Tevun-Krus #71 - Spy-Fi

Tomorrow Is Just the Day After's Yesterday - A Short Story by @MadMikeMarsbergen

"Well, agents, to start things off and to be perfectly frank: You're white and he's black. The world just isn't ready for a black Agent 0071. What? What is it? Don't look at me like that, agents. Not me. It's not me you should be angry with. You know I'm ready. Because I am ready. Believe me, I'm ready. I'm all for it. Don't look at me thinking I'm racist, because I'm not. If it were up to me, I'd make every double-0 agent black, just to throw a spanner in the works, all in the name of equality. But alas, I can't do that. Even I, the current I of Spies and Other Secret Things International, Incorporated, or, SOSTII, cannot do such wild, progressive ideas. I've got a boss, too, y'know. The Holy Oak—"

"Sir," said Agent John Bland, completely unremarkable, hoping to redirect I's always-wandering, totally not-racist mind. "The Holy Oak is, of course, the greatest psychospiritual entity ever to grace the Royal Empire's collective consciousness, and may Her roots always reach our souls—"

"Bless Her," everyone said together.

"—but this isn't about the Holy Oak," John Bland continued, motioning to his big black friend beside him. "This is about the two of us. Karter and myself. Two prospective agents vying for the elusive and very much esteemed 0071 title, so one of us can put on a suit and go off with a license to kill and eliminate some rich scumbag, all while fucking exotic women and driving expensive, nice-looking cars. Do I have that quite right, I?"

"Yes, yes," the old man said, nodding so ferociously his cheeks flopped around. "And both of you were the best of the best, top scores!" he added with a that's-the-ticket-old-chap sideways fist-pump.

"Wha' were they?" said Agent Karter Hobson, six-four, black, built like an Olympic sprinter had fucked a dude in a wheelchair with biceps swollen to the size of basketballs. "If we're the best o' the bloo'y best, I'm real curious 'ow good we really are."

I went white as a sheet. His blue eyes darted left and right. "I— I'm going to h-h-have to ask you to calm down, g-good s-sir."

John Bland stepped in. "Karter is perfectly calm, I, sir. Perhaps it is you who needs to chillax. We're all friends here. We would just like to know our scores, sir. It's interesting it's even up for discussion, since, well"—he laughed to himself—"I fumbled the gun-barrel bit and ended up accidentally shooting Andy, the guy observing my test."

"Shi', mate," Karter said. "I go' mine dead-on. Record time, too."

"Er, how is Andy?" I asked.

"Dead, of course," John told him. "I may have tripped over my own shoelaces"—he flopped the untied laces around—"but when I shoot someone, they die."

"Ah, well," the old man said, waving it away. "Karter, you scored 97%. John, with the top score, congratulations: 62%."

"Er—" said both agents.

"Of course the only agent in the history of Spies and Other Secret Things International, Incorporated, or, SOSTII, to ever get 100% on the 0071 test is Calvin Wu, but he can't get the gig on account of this outdated SOSTII policy...

"Listen, you two." I cupped his right hand around his mouth and whispered: "I can't do anything else. I'm sorry." He shrugged. "The Holy Oak." Louder now: "Congratulations John Bland, or should I say Agent 0071—you'll be receiving a contract now via your brain implant; all the details are there. And Karter, congratulations on being promoted to Agent 0072. You can start by getting a good night's rest. We begin moving my office tomorrow morning."

Karter stomped his feet. "I'm bloo'y 'elpin' you move? Wha' are you playin' at?"

"Oh, and Karter?"

"Yessir?"

"First thing in the morning, son."

"Shit."

"Bless the Holy Oak, gentlemen."

"Bless Her," they all said.

"Come on, Karter." John eased the new 0072 out into the hall. "I'll buy you a new girl for your implant."

"Mate, I wan' abou' fifteen o' them for this. This is bullshit, Jono."

They were laughing. Then they noticed the long line of blokes still waiting to see I. Not one of them at the front was white. And not a single woman.

"Say nothing about my promotion," John whispered, noting the name badge on the Asian dude at the front of the line. Calvin Wu. Going for 0071 once again, was he? And failing—because the system was rigged.

Bless the Holy Oak? Fuck the Holy Oak. The Holy Oak should burn if that's the way She played.

The white guys started popping up near the end of the line. Almost all of them appeared to be related.

Hell no. This had to stop.

John Bland, 0071 for all of five minutes, was going rogue.