God's Dogs

Perhaps the time has come to cease calling it the ‘environmentalist’ view, as though it were a lobbying effort outside the mainstream of human activity, and to start calling it the real-world view.

E. O. Wilson

As they worked their way through the contacts they gleaned from Gunther’s files, the enormity of the shadow government became evident. Most of the senators were attended by lobbyists like Gunther. The notable exceptions were Penglai, the alien worlds, Amazonia, and the two ASI-run tech worlds.

The lobbyists came from three different corporations that specialized in inter-system trade and banking, which included the money markets. There were other lobbyists, perhaps the majority, that did operate according to a strict ethics code. It seemed the three firms that did offer to buy a senator’s vote were the minority.

When they researched which worlds benefitted the most from the League’s regulations in trade and banking, it was clear the Corporate Wars hadn’t defeated the gross imbalance to social structure the old policies maintained. The worlds that benefitted from corruption scored the lowest in the soft measures that League surveys used on all worlds, measures that captured data on quality of life, economic and gender equality, and so on.

There were 396 human worlds, five alien worlds, and another less than 150 Empire worlds now agreeing to the League Accords. Of that total, fully half were in the category suspected for systemic corruption. And with Senator Jonathan Smythe-Wilson on the Senate Trade Committee, all the Empire worlds were at risk.

The scope of the team’s task was more daunting now than when they started.

Pax softened the impact as they finished their morning meeting. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

Moss rejoined, “It’s worse?”

Pax half-grinned. “These guys have to work through the bureaucracies that already exist. Most of those are already meritocracies, except for the appointees. They’re political and make up about 30% of the total. So about 70% of the career public servants are already on-board with our goals.”

“The private businesses,” Moss countered, “and a bunch of NGOs and private non-profits are not.”

“True. But we don’t have to worry about them.”

“What’s your thinking?” Quinn asked as he poured coffee into his cup from a carafe on the table.

“Business adapts to the structures that regulate it: supply and demand, fiscal policy, taxation, labor laws, and so on. When we clean up the regulatory environment, they will have to adapt.”

“Bingo,” River smiled. “All those private organizations will have to evolve.”

Quinn let out a breath. “I see the logic. I hope you’re right.”

“And it makes our job simple,” Moss agreed. “Who do we take down first?”

The others answered almost in unison, “Jonathan Smythe-Wilson.”

As they worked on the operational plan, the other half of the marine platoon arrived. It included a second lieutenant.

At the morning meeting the next day, the team was introduced to the lieutenant, the HQ staff sergeant, and another fire team sergeant, who also arrived with the rest of the platoon.

“I’m Quinn,” he told the newcomers as they entered the briefing room where they were seated. Then he nodded to his team. “Pax, Moss, and River.”

“I’m Lieutenant Michael Basel, sir,” the fresh-scrubbed, lean-faced young man said as he stood at attention.

Moss smiled at him. “This is SpecOps, LT. Relax the formalities.”

Flustered, Basel looked to Murphy, who entered behind them and flopped down in a chair. “They promoted me, Quinn.”

“Gunny Murphy,” River chirped. “Congratulations.”

“Platoon gunny, at that.”

“It seemed appropriate,” Basel said. “We need this operation to be legally airtight.”

“He’s a lawyer,” Murphy said, pointing with a nod of his head toward Basel.

Eventually, they finished the introductions and reviewed the battle plan. Basel assured them it was legal. Murphy outlined the marine assignments.

At the end, Quinn said, “Assemble all the new people, Murphy. We need to welcome them aboard.”

For the next few hours, they went over the marine platoon’s duties and responsibilities on this op. Then Murphy briefed them on the new protocols based on River’s succinct recommendations. The marines began glancing nervously at the Coyotes, who were staggered around the conference room.

Murphy was finishing up. “They can’t read your minds, but Coyotes can read your emotions. So don’t even try to get away with anything. Instead, let us know if someone tries to blackmail you. The whole weight of Penglai will come down on anyone that fucks with us or our families. Is everything clear?”

“Huah!” was the answer.

“Okay. You have sims to get to,” Murphy dismissed them.

Basel stuck around for an uncertain moment, then he left to attend to setting up the headquarters infrastructure.

Murphy rose his bushy eyebrows at Pax and River.

“All good,” Pax said.

“It sucks when you doubt your own people,” Murphy groaned.

“You picked them,” Moss reminded him.

“The unit, yes. Most of these men and women are from Penglai and Amazonia, but not all. Still, they’ve been blooded and did exceptionally well on some Empire world. They received a unit citation for their actions.”

“Doubting them will affect morale,” Quinn said. “What can we do to boost morale?”

“It’s not so much us doubting them,” Murphy replied. “It’s Politano betraying them. Now they will need to prove themselves as a unit to reclaim the unit’s honor.”

“That shouldn’t be long in coming,” Pax observed.

Within a week, they were ready. Their liaison with the Marshal’s office, Billy McIntyre, had arrived and was working with Basel to keep the legalities clear. The Senate was back in session. Senator Morrison had arrived on station, and Quinn directed Murphy to assign a fire-team for her protection.

Some of the people they targeted, including Wilson, were scheduled for a meeting in a high-rise office building planet-side. It looked like a perfect opportunity to snag a group of them.

Security was tight, of course: ground and air patrols outside, checkpoints and computer-monitored security inside, and no doubt some form of a ready response team poised off-site.

The meeting was three floors down from the roof of the building, which itself was fifty stories high. Getting in was its own problem; getting out with a dozen prisoners was a bigger problem. Quinn didn’t doubt the bad guys would sacrifice Wilson and company if need be, which created another tactical problem. It was a tricky op. All the security protecting those at the meeting could, probably would, turn on their charges once they were in custody.

The security force was from the private army of one of the corporations the team identified as a major power broker. They assumed the security personnel knew each other well enough that impersonating them wouldn’t work. Likewise, any of the attending staff.

Even so, it was a lot to keep track of a busy office building. The team went in two days before the meeting. Dressed as maintenance or service workers, they established their own base on the fifth floor. River spoofed the building’s dumb A.I., and they gained full access credentials. The vacant office they occupied was now rented to their dummy company, and half the platoon was listed as employees. They lugged their equipment and weapons, hidden in moving boxes, to the office and got themselves set up. They monitored the building’s activity, the security measures, and communication channels. On the evening of the op, they were happy to see the attendees arrive. The op was on.

An hour after the targeted attendees arrived on site, Quinn announced, “Let’s go.” To Murphy, he said, “Start your clock. We’ll let you know if it goes south.”

“Don’t worry, Quinn. It will go fubar, and we’ll adapt.”

River patted him on the shoulder. “We’ve actually had things go per plan before.”

Moss snickered, “Yeah. Once.”

“Happy thoughts, monkey boy,” River retorted.

The marines laughed nervously at the exchange.

The team switched on the camo feature of their light armor and headed out.

One of the marines asked Murphy, “Why did she call him ‘monkey boy?’”

“His name, Moss, comes from an exercise during their training. He tried to camouflage himself with moss, but it didn’t work. Someone said he looked like a green monkey. Both names stuck.”

"How do you know that?" another marine asked.

"I was at Homestead," Murphy said and sighed.

The marines stopped what they were doing and looked at each other. Finally, one asked, "Was it as bad as they say it was?"

"Probably worse. A lot remains classified," Murphy replied. Then he took a deep breath, let it out, and went on, "We were pinned down in some town. The civil war was shaking their world apart. You didn't know who was on what side. I think we were under fire from both sides. Anyway, Quinn's team got to us, and we spent a few days coming up with an extraction plan. They told some funny stories to lift our morale. We were in bad shape, but Quinn got most of us out of that mess."

“They are strange, Gunny," another marine opined as a way to lighten the conversation.

“Don’t I know it. But when this all turns to shit, they will come for us.”