Iteration 0001 - Retirement
The microphone squealed as the speaker's voice rose, but few of the well-wishers took note. To be sure, they heard it. All but the most oblivious had stopped eating when the guest of honor had taken the microphone, and it was too early for even the most dedicated drunks to miss the sparkling-crackle of an overdriven speaker. No, this omission was a deliberate one, the sort of memory-shaping done when someone had predetermined that an event in their lives should possess a specific emotional tenor.
After all, the retirement of a legend was at hand. The sort of human error that might cause an aging man to grab a microphone too firmly, hold it too tightly, or speak too emotionally was utterly lost on a room that had come to witness the sunset of an age.
The crackle subsided, and Colonel William Halstead finished his speech, "It's been a great run, my friends, and I wanted to thank all of you for everything. Soon, I'll be on a sunny beach, but I'll never forget-" His words failed him. He tried again, "Here's to… here's to the ones that never made it." The colonel might have attempted to end with a joke. The rhythm of the speech seemed to call for it, but he couldn't stick the landing. Instead, his eyes focused on something in the air halfway down the rows of white-topped tables, and he choked on his own tongue. He squinted at his notes, folded them, and retreated from the lectern.
Applause rippled through the borrowed hangar, bouncing from one blue-and-gold frocked tablecloth to another. In the back, Sergeant First Class Brian Clausen might have clapped loudest of all. At just shy of two meters tall and built with all the subtle grace of a barn door, he resembled nothing so much as a besuited grizzly bear, perched improbably upon a folding chair behind a child's tea table.
If any of the high-index folks at the nearby tables had an objection, none made a scene. After all, the power-stack of tabs on Clausen’s left sleeve held little doubt from where he’d come, and he wasn’t alone.
Halstead had been very clear on that. This party was going to invite his boys, or it wasn’t going to happen at all.
The Senators and other very fine people had accepted the deal, but they’d insisted on black tie, mess dress, and absolutely no kegger.
Clausen hammered his hands together, callous on callous.
“Just don’t start yelling,” Sarah whispered up at him.
His fiancée stood beside him, in an incredible form-fitting black tress, trimmed in shimmering green. Sarah Deacon grinned up, her head barely reaching his shoulder, and her smile made his head spin.
“Me? Yell?” Clausen asked. He raised his hands as a mock megaphone.
One look from the tiny faux-angry person at his side, and he dropped them back into another round of applause.
“Is he giving you trouble?” Poole asked as he slipped back into their table. He stood behind his seat, clapping nearly as loudly as Clausen.
“Always,” Sarah said.
Lieutenant Nathan Poole laughed and kept clapping.
“Welcome back, el tee,” Clausen said.
“Sorry about that,” he whispered. “I had to go network.”
“You have fun with that officer stuff.” Clausen agreed. “I don’t want to get stuck with you.”
Poole cackled again. Everyone knew he was getting his captain’s bars soon. “Couldn’t have that, Brian. If I don’t work hard, I’m never gonna make it into the transport corps.”
“Everyone needs trucks, sir.” Clausen agreed.
Poole sighed theatrically, and he plucked a champagne glass from the table. He turned to Sarah and asked, “Honestly, how do you put up with him? After three tours, I’ve lost half my manners, most of my graces, and I think I’m ruined as an officer. How do you manage it?”
“Practice,” she half-joked.
“Hey.”
“Love you, pookums.”
Clausen made a very flat face.
Poole took another sip, then nearly choked. He parlayed the shock into a flourish of the empty glass and used the twirl to draw Clausen’s eyes into the crowd. He whispered, “I just saw Harper.’
“Fuck me, el tee. I thought he was retired?”
“I know! They’re bringing all the big guns!”
Sarah sipped. Half to herself, she added, “I’m just glad you boys are having fun.”
“Could you imagine being there, Brian?” Poole asked. He exhaled as punctuation, his eyes locked on somewhere between the crowd and the infinite, and he used his champagne flute to paint an invisible horizon. “The cowboy days. Fast and dirty, with the whole world on your back. Those were a different kind.”
“Oh no, another cultist.”
Clausen coughed with mock indignation. “Cult? Sarah! It’s just a clubhouse!”
“Look, Bri, there’s only so many ‘lessons on leadership’ essays a man can write. If you own more than five from the same guy, congrats, you’re a cultist.”
“Madam, we’re not a cult. We’re a sect. There’s a difference,” Poole observed. To Clausen, he added, “There’s a shrine in the O-Club. I put some incense on for you, since, you know, you’re unwashed.”
“Thank you, sir. One of my prayers was for your improved skill in land navigation.”
Sarah rolled her eyes, but she passed Clausen his flute as they took their seats.
Clausen explained, “The colonel is a big deal. The biggest. He’s mandatory reading on the teams.”
“Well, you’ll have plenty of time for that,” she agreed. To Poole, she threatened, “And you can’t have him, this time. We’ve cancelled this vacation four times, and this time, I swear-”
Poole bowed in his seat, complete with a flourish. “On my honor as an officer, you will have your fiancée back.”
“Thank you!”
“On the other hand, if you ever want to trade up-”
“El tee, I will drown you in a shallow pool and call it a training accident.”
“He will.” Poole agreed.
“Sorry,” Sarah said. “I’d take you up on that, but, to be honest, he ties me up if I try to leave.”
“Only when you ask,” Clausen stated flatly.
“Brian!”
“Yes, pookums?”
She shoved a dinner roll at him, and he made a show of biting it in half.
Poole poured his glass, extra heavy.
“No date, Nathan?” Sarah asked.
“No,” Poole answered, a little too quickly. “I’m getting ready to rotate. There’s no place for it right now.”
“Makes sense,” Clausen said, in a complete fabrication.
Poole forced a smile. “Once I make staff, I’ll have room to slow down.”
Sarah nodded along and changed the conversation out of mercy. She asked Clausen, “So, are you going to talk to him?”
Clauen shook his head. The dinner roll was suddenly very interesting.
“Come on, Bri!”
“What’s this?” Poole asked.
“He’s been going on all week about what he’d say if he got to talk to the colonel. Well, this is as close as fate will get you. I’m trying to get him to walk across the room.” Sarah nodded towards the head table, where Colonel Halstead chatted with three flag officers.
“That’s Generals Braddock and Howe, plus Admiral Gersch,” Clausen observed.
“You should do it,” Poole said.
“Traitor!”
“Do it. Do it. Do it.” The two chanted at him.
“Both of you!”
“If you don’t, you’ll lie awake all night, talking about how close you got!”
“El tee-”
“Hey, you’re the team lifer, Sarge. I’m just punching a ticket. Get up there!”
“Do it. Do it.” Sarah repeated, tapping her spoon against the tabletop.
“Fine!” He agreed, only in half-mock frustration. He rose from his chair.
“First to fight!” Poole declared.
“Last to quit,” Clausen answered, with the words very clearly translating to, ‘fuck you, sir’.
The two cheered, and Clausen waded into the crowd.
Moving through the mass was a challenge in itself. Clausen had to turn side-on to avoid jostling the attendants, and every passing table was a risk of tears or pulled buttons.
The band started up - a synchron jazz beat hybridized between the horns and an adaptive track. Clausen used that to set a marching cadence.
At the head table, Halstead had moved from the flag officers to a set of elderly men in civilian black tie. Even from here, Clausen could read the beats of the conversation. The Senators would lean in, conspiratorially, and say something. Halstead would smile, point to one of his children, and talk about a ball game. The Senators would lean in again, Halstead might even laugh, and then he’d beckon his wife forward to discuss the renovations they were planning for the ranch.
Clausen slowed. Maybe this hadn’t been the best idea. He didn’t want to intrude.
He came to a stop. It was likely best to turn back.
Then someone grabbed his arm.
The stranger appeared on his left flank, apparating from the crowd like a phantom, and he wrapped his arm around Clausen’s shoulder like an old friend. Clausen recognized the setup for a grapple.
“Hello there, Sergeant,” the stranger growled. He was male, middle-aged, and graying at the temples, but his grip was steel. His eyes glinted from under his leathery and scarred brow. “What brings you to this party?” His face twisted into a scarecrow smile.
Clausen twisted against the hold, prepared to overpower the man with brute strength, but the stranger used his free hand to pull open his jacket and ‘accidentally’ flash his badge. Internal Security Agency. Clausen stiffened.
“Steady, boy. We’re being friendly.” The man started walking, and he pushed Clausen along.
Clausen could win this fight. He was certain. Whether that would be a good idea, he was less positive.
He played along for now and tried to take his assailant’s measure. The agent was strong for his age, likely rejuved, but for some reason without cosmetic restoration. The way the old man scanned the room, though? That was unmistakable. This man was no politician or analyst. This man killed.
“So,” the agent asked, “why are you out here, looking so lost?”
“I wanted to meet the colonel.”
“And why did you stop?”
“He looked busy.”
The agent burst out laughing, something that almost sounded like a wet cough. A passing waitress paused, and the man snagged a cocktail from her tray. He downed the fifty-credit drink in a single gulp and returned it.
“Sir, you can’t-” she protested. When she recognized him, her eyes widened, and she offered him another.
He drank that, too. “What are you pouring?” he asked.
“Grand Barr,” she answered.
“In this? Fuck me, that’s a waste and tastes like shit.”
“The guests prefer-”
“Go back there, make the same thing, and use the fucking blend. Don’t tell anyone. You’ll double your tips.” He glanced at Clausen, as if long suffering. “And bring me two.”
She scurried off, and Clausen protested, “Sir, you don’t need-”
“You’ll like it, Brian.”
His name brought him to a dead halt. “How do you-”
“I’m Agency, numbnuts. They pay me to know.” He straightened his collar, and Clausen caught the run of weighty challenge rings that clung to his leathery knuckles. “Section Chief Michael Raschel, at your service. I’m an old friend of Bill’s.”
His game over, he let Clausen loose.
“Why the goose march, sir?”
“You were about to run away. I cannot abide cowardice.” He glanced towards the head table. “And besides, I couldn’t leave Bill up there by himself with those sponges.”
“Sir?”
“You’re here to meet Bill, right?”
“Yeah.”
“That was rhetorical. You already said it.”
“Yes, si-”
“Stop letting me dominate you! It makes you look like an idiot! You’re trying to impress Miss Deacon, right?”
Clausen glared and did not answer.
“You caught on. Good.” Raschel chuckled. “Play along, and you’ll win tonight.”
The waitress returned and presented her tray, only to find that Raschel had already drained his glass. “Much better, sweetheart. My friend will love it.” He plucked two more from the tray and shoved one into Clausen’s hands. “Charge the company and give yourself something nice.”
She vanished, and Clausen took a sip of his drink. He hated that it tasted good.
“Right?” Raschel asked. “Climb high enough, and you learn how to use the perks.”
Clausen had no reply polite enough to speak aloud.
That only made Raschel laugh harder. “Look, you’re never gonna last in this rat-house unless you learn to take control. Steer the conversation and set the agenda. Work a fucking waitress. That’s easy mode. They’re paid to be deferent.”
“How do you know Colonel Halstead?” Clausen asked.
“Exactly,” Raschel said. He answered, “We go way back. You wouldn’t believe it, but even Bill Fucking Halstead was once a shining little butter bar trying to make his bones. And when you’re growing your career? Who’s a better ally than a savvy, overqualified, and very handsome young field agent from Operations? He learned to read a map, I learned to work the room, and we made great things happen!”
“You knew him from the War?”
“That’s what I said.”
Clausen had a very powerful urge to throw this man into the nearest table. It might end his career or send him to jail, but it would be worth it.
The suckerpunch caught him in the gut, and he doubled forward. Raschel caught him, looking like a friendly embrace, “You were thinking about it. Never think about it."
“How did you-”
“I provoked you.”
“And then you-”
“Agency, son.” Raschel laughed. “For an apology, let’s get you that autograph.” Before Clausen could react, Raschel raised his hand over the crowd and called out, “Bill!”
Colonel Halstead glanced up, and his reaction was immediate.
With one sweep, he pulled his wife behind him. His family vanished behind, and he stepped forward to meet the challenge. The crowd parted, as if split by a wave of heat between the two men, and Halstead growled, “Michael.”
Raschel stepped forward. “Bill, it’s great to see you. He held out his hand.
Halstead glanced at it and waited a long moment before shaking. “Sure.”
“It’s been too long.”
“If you say.”
“Theresa looks lovely-”
Halstead silenced him with a glare.
Raschel chuckled. “Relax, Bill. I’m just here to wish you a happy retirement. You’ve earned it, and the State recognizes that.”
“Thank you,” Halstead managed. “Now if you’ll excuse-”
“I can’t.” Raschel apologized. “I made a promise.”
Halstead’s face froze, his pale eyes scanning the room from under bushy brows. “What kind of promise?”
Raschel gestured back towards Clausen, “This young man is one of yours. A huge fan. I promised I’d get him your attention.”
Clausen apologized, “Sir, I’m sorry. I think this might be a misunderstanding-”
“Huge fan,” Raschel repeated.
Halstead sized him up, scanning his medals and badges as a report and then measuring his countenance. His icy demeanor cracked, and he said, “I’d love to talk with you, Sergeant Clausen.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Raschel snorted. “I’ll be going.But Bill?”
Halstead looked towards him, slightly softer than before.
“I am sorry.” Raschel faded back into the crowd, leaving Clausen standing with Halstead.
“Is this your first time getting Raschel’d?” Halstead asked.
“Yes, sir. Does he do that to everyone?”
Halstead shook his head and gestured towards his table. “Come on over. Did you bring a guest?”
“My fiancée, sir.”
“Bring her. I think you’ll make better conversation than this lot, and Theresa will appreciate someone without a ‘foundation’.” He pronounced the last word as a slur and tilted his head towards the gathered rows of brass and consultants.
“Thank you, sir!”
When he broke the news to Sarah, she thought he was joking. It took both him and Poole to convince her that she was, indeed, being invited to ‘the Big Table’, and that she looked more than fantastic enough to sit at it. The second part was more Poole than Clausen. Clausen had simply argued the true fact that she looked absolutely gorgeous, while Poole had dropped arcane lore on makes, cuts, and styles and how she’d be just fine.
While Sarah would humor battle tales just fine, the primary conversation, as it turned out, was not any grisly story of the second war, nor the cloak and dagger of the long peace after. Instead, Bill and Theresa Halstead mainly talked about goats, irrigation, and demilling an orange zone grid to make it suitable for ranching.
Clausen drank down every second of it, from the colonel’s fixation on a barn truss that wouldn’t set, to the oldest son describing his triumphs in the zone traveling league. He carved every bit of it into memory, especially when he looked over, Sarah squeezed his forearm, and she smiled that smile that collapsed his entire world onto a single point.
But caught in that very best moment of his life, he never heeded the damning sight at the bar. There, Raschel leaned against the wall and raised his last drink in silent salute. If Clausen had paid attention, he'd have known a funeral toast when he saw it.
After all, the retirement of a legend was at hand. The sort of human error that might cause an aging man to grab a microphone too firmly, hold it too tightly, or speak too emotionally was utterly lost on a room that had come to witness the sunset of an age.
The crackle subsided, and Colonel William Halstead finished his speech, "It's been a great run, my friends, and I wanted to thank all of you for everything. Soon, I'll be on a sunny beach, but I'll never forget-" His words failed him. He tried again, "Here's to… here's to the ones that never made it." The colonel might have attempted to end with a joke. The rhythm of the speech seemed to call for it, but he couldn't stick the landing. Instead, his eyes focused on something in the air halfway down the rows of white-topped tables, and he choked on his own tongue. He squinted at his notes, folded them, and retreated from the lectern.
Applause rippled through the borrowed hangar, bouncing from one blue-and-gold frocked tablecloth to another. In the back, Sergeant First Class Brian Clausen might have clapped loudest of all. At just shy of two meters tall and built with all the subtle grace of a barn door, he resembled nothing so much as a besuited grizzly bear, perched improbably upon a folding chair behind a child's tea table.
If any of the high-index folks at the nearby tables had an objection, none made a scene. After all, the power-stack of tabs on Clausen’s left sleeve held little doubt from where he’d come, and he wasn’t alone.
Halstead had been very clear on that. This party was going to invite his boys, or it wasn’t going to happen at all.
The Senators and other very fine people had accepted the deal, but they’d insisted on black tie, mess dress, and absolutely no kegger.
Clausen hammered his hands together, callous on callous.
“Just don’t start yelling,” Sarah whispered up at him.
His fiancée stood beside him, in an incredible form-fitting black tress, trimmed in shimmering green. Sarah Deacon grinned up, her head barely reaching his shoulder, and her smile made his head spin.
“Me? Yell?” Clausen asked. He raised his hands as a mock megaphone.
One look from the tiny faux-angry person at his side, and he dropped them back into another round of applause.
“Is he giving you trouble?” Poole asked as he slipped back into their table. He stood behind his seat, clapping nearly as loudly as Clausen.
“Always,” Sarah said.
Lieutenant Nathan Poole laughed and kept clapping.
“Welcome back, el tee,” Clausen said.
“Sorry about that,” he whispered. “I had to go network.”
“You have fun with that officer stuff.” Clausen agreed. “I don’t want to get stuck with you.”
Poole cackled again. Everyone knew he was getting his captain’s bars soon. “Couldn’t have that, Brian. If I don’t work hard, I’m never gonna make it into the transport corps.”
“Everyone needs trucks, sir.” Clausen agreed.
Poole sighed theatrically, and he plucked a champagne glass from the table. He turned to Sarah and asked, “Honestly, how do you put up with him? After three tours, I’ve lost half my manners, most of my graces, and I think I’m ruined as an officer. How do you manage it?”
“Practice,” she half-joked.
“Hey.”
“Love you, pookums.”
Clausen made a very flat face.
Poole took another sip, then nearly choked. He parlayed the shock into a flourish of the empty glass and used the twirl to draw Clausen’s eyes into the crowd. He whispered, “I just saw Harper.’
“Fuck me, el tee. I thought he was retired?”
“I know! They’re bringing all the big guns!”
Sarah sipped. Half to herself, she added, “I’m just glad you boys are having fun.”
“Could you imagine being there, Brian?” Poole asked. He exhaled as punctuation, his eyes locked on somewhere between the crowd and the infinite, and he used his champagne flute to paint an invisible horizon. “The cowboy days. Fast and dirty, with the whole world on your back. Those were a different kind.”
“Oh no, another cultist.”
Clausen coughed with mock indignation. “Cult? Sarah! It’s just a clubhouse!”
“Look, Bri, there’s only so many ‘lessons on leadership’ essays a man can write. If you own more than five from the same guy, congrats, you’re a cultist.”
“Madam, we’re not a cult. We’re a sect. There’s a difference,” Poole observed. To Clausen, he added, “There’s a shrine in the O-Club. I put some incense on for you, since, you know, you’re unwashed.”
“Thank you, sir. One of my prayers was for your improved skill in land navigation.”
Sarah rolled her eyes, but she passed Clausen his flute as they took their seats.
Clausen explained, “The colonel is a big deal. The biggest. He’s mandatory reading on the teams.”
“Well, you’ll have plenty of time for that,” she agreed. To Poole, she threatened, “And you can’t have him, this time. We’ve cancelled this vacation four times, and this time, I swear-”
Poole bowed in his seat, complete with a flourish. “On my honor as an officer, you will have your fiancée back.”
“Thank you!”
“On the other hand, if you ever want to trade up-”
“El tee, I will drown you in a shallow pool and call it a training accident.”
“He will.” Poole agreed.
“Sorry,” Sarah said. “I’d take you up on that, but, to be honest, he ties me up if I try to leave.”
“Only when you ask,” Clausen stated flatly.
“Brian!”
“Yes, pookums?”
She shoved a dinner roll at him, and he made a show of biting it in half.
Poole poured his glass, extra heavy.
“No date, Nathan?” Sarah asked.
“No,” Poole answered, a little too quickly. “I’m getting ready to rotate. There’s no place for it right now.”
“Makes sense,” Clausen said, in a complete fabrication.
Poole forced a smile. “Once I make staff, I’ll have room to slow down.”
Sarah nodded along and changed the conversation out of mercy. She asked Clausen, “So, are you going to talk to him?”
Clauen shook his head. The dinner roll was suddenly very interesting.
“Come on, Bri!”
“What’s this?” Poole asked.
“He’s been going on all week about what he’d say if he got to talk to the colonel. Well, this is as close as fate will get you. I’m trying to get him to walk across the room.” Sarah nodded towards the head table, where Colonel Halstead chatted with three flag officers.
“That’s Generals Braddock and Howe, plus Admiral Gersch,” Clausen observed.
“You should do it,” Poole said.
“Traitor!”
“Do it. Do it. Do it.” The two chanted at him.
“Both of you!”
“If you don’t, you’ll lie awake all night, talking about how close you got!”
“El tee-”
“Hey, you’re the team lifer, Sarge. I’m just punching a ticket. Get up there!”
“Do it. Do it.” Sarah repeated, tapping her spoon against the tabletop.
“Fine!” He agreed, only in half-mock frustration. He rose from his chair.
“First to fight!” Poole declared.
“Last to quit,” Clausen answered, with the words very clearly translating to, ‘fuck you, sir’.
The two cheered, and Clausen waded into the crowd.
Moving through the mass was a challenge in itself. Clausen had to turn side-on to avoid jostling the attendants, and every passing table was a risk of tears or pulled buttons.
The band started up - a synchron jazz beat hybridized between the horns and an adaptive track. Clausen used that to set a marching cadence.
At the head table, Halstead had moved from the flag officers to a set of elderly men in civilian black tie. Even from here, Clausen could read the beats of the conversation. The Senators would lean in, conspiratorially, and say something. Halstead would smile, point to one of his children, and talk about a ball game. The Senators would lean in again, Halstead might even laugh, and then he’d beckon his wife forward to discuss the renovations they were planning for the ranch.
Clausen slowed. Maybe this hadn’t been the best idea. He didn’t want to intrude.
He came to a stop. It was likely best to turn back.
Then someone grabbed his arm.
The stranger appeared on his left flank, apparating from the crowd like a phantom, and he wrapped his arm around Clausen’s shoulder like an old friend. Clausen recognized the setup for a grapple.
“Hello there, Sergeant,” the stranger growled. He was male, middle-aged, and graying at the temples, but his grip was steel. His eyes glinted from under his leathery and scarred brow. “What brings you to this party?” His face twisted into a scarecrow smile.
Clausen twisted against the hold, prepared to overpower the man with brute strength, but the stranger used his free hand to pull open his jacket and ‘accidentally’ flash his badge. Internal Security Agency. Clausen stiffened.
“Steady, boy. We’re being friendly.” The man started walking, and he pushed Clausen along.
Clausen could win this fight. He was certain. Whether that would be a good idea, he was less positive.
He played along for now and tried to take his assailant’s measure. The agent was strong for his age, likely rejuved, but for some reason without cosmetic restoration. The way the old man scanned the room, though? That was unmistakable. This man was no politician or analyst. This man killed.
“So,” the agent asked, “why are you out here, looking so lost?”
“I wanted to meet the colonel.”
“And why did you stop?”
“He looked busy.”
The agent burst out laughing, something that almost sounded like a wet cough. A passing waitress paused, and the man snagged a cocktail from her tray. He downed the fifty-credit drink in a single gulp and returned it.
“Sir, you can’t-” she protested. When she recognized him, her eyes widened, and she offered him another.
He drank that, too. “What are you pouring?” he asked.
“Grand Barr,” she answered.
“In this? Fuck me, that’s a waste and tastes like shit.”
“The guests prefer-”
“Go back there, make the same thing, and use the fucking blend. Don’t tell anyone. You’ll double your tips.” He glanced at Clausen, as if long suffering. “And bring me two.”
She scurried off, and Clausen protested, “Sir, you don’t need-”
“You’ll like it, Brian.”
His name brought him to a dead halt. “How do you-”
“I’m Agency, numbnuts. They pay me to know.” He straightened his collar, and Clausen caught the run of weighty challenge rings that clung to his leathery knuckles. “Section Chief Michael Raschel, at your service. I’m an old friend of Bill’s.”
His game over, he let Clausen loose.
“Why the goose march, sir?”
“You were about to run away. I cannot abide cowardice.” He glanced towards the head table. “And besides, I couldn’t leave Bill up there by himself with those sponges.”
“Sir?”
“You’re here to meet Bill, right?”
“Yeah.”
“That was rhetorical. You already said it.”
“Yes, si-”
“Stop letting me dominate you! It makes you look like an idiot! You’re trying to impress Miss Deacon, right?”
Clausen glared and did not answer.
“You caught on. Good.” Raschel chuckled. “Play along, and you’ll win tonight.”
The waitress returned and presented her tray, only to find that Raschel had already drained his glass. “Much better, sweetheart. My friend will love it.” He plucked two more from the tray and shoved one into Clausen’s hands. “Charge the company and give yourself something nice.”
She vanished, and Clausen took a sip of his drink. He hated that it tasted good.
“Right?” Raschel asked. “Climb high enough, and you learn how to use the perks.”
Clausen had no reply polite enough to speak aloud.
That only made Raschel laugh harder. “Look, you’re never gonna last in this rat-house unless you learn to take control. Steer the conversation and set the agenda. Work a fucking waitress. That’s easy mode. They’re paid to be deferent.”
“How do you know Colonel Halstead?” Clausen asked.
“Exactly,” Raschel said. He answered, “We go way back. You wouldn’t believe it, but even Bill Fucking Halstead was once a shining little butter bar trying to make his bones. And when you’re growing your career? Who’s a better ally than a savvy, overqualified, and very handsome young field agent from Operations? He learned to read a map, I learned to work the room, and we made great things happen!”
“You knew him from the War?”
“That’s what I said.”
Clausen had a very powerful urge to throw this man into the nearest table. It might end his career or send him to jail, but it would be worth it.
The suckerpunch caught him in the gut, and he doubled forward. Raschel caught him, looking like a friendly embrace, “You were thinking about it. Never think about it."
“How did you-”
“I provoked you.”
“And then you-”
“Agency, son.” Raschel laughed. “For an apology, let’s get you that autograph.” Before Clausen could react, Raschel raised his hand over the crowd and called out, “Bill!”
Colonel Halstead glanced up, and his reaction was immediate.
With one sweep, he pulled his wife behind him. His family vanished behind, and he stepped forward to meet the challenge. The crowd parted, as if split by a wave of heat between the two men, and Halstead growled, “Michael.”
Raschel stepped forward. “Bill, it’s great to see you. He held out his hand.
Halstead glanced at it and waited a long moment before shaking. “Sure.”
“It’s been too long.”
“If you say.”
“Theresa looks lovely-”
Halstead silenced him with a glare.
Raschel chuckled. “Relax, Bill. I’m just here to wish you a happy retirement. You’ve earned it, and the State recognizes that.”
“Thank you,” Halstead managed. “Now if you’ll excuse-”
“I can’t.” Raschel apologized. “I made a promise.”
Halstead’s face froze, his pale eyes scanning the room from under bushy brows. “What kind of promise?”
Raschel gestured back towards Clausen, “This young man is one of yours. A huge fan. I promised I’d get him your attention.”
Clausen apologized, “Sir, I’m sorry. I think this might be a misunderstanding-”
“Huge fan,” Raschel repeated.
Halstead sized him up, scanning his medals and badges as a report and then measuring his countenance. His icy demeanor cracked, and he said, “I’d love to talk with you, Sergeant Clausen.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Raschel snorted. “I’ll be going.But Bill?”
Halstead looked towards him, slightly softer than before.
“I am sorry.” Raschel faded back into the crowd, leaving Clausen standing with Halstead.
“Is this your first time getting Raschel’d?” Halstead asked.
“Yes, sir. Does he do that to everyone?”
Halstead shook his head and gestured towards his table. “Come on over. Did you bring a guest?”
“My fiancée, sir.”
“Bring her. I think you’ll make better conversation than this lot, and Theresa will appreciate someone without a ‘foundation’.” He pronounced the last word as a slur and tilted his head towards the gathered rows of brass and consultants.
“Thank you, sir!”
When he broke the news to Sarah, she thought he was joking. It took both him and Poole to convince her that she was, indeed, being invited to ‘the Big Table’, and that she looked more than fantastic enough to sit at it. The second part was more Poole than Clausen. Clausen had simply argued the true fact that she looked absolutely gorgeous, while Poole had dropped arcane lore on makes, cuts, and styles and how she’d be just fine.
While Sarah would humor battle tales just fine, the primary conversation, as it turned out, was not any grisly story of the second war, nor the cloak and dagger of the long peace after. Instead, Bill and Theresa Halstead mainly talked about goats, irrigation, and demilling an orange zone grid to make it suitable for ranching.
Clausen drank down every second of it, from the colonel’s fixation on a barn truss that wouldn’t set, to the oldest son describing his triumphs in the zone traveling league. He carved every bit of it into memory, especially when he looked over, Sarah squeezed his forearm, and she smiled that smile that collapsed his entire world onto a single point.
But caught in that very best moment of his life, he never heeded the damning sight at the bar. There, Raschel leaned against the wall and raised his last drink in silent salute. If Clausen had paid attention, he'd have known a funeral toast when he saw it.