The Infoduel: A Novel of Decentralized Conflict

Death of a False Titan

The death of Atlas had been rewarding but disturbingly simple. My men had conducted basic recon along the perimeter of his estate, and watched the common movement patterns of people moving in and out. For all his wealth and supposed power, Atlas didn't get out much. We observed him sitting outside on his porch on several occasions (and we had to avoid the temptation to snipe him then and there). We wanted to do a clean sweep of vermin and filth from his house. The nearby cliffs, while scenic, would be more than sufficient for disposing of ARBies. To think that Atlas would be turning into compost soon was a relaxing thought. When we died, we'd all just be worm food anyway. However, when we died, we all left something. Hopefully, Atlas would only be leaving bullshit for worms, bacteria, and fungi to digest.

The wimp that was Matt "Atlas" Wallace was often seen talking on a satellite phone on his porch or through his windows. That phone, I reasoned, probably had the numbers and contact info for several other ARBies, or at least his preferred henchmen. Therefore, when we moved in, we wanted to get that phone intact.

Wallace had guards around his estate, but their patrols (if you could call them that) were lax and erratic. They carried a variety of small arms, from HK MP5 submachineguns to AKs to M-16s. The patrols never went out at the same times, and when they did, they had no night vision or infrared goggles, nor bothered to check much of the foliage around the estate. Instead, they simply preferred sticking to guarding the well-lit areas of the estate. You'd think the founder of the Ayn Rand Brigade would have hired better security. Or perhaps he believed as "Atlas" the free market would favor him if he left it unwatched, and let his guards solve their own issues without "external coercion." You'd think he'd want a better investment for his money, and want to check up regularly on that investment.

But no. Wallace was a douchebag, hypocrite, and slacker. And soon to be a dead one. The guards generally liked sticking together in a single group. This was not so much safety in numbers as much as they liked to socialize with each other while out patrolling. They told each other rumors and stories with a frequency that would make even a high school gossiper seem quiet by comparison. Eventually, I had enough of it, and wanted to shut them up. Forever.

We had set up a makeshift camp in a nearby trailer with a portable generator. I checked out the Ying Zheng email before deciding to remove "Atlas." The meatspace name of Atlas in the email was none other than gold old Matt Wallace. Even if it was an ARBie trick, this was the sort of asshole I would enjoy shooting. A look on some social networking sites showed pictures of the asshole getting drunk at various parties from his college years (and afterwards). His family essentially owned Night-Watch Securities, making him a blatant subject for Atlas.

I thought that certainly Atlas must be more careful about covering his tracks. It seemed too easy. But regardless, several Network higher-ups had seriously considered the Ying Zheng email to be at least somewhat valid. Perhaps "Ying Zheng" himself was ignorant about much of the ARBie plans or bought into misinformation himself.

It was pretty obvious what our course of action for the near future would be. We would assassinate Atlas and loot whatever documents, computer files, and other goodies we could. Atlas' servants would be tranquilized and kept under with a shot of Morphium, but any guards that resisted us would be terminated with extreme prejudice. (And when I say extreme, I mean extreme.)

Our raid started at midnight. As our synchronized watches read zero hour, the raid began. Adrenaline kicked in, and our sniper began the festivities. He used a gun that could penetrate QUITE a bit of cover for taking out the unfortunate guards clustered together. The FN Herstal manufactured "Nemesis" bolt-action rifle unleashed .50 cal. BMG rounds at the gossiping guards, and we laid down a burst of assault rifle fire to finish off the survivors.

We stormed into the house, forsaking stealth and awakening everyone. We took the servants down to the foyer, and bound, blinded, and gagged them. We shot each in the back of the neck with a dart gun loaded with Morphium. As they went to dreamland, Atlas would be going to Hell. We stormed into his bedroom, and found him with a (fairly good looking) woman. She was taken down to the other captives, and knocked out. We weren't lusting for women that night. Atlas went to reach for a gold-plated Desert Eagle handgun when we tried to get him out of bed. I instinctively did what comes naturally to someone who's seen that sort of thing before. A burst of 5.56mm rounds tore into Wallace's brain cavity, ending the life of the founder of the Ayn Rand Brigade.

Afterwards, we scoured the house for files, computers, and other electronics. I personally claimed his wallet and satellite phone. Another of my men captured a laptop computer. After we had spent an hour procuring items, we had left. We took with us the body of Atlas, but it was too big to easily carry in the truck we used. So, a machete made our work easier for us. By the time of dawn, we had left the estate far behind, and Atlas was already helping to fertilize the rainforest. That was probably the most productive thing he had done in his existence, after all.

The servants would probably have freed themselves by the time we left. If not, we had sent the police to investigate with an anonymous call for help to check out Atlas' place. (This was after we had been pretty thorough cleaning up, after all.) I put out a contract to investigate the names and numbers that Atlas had on his satellite phone. I hoped this would lead us to the other bastards behind the Ayn Rand Brigade. I still needed to work on my assassination skills, after all. If Atlas had done something productive with his life, it was helping test my machete dismemberment skills and (temporarily) sated my bloodlust. For now, I had a victory to celebrate.