CALLIPOLIS

-Dusk, and Thrice Damned-

Tom Harris was awake. Oh, he was still in bed, and he hadn’t moved, but he couldn’t pretend much longer. He opened one bleary eye and looked at the orchard rows of sunlight cast upon his ceiling. Not bright at all—early morning still. He rolled over onto his side, careful not to wake his wife, casting a baleful look at the clock on the nightstand. Three minutes to six. With a sigh, he switched off the alarm.

He burrowed his feet into slippers and threw a robe over his shoulders, standing and stretching and counting the cracks and pops to make sure they were all still there. Sound off, he thought to himself with a small smile, polished after years in the public eye. In the mirror, he examined his graying hair, tousled and beginning to thin. He ran his fingers through it, and it lazily fell into the shape one might recognize from the photos of him. He found his pants where he left them at the foot of the bed, crumpled on the floor beside his shoes. He dug through the pocket for a moment and produced his phone, a little light on the front blinking rapidly. Twelve missed calls, fifteen messages. A chill ran up his spine. He opened the messages first, and saw the most recent, from Patricia Horn, his chief of staff. It read, simply:

COME TO OFFICE ASAP

Tom Harris, a United States Senator from Ohio, dropped the phone on the bed and ran to the washroom, jumping into the shower before the water had warmed.

The thick wooden doors to Senator Harris’ office parted as he reached them, and he stopped just for a moment to consider the chaos. His staff, an orderly machine made of men, suits, telephones, computers, and centuries of process, was steaming along at maximum capacity. He passed by their jumbled desks at a brisk pace, catching bits of the soothing lies his aides were selling to furious callers.

“The Senator is already in contact with his associates in Congress, I will pass your concerns—”“—networks do not have the full story, I promise you, and Senator Harris is concerned as well—”Patricia Horn caught Tom by the elbow and fell in step beside him, a slim tablet under her arm. She

was tall, at least while wearing her heels, and immaculately composed, but Tom noted that today a lock of her coal black hair had slipped free and was bouncing with each step. Her suit jacked was missing.

“I’m glad you’re finally here,” she said, her words, as always, in measured and stolid form.“I came as soon as I saw the messages.”Together, they entered his study and she closed the doors behind them, blanketing them both in a

sudden stark silence.“Okay, Patty, tell me what we know about Somalia.” Tom slid over to his desk and leaned against

the edge, crossing his arms. Patrica slipped the tablet out and with a tap of a button, the large screen set in the wall came to life, displaying a map of East Africa. She maneuvered on the tablet, and the map zoomed in to focus on the tip of the continent, the jutting corner that composed most of the Somalian state.

“History repeats itself in Somalia. Their third civil war ended six years ago, November 2083. It wasn’t really peace, just an uneasy truce between their federal government—backed by the U.N. Peacekeepers—, the al-Shabaab splinters in the south, and some entrenched Ethiopian units in Puntland, to the north.” With a slight movement of her wrist, she circled each region on the screen as she spoke. “Effectively, they’ve carved up the country, and there hasn’t been a true national government since then. Three days ago, the whole country went dark.

“Today,” she said, tapping her finger on small speck along the coast which left a red dot on the screen, “someone in the capitol city of Mogadishu sent a message to Washington, from within the old

U.N. Offices. The transmission was cut off, but what did get through claims that the whole southern coast up, from Juba to Bari, is in the hands of a group called the ‘Hamar Liberation Army.’”

“Which faction are they with?”“That’s the problem: I couldn’t find anything on them. They seem to be a new group. I had it

looked into. Their leader appears to be a former USMC, Stephen Dunbara.” His photo appeared on the screen, overlapping the map. Grim, with a set jaw and dark eyes, and an impressive service ribbon set over his left breast.

“Dunbara, it turns out, is listed as a private security chief for Praetor International,” continued Patty, pausing at the company name, hanging undisturbed in the air for a moment. “The media already broke that part of the story this morning, which is what all this—” she waved her hand towards the closed doors into the office proper “—is about.”

Tom fiddled with the carafe on his desk, pouring the water into a glass. His mouth was still dry after he drank it. Praetor, a relative newcomer in the field of weapons development, had rapidly ascended to some significant prominence, even signing a three year contract with the Department of Defense in autumn. Heads were probably already rolling, reasoned the senator, and the DOD would be hiring soon. He felt a small pang of sympathy for them.

“Is there any indication that Praetor is actually involved, beyond this Dunbara fellow? If he’s private contracting already, he could be working for new masters.”

“Unknown. I don’t have much on Dunbara, but he doesn’t seem the type to act without orders. And I rather doubt anyone can pay better than Praetor.” The edges of her mouth twitched slightly the way they always did when Tom questioned something she was sure of.

“Praetor wouldn’t just ignore international law like that, its too dangerous. They would lose their contracts, massive fines—”

The door opened from the office and a young aide stuck his head in, holding a phone to his chest. He absently pushed the brim of his glasses up his nose, and said, “sir, sorry to interrupt: there’s a broadcast on channel three you’ll want to see.”

Tom nodded at him, and the aide disappeared around the door, closing it once more. Patrica tapped on her tablet and the screen changed to television stations. She flipped to channel three.

A well-dressed man with hawkish features stood at the podium, speaking. Flashes of cameras lit his face from every angle. A press conference. The information bar said he was Richard Matherson, Praetor International spokesman. Patty turned the volume up.

“...to clear the air of some misinformation before we continue. Yes, Praetor is funding the Hamar Liberation Army activities in Somalia, with many of our defense contractors seeded into leadership positions to guide them while they learn. But,” he said louder, meeting an eruption voices, his audience temporarily overwhelming his announcement.

“Oh, shit.” Tom’s hands fell down to his side as he stood up from the desk, taking a step closer to the screen.

“But!” Matherson exclaimed louder still, the tide of voices subsiding into a dull murmur and the scraping of chairs, “this mission was carried out with strict obedience to international standards, and under the jurisdiction and invitation of several key members of the Somalian Federal Parliament—”

Patricia snorted indignantly. “More likely a few of the ‘reformed’ warlords.”The broadcast continued.“—joined forces under the banner of the H.L.A., and with their help two days ago successfully

pushed north and west, through Puntland and into Somalialand. At approximately 2:45 this morning, the last resistance fighters in Zeila and other northern territories laid down their arms and surrendered. Therefore, Praetor International is announcing the reunification of the sovereign state of Somalia.”

The wall behind Matherson faded away, replaced with footage of men hoisting the blue flag of Somalia up a pole. Behind them, black helicopters were touching down on adjoining roofs, men with thick bodyarmor and large rifles leaping down the last few feet and spreading out into watch positions.

“A new interim government is being formed as we speak, using elements from the previous Parliament. In the meantime, members of the Praetor International board will act as temporary oversight for the duration of the process.”

Matherson paused. The footage changed to the plumed helmet symbol of Praetor.“I can’t believe it,” said Patty. She shot a look at Tom. “They’ve just taken over a country. A

business can’t do that—”“Praetor just did.” Why was his stomach in a knot?“More details of the liberation of Somalia will be discussed in the coming days, but now we must

consider our reasons for the actions therein. We are aware that the international community will view our intervention in the affairs of Somalia as an illegal action, and demand that we stand trial for breaking the convention against the use of our private security forces, or ‘mercenaries,’ as I’m sure they’ll be called, in a military action. However, we know our actions will be justified once all the evidence is laid bare, and the results of this endeavor will prove the effectiveness of a private military corporation in dealing with similar issues in all corners of the world.

“For decades,” Matherson cried, banging his fist on the podium dramatically, “the citizens of Somalia have been subject to the terrors and tragedies of warlords and ineffective governments, ignored by the world at large and left to their own devices. The people here are no different from those of us who live in more stable regions of the world: they desire peace and prosperity, and an honest living. We at Praetor International understand that the nations of this world cannot act outside their own interests, or the will of their constituents, and so the continued violent stalemate between the factions in Somalia was, naturally, going to continue indefinitely.

“However, Praetor International has begun a new initiative here—today! We see promise in the people we have rescued from tyranny. We see greatness on the horizon for all of Somalia. Most importantly, we are willing to bear the costs of rebuilding the infrastructure in this nation, and bringing them forward into our vision of the future—preparing them to take a seat with the other great nations of Africa and the world as we enter the twenty-second century together.”

Tom stared blankly at the screen while Richard Matherson continued to speak, but he wasn’t listening. There was a pulsing in his head, deep and rhythmic. He staggered back to his desk and collapsed into his chair. That was when he noticed Patty leaning over the desk, brow furrowed, lips curled around a phrase, over and over.

“...are you alright? Tom? Tom, can you hear me?”“Oh, uh, yes. I’m fine, Patty. I just felt lightheaded for a moment.”She poured more water into his cup and held it out to him. He took it, but set it down on the desk

without a sip. Her eyes drifted from the cup back to Tom.“We need to craft our response to this, sir. The longer we wait, the worse this is going to be.”“I know,” replied Tom, staring at the figure on the screen. Matherson was fielding questions from

the journalists, none of whom had yet asked the one question on Tom’s mind: what ideas have been planted by Praetor today? Could this stay an isolated transgression?

The phone on his desk sat in modest tranquility. Tom sat up with a start, his hand hovering over the receiver.

“Patty, I need to make some calls.”

Tom rubbed his hands over his eyes, leaning back and blinking. He realized the room had grown dark, so he fumbled with the lamp until it lit. His shirt was half buttoned, his belt was unbuckled, and he had long since abandoned his shoes.

“Christ,” he mumbled to himself. Hours of emergency meetings, calls to and from senate members, and no breaks for food had left him weary and with a growing desire to slip out the window and barricade himself at home until this whole thing blew over, as it must. Instead, Tom read over the last few lines of the speech he was rewriting again.

of sources claiming coercion was used to attain the aforementioned “invitation” from the Somalian Federal Parliament. These brutish tactics indicate a disregard for the sovereignty they claim to be upholding, and cast a pallid light upon the whole affair. If true, these allegations potentially reveal a very different narrative from the one that Praetor International has insisted upon since their conference. Therefore,

He read it through, and came back to the same place again. Therefore. Therefore what?What could he say? Tom rested his head in his palm, arm propped against the desk. He didn’t know

things were going, and had no idea how to even lie about it. Somehow he’d been wrangled into speaking before the entire Congress on what was being tentatively called the “Somalian incident.” He thought of the young woman at the Praetor conference, and the question she had asked, which had been the final one before the broadcast ended.

“Mr. Matherson, hypothetically, if this initiative is not found to be in violation of international laws and conventions, what is going to stop other corporations similar to Praetor from interfering in the affairs of other nations, up to and including military force?”

“Nothing,” Matherson had replied with a toothy smile. “Why shouldn’t they?”Therefore. The immense expectation of the next clause of his speech weighed on him. Tom wanted

to believe that with the right pressure from the international community, Praetor would back down from the dangerous path they were traveling, and his speech would be relegated to a file cabinet somewhere, a casualty of just another non-event in international politics. But the sinking feeling from earlier had never left him, and he feared that a company as widespread, profitable, and, ultimately, successful as Praetor wouldn’t take so bold a move without considering all the possible outcomes, and still deciding the risk was worth taking.

Therefore.

since their conference. Therefore, it is our responsibility and duty to the American people and our Allies to thoroughly investigate all possible motives, and to evaluate the long- and short-term effects a disruption of this magnitude will have on the regional politics in

An email notification popped up in the corner of Tom’s screen. He glanced at the sender and stopped writing.

Thousands of calls had been placed to his offices alone today. Thousands of calls, and tens of thousands of emails. But only one email had been sent to his private account. The sender was Anita Wilson, his liaison with Merit Solutions, Inc. His heart sank to meet his stomach. He clicked on the notification and the email opened.

The usual pleasantries were there, of course, but Tom focused merely on the one salient line, nestled towards the end of the paragraph: “Of the Somalian Incident, it is Merit’s belief that we should avoid rash action, and not espouse any stance until we see how this plays out.” It ended with well wishes and a reminder that she was excited for the upcoming election cycle beginning in a few weeks.

Tom stared absently at his screen. He read the words again, slowly.He cast a baleful look at the little ticking clock on his desk. Three minutes to six. With a sigh, he

deleted his speech and turned off the screen.