Written by Keith Hayden

Edited by Fiona Adair

Video Version

Chapter 8: Strategy Meeting

Rodan knew he should close the browser, but his scattered thoughts wouldn’t allow it.

Research, I’m doing research.

Words he repeated to convince himself of his work ethic and commitment to detail.

The sustained half-truth made him feel better about how he had spent the last fifteen minutes.

Seated at his desk, in his battered dark blue suit pants, with white dress shirt and midnight blue necktie, he recalled his younger days as an eager and idealistic beat cop in the Sacramento Police Department.

Serving as a police officer in the city that raised him was a great honor, and prepared him for his current role as Director of Operations in his small liaison office for the organization.

In those days, he was fresh off of his first and final enlistment in the U.S. Army, and was keen to commence with the next chapter of his life.

After four years of drudgery and ‘embracing the suck’, he returned to his beloved hometown, and filled out a job application to become a cop the day after his plane landed.

Nine months later, he was standing on the corner of Grant Avenue and Marysville Boulevard.

He stood on that corner, gun on hip, lean and trim.

Clothed in a crisp uniform, a shining seven-pointed gold star badge over his heart, he observed traffic with gleaming eyes.

He had been fortunate to be assigned to North Command, District 2, Beat A.

The location of his alma mater Grant Union High School (Go Pacers!).

He beamed with pride on that day and every day he was on the job.

Back then, he embodied service for others over himself, often volunteering to take on extra duties or shifts to cover for his peers or to just become a better cop.

His fellow squadmates called him ‘Brain’ because he always seemed to know random details about certain parts of the city, and would recite them to others even if unsolicited.

His knack for taking in knowledge was only rivaled by his steadfast commitment to serving and protecting his community, a neighborhood notorious for crime and drugs.

In 2045, after a two-week period of non-stop rain, the neighborhood had been flooded.

Schools were closed.

The elderly, confined to their homes due to limited mobility, died.

Hundreds lost their jobs or businesses overnight. Officer Mitchell viewed the scene with sorrowful eyes and a heavy heart.

So moved was he by the scale of the tragedy, and his unfailing obligation to all things greater than himself; he immediately leapt into action.

He volunteered to lead a recovery effort that spring, mobilizing hundreds of hands within the local area, and coordinating outside agencies to assist with flood relief, even going as far to establish and head a food bank for needy families from within his dear Grant High.

He had no idea how many lives he impacted or saved as a result of his effort during that and other similar emergency situations throughout his first three years of active service.

Little did he know, someone was watching.

Li Ma had heard about his herculean endeavor to lift his beleaguered community up following a series of disasters, and as a result, had scouted him from afar, for an unknown amount of time (Li still would not tell him for how long specifically).

Eventually, when he approached young Rodan, he told him he was destined for bigger things.

Things that would not only help his community, but potentially help move the whole of humanity and society to a better place.

Always called to serve at the highest level possible, with great hesitation, Rodan turned in his badge, and joined the ranks of Cereus shortly afterward.

Sitting there at his desk, his thoughts in a jumble concerning the roaring protest outside, and his closest colleague caught up in it, sometimes he wondered what happened to that slender youth.

What happened over the years that had weakened his once fantastic brain’s ability to absorb, store, and arrange data?

Was it early onset dementia?

Had he burned himself out too early in life?

On some days he worried he had been so focused on stacking disparate factoids and tidbits of information in the open space of his brain, that he had neglected any organization of the vast storage closet that was his mind, leaving a disordered collection of unusable litter.

He was the equivalent of a sedentary hoarder—obese, confined to his home.

Trapped, among piles and piles of once useful things.

A prisoner of memory, who had no idea where to begin how to dig himself out from among the clutter.

Staring at his computer, these were the thoughts that entered his mind.

Maybe this was my fate all along.

Like many of his work tangents, his search began with purpose.

He had been researching possible weaknesses in the perimeter of the California capitol building.

He worried about the security of the old building, hoping to find valuable information about how to protect it and its occupants should the protest outside penetrate into the building.

How did I fuck up the intel report?

After fifteen minutes he had learned various details about the ancient government building.

Among them, novel tidbits he had never known, and would probably never remember.

Began construction 1861,…granite archways…something, something, something…Corinthian columns…ooh!

Something about the American Civil War…lead architect was accused of being a Southern sympathizer…Reuben Clark…oh shit!…died in an insane asylum in Stockton, California in 1868.

Only the last detail planted roots in the hard earth of his mind.

The others were washed away by the rising tide of tasks he needed to complete, flooding his overwhelmed brain like spring rains inundating a wheat field.

Rodan contemplated Clark’s tragic end as he stared at the sea of papers and electronic document readers on his desk.

I might go insane if I can’t unfuck this.

Unable to focus on his original objective, he abandoned it for a more attainable one.

Find the previous year’s report and hope he included details about building security in it.

After another ten minutes of rummaging, he still couldn’t locate the intelligence report.

Dammit, I thought sure it was here.

He slid open a file cabinet to his right only to find documents for the previous year that he had yet to organize, file, and digitize.

He knew he should clean and arrange, but it always felt like there were more pressing matters at hand.

This time was no exception.

A ring from his desk phone interrupted his search and his thoughts.

He flinched, then hit his forearm on the side of the metal shelf.

Son of a—!

He shut his eyes and let the throbbing pain dissipate, then reached for the receiver, arm still stinging with pain.

“Yeah.”

“It’s me. I’m at the conference table. Can you come over?”

It was Li.

He didn’t sound like he had just navigated his way through a violent protest.

Damn him.

Why does he have to make everything look so easy?

Rodan stood, adjusted his tie around his bulging neck, and his pants around his curved belly.

For some reason he felt the need to up his game whenever Li was around, even though he knew his glory days of youthful physical prowess and presentation were long behind him.

The meeting room was so small that an old oak conference table consumed most of the room, leaving only small aisles between the wall and the chairs at the table.

Navigating the skinny walkway took sliding effort.

At a towering 230-pounds, Rodan squeezed, while the svelte Li was able to spend hours reviewing files and even conducting liaison meetings in the space.

Despite his physical discomfort, their small liaison office in the state capitol had become a home away from home after all of the time they had spent there together.

When he entered the room, Li stood behind the chair closest to the left of the head of the table, his eyes rapidly scanning electronic documents on his device. Rodan cleared his throat loudly to get his attention.

“You made it.”

Rodan made no attempt to conceal a playful tone.

Li diverted his attention from his electronic documents and grinned.

“I did. What was my time?”

“Looks like that lunch will have to wait for another day.” Rodan laughed.

The small smile that wrinkled Li’s face was quickly replaced by a straight line of seriousness.

“I’m looking for any messages that I received concerning today’s protest. You find anything in the old intel reports?”

Rodan placed his giant hands on the back of a chair for support, feigning casualness.

“Nothing yet. Still working on it.”

Li flashed him a disapproving eye.

Rodan pivoted to change the subject.

“I just got word that the local cops are breaking it up already…with the help of local mercs of course.”

“That’s good to know.”

Li straightened his posture and rotated himself toward Rodan, displaying a hint of puzzlement that made him look even older.

“Which mercs?”

“They were mostly the Hornets from South Sac, mixed in with a few of the Fighters from Folsom.”

Rodan chuckled.

“The Fighters aren’t the strongest, but they’ve got some of the most advanced warrior bots in town to do the dying for them.”

Li mouthed a laugh, but no sound came out.

He knew Rodan was right, but it still did little to calm the voice of his instinct that blared with sustained intensity as it had the entire morning.

“The Terminator and his crew didn’t show up?”

Rodan’s eyes sank toward the floor.

“Not that I know of. I wonder what’s up with him…he’s usually one of the biggest supporters of the local cops.”

A pensive expression dominated Li’s face.

In all the years Rodan had known him, that face usually meant that some revelation was dawning in his mind that would be beneficial for both of them.

Though technically they were both equal in position and pay, Li’s experience and strategic brain made him the de facto boss.

The producer and approver of most ideas their small detachment came up with, and ultimately followed through on.

“What are you thinkin’? Is it possible that The Terminator, his boys and bots had something to do with this?”

“Exactly. Otherwise, why wouldn’t he show? He never misses an opportunity to flex his muscles or his machines.”

“There’s only one way to find out.”

Rodan reached in his pocket, produced an old smartphone with a visibly cracked screen, then extended it toward Li.

Smartphones were outdated tech, but they were much safer to use when communicating with potentially untrustworthy sources.

Li gazed at the phone suspended in Rodan’s hand.

Hesitating, as if an invisible force had frozen him in place.

“…We said we wouldn’t use that unless it was an emergency…”

Despite the rising impatience that he noted in his long-time colleague’s mannerisms, his doubt about whether to use the phone or not lingered in the air between them.

“Just make the damn call.”

Reluctantly, he sighed deeply, took the phone, and said, “If we’re wrong about this, it could endanger and possibly burn one of our best sources.”

“C’mon Li, with silence from HQ after giving the order and a violent protest right on our doorstep, I’d say this qualifies as an emergency.”

Li knew he was right, yet his instinct continued to silently tap him on the shoulder from the shadows of his mind.

The Terminator had only been on the books for six months and in that brief period of time had been one of his most productive sources of information in the city.

His network and clout extended all the way down to San Francisco, the surrounding Bay area, then up to as far north as the comvil in Chico.

He and others like him were a big reason why the deconstructionist philosophy of Cereus had been able to survive against the daunting pressure of the old world after all these decades.

It had garnered them major land and property acquisitions, which were then repurposed for practical needs like housing, community work centers, or social venues.

In addition to land conversion, it also prevented old world companies from demolishing dilapidated structures and building anew on the same land.

Many of the people protesting outside held this as their principal grievance.

The term ‘deconstructionist’ was something of a misnomer.

It did not mean tearing things down, so much as it meant preventing the need to erect more structures for the sake of incessant old-world economic expansion.

Information from sources like The Terminator had helped move deconstructionism from the philosophical realm to the real world.

But he wasn’t always the easiest or cheapest person to work with.

I wonder what we’ll have to pay this time?

Li thought as he keyed in numbers on the smudged screen of the smartphone.

The familiar tone of a ringing phone tingled in his ear.

It rang once…twice…three times.

No response.

On the fourth ring, a deep voice that sounded as if it was being passed through a metal filter answered the phone.

“Hello?”

“I could go for some Thai food today. How about you?”

Li’s voice came out clearer than he expected, fighting mounting nervousness.

“Sorry…you must have the wrong number. I’m not hungry today.”

The canned voice dragged his words, then abruptly ended the call.

Rodan watched Li, unaware that he was holding his breath.

He noticed that his old friend looked physically sick after he removed the phone from his ear.

“Well? What’d he say?”

Li looked up from the phone with sagging shoulders.

A betrayal of his usual erect posture.

“I think our source has been compromised.”

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