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Where Legal Eagles Dare: An Opco Boone Adventure: Difference between revisions

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Where Legal Eagles Dare: An Opco Boone Adventure (view source)

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Kurzweil shrugged. “We’re all good, aren’t we, Bugsy?”  
Kurzweil shrugged. “We’re all good, aren’t we, Bugsy?”  


“According to policy 230823.913 revision nine, they count as hostiles. It’s no trouble, boss-man. Seriously.” Bugsy loved to throw the book. He had a wild streak — hell, most uniform bulls in legal ops did: the [[chief double-oh]] encouraged it. But this was no reluctant policy compliance matter for Operating Officer Cadet [[Walter N. Buggs]], [[MBA|M.B.A.]] (Insead). This was ''job satisfaction''.  “C’mon: It’s in the [[service catalog]], Kurtzy.” Bugsy was pleading now.
“According to policy 230823.913 revision nine, they count as hostiles. It’s no trouble, boss-man. Seriously.” Bugsy loved to throw the book. He had a wild streak — hell, most uniform bulls in legal ops did: the [[chief double-oh]] encouraged it. But this was no reluctant policy compliance matter for Operating Officer Cadet [[Walter N. Buggs]], [[MBA|M.B.A.]] (''Insead''). This was ''job satisfaction''.  “C’mon: It’s in the [[service catalog]], Kurtzy.” Bugsy was pleading now.


“Ahh, hang it, Bugs. Why the hell not? Go on: light ’em up.”  
“Ahh, hang it, Bugs. Why the hell not? Go on: light ’em up.”  
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Bugsy’s ack-ack let rip — the [[GMSLA]] guy went up like a candle.  
Bugsy’s ack-ack let rip — the [[GMSLA]] guy went up like a candle.  


Bugsy whooped. “[[SOX]] attest ''that'' my litte paisan! Ha-ha!”  
Bugsy whooped. “[[SOX]] attest ''that'' my little paisan! Ha-ha!”  


Bugsy blammed out a second: a lame-ass two-way [[confi]] flare. It was a weak round — not usually fatal at such a distance but enough to pacify a lightweight aggressor. But Bugsy was a true shot. He caught the [[futures]] guy square on an ops schedule. He squealed. He turned tight circles. His [[escalation]] circuits crackled, popped and smoked out. The jockster conked out and crashed, face-down in the sand, little green flames licking around his his annex.  
Bugsy blammed out a second: a lame-ass two-way [[confi]] flare. It was a weak round — not usually fatal at such a distance but enough to pacify a lightweight aggressor. But Bugsy was a true shot. He caught the [[futures]] guy square on an ops schedule. He squealed. He turned tight circles. His [[escalation]] circuits crackled, popped and smoked out. The jockster conked out and crashed, face-down in the sand, little green flames licking around his his annex.  
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Kurzweil re-blinked up the [[MIS]] readout in his head-up display for [[SME]] activity. ''Beautiful'': flatline.  
Kurzweil re-blinked up the [[MIS]] readout in his head-up display for [[SME]] activity. ''Beautiful'': flatline.  


“That’ll do, Bugsy, you mad bastard,” Kurzweil chuckled. “Confirmed kills. Chalk up the [[KPI]]s and let’s get those portfolios reassigned to [[School-leaver from Bucharest|Bucharest]] [[toot-sweet]].”
“That’ll do, Bugsy, you mad bastard,” Kurzweil chuckled. “Confirmed kills. Chalk up the [[KPI]]s and let’s get those portfolios reassigned to [[School-leaver from Bucharest|Bucharest]], [[toot-sweet]].”


“On it, boss.”  
“On it, boss.”  


Bugsy called them into to [[Chief double-oh|C double-oh]] on the encrypted two-way comlink. He rocked the sing-song ham radio chit-chat idiom. “Central control, this is KPI-Delta-One-Niner filing our hourly [[stakeholder]] check-in, do you copy, over?”  
Bugsy called them into to [[Chief double-oh|C double-oh]] on the encrypted two-way comlink. He rocked the sing-song ham radio chit-chat idiom: “Central control, this is KPI-Delta-One-Niner filing our hourly [[stakeholder]] check-in, do you copy, over?”  


Cadet Maxine Blitzer staffed the mic back at the double-oh HQ. She was a scone-doer so they kept her away from active engagement. “KPI-Delta-One-Niner, this is Central Control: we read you loud and clear, Bugsy. Go ahead, over.”
Cadet Maxine Blitzer staffed the mic at the double-oh HQ. She was a regular scone-doer, so they kept her away from active engagement. “KPI-Delta-One-Niner, this is Central Control: we read you loud and clear, Bugsy. Go ahead, over.”


A static burst shook the set. Bugsy punched in. “Central Control, this is KPI-Delta-One-Niner: Top of the morning to you, Blitzy. We are reporting the coast is clear. Repeat: The coast is clear.  
A static burst shook the set. Bugsy punched in. “Central Control, this is KPI-Delta-One-Niner: Top of the morning to you, Blitzy. We are reporting the coast is clear. Repeat: The coast is clear.  
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<center>***</center>
<center>***</center>


High on the mountain promontory, Seven klicks to the left and 4,000m above of the oncoming rig, Boone observed the rising plume on the desert floor. He didn’t need his telegraphic scope to watch: These morons were coming on, clear as day. Their MIS signature lit up half the goddamn sky. Taking them down would be simple pleasure.
High on the mountain promontory, Seven klicks west and 4,000 metres up, Boone observed the rising plume on the desert floor. He didn’t need his telegraphic scope to watch: These morons were clear as day. Their MIS signature lit up half the goddamn sky. Taking them down would be simple pleasure.


Boone barked into his wrist-comm. “All right, [[Genevieve “Chip” Carpenter|Chip]], I’m going in.”
Boone barked into his wrist-comm. “All right, [[Genevieve “Chip” Carpenter|Chip]], I’m going in.”
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The [[GC]] came on the line. Her voice was nasal, uptight: more even than usual. “Now listen here, Boone. No funny stuff, this time. I ''mean'' it. We have to play this by the book. Do you hear?”
The [[GC]] came on the line. Her voice was nasal, uptight: more even than usual. “Now listen here, Boone. No funny stuff, this time. I ''mean'' it. We have to play this by the book. Do you hear?”


Boone looked up from the wrist-comm. He regarded the great expanse, yawning away beneath him to the far horizon, where a curlicue of smoke bleached pink in the dying sunset rose above Lawyertown, from where, in a forensic bunker, the GC addressed him. For a moment, Boone smiled. He wallowed in brilliantine recollections of those wondrous times; that beautiful settlement. These were his kin. His people. His ''life''. His ''home''. Boone drank it in: the beauty. The tranquil traditions. The ancient beauty. The august institutions. The whole gamut of ''[[precedent]]''. Imponderable. ''Indispensable''.
Boone looked up from the wrist-comm. He regarded the great expanse beneath him, yawning away to the horizon. A curlicue of smoke, tainted pink in the dying sunset, rose above Lawyertown. It was from there, in a forensic bunker, the GC addressed him.  


Chip wanted to tackle this invasion, head-on. “We’ve charged up the ineffability shields. We’ve flooded the prolixity ditches. We’re confident they’ll hold. We need you ''back here'', Boone.”
For a moment, Boone smiled. He wallowed in brilliantine recollections of his wonderful life in that  settlement. Boone drank in the beauty. These were his kin. His people. His ''life''. His ''home''.  The tranquil traditions. The ancient solemnity. The august institutions. The whole gamut of ''[[precedent]]''. Imponderable. ''Indispensable''. And all this, dangling in the balance, attached by a single [[golden thread]].


Could she not see what was coming? From up here, as this convoy of wreckers drilled relentlessly across the badlands at the settlement, like some crazed Taliban, propelled by demented organisational theory, it was crystal clear. This was a mobile apocalypse, a direct vector, thundering across the desert to destroy the civilisation and everything it stood for — down to every last goddamn ''brick''. Did Chip just expect them to stand there while the double-ohs ran over them?  
This was too much to risk. Yet, Chip wanted to tackle this invasion, head-on.
 
“We’ve charged up the ineffability shields. We’ve flooded the prolixity ditches. We’re think they’ll hold.”
 
“You ''think'' so?”
 
“We need you back here, Opco.”
 
Boone exhaled. ''Could she not see what was coming?'' From up here, as this convoy of wreckers drilled relentlessly across the badlands at the settlement, like some crazed Taliban, propelled by demented organisational theory, it was crystal clear: unless they did something, ''Lawyertown was doomed''. This was a mobile apocalypse, on a direct vector for the heart of the settlement, thundering across the desert. It would destroy the civilisation — everything it stood for — down to every last goddamn ''brick''.
 
Did Chip just expect him to stand there while the double-ohs ran over them?  


“Not while there’s breath in me,” Boone said.  
“Not while there’s breath in me,” Boone said.  


<center>***</center>
<center>***</center>
Kurzweil flipped through the dossier.  
Kurzweil flipped through the payload. He primed the [[risk taxonomy]]. He unclipped the spend ratio metrics.  
<center>***</center>
<center>***</center>
The wrist-com crackled. The comlink channel was open.
The wrist-com crackled. The comlink channel was open.
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<center>***</center>
<center>***</center>
The wing-suit man pulled in his flaps, trimmed his jib and adjusted his pitch and yaw. He rocked the [[gaze heuristic]] and kept the angle of approach constant to be 20 meters ahead of the rig. The sun was behind him. It threw his shadow on the trailer: nice touch of serendipity. He riffed on dogs and crocodiles while the seconds ticked down.
Boone tilted down and tweaked the airflow over the leading edge. He trimmed his pitch. The roll and yaw were good. He rocked the [[gaze heuristic]] and kept the angle of approach constant. He targeted a zone above and ahead of the rig.  


Boone could hear Chip, still babbling in his comlink. ''Dammit''. He cursed his own attention span: he had left the comlink back to GCHQ open. It was too late to do anything about that: at three-twenty knots he could hardly flip it to silent now: any arm-shift would bugger his trajectory and put him into an aerodynamic stall or some kind of flat spin. He had to let the GC run. But she wouldn’t let it go. The old girl was really busting his balls.  
Chip still babbled in his comlink. ''Dammit''. He cursed his own error: he left the link back to GCHQ open when he jumped. It was too late to do anything about that: at three-twenty knots he could hardly flip it to silent now: any arm-shift would bugger his trajectory and put him into an aerodynamic stall or some kind of flat spin. He had to let the GC run. But she wouldn’t let it go. The old girl was really busting his balls.


Boone was zooming. The ambient buffetting was off the charts. The suit was shaking like a bastard. The GC was yakking like a rabbit. Boone kept the rig bottom left in the viewfinder. “Steady ... steady ...”  
Boone was zooming. The ambient buffetting was off the charts. The suit was shaking like a bastard. The GC was yakking like a rabbit. Boone kept the rig bottom left in the viewfinder. “Steady ... steady ...”  


The suit’s digital voice assistant kicked into his earpiece. The DVA was a gas. It had a west-country drawl. Boone spent hours customising it. “GROUNDSPEED READOUT: 245 KNOTS ACROSS THE GROUND.”
The suit’s digital voice assistant kicked in his earpiece. The DVA was a gas: it had a west-country drawl. Boone spent hours customising it. “GROUNDSPEED READOUT: 145 KNOTS ACROSS THE GROUND.”
 
“Hey, Denning, what’s cooking — ”
 
The bot chimed.


Boone bulleted at the trailer. 2000m and closing. The shaking was immense.
Boone bulleted onwards at the trailer. Two thousand metres and closing. The shaking was immense.


[[Chip]] kept up the [[yogababble]].  
[[Chip]] kept up the disciplinary threat [[yogababble|babble]].  


“Denning, give me a range to target.”
“Denning, give me a range to target.”


Denning counted down range, altitude and ground-speed vital intel.  
The DVA counted down range, altitude and ground-speed: vital intel.


Boone bulleted. He hit three hundred.
Boone hit two hundred. He bulleted onwards.


Chip yapped out parking warden threats.
Chip yapped out parking ticket duty warnings.


Denning intoned downrange coordinates.  
Denning intoned downrange coordinates.


Boone bulleted. Three-twenty across the ground. The rig loomed real close now.
Boone made two-twenty across the ground.  He bulleted onwards. The rig loomed real close now.  


[[Chip]] ran out of sanctimonious material. Boone caught the tail end of Denning’s read out. “ ... impact target T minus four seconds.”
[[Chip]] ran out of sanctimonious material and went quiet. Boone caught the tail end of Denning’s read out. “ ... impact target T minus four seconds.”


Boone yanked the ripcord. The brake-chute bloomed. Boone jerked back and up. He flipped a backwards 540. He quick-released the canvas straps and dropped the last fifteen feet through empty space. He cracked a three-point hero land on the cabin roof.
Boone yanked the ripcord. The brake-chute bloomed. Boone jerked back and up. He flipped a backwards 540. He quick-released the canvas straps and dropped the last fifteen feet through empty space. He cracked a three-point hero land on the cabin roof.
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“What the hell was that?”
“What the hell was that?”


Kurzweil froze.
Kurzweil froze. He blinked up the head-up display. Clear.




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