Terminal Street

By Basil Borica

Operatives for three shadowy agencies search for a cashiered former serviceman on Terminal Street, the port of last refuge for lonely exiles.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Basil Borica
• Release date: May 29, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386544111

Basil Borica

Basil Borica is a pen name. The author was born in the United States, lives elsewhere, does odd jobs, and writes for his own enjoyment.

Book preview

1. Paladina

SHE KNEW THAT SHE SERVED evil masters, but by this she was able to effect good often enough to justify, at least to herself, doing so. She still felt a twinge of unease when reporting to them, though she had divined through various means that they were small, pathetic men. It struck her just now, stepping into the chamber, that it was their spiritual and intellectual diminutiveness that was at the root of her discomfort with them, the fact that such petty, ungenerous men wielded so much power.

As always, they sat at their massive oaken desks, the lights behind them pointed directly at her eyes so that she couldn’t see them clearly. She had learned how to squint so as to prevent the light from blinding her but still get some idea of what the men before her looked like. Grayish suits, probably expensive and very well made. Full heads of hair, just long enough not to look military, carefully sculpted into place with gel. She imagined their teeth were straight, even, regularly spaced, clean and very white. She could almost sense the jut of their chins.

She stopped in her usual spot, about fifteen paces away from the center desk, and uttered her customary opening, a simple Yes?

Paladina Paragon, began the middle one in a mellifluous voice that should have belonged to a man of greater intellectual and humanistic depth. We have a job for you. Obviously, or she wouldn’t be here, but this was part of the ritual. We trust you will execute it faithfully, with your usual efficiency.

What is it?

Listen to this. It was the one on the left this time. This was taken from a random mind-scan of people passing through Terminal Street Station.

The sound came on, projected from speakers somewhere on the wall behind them, random thoughts digitized into vocal form. A jumble of disparate musings, and then one leapt out clearly. I really ought to push that button.

You heard that. A statement, not a question, from the one on the right.

Yes. Someone is thinking about pushing a button. What’s the significance?

Brainprint matching, as you know, is still a very inexact science, said the one on the right. But there is a chance this was one Calvin Curmudgeon, a cashiered former Defense Force member.

And the button?

If it is the button we think, one that must not be pushed. No more was forthcoming, and she knew better than to ask further.

When was the mind-scan done?

Two months ago. The middle one.

And it has just now been brought to your attention?

There were administrative failures. We cannot be completely sure it was Curmudgeon. His service records have been lost or misplaced, an unfortunate but common occurrence. We compared this to a sample pattern taken when he was dishonorably discharged from the Defense Force. These are kept in a separate archive, one for potential threats to the economic and social order.

I take it the possibility of it having been him thinking this thought is so hazardous that you have to assume it was him and act on it.

Yes. They all answered this time.

She realized she shouldn’t mention the button again, but her curiosity got the better of her. Can’t you just wait and catch him in the act? This button has some kind of security system, doesn’t it?

We can’t wait. The clipped tone the middle one used in answering told her she shouldn’t be asking such questions.

Do you know the whereabouts of Curmudgeon? Do you know what he’s doing now?

The only thing we have on him is the brain scan sample. The middle one again.

So all we know is that he passed through Terminal Street Station two months ago. That’s not much to go on.

He was cashiered out of the Defense Force. The one on the left. There aren’t many places he can go. The Terminal Street area seems a likely place for him to be.

But we have no fingerprints, no DNA, and no photos. Any description at all?

A former Defense Force colleague described him as being of medium height and thin, with a big nose. But you might be able to identify him yourself.

What do you mean? she asked more sharply than she meant to.

We were able to unearth his childhood address. It’s 73 Antarctic Avenue in Hemptown.

The street I grew up on. She was almost able to mask her surprise. 73 is a few blocks away from my home, though.

And he is roughly your age. The middle one.

He’s a white guy, right?

Yes.

Okay, I’ll have to think about this and try to remember who he was. There weren’t too many pasty-faces, I mean white people, in my neighborhood.

Please do. We need this done as soon as possible. It was always the middle one who delivered the final directive.

I understand.

You may go. She did.

2. An Opportunity to Excel

COLONEL JOE BUTTUS hated to admit it to himself, but his knees were shaking as the secretary spoke.  General Northwind will see you now, Colonel Buttus.

The colonel tried to square his shoulders and draw himself up to his full height as he approached the door, but he felt acutely apprehensive. The general, a ruthless but urbane man who never publicly ridiculed his subordinates, publicly referred to Joe as ‘Colonel Buttocks.’ Joe had realized from the beginning of their relationship that the general found his homespun ways distasteful.

Added to his normal trepidation at seeing the general was the nature of this summons, an unexpected phone call directly from General Northwind and a terse, Joe, report to me in my office immediately. Even the general’s uncharacteristic use of his first name couldn’t assuage his worry.

He managed to knock with just the right amount of force appropriate for knocking on a general’s door, eliciting a Come in.

Closing the door quickly but carefully behind him, Joe attempted to march briskly to the general’s desk and render a sharp, snappy salute, but as always his limbs failed him. Somehow he lacked the coordination for briskness and snappiness. At least he didn’t poke himself in the eye this time, an event that occurred during roughly thirty percent of his salutes.

Sir, he said in an almost non-quavering voice, "Colonel Buttus very respectfully reports as ordered.

General Northwind effortlessly tossed off a sharp, snappy salute in return.  At ease, Colonel. Joe relaxed as best he could. Joe, there are two men from Defense Intelligence in my meeting room. They want to talk to you. In spite of himself, Joe could feel his jaw dropping and his legs trembling. I don’t know what this is about, continued Northwind, but I don’t think you’re in trouble. For once, he seemed to sympathize with Joe. And now I’ve got to go. They’re kicking me out of my office so they can talk to you in complete privacy. He smiled at the situation. Joe hoped he would remain philosophical about it. They said just to go right in without knocking.

The general picked up his flight cap, known in military parlance as a cunt cap because the top folds somewhat resembled the folds of a vagina, and left.

Joe’s knees, as he approached the door, were shaking considerably more than when he had approached the door to the general’s office. Despite General Northwind’s reassurances, he was petrified, having heard far too many tales of service members being summoned to meet with DI people and never being seen again.

In spite of the general’s instructions, Joe couldn’t refrain from knocking timidly on the door. He was answered with an immediate, barking command to enter.

The room, for a general’s meeting room, wasn’t all that large, but it did hold a table that could seat twelve people. The walls were adorned with the usual maps and projection screens. Two heavily built men were sitting on the right side of the table. Joe noted their gray suits, jutting jaws, sculpted hair, and eyes so cold they seemed scarcely able to contain a flicker of life. His terror increased exponentially.

Have a seat, Colonel, one them said, not in invitation. Right here, directly across from us. He had a deep, resonant voice.

Joe willed himself to move to the chair indicated and seat himself.

Colonel, we need some information from you, began the other as soon as Joe’s buttocks touched the seat. We hope you’ll be able to help us.

I’ll do my very best, sir, Joe answered.

Good. We knew we could count on you. Do you remember an enlisted man, an electronics specialist named Calvin Curmudgeon? He was in your unit four years ago.

In spite of his fear, Joe almost snorted in anger. Yeah, I remember that shitstick! he answered before he completely realized what he was saying.

So, you didn’t like him, stated the first one. Joe stuttered out a few meaningless syllables, afraid he might have said the wrong thing, but the DI agent urged him on gently. It’s okay, Colonel. We need you to be completely honest with us. Tell us why you didn’t like this guy.

He was a bad manager. Good technician, but bad manger. He didn’t keep his people in line. He didn’t instill proper military discipline. He was a slack-ass.

You must have had other bad managers working under you. Surely you didn’t dislike them all so intensely. You called this guy a shit-stick.

He was a flake! Joe sputtered. One of them book-smart assholes that don’t know a thing about real life and can’t hold a sensible conversation. And he acted like he didn’t care about the mission. He didn’t take the military seriously. Always seemed like he was trying to undermine my authority, but sly-like. Not a man you can trust.

Not a man you can trust, repeated the second one. Colonel, Defense Intelligence agrees with you completely. You’re obviously a very skillful judge of character.

Joe did his best to maintain a stoic, manly demeanor, but could feel himself smiling widely in spite of his efforts. It was quite possibly the happiest moment of his life.

Would you recognize him if you saw him again? continued the Second DI man.

I think so. He’s probably a goddamn long-haired hippy by now, but I think I’d recognize him.

Good. It was the first one. He was transferred out of your unit four years ago. Do you know what happened to him after that?

No, no idea. Didn’t really want to know.

Two years after he left your unit, he was cashiered out of the Defense Forces for refusing to obey a lawful order. A very important lawful order. His refusal cost our country a very significant strategic acquisition.

That bastard! Joe felt a bit spittle spraying from his lips. Controlling his sputum output was always an issue during his frequent, sudden outbursts of anger. Why wasn’t he shot?

Some leftist in the legislature got wind of what happened and backed him up, threatened to raise a stink. There was information that needed to be kept secret, so we had to back off. In the end, he was dishonorably discharged, but he didn’t do any time.

Bastards like him ought to be shot, fumed Joe.

We’re getting to that, Colonel, said the first one. Curmudgeon’s service records have disappeared. Can’t be found. We don’t know if it was a typical admin snafu, or if his pinko legislative buddy had it done. But whatever the reason, we have no way of tracking him down now. No photos, no blood or DNA samples, no forwarding address.

You need to track him down?

Yes, we do, unfortunately. Still the first one. Colonel, we’ve examined your records very carefully, and we’ve made inquiries about you. Joe felt a moment’s dread. We like what we’ve seen and heard. The moment passed. You’re a team player, Colonel, and a hard-nosed one. You’ve always been willing to do anything for your country, haven’t you?

Yes, sir! Joe almost shouted.

Well, Colonel, your country needs a big service from you now. Calvin Curmudgeon has got to be terminated. For reasons of national security, we can’t explain why, but we think you’re just the man for the job. What do you say? Are you willing to step up to the plate and hit one out of the park for the Gipper?

You bet I am! Joe was almost foaming at the mouth.

Are you ready to do absolutely anything for your country? asked the second one.

Joe balked for a fraction of a second at the ‘absolutely anything,’ but then found his voice and replied. Yes, sir. Absolutely anything.

Good. We knew we could count on you. It was the first one. He produced a large, bulky manila envelope from somewhere below him, and pushed it across the table toward Joe. Go ahead and open it, Colonel.

Joe opened it, and found several items wrapped in bubble-pack inside. He pulled out the largest, and at the gestured urging of the DI men unwrapped it. He found an automatic pistol of medium bore, without a manufacturer’s name, model number or serial number.

Standard issue weapon for this sort of mission, the second one informed him. Same weapon all our special agents use. Joe was again unable to conceal the rush of pride he experienced.

The next bubble-wrapped item was a clip for the pistol. Ten bullets, said the first DI man. More than enough for this job. Standard procedure is you don’t put the clip in the gun until you’ve located the target and are ready to move in for termination. This weapon isn’t for defense.

Understood. Joe was determined to be as professional as any other DI operative. Do I get a weapon for defense?

That won’t be necessary, Colonel. A tough customer like you won’t need a weapon to handle any of the problems you might encounter. At this point, Joe was in Nirvana.

Next was a smaller envelope stuffed with money, mostly small bills. Your expense money. Where you’re going it won’t be a good idea to flash a lot of cash, especially big bills. And it’s not the kind of place where people use credit cards. Joe nodded his understanding, and although he wanted to, didn’t ask where he would be going. He’d show these DI men that he possessed the necessary discipline.

The final article was a very small vial with two white capsules inside. Joe looked at it, and looked quizzically at the DI men. In case you fall into the wrong hands. Just a formality, we’re sure it won’t be necessary.

Uh, who are the wrong hands?

Well, pretty much anybody, but particularly the police or the press. We wouldn’t have considered you for the job, Colonel, if we hadn’t known you were man enough to make the ultimate sacrifice. If you do fall into the wrong hands, you’re duty-bound to swallow these pills. We know we can count on you to do what’s best for your country.

Uh, yes sir, you can count on me, Joe managed to affirm, his joy somewhat dampened.

Good. They looked at each other and nodded, as if affirming their astuteness in having selected Joe for this vital assignment. This gesture on their part was enough to restore Joe’s spirits. These men knew he wouldn’t pussy out of any part of his assignment. He wondered how many others they had considered and rejected for lacking the essential qualities. He hoped it had been a substantial number.

The first one spoke again. We have reason to believe Curmudgeon is living or working somewhere in the Terminal Street area.

Figures, said Joe. Goddamn hippy drug haven.

Precisely. There are a lot of subcontractor factories in the area, but there are also some second-rate technical schools and language schools. We think he’s more likely to be working at one of the schools than at a factory.

You’re to ensconce yourself in the area. Joe wondered what ‘ensconce’ meant. "Pretend you’re looking for work at one of the technical schools. You can