Free [Brackets] by David Sloan Page B

duffle bag and tied it around his right bicep. Then he plugged in his personal headset and controllers, put the bag behind his chair, and settled down in front of the nameplate which pronounced him General Studblood.
    The table itself was striking. The wooden legs were thick as tree trunks and carved with ancient American motifs of pythons and jaguars. The tabletop was a computer int erface. Each of the six chairs ( only four of them occupied) commanded a small private interface, but the entire center of the table top displayed a vibrant, dynamic map of the city of Kaah Mukul. Lights representing the real-time movements of tribal members slid around the outlines of virtual streets and buildings. It was always beautiful, thought the General, always a work of genius.
    He glanced around, contented, at the three individuals standing at the table, each staring into their interfaces. The officers of the Warriors of Tsepes were all wearing the tribal bandanas, all busy working, and all on time. The secrets of the city, the General repeatedly preached, were only revealed by diligence.
    “OK, repo rts!” he barked. To the General’s left was his first-in-command, a skinny twenty-something with a desperate, peach-fuzz moustache and a sharp chin. Killergremlin was always the first to report. The Tribe took pains to recognize rank. As he spoke, his wide, toothy smile seemed to stretch up on both sides to touch each of his unusually pointy ears.
    “We broke the code,” he announced.
    “Put it up,” the General ordered, pleased but not surprised. One of the many reasons he loved being in Kaah Mukul was the depth of the code-breaking necessary to progress as a tribe. The Tsepesians prided themselves on being able to decrypt anything they found at high speed, giving them a substantial edge over the other tribes. This particular code had been obtained just yesterday by one of his many underground contacts and was unusually difficult. That they had cracked it was a source of pride.
    The translated text was full of garbled gaps, but embedded in the noise was a set of clear words:
     
    Special opportunity: Sinan Cafe, Little Cuzco, 11:00 KMT, Saturday, contact Tula, codeword: Variolas. One representative only.
     
    The General read over the string of words several times, then asked the group for an interpretation. A good leader always included everyone.
    Their newest officer, a doughy high school graduate called Lazaro, spoke up. “Sounds like a commercial. They want us to show up so they can sell us something. Lame.”
    “Maybe,” said Killergremlin, “but that was a pretty elaborate code for a commercial.”
    “But that’s the game, right? Everything in code?” Lazaro argued.
    The General cringed slightly at the word “game”. Lazaro still didn’t get it. Nevertheless, he could be right; the message did, in fact, have a certain commercial feel to it. But the contact that had passed it on to the General didn’t usually handle junk mail. He wanted to take it seriously.
    “I’ll check it tomorrow ,” the General decided. “I’ll take a back-up team. If it’s some company making a pitch, you all can come help me shoot up the room.”
    “What’s a Variolas?” asked Lazaro.
    “Isn’t it like a violin, but bigger?” Killergremlin answered.
    “That’s a viola,” said Psychopedia, who was very smart for a tenth-grader. “I believe a Variolas is a kind of flower.”
    “It doesn’t matter,” said the General. “It’s just the code word. It could be ‘snotlicker’ and it would do the same thing. Are there any other reports?”
    There were none.
    “Good. I’m going down to re-task some patrols. I think there’s some Scarmada guys patrolling east of Tikal Street. We need to consolidate that sector before they get any more ground, so if I see them, I’ll call you in.” The General began to wrap the headset interface around his eyes, but he was interrupted.
    “Soooo….” Lazaro interrupted, “you guys haven’t