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The big news at graduation was that we weren’t all getting an explosive implant in the base of our necks. That rumor got squashed when it turned out they wanted the implant in our thigh.
“You’ve got more padding down there,” the doctor said as I unzipped my pants. “And it’s not like an explosion that big will be any worse in your neck than in your butt,” she said cheerfully. The auto-vaccine whooshed when it touched my skin.
There were 74 others graduating with me, which isn’t bad at all when you consider the classes started last fall with 200 students. We were told that most of the others dropped out or were injured in training. I know for sure at least a dozen were lined up against the barracks wall after a surprise inspection. We heard they found a Britney CD but you learn not to ask a lot of questions.
For obvious reasons there were no friends or family present and photography of any kind was strictly forbidden. It would be useless anyway; the flash reflecting off of 75 silver jumpsuits would blind anyone for a hundred yards. Say, I’ll submit that to research and see if I win the suggestion award. This month it’s supposed to be a bionic hand augmentation.
General Agdar gave the commencement address, fueling speculation that Dr. Krule had fallen out of favor with the Council of Infamy. You really couldn’t blame them; he’s really gone off the deep end ever since the Russians knocked out his Arctic lair.
The Oath of Service was delivered by our valedictorian, Sabrina Taylor. She was a waifish redhead with huge dark eyes and a bandoleer of throwing knives strapped to her waist at all times. Only after we repeated the oath to the satisfaction of Major Alchemy were the snipers permitted to leave.
It was traditional for the graduates to attend a cocktail reception held at the President’s quarters to mix with the faculty and staff. He lived in an underground metallic structure reinforced with lead and concrete and decorated very tastefully in blue pastels. A pianist near the bar turned out show tunes at gunpoint.
Alcohol flowed freely but only a fool wouldn’t realize this was yet another test. My Long Island tasted a bit off and when I surreptitiously poured it out in a potted plant the soil began to smoke.
“I hear the white wine is safe,” sad a voice from behind me. I turned to see a thin man with sharp, angular features standing behind me. He had thin, close-cropped hair and wore a dark orange suit tailored perfectly to his frame. His smile was reptilian and he made no effort to remove his black sunglasses.
“Uh, the white wine is safe but I hear the red will get the job done?”
He looked at me for a moment and then held up his wineglass.
“I wasn’t speaking in code. I really did hear the white wine is safe.”
“Oh,” I said. I wasn’t sure what to say next but fortunately that was when my glass finally gave up and shattered in my hand.
“Bartenders,” he said. “Failed black ops guys, every one of them. I’m Lance Cannon. It’s good to meet you…?”
“Number 99-00204, sir,” I responded. He gave me a funny sideways look and then shrugged.
“So, what was your minor, number 99-00204?” No one ever asks for your major since we all major in World Domination. Minors are available in a number of areas including Biomedical Terror, Surveillance, Interrogation, Explosives, and Business.
“Small arms, sir,” I replied. He nodded approvingly.
“How did you score on your final?”
“I hit 39 out of 40 with circumstances,” I said. Circumstances were a huge part of the education process, especially over four years. In my case the final was held two days after flamethrower drills and I was covered from the waist up in gauze.
“Very nice. Have you ever looked at joining the Majestic Eleven?”
Had I still gripped my glass it would have now been on the floor. Majestic was a secret operation even in our overall secret operation. An enigma wrapped in a mystery surrounded by a paradox, or whatever it was Woody Allen said. These were the guys who knew about the aliens and Atlantis. These were the guys who had fed Jimmy Hoffa to the Loch Ness Monster.
“Well, honestly, I was never sure there really was a Majestic Eleven,” I lied. Generally I’m against ass kissing but I was never presented with this particular ass before. And nothing makes a spy happier than to hear that one of his own people doesn’t know he exists.
Cannon looked around the room and then lowered his voice.
“Go on, ask me something.”
Four years worth of paranoia came swooping down on me like a robotic assault on Washington D.C.
“I’m on a need-to-know basis. Sir,” I said. Cannon sighed.
“The rules are different once you graduate, 99-00204. The sooner you realize that the sooner you’ll be sitting behind the General Director’s desk.”
“Really?”
“Shoot,” he said. “Figuratively.”
His face was all business and he seemed friendly enough and I detected no sign of ninja activity. What the hell.
“Well, I guess I’d like to know about the Kennedy assassination.”
He glanced around the room and then leaned slightly toward me.
“Kennedy acted alone.”
“Kennedy? Don’t you mean ‘Oswald’?”
He took a drink from his wine. “Yeah, sure I did. Look, the truth is, there are at least two worlds out there. One of them is familiar to you and one of them is actual world. Take all this, for example,” he said, making a broad sweep of the room with his left hand. “Most of this isn’t real either. The World Domination angle is real, sure. But when was the last time you saw an actual robot? How about an antimatter device? I’d say at least half of this place is all talk.”
“So you’re saying our empire is a paper tiger? How can that be?”
“I’m not saying anything of the kind. What you have to understand is that all the talk about robots and Moon Men is mostly bunk. It’s a recruiting tool. There is no way we could go against the British or Russians or Americans on a level playing field. We have to tilt things our way and work on the inside, subtly.”
I understood what Cannon was saying but I couldn’t help feeling a little let down. I had nearly minored in Malevolent Volcanism. Now he was telling me we didn’t really have a magma bomb.
“So what do we have?
“Diplomacy. Think about it. What drives a nation crazier than diplomacy? Let’s say you’re the Prime Minister of India and you’ve got the market cornered on silks. You call up your pal in Spain because you know they could use silks and it happens they’ve got they extra spices your country needs. Fair trade, right? *** for tat? Forget it.”
“Forget it?”
“Forget it. Your buddy in Spain says ‘Sure, I’ll trade for silks.’ But they never do an even trade. No, they want silks, and all your maps, and maybe some money on the side, and your baseball card collection, and your mamma’s cookie recipe. You end up with a laundry list of demands you wouldn’t give half your nation for.”
“So what happens then?”
“What happens is nothing. Nothing ever gets done. World leaders sit and stew. In India everyone’s ticked because they have no spices and in Spain they’re all mad ‘cause they’ve got no silk. And around that time both nations send units into each other’s territory ‘by accident’. Soon a war breaks out, nations weaken, and that’s when we walk in. I’m telling you, it’s a beautiful thing.”
I worked for an organization where surprise and terror were outlined in the Mission Statement and yet I couldn’t help feel a little wave of relief wash over me. Cannon was laying things out for me in a way a global crime and terror network rarely does. For once I saw my place in the scheme of things.
“I think I understand,” I said. “To be honest, I really did wonder if all this stuff was real. I mean, Moon Men…”
“Actually, that one’s true,” Cannon said. “The funny thing is that they’re the ones who faked the moon landings. In fact, they’ve faked all of NASA. That’s why it’s in Florida. Something about the Fountain of Youth.”
“So what do I do now?”
Cannon finished his wine. “I like you, 99-00204. Majestic’s got a training facility in Morocco. I’ll put in a word for your transfer. We’ll get you on the next plane out of Ottawa.”
“Ottawa? This is Ottawa?”
“Sorry, I forgot that you get drugged and blindfolded before transfer. Ottawa’s perfect for our needs. We’re strategically located in a huge nation and yet only one American in twenty knows this is the capitol of Canada. Medicine Hat gets more votes.”
Over the course of the next ten years our department was personally responsible for more than sixteen major border conflicts and an honest to God World War. None of this was enough to cripple the nations of the globe sufficiently enough for us to make ourselves known but then again half the fun of a gift is in the unwrapping.
I’m well on my way to the General Director’s position and already have a plot in Aruba picked out for my retirement.
I do miss Cannon now and then. But what the Moon Men want, the Moon Men get.
“You’ve got more padding down there,” the doctor said as I unzipped my pants. “And it’s not like an explosion that big will be any worse in your neck than in your butt,” she said cheerfully. The auto-vaccine whooshed when it touched my skin.
There were 74 others graduating with me, which isn’t bad at all when you consider the classes started last fall with 200 students. We were told that most of the others dropped out or were injured in training. I know for sure at least a dozen were lined up against the barracks wall after a surprise inspection. We heard they found a Britney CD but you learn not to ask a lot of questions.
For obvious reasons there were no friends or family present and photography of any kind was strictly forbidden. It would be useless anyway; the flash reflecting off of 75 silver jumpsuits would blind anyone for a hundred yards. Say, I’ll submit that to research and see if I win the suggestion award. This month it’s supposed to be a bionic hand augmentation.
General Agdar gave the commencement address, fueling speculation that Dr. Krule had fallen out of favor with the Council of Infamy. You really couldn’t blame them; he’s really gone off the deep end ever since the Russians knocked out his Arctic lair.
The Oath of Service was delivered by our valedictorian, Sabrina Taylor. She was a waifish redhead with huge dark eyes and a bandoleer of throwing knives strapped to her waist at all times. Only after we repeated the oath to the satisfaction of Major Alchemy were the snipers permitted to leave.
It was traditional for the graduates to attend a cocktail reception held at the President’s quarters to mix with the faculty and staff. He lived in an underground metallic structure reinforced with lead and concrete and decorated very tastefully in blue pastels. A pianist near the bar turned out show tunes at gunpoint.
Alcohol flowed freely but only a fool wouldn’t realize this was yet another test. My Long Island tasted a bit off and when I surreptitiously poured it out in a potted plant the soil began to smoke.
“I hear the white wine is safe,” sad a voice from behind me. I turned to see a thin man with sharp, angular features standing behind me. He had thin, close-cropped hair and wore a dark orange suit tailored perfectly to his frame. His smile was reptilian and he made no effort to remove his black sunglasses.
“Uh, the white wine is safe but I hear the red will get the job done?”
He looked at me for a moment and then held up his wineglass.
“I wasn’t speaking in code. I really did hear the white wine is safe.”
“Oh,” I said. I wasn’t sure what to say next but fortunately that was when my glass finally gave up and shattered in my hand.
“Bartenders,” he said. “Failed black ops guys, every one of them. I’m Lance Cannon. It’s good to meet you…?”
“Number 99-00204, sir,” I responded. He gave me a funny sideways look and then shrugged.
“So, what was your minor, number 99-00204?” No one ever asks for your major since we all major in World Domination. Minors are available in a number of areas including Biomedical Terror, Surveillance, Interrogation, Explosives, and Business.
“Small arms, sir,” I replied. He nodded approvingly.
“How did you score on your final?”
“I hit 39 out of 40 with circumstances,” I said. Circumstances were a huge part of the education process, especially over four years. In my case the final was held two days after flamethrower drills and I was covered from the waist up in gauze.
“Very nice. Have you ever looked at joining the Majestic Eleven?”
Had I still gripped my glass it would have now been on the floor. Majestic was a secret operation even in our overall secret operation. An enigma wrapped in a mystery surrounded by a paradox, or whatever it was Woody Allen said. These were the guys who knew about the aliens and Atlantis. These were the guys who had fed Jimmy Hoffa to the Loch Ness Monster.
“Well, honestly, I was never sure there really was a Majestic Eleven,” I lied. Generally I’m against ass kissing but I was never presented with this particular ass before. And nothing makes a spy happier than to hear that one of his own people doesn’t know he exists.
Cannon looked around the room and then lowered his voice.
“Go on, ask me something.”
Four years worth of paranoia came swooping down on me like a robotic assault on Washington D.C.
“I’m on a need-to-know basis. Sir,” I said. Cannon sighed.
“The rules are different once you graduate, 99-00204. The sooner you realize that the sooner you’ll be sitting behind the General Director’s desk.”
“Really?”
“Shoot,” he said. “Figuratively.”
His face was all business and he seemed friendly enough and I detected no sign of ninja activity. What the hell.
“Well, I guess I’d like to know about the Kennedy assassination.”
He glanced around the room and then leaned slightly toward me.
“Kennedy acted alone.”
“Kennedy? Don’t you mean ‘Oswald’?”
He took a drink from his wine. “Yeah, sure I did. Look, the truth is, there are at least two worlds out there. One of them is familiar to you and one of them is actual world. Take all this, for example,” he said, making a broad sweep of the room with his left hand. “Most of this isn’t real either. The World Domination angle is real, sure. But when was the last time you saw an actual robot? How about an antimatter device? I’d say at least half of this place is all talk.”
“So you’re saying our empire is a paper tiger? How can that be?”
“I’m not saying anything of the kind. What you have to understand is that all the talk about robots and Moon Men is mostly bunk. It’s a recruiting tool. There is no way we could go against the British or Russians or Americans on a level playing field. We have to tilt things our way and work on the inside, subtly.”
I understood what Cannon was saying but I couldn’t help feeling a little let down. I had nearly minored in Malevolent Volcanism. Now he was telling me we didn’t really have a magma bomb.
“So what do we have?
“Diplomacy. Think about it. What drives a nation crazier than diplomacy? Let’s say you’re the Prime Minister of India and you’ve got the market cornered on silks. You call up your pal in Spain because you know they could use silks and it happens they’ve got they extra spices your country needs. Fair trade, right? *** for tat? Forget it.”
“Forget it?”
“Forget it. Your buddy in Spain says ‘Sure, I’ll trade for silks.’ But they never do an even trade. No, they want silks, and all your maps, and maybe some money on the side, and your baseball card collection, and your mamma’s cookie recipe. You end up with a laundry list of demands you wouldn’t give half your nation for.”
“So what happens then?”
“What happens is nothing. Nothing ever gets done. World leaders sit and stew. In India everyone’s ticked because they have no spices and in Spain they’re all mad ‘cause they’ve got no silk. And around that time both nations send units into each other’s territory ‘by accident’. Soon a war breaks out, nations weaken, and that’s when we walk in. I’m telling you, it’s a beautiful thing.”
I worked for an organization where surprise and terror were outlined in the Mission Statement and yet I couldn’t help feel a little wave of relief wash over me. Cannon was laying things out for me in a way a global crime and terror network rarely does. For once I saw my place in the scheme of things.
“I think I understand,” I said. “To be honest, I really did wonder if all this stuff was real. I mean, Moon Men…”
“Actually, that one’s true,” Cannon said. “The funny thing is that they’re the ones who faked the moon landings. In fact, they’ve faked all of NASA. That’s why it’s in Florida. Something about the Fountain of Youth.”
“So what do I do now?”
Cannon finished his wine. “I like you, 99-00204. Majestic’s got a training facility in Morocco. I’ll put in a word for your transfer. We’ll get you on the next plane out of Ottawa.”
“Ottawa? This is Ottawa?”
“Sorry, I forgot that you get drugged and blindfolded before transfer. Ottawa’s perfect for our needs. We’re strategically located in a huge nation and yet only one American in twenty knows this is the capitol of Canada. Medicine Hat gets more votes.”
Over the course of the next ten years our department was personally responsible for more than sixteen major border conflicts and an honest to God World War. None of this was enough to cripple the nations of the globe sufficiently enough for us to make ourselves known but then again half the fun of a gift is in the unwrapping.
I’m well on my way to the General Director’s position and already have a plot in Aruba picked out for my retirement.
I do miss Cannon now and then. But what the Moon Men want, the Moon Men get.
This language filter is getting worse and worse. 
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