Marco Domici: Alias Smith and Jones

The grav limo hovered nonchalantly on the north side of the compound. Other vehicles were around; the movie industry seemed incapable of anything less than four quad-kilotonne trailers for every person possibly remotely involved in the production. Many had mired in the muck of the field as the past week's rains had been authorized by the government.

Five of them stood on the temporary walkway. It had been erected three days ago and was already starting to shift. Mrs. Jones and Mr. Smith were obviously the main actors in the current drama. Mr Smith's two hulking body guards seemed unlikely to say a word the entire time, and the crew lackey, Marco, stayed speechless near Mrs. Jones. While the guards were acutely aware of anything and everything going on around them, young Marco seemed as out of place as a popsicle in a brothel. He and Mrs. Jones had walked out to meet the grav limo.

"I guess no one in 'Arch Productions', or whatever Jessip is calling himself now, has any pull with the Democracy." Mr. Smith, as the name tag Mrs. Jones had provided, said. "He always was a low budget operation."

"It shows, too." Mrs. Jones replied. "The armor is paper mache, the lacars came out of a party supply vendor from Hofud, of all places, and not a single person in the cast has been credited in a half star or better film in the last six years. Many of them have never 'made it', as they call their career break through."

Mr. Smith took the cup of coffee Mrs. Jones offered, and sipped. "Well, at least the coffee is good. Strong enough for an early morning like this."

"My personal stock." She replied. "Sorry to dash your expectations there. The swill they serve really is as bad as you'd guess."

"Figures." He looked around. "You seem to have grown a shadow. Hey, son, mind leaving us alone for a few minutes?" Mr. Smith said to Marco.

"I asked him to join us." She replied. "His great uncle was here, in the camp."

"Oh..." Mr. Smith looked at the boy. "Name?" Mrs. Jones snorted.

"Marco, sir. Marco Foley."

Eyes rolled behind shaded lenses. Still, Mr. Smith smiled. "Who was your great-uncle?"

"Daniel Foley, sir. He wrote a..."

"I know." Mr Smith said quietly. "Sorry to hear about him, Marco. I liked his book. My granddaughter had to read it a couple years ago, for a class project." He paused, and looked at the toe of his shoe. "Some things you don't talk about, Marco. The memories are too strong, and too painful. She came home one day, talking about this neat history book, and how neat it was that I had been named after one of the guys in the story. She seemed to have the impression he was one of the bad guys."

"I'm sorry, sir. Honest." Marco said. "He and dad talked a lot, and dad said they wanted to make the book real so people would know the history. The truth."

"Truth?" Mr. Smith said. "Quid est veritas, Marco? Do you know history, son? Did you read the book?"

"Yes sir." Marco nodded. "More than once, actually."

"Pop quiz, then, shall we?" Mr. Smith nodded. His wrist comp came to life "Camp M raid, Biter standard year two zero eight. Cell identification and map location of Daniel Foley." He looked at the diagram and then pointed to a toppled pile of rebar and concrete. "Right there, Marco, was where your great uncle sat, while the world was changing around him. While history was being made." He looked at Marco and lowered his glasses. They met eye to eye. "Tell me, son. Where are you, right now?"

"I...uh...on a movie set, sir?"

"I suggest you read the book one more time, son." Mr. Smith put his glasses back in place. "They were too lazy to clear the fencing, they just used two gaping holes for the lousy imitation of a walk way that we stand on."

Marco looked back and forth as Mr. Smith spun on his heel and walked towards the camp. Marco looked back and forth again, and his eyes went wide.

Mrs. Jones clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, kid. I about wet my britches first time I came through here, too."

"Jessip's gone. Gingjor too." Mack Klifey said to the dozen or so actors and actresses sitting at the tables. A few had makeup on, and some were in costume.

"You sure they aren't on one of their little 'scouting trips'?" Banks Larue said. He was the combat instructor for the cast. Big, strong, and full of ego. Rumors kept him from getting the good jobs in the big hits. Or so he told everyone. Just rumors.

"Nyah." Mack replied. "Jimmy over in makeup said they went at different times. Gingjor got picked up by her agent, and Jessip snuck out about two this morning."

Several people cursed. "Are we getting paid? My rent's already late." Someone said.

"Hey, who's that?" Banks pointed at Mrs. Jones. "I mean, I know her, but who's the suit?"

"Looks like a lawyer." Mack snorted. "Maybe they'll sue us for damages to our costumes so Jessip can fund his next big thing." Mack stood turned to face them, as Banks came beside. "Look, I did pretty good in those leadership on-line classes getting ready for this part. Lemme run this, okay?"

One or two people shrugged. Mack had the lead male role, but Gingjor had been the real draw. She was playing young Tala Torsten, heroine of the Democracy, champion of the underdog. Mack was playing the raid leader, but somehow got less screen time. His agent wasn't nearly as savvy as Gingjor's.

Mack crossed his arms and barked out a command to Mrs. Smith and Mr. Jones. "Hey, you. Over here, now!" He pointed at the ground in front of him.

Mr. Smith looked at Mrs. Jones, who shrugged. He looked at Marco, who said something and nodded at Mack. He unbuttoned his suit and motioned his guards to hang back a bit. And smiled. He really smiled.

"That's right." Mack said loudly, so everyone could hear. "What's your sitrep?" He put his hand on his hips and leaned back. "Who are you and..."

Without breaking stride Mr. Smith's hand had shot out and caught Mack's throat in the web of his hand. Mack dropped to his knees and tried to breath. Banks charged forward and within the first snap of breaking bone and busted jaw was at Mrs. Smith's feet, writhing in pain.

Back on the walkway one of the guards shook his head and handed a fiver over to the other.

The rest of the cast and crew just sat there gaping. Mack coughed in the mud and Mr. Smith stepped around him to address the group. "A SITREP is not personal, thus asking someone for theirs is incorrect." He buttoned his jacket up. "If any of you have read the source material for this production you might recall that Captain Domici seldom raised his voice and never displayed arrogance in public."

"Would someone get these two to the aid station? Jessip get an aid station, didn't he?"

"No...uh...sir." One of the guys from Costume replied. "He had a deal with one of the local farmers, who had some first aid training."

"Mrs. Jones, damage report?" Mr. Smith asked.

"Busted right knee. Dislocated jaw on the bruiser. Nothing really bad on your guy; he'll be able to breath in a couple more minutes."

"Pity, that." He smiled. "Just like old times. Still." He looked back at the group, and held up his coffee cup. "Mrs. Jones made me a good cup of coffee because we're friends. And she knows I like coffee. Friends take care of each other."

He looked down at the two guys sprawled in the mud, and then back at the group. "Someone call that farmer, will you. Ugly there will need more than a bandaid. We'll cover the transport to the hospital."

"Uh, sir." The Costume guy spoke up. "Far as we know, the production is over. The star of the movie is gone and Jessip ran out early this morning.

"What's your name?" Mr. Smith asked.

"Fred, uh, sir. Fred Gyerbn." He looked around to see if anyone was going to punch him or break his knee for speaking up.

"I can't spell your last name, Fred." Mr. Smith chuckled. "But I have a secretary who will learn to when he starts writing checks." He sipped his coffee. "Okay, hon, this is really good."

"Listen up. As of this morning 'Arch Productions' is in default and in trouble." Several people groaned, but he went on. "That means you're free to be hired for a historical adventure documentary." He waved one of the guards forward, who lifted up a small box and set it on the table in front of Mr. Smith. Several people recoiled from the guard and the box.

"It's very simple, really." He flipped a latch on the box. "You can talk to your union, and your agents, and try to get every micro credit possible." He nodded at the two men in the mud. "As you can see, my negotiation skills are mildly non-textbook."

Reaching in to the box, he pulled out an electric hair cutter. "Simple, really. When the Blue Dragons prepared to raid the camp, many of them cut their hair similar to what other Marine Raiders looked like. It was a bonding moment for them."

"Everyone?" Fred asked. "Even the women?"

"Yes." Marco spoke up. He stood close to Mrs. Jones, and seemed to gain strength from her. "The girl Tala, the one Gingjor was to play, was the first. Somehow she found out how Captain Domici's unit cut their hair and she cut hers." He looked at Mrs. Jones, who smiled. "A lot of people said the captain ordered it, but he didn't. No one demanded it."

"Neither will I." Mr. Smith said quietly, as he set the cutter down on the table. "If you want to be in my production you'll spend the next six weeks in Raider pre-quals, run by actual Biter Raiders. You will eat like, look like, and act like you can take on the world by the time they are done with you. Then, and only then, will you be ready for the real shooting."

"If we don't?" Somoene asked.

"Feel free to head home. No hard feelings."

"Pay?" Fred added. "Uh, most of us don't make a lot, and Jessip was holding a bunch for later."

"Okay, you guys are lousy businessmen, aren't you? Guys like Jessip play off your hope, and you pay him for the favor." Mr. Smith shook his head. "I need to chat with Mrs. Jones, who will be my representative on site. When I come back, any member of the cast or crew who has a Raider haircut will be on union standard rates, with food, lodging, and proper medical care on top." Several people smiled and nodded. One person clapped a couple times.

"No mistakes though, understand. Raider pre-quals are tougher than you can imagine. You won't be in the real thing, but it will push you well past what you normally do. Mrs. Smith, care to join me for a minute?"

As they walked off, Marco was the first to reach the clippers. He put his glasses away and quickly shed his long black hair. "Missed a few spots, kid." Fred said as he took the clippers. First fixing Marco's enthusiasm and then working on his own sandy blond curls.

"Why do you do this?" Mr. Smith asked, after they were well into the ruins of the camp. "You don't need the money, I know."

Mrs. Jones shrugged. "I dunno. It's fun, I guess. 'It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.' is a funny quote I heard once."

"Your shadow back there does actually look a little like him, doesn't he?"

"Yeah, and about as coordinated, too. Maybe you can put him in the movie?"

Mr. Smith shook his head. "That's going to be your call, kiddo. You're going to be busy, by the way. Construction crews will be here next week, after the mud dries."

"For what, bigger shoot?" She looked around. "I never was sure how they were going to do a real camp."

"Nope. Government grant to restore the historical site." Mr. Smith stopped, and looked down. "Here...no...here." He took two steps sideways. Digging his toe in the mud brought up a couple corroded casings.

They both looked at them for a moment, and then he covered them back up. "For the researchers. Your researchers, kiddo. You've been named to lead the project."

Mrs. Jones gaped. "But...they're all college people and degreed people and stuff. No one will listen to me. I can't do that, anyway."

"No, but your staff will."

"I can't. Really." She looked pale.

Mr. Smith stepped up into her face. "Don't tell me that." He said quietly. "I read the book too. Are you saying the girl who hand carried high explosives and set them on land mines, while being shot at, no less, can't tell someone to write a report?"

She pursed her lips. "I'll try." She nodded. "I will do it. Thank you, too. It's been a while since I talked to the old crew. I think we're drifting apart, you know."

"That's part of the reason for the movie, kiddo. And the grant. People need to remember history so they appreciate the life they have. It's your job to make sure they remember the truth."

She nodded. And laughed. "Dang, just about wet my britches again!"