Dyna: Aries’ Turf War

ARIES' TURF WAR
A Dyna Adventure

In his dark inner sanctum, the warrior breathed in and out, readying for the conflict of the day.  He wished it were for battle simply with his spear, sword and shield.  He missed those old days when he had to actually stare into the eyes of his enemies before he slashed their necks in half, or skewered their hearts. 

But not today.  Now one could simply kill millions… billions… within minutes simply by pressing a button or turning a key.  And it could be on the other end of the world, too.  He shook his head.  This simply wasn't the way.

No matter.  What was wanting in quality, was being made up in quantity.  Perhaps with enough of the latter… things would return to the days of the former.  Steeling himself, he stood up. 

"Time to enter the fray."

He stood up.  And with a wave of his hand, his spear and sword collapsed like telescopes into their hilts, which retracted to no one knew where.  The breastplate and tunic gelled, and reshaped into a navy blue blazer and white Oxford shirt.  The helmet melted, and reformed around his neck as a copper necktie.  His shin guards formed the suit's trousers, and the boots shrank into very nice black Italian penny loafers.  And the shield shrank into an old-fashioned wristwatch.

And with that, the war god Aries entered the office and the mortal world again… as Perry Belham.

***

As he strode into the lavish, marble walled, granite floored room, the intercom speaker on his kidney-shaped mahogany desk buzzed.  "Secretary Enriquez on line 1, El Sangroso Rico on line 2, President Sutjikarta on line 3, and Colonel Motaung, Generals Mposei and Yebo, and Field Marshal Eneyobi on 4 through 7."

Pressing 1, he picked up.  "Hola, Señor Enriquez… okay, okay, Paco it is… yes, I'll see what I can do.  What exactly do you need? — Well, I definitely think I can help.  The police all across America have been asking for these bulletproof vests, helmets, flash-bang grenades, and sniper rifles, but I think I can send send you some right away…. yes, yes, complete with laser scopes… yes, don't worry, I've got enough for almost every police department in each major city in Columbia.  Should arrive a week from Tuesday… yes, I'm sorry, but we've got backorders up to our nostrils… I'll see if I can rush it to Saturday, then…  All right, yes, de nada, de nada, es mi placer.  Thank YOU for your efforts against the cartels.  Keep fighting the good fight!  Not at all! OK, gracias y adios."

He then hit the intercom.  "Reroute line 2 through the laser satellite array."  He waited for her to put the call through the untraceable network, and then picked up.

"Buena mañana, Rico… OK, we'll get right to it, then.  I can get you five thousand assault rifles… yes, yes, armor piercing rounds, 7.62 millimeters just like you said… yes it'll penetrate Kelvar at 100 meters… OK and the polarized goggles, 200 Stinger missle launchers, and 100 kilos of C-4 explosive.  I can get that for you by a week after Monday."  A beat.  "I'm afraid my factories are working triple shifts as is… well, I can get everything but the Stingers to you by Saturday.  Those will have to come on Monday. Earliest I can do it."  His computer monitor then flashed.  "Very well.  It should be enough to keep those nosy Federales out of your farms.  De nada.  Viva los negocios."

He clicked on a memo.  It said that the Labor Department had been following up on 12 factories, many of them cited on several violations for exceeding employees' 10-hours-per-workday quota regulations, and for making them work over 14 days consecutively.  The biggest offender, the factory right here in New Vista, desperately needed expansion.  He grimaced at remembering the lawyers and bureaucrats hunting him down on that one.  And the overtime?  He didn't want anyone to get him started. 

The phone buzzed, and he picked up.  "President Sutjikarta! Great to hear from you.  I'm hoping to fly over to Borneo and have a face-to-face with you on a possible new item you'd want to try.  I've got some microwave beam casters that I'd like to field test, and I know that those rebels have been giving you no end of… the APCs?  What's wrong with them?"

Another beat.  "Yes, well, I know, but I'm afraid we've got buyers all over.  I'll definitely get the co-axial .50-cal machine guns as soon as– yes, sir, I know the rebels won't wait– Look, if you need something right now, I'll gladly give some experimental stuff to try.  Want to lead the first laser light-anti-tank-weapon regiment in the world?  …What do you mean, nobody ever took over a regime with a beta version?"

He listened to the caller's diatribe, and Perry felt his neck muscles tighten.  "Now don't YOU insult ME, Sutjikarta!  That Chinese junk will blow up in your face the instant you pull the trigger!  If my wares weren't the best, I wouldn't be crowded out with all these backorders!"  Another beat.  "Well, then I– hello?!  HELLO!"

He slammed down the phone.  Then the intercom buzzed again.  "Sir, your newspaper's here."

An errand guy came in.  Without a word, Perry Belham snatched it from the young fellow's hand, flipped it open, and checked the front page.  After five seconds, he growled, cursed, slammed it into the nearest wastepaper basket, and stormed out of the office.  He looked over his shoulder.  "Well?!  Did I say you could stay in there?!"  As the errand boy scampered out, the boss glanced over to the bun-haired, bookish-looking researcher and female executive by their own desks.  "Tell Inanna to ready the SUV.  I'm going for a walk-around."

"But sir," the executive said, "you have calls from your contacts in Rwanda, Uganda, Sudan, and Nigeria.  They all have a bid on trying out the experimental laser rifles you're developing."

"Do you have an atlas?"

The researcher quickly reached to a mahogany bookcase, grabbed a book without looking, and held it up in her well manicured fingers.  "Right here, sir."

"Throw a dart at a map of Africa!"  And Mr. Belham stormed out.

The lackey looked to the women in the outer office.  "Why does he bother getting a paper here if he throws it away each morning?"

"He's checking for an obituary," the bookish one said.

The guy blinked befuddledly.  "But the obituary's in the City section, not the front page."

The executive stared at him icily. "There's one person's obit he's looking for, and THAT will be on the front page."

***

Cruising down the streets in the luxury-upholstered but military-performance Hummer, Perry Belham looked around the neighborhood.  The place outside Sparta Industries' headquarters, frankly, was a pit.  Spray-painted gang tags.  Industrial grime all over.  Faded paint peeling.  Shops with bars over the windows.  Booze and tobacco billboards all over.  He had no clue why anyone would call this place home.  Or why the stubborn landlords wouldn't sell.  Or why the city council wouldn't rezone this into an industrial area so he could expand the plant here. 

They stopped at a red light.  Then his eyes wandered to a newspaper box outside a convenience mart.  The big photo on the display copy had a big, beautiful yet muscular woman in white tights batting away what looked like an exploding ball.  And he saw the hated headline again:

GOOD SAVE, DYNA! 
Damsel Dynamo Foils Bombing at Israel-Jordan Goodwill Women's Soccer Match in New Vista Stadium.

Hissing through his teeth, he wanted to swing his sword right through that thing and demolish it, but he didn't want a scene.  The driver looked back, but he shook his head.  "I'm fine. I'm fine.  Just keep driving to Emporia Street."  And he settled back in.  What he would've given to go toe to toe with that carrot-topped goody-two-shoes.  If he weren't so busy running the store…

Then it hit him.  An idea.  A fiendish idea.  A gloriously, spectacularly, rapturously fiendish idea.

"So, Athena," he said quietly to himself as the light turned green, and they pulled deeper into the gangers' turf.  "You used Hera's own trick to find you a new soldier of justice, have you?  Well, what nobleness.  What dreams.  What foolishness." He snorted.  "Your ideals are just false hopes.  Man was meant to fight AND kill himself." 

He folded his hands and smiled like a shark.  "And this city… this very neighborhood… will become a prime example of just that." 

To Be Continued…