[ WP ] A Sci-Fi Changing of the Guard Story

Marcus is standing in something called a `` server room'', surrounded by blinking rows of `` racks.'' He wipes his forehead with his pocket square, and adjusts the shoulder holster hanging under his arm. The sweat is bad for the leather, but even worse for the revolver itself. He has n't sweat like this since Albuquerque. Christ, *that* was a shit show. 
 
 His guide, an extremely young-looking kid from the new computer division, is bent down next to one of the racks, and is saying something about bandwidth and processing speeds. Or something. Marcus is wearing his best suit and the server room is incredibly hot. He can barely hear the guide over the roar of massive fans embedded in the ceiling. 
 
 At last, the tour group leaves the server room and steps back into the hallway. `` And those servers,'' the kid is saying, `` are how we caught the Boston marathon bombers and stopped the Chicago Union Square bomber.'' 
 
 At the mention of Chicago, Marcus can not suppress a snort. What a smarmy little shit, with his stupid computer glasses and his `` smartwatch''. He cleared his throat, and spoke. `` The Chicago bomber was stopped by Bill Gibson. He shot the guy three times, Mozambique-style.'' 
 
 The kid nods. `` Yes, of course, he was part of the force that we mobilized once our data analytics had determined the optimal patrol size and likely target routes.'' Marcus wipedshis face again, clearing the last of the sweat from the server room. He pushes his way to the front of the group, the other men moving aside for him. 
 
 `` No, that's bullshit. Bill was a beat cop. That was his beat. He would have been there with or without your bullshit analytics. You guys had nothing to do with it.'' Marcus stops in front of the kid, intentionally stepping just inside the kid's personal space, forcing him to step back. Old alpha dog trick. 
 
 `` That's how we stop crime. We put our lives on the line. We stand on the wall. We *shoot* bad guys. That's what we do.'' 
 
 The kid's cheek are flushed, now. `` Of course, there's always a place for a physical police presence, but I think you'll find that our advanced search algorithms and network of surveillance-'' The kid cuts off as Marcus pokes him in the chest. 
 
 `` Bullshit! Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.'' Poke, poke, poke. `` All the computers in the world are n't going to stop a gunman from killing a baby and its mother. Are *you* going to be the one to stop him? You going to stand in front of his gun? You going to *shoot* him?'' He is almost nose-to-nose with the kid now. 
 
 `` Son, tell me, have you even shot a gun?'' 
 
 The kid is sweating now, and it's not because of the heat. `` No, I have n't.'' He answers, quietly. 
 
 `` No. Because they do n't require that anymore in the academy. Did n't you ever shoot a gun on your own time, did n't your father ever teach you how to shoot?'' 
 
 The kid stands there, mouth open. `` Of course not, I'm a Progressive. So is my dad.'' 
 
 Marcus stares at him, this kid who wears a badge and has never shot a gun. The others in the tour group mutter beneath their breath to each other. The kid looks from face to face. 
 
 `` Look, I'm sorry, ok? I know you guys are angry about the consolidation. It was n't our idea, we are n't your enemy. We did n't want to take your offices. We needed more space for the servers, we have to have more capacity.'' The kid says, almost pleading. `` I know you guys saw the stats in the last scrum meeting. Thanks to us, crime is at record lows! And we're going to push it even lower, with the new network, with the camera-bots and the automated patrol rovers.'' 
 
 Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Marcus knows that he should just let it go, that *he's* the odd one out now, but he's heard enough. He pushes the kid against the wall. `` Flying cameras? Robot cars? When the shit hits the fan, where will you be? You'll behind your god damn computer, with your keyboard and your mouse, your pasty white skin and your weak ass arms!'' For emphasis, he pushes the kid into the wall again. 
 
 Something in the kid shifts, and he stands up straighter. Looks Marcus in the eye. `` For starters, Marcus B. Sterling, I can do a lot more than fly cameras or drive'robot cars.''' He adjusts his glasses, touching the corner of the frames with one finger. `` For instance, I know exactly how much money you have, where the accounts are located, and where you go to drink yourself stupid every night.'' 
 
 The kid steps forward., forcing Marcus back a half step. `` I know where your wife works, where your daughter goes to college, and who your friends are. If I wanted to, I could steal all your money and send it to fucking Iran, or just zap it into a black hole. Forever. You would n't be making that tuition payment due in three weeks, for one thing, and you'd probably go bankrupt in six months from the medical bills for your lung cancer.'' 
 
 A few men in the group gasp. Marcus stares at him. `` How did you...'' 
 
 `` How did I know? Because I'm a fucking professional, Marcus, just like you. I acquired your health records while you were pushing me against the wall like a fucking Neanderthal. If I really wanted to fuck with you, I'd adjust the dosage on the prescription for your mother's heart medication, maybe send her to the hospital to die alone in some shitty ward for poor people. Maybe I'd fuck up the air traffic control so you ca n't catch a flight in time to hold her hand when she kicks it.'' The kid surveys the group, shakes his head. 
 
 `` I can make the Mexican cartels start a war with the Texas gangs, just by spoofing a few IPs, sending some fake emails, and moving some money around. I can bring drug trafficking to its knees with ten minutes of work. How many'bad guys' will kill each other over that, I wonder?'' The kid takes off his glasses, rubs his eyes. 
 
 `` The problem with you guys, it's all about the streets with you. You grew hard there, it's what you know, so you expect us to be hard like you. But we do n't deal with streets. We deal with bigger problems, ok? And that's why you guys are getting edged out. The money is n't in abusive husbands and petty drug lords. The money is in guys like me, who keep the lights on when Iranian and Chinese assholes want to overload our power grid and plunge this country into darkness. How many people in Minnesota would die if their power and heating systems failed in the middle of winter? A couple thousand? A couple *hundred* thousand? You guys may stop a few bullets, save a few lives, but we save thousands every day.'' The kid spreads his hands at his sides, palms up. `` We just do n't need that many of you anymore, you guys are n't the right tool.'' 
 
 Marcus feels sorry for himself, for his guys, for the kid. When did police work become a computer game? He looks at the kid, sees the lean body, the fading acne. He sees someone his daughter might date. 
 
 `` When the power goes out, or the system fails, or whatever, it's guys like us who will be out there, protecting the people and bringing order to the chaos.'' He says. 
 
 The kid nods. `` That's right, Agent Sterling, sure. I do n't disagree. But let's make a deal, alright: my guys? We'll do everything in our power to keep the lights on. And if they go off-'' 
 
 `` *When* they go off,'' Marcus corrects him. 
 
 `` *When* they go off, you guys protect *us*.'' The kid says. 
 
 `` That sounds about right.'' Marcus agrees. 
 
 `` One more thing,'' says the kid. 
 
 `` Yeah? What?'' 
 
 `` When the lights do come back on, and they will, we will find those responsible, we will trace them back to their countries, their cities, their homes, and we will shut. them. *down*.'' The sober fury in the kid's voice surprises Marcus, and he hears a man's conviction behind it. He grins, and extends his hand. 
 
 `` You got yourself a deal, kid.''
