The Gaming Outpost

I finished my last katas in the second floor dojo, bowed to Sensei Greg, took a shower, joked with the Walking Man who looked typically severe, and dressed in my white terry cloth robe for a walk through Percival House, the headquarters of the world’s most secret spy service, located in London, and headed by C. The self-same alphabetical man, clad in a Brooks Brothers suit, and a wine-red vest, looked up from the papers two assistants were plying him with as he walked down the maple wainscotted hallway toward me.
“Ah, Patrick. Just the man I needed to see.” His voice was genial, and courteous, as befitted one of the most powerful and ruthless men in the world. His two assistants dropped back a bit.
“Sir?”
Both of us were versers, that is interdimensional travellers of a peculiar kind, so I was his peer, but at the same time, he was C. So I said, sir.
“New Delhi Accords just got a big boost from the datadownload from the Artic. Already the Greens are trumpetting the data, which got leaked, of course.”
I thought, NDA…oh, yes, the Enviromental Rules Protocol that the West was being hectored in to following, which would cost us hundreds of billions of dollars, and the very same Hectorer’s Club of nations that were second rank economies were the ones producing most of the pollutants and creating loopholes for themselves to escape the damage.
“I hope I’m not going after newspaper reporters and slimy government bueraucrats looking to expand their particular cabbage patch.” I said dolefully.
C shook his head.
“You’d fix the problem Patrick in such a way that their grandchildren were still talking about the damage.”

I winced. C was politely saying I was most unsubtle. Well, true, I had burned a billionaire oil sheikhs mansion down once, and sank his yacht…
“And grenaded the headquarters of the IRA, and sent that virus to the Internal Revenue.”
“That last one could have been anyone, sir.” I protested.
He just looked at me. Well, okay, I had been audited, and I was angry and drunk…
“The mission, sir?” I said deciding to change the topic.
“I’d been suspicious, so I had the various artic sensors rigged to send up a data burst to the sats. What they sent, and what Calper Base, which is the data agreggator sent, are different.”
I blinked. The various sensor packages scattered about the artic said A, and the Calper Base said the sensors said B.
“Calper Base is infiltrated by Gaians, isn’t it?”
“It seems likely, Patrick. Unless all the mistakes they’ve made in the last two months have just accidentally been the sort that benefit the Gaians. Purely by chance, as it were.”
He and I shared a short laugh at his jest.
“So…”
“Patrick, you’re not subtle. That’s why I want you. I want a clear message sent to the Gaians and their allies in the Mideast Oil Combine, the Shiekhs. Don’t mess with our data.”
“Or else.” I added.
“Or else.” He agreed.
I nodded and walked away whistling. Like the Good Book says, there is a time to kill, and Patrick the Knife looks to be getting in some practise. It kept things interesting.