Assassin’s Honor - a short story
The economic turmoil and unemployment of the first part of the century caused the population at large to become creative and motivated. Many united to fight in the revolution. Those that tried to continue their normal working lives were forced to become creative to find work. Professors became farmers. Accountants became carpenters. Those that had done the manual labor were displaced by the competition. The displaced became the fighters in the revolution, or they became outlaws.
It was survival of the fittest, 21st century style. The revolution had disposed of the power structure that had been skimming off the top. But in its place was a power vacuum. The revolution basically represented a trade. Prior to the revolution those that made the rules ripped off the general population. After the revolution rules were put in place to ensure that the common citizen was not ripped off, then the rules were broken.
In many ways, the revolution had changed nothing. Sure, things had seemed calm before it, but it had been an illusion. After the revolution the facade of calm control was no longer there, but little had fundamentally changed. The poor still worked without getting ahead, and those that schemed well got rich. Those that pushed the boundaries a bit too far died. Of course, the decentralized militia did complicate matters a bit.
Before the revolution the propaganda was that a high tech centralized military was the only thing that kept the country safe from attack. It turns out it wasn’t the only way. We went back to our roots when the common man worked and fought just like many other countries still do. One country made the mistake of thinking that it would make us an easy target and their entire invasion force was annihilated. Around fifty soldiers were marching through one town when a gang of bikers tore through them on Harleys firing shotguns and tossing grenades. Five bikers were killed, but after killing every soldier they could find (they weren’t known for taking prisoners) they saddled up and rode on to the next town itching for another fight. It was soon apparent that there were only two choices. Nuke us or leave us. They left.
A bunch of loosely controlled militias were a great defense strategy. Of course, they were a little hard to control. That created a new job opportunity. Assassin’s had been covertly sent overseas before the revolution, but now assassins were deployed domestically. It was much more cost effective than the old common law court system. Of course, it was also against the rules. So even though assassins carried out a vital role in maintaining the overall stability of the nation, we were responsible for making sure that we didn’t get caught. That was the check and balance of it. As an assassin you took no unnecessary chances. You made no unnecessary hits. And you got paid in advance.
I still find it a bit ironic that as an assassin I get paid in advance. Of course, getting paid after a hit would mean that the powers in charge that hired you were complicit. If they knew you were successful and allowed you to pick up your pay, then they become accomplices. If, on the other hand, they pay you up front in something untraceable such as gold coins, then they have plausible deniability. The irony being that if you don’t complete the hit within the time required an assassin will be hired to kill you. There are rules, but what really makes the whole system work is honor. Like the Samurai of the distant past, assassins conduct themselves according to this code of honor. Any assassin that fails to live up to the code of conduct has many peers who will seek to ensure that the behavior is not repeated.
Once the pay is accepted, there is no turning back. There is no way to return payment. An assassin must be sure of the job before he accepts it.
And so when I check the websites looking for assignments encrypted within photos that thousands of web surfers view I do my homework carefully. I have lived in a dozen cities since my last job. I do not stay in one place as then I would have to explain my absence when I do a job. By constantly moving I always blend in then disappear. A nomadic assassin. Today I am in an ocean side hotel room with the windows open and a salty breeze blowing in. I find an encrypted message with my ID tag and open it. My body tightened immediately when I saw the pay was three time the normal fee. I was to kill an assassin.
This assassin had broken the code. He had accepted payment and not made the hit. It was that simple. So I was honor bound to take him out. If I found his payment, that was a bonus. If I took payment and couldn’t find him that would be a difficult situation. That explained the large fee. This was a high risk assignment. Most of the time you knew you could find the target. But a fellow assassin who knew that he’d become the target of a peer would be very hard to find indeed.
I checked out and rented the fishing boat per the instructions. I motored out to a remote location and looked under the seat. Two hundred one ounce gold coins. Twelve pounds of gold. If it was missing when I returne the boat then I’d have sixty days to complete the assignment. I watched the waves drift across the water and took deep salty breaths. I could take a year off after this assignment. After catching a half hour of late afternoon rays I return the boat and toss the bag of coins in my trunk.
The intel said his last known location was just up the coast from me in a large city that would be easy to get lost in. The photo showed him in long dark hair, but recent intel indicated he had cut it short and shaved his beard. Assassin’s rarely had anything so distinctive as tattoos and most of us didn’t even wear jewelry. Nothing unique. Nothing memorable. Average. We were never there.
I checked into a hotel and slipped into some tan slacks and a pale blue shirt. I slipped a Chief’s Special into my pants but didn’t expect to use it. A 38 Special would make a lot of noise. This was a job for my “PDA”. I carried a real PDA and a PDA that only looked real. It was actually a dart gun powered by a simple CO2 cartridge. Very quiet, very reliable, unremarkable, and with the right poison, very effective.
I walked down to street level and headed to the waterfront section of town. Assassins tend to avoid very small coffee shops and restaurants because anyone can stand out. And we avoid very big places with many people because they are unpredictable. So I walked along until I found a cafe that seemed right and stepped inside. Right now I was just thinking “What would I do?”. If I didn’t find him that way, I’d try plan B.
I took a seat by the wall and ordered an espresso. By the opposite wall was a man who could be my target. My heart rate increased. I glaced at him then looked out the window. He was reading a paper. He was the right height, the right weight. He looked just like the photo that I had memorized. Would it really go down day one? I had expected a couple of weeks of tracking to be needed.
I was trying to convince myself that I had the right man. Not that the rest of society seemed to care much when you got the wrong guy, but we cared. It was a matter of honor. Then, while I was looking left out the window, someone sat down to my right. This was not a good sign.
“New in town?” the stranger said.
I turned and came face to face with the photograph, including the long hair and beard.
“He looks a lot like me, eh?” He said nodding towards the one across the cafe. Then he added “I know why you are here.”
“Was I that obvious?” I asked?
“No, but I have my own intel.” he replied. “All I ask is that you hear me out first. You have only been told part of the story, and you were told lies. I never took the payment. They have other reasons for wanting me silenced.” the stranger said calmly.
We talked for some time. I believed him. You can measure a man’s sincerity better when you are talking face to face. You can never be sure what is the truth, but he convinced me that he spoke more of the truth than those that hired me.
And that is how I came to join the Second Revolution. But, unlike my leader, I kept the payment.
- the Muse