31

Sal worked assiduously on what he was regarding as possibly the masterpiece of his career in deception. He would create the illusion of a flanking army. No sooner would the Metheons invade and rejoice at the shield falling and advance than they would notice from their rear flank that they were under attack. By then, when they had turned to defend themselves, their ranks would be disordered and surprised.

Trying to create this deception with the constant barrage of fire against the shield proved difficult, but much like Prilock, Sal found himself ignoring the distraction as though his brain had marked such things as "normal" and not worthy of notice. Somewhere along the way, though, Sal's brain had made a shift from "people in history who have their fates sealed" to "people I have to try to save" where the citizens of Undertown were concerned. Sal's interaction with Prilock had a galvanizing effect in this transition. It was hard to explain why, but Sal felt like he understood Prilock.

Part of this sympathetic understanding came from the first week Sal had been here. Though he had not had time to ask Prilock much, there was a point where Sal had wanted to sketch out his ideas about the shield he was formulating. Lacking anything to write with, and not wanting to bring up his interface which might draw more attention to himself than he all already had, he had taken the knife out of his pocket and started digging into an area clear of grass to make lines in the dirt. Prilock had noticed this and came over.

"Is that YOUR knife?" asked Prilock.

"Indeed, it was a gift from long ago," replied Sal.

Prilock drew a blade from one of his ammo-carrying pockets. When Prilock opened the blade, it was apparent that both Sal and Prilock possessed the same variety of knives. This had shocked the both of them, but neither had time to contemplate the meaning as further attacks necessitated more immediate action.

The experience, however, had left Sal curious as to exactly how he had received the blade and he imagined Prilock was just as curious to know how Sal had gotten his. One thing Sal was certain of was that Prilock was not a member of Maltrus's family line. Perhaps Maltrus's relatives had stolen the knife somewhere along the way. Regardless, Prilock bore no resemblance to the man.

Another thing that bothered Sal was not seeing the Rogue among the members of the crowd. Had history changed such that the Rogue had been taken hostage? Maybe he had been killed?

Sal didn't allow these thoughts to occupy much of his mind. He was far too busy with his masterpiece, and he had a time deadline. he knew that after the third week the barrier could fall at any time and history could be free to assume the shape it had before. Sal would categorize this occurrence as a "bad thing". He'd be killed along with everyone else, likely.

Sal wanted his deception to pack a psychological punch. The flanking army needed to appear terrifying. It needed to inspire the Metheons to take flight. For that reason, Sal did not want to use a standard army of men. Sal had some vague recollection of historic cultures being more bloodthirsty. he did not know the religious underpinnings many of these cultures used to drive their blood lust. That ignorance did not stop Sal Grimone from being a channel. His fingers moved nimbly across the interface. He was a man possessed by a time limit. His failure meant his certain death, along with those with whom he found himself surrounded. He was not the first person to find himself in such a position. History was rife with examples of those who had found themselves in similar predicaments. Such moments had inspired those people to great heights--to victory over unimaginable odds. Of course, for more than a few of them, it had meant they must donate their lives.

Sal wiped the sweat off of his forehead. He had opted for a modular program design. A modular program design was a little like composing a fugue. Every piece worked against but also complemented the other. It required a level of concentration that was difficult to maintain as each line had to be interwoven with the rest of the program. An army of men is composed of individuals, yes, but a good army makes those individuals irrelevant. The unit acts as one. Each step is taken in unison. Each weapon is raised. It is telling that the quickest way to disperse an army is to break its lines. If the lines break, then each person is reminded of their individual existence, and they begin to panic. As they panic, the fighting unit loses the ability to fight. The cohesion of the group disintegrates, and not long after the phrase "Every man for himself" is heard. The utter failure of a fighting unit is best encapsulated by that phrase. Everything a military unit does is designed to ensure that "Every man for himself" is avoided at all costs. By definition, if it is "every man for himself" then one no longer has an army, but something approaching an assemblage of mercenaries.

Sal had never been in an army, but that didn't keep him from programming as though he had been. He was more programming on what amounted to "feel". It was not a matter of logic driving him forward, so much as a vague hint of the outline of the thing he wished to create. Regardless, the pace was exhausting.

At the end of the third week, he felt he had completed his deception. It was, in effect, terrifying to contemplate. Sal felt spent. Such was his state as he hunkered behind his concrete barrier and looked around him to see most of the rest of the citizens of Undertown positioned behind other concrete barriers.

Sal looked over his interface one final time. Everything looked good. He drew a breath in. He caught Prilock's gaze across the way. he signaled with his fist in a downward pumping motion. The shield dropped, and Sal implemented his deception. The result was absolutely terrifying, and unexpected.