Forge Netting 31: String Puller

An old man, though you wouldn’t know it to look at him. He laaughed – most of the people who were still playing all those stupid games were old men who should be long dead, but physical bodies were easily reset mechanisms these days. He walked amongst people who should recognise him if there awareness level were above that of a coma victim. He had sat down with these men at negotiating tables and made deals with them that made them billions, and had cost the world its memory.

LEthe, yes, he had worked for them. The Engineer? He’d set that little antagonistic bastard up too. Colin? Didn’t take much of a push. The project which had created Ensign? Check. The counter-project which had created Swift? Well, he had a hand that too. Shifting loyalties? No, never. No, what it constituted was crafting tools for the moment, thinking about repair systems to put in place to clean up the inevitable mess, and moving on after that.

That none of these things had ended cycle and were carrying on was a frustration, an inconvenience, but it was not an unplanned for eventuality. In the intelligence community there were operatives and there were handlers, and then there were the men behind the handlers who came up with the ideas. He was the man behind the men with the ideas.

If there was anyone alive that actually thought that politicians did anything other than make loud noises and fuck inappropriate animals, and actually had any kind of power, he hadn’t met them. Sure, some people believed in the military industrial complex and their Zionist agenda to cause dieback in the population of a mind-controlled world that they wished to reign over, but that was all the paranoid wank fantasises of some hacker nerd with a stack full of papers made up of half-truths and misinformation.

Why would anyone who want real power have anything to do with politics? Why would he have anything to do with an outmoded system such as capitalism? Why would he even be visible? This old man was a ghost in the machine – the machine a notional analogy that had more working parts than an exploded diagram could handle.

His name was buried under more than cover names than most of the services in their entirety could lay claim to. God might possibly have a few more names than this man, but that wasn’t assured.

‘Hello?’

‘Peter?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Colin needs to retire.’

‘Understood.’

He hung up. Dialled a new number. His phone replica was old school – just how he liked it.

‘Paul?’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘LEthe to oblivion.’

‘Understood.’

He repeated the action of hanging up and dialling a new number.

‘Mary?’

‘Sir?’

‘Spanner in the works.’

‘Understood.’

Standing down the assets would be easy to a degree. Those who wouldn’t comply would be retired. Then he and the rest of his crew would disappear into the shadows and continue pulling the strings once more.

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