have to do better in the one to come.

Also, Blystone said, about that small independent Internet news organization on the west coast of North America that ran a critical feature story about you, I don’t think we need to bother filing a lawsuit.

No. File it immediately. Buchanan said. Bleed them of financial resources. Put them out of business.

But, Your Excellency, these fringe organizations usually collapse due to their own insolvency and their inability to compete with the multi-media corporate conglomerates owned by the top five.

Very well then. But if this website hasn’t gone out of business in one month, I want a lawsuit filed. The financial pressure of this should put them into bankruptcy in a few days. Also, I want a thorough investigation done to ascertain if one of the other four is behind this, because, as we all know, it’s a much more serious business if it is one of them. Now, let’s move swiftly to the next matter of concern. Recently, there has been an ever-increasing frequency of terrorist attacks upon our facilities throughout the world. Specifically, the bombing of a plastics factory south of the Rio Grande in the Fantastic Plastics economic quadrant. Despite a greater allocation of control resources, these fanatic Christian terrorists or other lunatic religious types have managed to cost us more and more money. What the fuck’s the problem, Dean?!

As if it was an afterthought, Buchanan whipped his eyes in Dean’s direction. Caught somewhat off-balance, Dean blinked spasmodically a few times, then stepped forward.

There appears to be some sort of an alliance between Christian terrorists and Moslem insurgents that we don’t fully understand yet, Dean said.

How can you not understand it when we are addressing the problem with more and more funding?

Your Excellency, these lunatic terrorists don’t single-out just your facilities, Dean said. "They are a great problem for the other four as well. Plus, there appears to be some sort of