Walter Williams - Deep State

Dagmar flicked aside a corner of the curtain, saw Ismet waiting for her, and felt a flush of pleased surprise.

“Come in,” she said as she opened the door. She could smell backyard charcoal grills on the outdoor air.

Ismet stepped inside. He put an arm around her and kissed her cheek. He had shaved, and she could scent more talc than disinfectant on his skin.

“Did you see Attila?” he asked.

“He’s making the most of his opportunities,” Dagmar said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he visited the Pope tomorrow.”

“That’s already been announced,” Ismet said.

Dagmar laughed. “Would you like a drink?”

Ismet would. She made two drinks, and they carried them to the couch and sat. He put a hand to his ribs as he turned to her, but the pain must have been momentary, since he continued to face her. He raised his glass.

“To Attila.”

“To our own little Frankenstein monster.”

They touched glasses, drank. He made an interested face.

“In Turkey they make these with lemon, not lime.”

“They’re good that way, too.”

Ismet adjusted himself on the couch, touched his ribs again, then put the hand down.

“I’ve gone off the narcotics,” he said. “Now it’s just aspirin for me.”

“You must be feeling better.”

“I am.” He gave her a careful look. “And you? You are all right?”

Dagmar waved a hand. “I have my moments.”

He tilted his head. “I am sorry if-if I made any of those moments worse.”

She sighed, touched his knee. “You’ve been hurt,” she said. “You’ve got to look after yourself.”

“I did,” he said. “I have for a couple days now.” He offered a rueful smile. “But now I’m lonely.”

She looked up at him, at the purple bruises that discolored his face. “Strange,” she said. “So am I.”

He leaned toward her-winced, clutched his ribs-leaned closer, then kissed her. His lips were pleasantly moist.

Ismet drew back, hand still on his ribs, and took a few breaths.

“I was going to say,” he said, “that I’m no longer afraid that you’re going to beat me up.”

She nodded. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“I was angry when I said that. But I wasn’t angry with you.”

Dagmar nodded again. She took a sip of her drink, then leaned forward and kissed Ismet again. They kissed a good long while.

When they stopped, Ismet had to take another few quick breaths.

“I forgot to breathe,” he said.

“Don’t do that.”

“You know,” he said. “If this is to go any farther, you’re going to have to do all the work. I’m not very… flexible.”

She laughed. A battered, bruised, half-crippled man and a crazy lady.

“We are the junkware,” she said, and kissed him again.

For two days the Lincoln Brigade tried to stay atop the general strike. From the information available, the strike seemed to go well. Amateur videos showed police vandalizing shops that had closed, but even those shops that remained open had few customers. Turkish television showed Ankara streets as jammed with cars as ever, but the images could have been filmed weeks earlier.

At night, everywhere in the country rebels came into the streets and brawled with the police. The Brigade organized a pair of demos. One of them, weaving along Irfan Bas?tu from the Altinpark toward the center of Ankara, was four kilometers long. It was so huge the police didn’t dare to try to stop it. The demo eventually dispersed when word came that the Sixty-sixth Motorized Brigade had saddled up and was coming back to town, tanks at the head of the column.

Ian Attila Gordon seemed to be everywhere, on every medium. He had a private audience with the Pope. He appeared on chat shows. His album charted at number eight, with three singles in the top five. A T-shirt with his picture and the label KEN YE REVOLUTION? suddenly appeared at stands and counters throughout the world.

Lincoln said that his colleagues from the American embassies and consulates in Ankara, Istanbul, and Adana were working the phones and visiting generals, trying to get one of the military men to commit to the return of the republic. So far there had been no success.

The Seagram’s ARG updated at noon on Friday, Pacific time, which was ten at night in Cyprus. The Lincoln Brigade was still in the ops center, and Dagmar on the phone to Marcie at Great Big Idea, when the new pictures rolled onto the screen.

Now they could only await developments.

Corporal Carrot says:

Googling Slash Berzerker. Nothing here.

Classicist says:

Did you try spelling “Berserker” correctly?

Corporal Carrot says:

Yep. Nada.

Vikram says:

By the way, has anyone noticed that everyone in this game is always drinking whiskey? Which may not be unusual in and of itself, but have you noticed that they ALWAYS DRINK RESPONSIBLY?

Lots of booze, but no alcoholics in this game! Usually these games are full of human wreckage, both addictive and compulsive. THAT’S unusual!

Hippolyte says:

That’s an interesting point.

LadyDayFan says:

Harry just found out the police are after him. Do we think he’s been committing actual fraud, or do we want to blame Mr. Berzerker for Harry’s problems?

Hanseatic says:

This will probably lead nowhere, but I used to play on Blood Harvest with someone who used the Slash Berzerker handle. We must have mowed down tens of thousands of undead between us.

Chatsworth Osborne Jr. says:

Are you still in touch with Slash?

Corporal Carrot says:

Chatty! Haven’t seen you here in a long time!

Chatsworth Osborne Jr. says:

I’ve been overwhelmed by mundane existence in the last few months. But I noticed a new adventure has started, and I’m trying to catch up.

Hanseatic says:

The guy I played online with probably has nothing to do with our current game. He was using that handle at least a couple years before anybody even thought of this game.

Chatsworth Osborne Jr. says:

Still, if it’s the only lead we’ve got… Can you message him?

Hanseatic says:

Not until I get home from work and load Blood Harvest. And then I’d have to hope he’ll log on.

ReVerb says:

You’re playing this ARG at work! That’s the spirit!

Chatsworth Osborne Jr. says:

Anyone else out there have an account with Flashpoint Gamez? You could message him.

Hippolyte says:

My husband has one. But what questions do I ask?

Chatsworth Osborne Jr. says:

Ask him where he is and who he is and what he does for a living. The answers might be misleading, but even misdirection tells us something.

Hanseatic says:

I’m in Gdynia, and I played using the mirror site in Bucharest, so my guess is that Slash was somewhere in Eastern Europe.

Alaydin says:

Hi everybody, I know that guy. He’s not a character in the game; he’s a friend of mine here in Turkey.

Hippolyte says:

I’ve been worried about the players in Turkey I met during the Stunrunner game. Are you all right, Alaydin?

Alaydin says:

Well, I’m on strike. My business closed down. There’s a lot of military here in Adana so there’s nothing much else that can be done.

Hippolyte says:

Take care of yourself, Alaydin. Our thoughts and prayers are with you.

Alaydin says:

Thank you!

Corporal Carrot says:

Your posts are coming through a little funny.

Alaydin says:

Turkish keyboard.

Corporal Carrot says:

Oh right.

Chatsworth Osborne Jr. says:

Alaydin, I’d like to ask you about your friend Slash. Does he play ARGs?

Alaydin says:

He played Stunrunner, but he wasn’t on the bus with us. I think he really prefers first-person shooters.