— Posted in Always into Darkness, The Master Race

The Master Race, Chapter 14

Onward, Duplicitous Bastards

“If you don’t stand for something, you’ll fall for anything.”

—Alexander Hamilton in 1978 (from Sucker Punch)—

 

Sam sits smugly in the magistrate’s office glaring at him with ravenous eyes. To his credit, he doesn’t budge an inch. He’s not the least bit unnerved by what he’s in close proximity to. His pants don’t bulge at the sight of her in her scandalous attire either, and he’s no fag. Yep, he’s got some stones, this one does.

“We are very sorry to interrupt your fun, Ms. Klein, but it was quite unavoidable.”

“It’s Miss not Ms.”

“Sorry for my misspeak.”

“No problem.”

She crosses and uncrosses her legs. Think: Fatal Instinct, the unrated, uncut, “international” version, the one with all of those juicy “oral” parts that were so judiciously deleted from the American theatrical version, but with Sharon Stone wearing a yummy, nude-look, flesh-colored thong in place of mouthwatering commando.

You can hear the friction of bare, white flesh sliding against bare, white flesh. She watches how his eyes follow the lascivious movement of her most shapely lower limbs. Very long legs. Leggy. Forty-two inches of smooth, creamy-white perfection erupting from the short, tight, straight, hip-hugging, midriff-cinching skirt of her body-hugging serpent suit, her Koo Stark [the proverbial “little black suit”].

Perls. Creepy prudz. Disfiguring sternns. Careys. Hair yanked back into a sternka. Heavy makeup: Max Factor, applied extra thick. Bra and panties. CLAF, version super stern: The Sarah Palin gone bitter, loathsome, venomous, uber shrew. That almost unmitigated bulldyke look that a lot of guys are into. Plus … Knobb. Hands that klaw when idle. Very, very Borg, indeed. But … No cigarette purse or Race Bannon clipped to the boned waistband of her tiny snakeskin skirt underneath her matching suitcoat.

Think …The Dollhouse Studios in Clayton [Missouri USA]. Where Fitness is Sexy and Darque. Where you learn to expose your inner diva and enhance your outer doll. Got wood? Or its antithesis, depending on your tastes.

The door opens. Sister Riker and Sister Nash enter the room. They are dressed in civilian clothes. The girl’s conditioning kicks in. She goes limp in her chair. Mouth open slackly, drooling. Her eyes stare off blankly into space. Think … Rohypnol (Ruffies, Rope, Rape), the date-rape drug-of-choice of frat boys and gangsters. Invented by a Section 31 chemist named Adolf Gruber [he was named after his uncle]. Got pill, got pussy.

“Not such a stuck up bitch, now, are we?” Rhetorically asks the magistrate in his most condescending voice.

If things go south, there will be no evidence of the girl’s abduction and coerced participation in this “off book” operation. The junkie whore will simply disappear. Another hapless American tourist that has gone missing in a distant foreign land. Likely, death by misadventure. With nothing to point a finger back at the Bene Gesserits. And, if successful, there are also contingencies in place to dispose of the then “inconvenient” vacationing librarian. Either way, Section 31 seems to have things well in hand.

But, Sister Riker is an old hand and Sister Nash is no slouch in her own right. So, these very experienced nuns know that there is no such thing as having all of your bases covered once a mission commences. Murphy is bound to kick in somewhere, somehow. If something can go wrong, it will.

Nevertheless, Sister Riker dutifully tows the line, careful not to cross Section indiscriminately. She knows how to pick her battles with them. So … When, not if, the unexpected happens, she and her away team will just deal with it as it comes no matter what.

Sister Nash is a Security Chief, which means she is a member of Section. A Security Chief in the Roman Catholic Church is akin to a Political Officer in the Orthodox Catholic Church of the now defunct Communist Bloc countries.

Section 31 is an autonomous intelligence and defense organization of the Bene Gesserits. It is a special security operation, manned by Bene Gesserits, that is not subject to the normal constraints of ethical protocols of The Church.

The Section exists outside Church Intelligence’s influence and deals with threats to Church security. Its operating authority stems from a provision of the Bene Gesserit charter—Article 14, Section 31, from which its name is derived—that makes allowances for “bending the rules” during times of extraordinary threats.

Unlike other secret police organizations, such as the Romulan Tal Shiar and the Cardassian Obsidian Order, Section 31 is not an actual branch of government. Accountable to no-one, Section 31 focuses on external threats, and pursues those it identifies by whatever means it sees fit.

The implications of Section 31 have been described as “troubling” and its goals and methods “deeply questionable”. Its methods include brainwashing, torture, assassinations, and, as revealed by a recent op-ed piece in the New York Times, genocide, the crime that is most opposed by the Church. The genocide involved the creation, by Section 31, of a disease designed to kill a single species, the Founders, with the aim of destroying the Dominion.

Two more people enter the office. A younger woman and a cigar-chomping older man. They are also wearing civilian clothes. But, you can tell by their manner and bearing that they have a superior/subordinate relationship in someone’s military. Cigar man is the lolly’s boss.

On this Earth … The powers-that-be know that the foreigners are from other planets in other universes. The general population is supposed to only know the foreigners as tourists from exotic, very distant provinces.

Of course, there are rumors about the truth, and it’s not that most people are afraid to voice them publically let alone privately. It’s just that the notion of living in a multiverse is just too disturbing for the vast majority of people. They prefer the lie, and living in the perceived bliss of their self-imposed ignorance.

“Who the fuck is this?” The older gent chomping the cigar asks excitedly, as he points at the librarian’s limp body.

Sister Riker and Sister Nash exchange confused looks. Finally, Sister Riker answers. “She’s Ms. Klein, the one we’ve prepped as our contingency, per your request.”

“The hell she is!” Cigar man exclaims.

The magistrate wisely and discreetly vacates his office, closing the door behind him. Leaving the bickering foreigners to their own devices. Looks like Murphy bites again.

Thanks to compartmentalization [as in, need to know], this is the first time that all of the principals involved,  the team that targeted the mark and the team that harvested the mark, were present in the same room together with the mark. An experienced operative, Sam merely slipped between the cracks. Sam never claimed that she was Dr. Molly Klein. She just never corrected anyone’s mistake. Passive misrepresentation. Letting assumptions make an ass of everyone, herself excluded, and letting herself be used for kicks [her own and theirs].

Bottomline … They got the wrong girl in the handoff, and never were the wiser until now.