PANOPTICON QUEST
As usual, you are at the office on time, cup of coffee in hand. The...
As usual, you are at the office on time, cup of coffee in hand. The...
Panopticon: A Game of Posthumans, Perniciousness, Paranoia, Politics, and Plasmaguns
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Side Story: Yellowfields; Jamelia 01
Quasi-continued from here.
Yellowfields 01: The Weary Road
The fields of golden corn wave in the wind. The old black Cadillac makes its way out of town, along the dusty road. It could almost be a scene from the 1950s, if it wasn't for the billboard on the outskirts advertising a new smartphone.
Inside an old, obsolete car, an old, obsolete man shifts from second to third gear, and mutters to himself as the car almost stalls. Harlan Aristide has kept this old Priest - long since replaced by the Paladin - working as best he can, but she left the production line forty years ago and the last time she broke down he had to find a young Iterator who took the job of repairing her because they wanted to do a report on machines operating past their lifespan.
Harlan is on the way to his construct for the first time in years. He hasn't been since the last of his Men in Black died of organ failure. There are a few Sympathisers who show up every week to clean the place. As far as they're concerned, it's an old federal facility kept running despite the fact that no one works there. They probably make jokes about government bloat.
The New World Order does like its bloat. It would always prefer to cut an old facility back to a shoestring budget and mothball it, than actually shut it down. Which means there are probably tens, hundreds of places like this all over the US, manned by agents out of favour or by old Men in Black given a retirement as a caretaker.
In his long career, Harlan Aristide has seen many places other people wouldn't believe. He's seen lakes of burning sulphur. He's been trapped outside reality from his own powers going haywire, barely managing to escape. He's fought terrorists armed with nuclear power robots possessed by aliens which look like classical demons.
And in his case, rural Ohio is his personal purgatory.
But for once, the higher ups have remembered he exists. That's probably a bad sign, because he's an old drunk who is the Director of a construct which was high tech in 1970 and leads an amalgam consisting of himself and the metaphorical ghosts of his past. Which means he got disrupted from his drinking and had to go change into a fresh shirt and tie in his car before he drove here.
He wonders what this is going to be. A formal reprimand for being absent from the office during working hours? Actual, formal retirement? A 9mm retirement? Maybe it's just a trick by some Virtual Adepts who found where an old enemy is and he's about to be murdered by a bunch of fanatics for things he did thirty years ago. He doesn't think it's anything to do with his attempts to get out of this deadwater which he started after the visit from Jasmine Bao. He'd just started putting out feelers when Moscow happened and any chance of attention being spared for someone like him was snuffed out.
He has a headache. The voices in his head, the ones which claim to be Control, are muttering again. Not loud enough to hear what they're saying, but loud enough to be annoying. Normally about now, he'd be ordering another drink, but work intrudes. Dammit.
He pulls off the highway, past the old rusting sign proclaiming 'DEPARTMENT OF AGRICULTURE ARCHIVES AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY', and follows the half-mile road through the cornfields to the old barbed wire perimeter around his construct. The yellowing grass is overgrown and there are bird droppings all over the roof. It's quiet out here. The only noise is the sound of his car and the wind through the corn.
But for once, the parking lot isn't empty. There's a shiny new Paladin there, next to three large lorries with Department of Agriculture markings. That casts a distinctly... peculiar tone to the current events. Maybe they're moving something new into his construct because they need a new laboratory, and they're putting a new Director in charge. He shouldn't care, but he does. It's his construct, even if he hasn't been inside in five years. Maybe they're just dumping more stuff here for long term storage and they need him to sign the papers acknowledging receipt.
That's certainly plausible.
He parks the car, and gets out, stretching. A little bit of pride makes him dust off his faded black jacket and slick down his iron grey hair before he gets out. Time to face his destiny, it seems. Or maybe sign some paperwork. Whatever.
His arrival seems to prompt the occupants of the Paladin to get out. The driver is a tall man with the bearing of - Harlan narrows his eyes. A bearing which is somewhere between that of an Iteration X commando and a NWO Operative. Yes, the man is heavily cyberised. But he pays little attention to the man, compared to the woman beside him.
Smart black suit. Olive-coloured skin. Lilac headscarf clearly chosen to match the deep purple trimmings visible inside her sleeves. X-10 Protector at her hip, and the bulge of a second pistol inside her jacket. Mirrorshades protruding from her pocket.
She's a face from his past. Literally. She hasn't aged a day. You wouldn't believe that he's actually two years younger than her.
And then he gets closer and realises that he's wrong. One look at her eyes, and he can see the difference. The last time he saw her, she had the eyes of a pitiless meat machine. The time before that, they were hollowed and doubting, broken. And before that, they burned with the gleam of the fanatic.
Now? Now, they're more... more human than last time. But they're still colder. They don't have the fires they used to. And under the coldness, there seems to be pity in them. Yes. She's pitying him.
Her, the voices in his head scream. The Adversary!
"Director Aristide," she says. "It's been a while."
"What should I call you this time?" he asks, his voice cracking slightly. He knows the name she currently uses, of course. He might be stuck in rural Ohio, but he has so little to do that he can at least keep track of NWO internal politics. And the voices in his head hate her. Oh yes, they do.
"Jamelia will do," she says. "Director Belltower if you really want to be formal. Director Aristide, this is Jaron Belltower of Project Tyrant."
He doesn't ask if they're married. New World Order agents get over the idea that a shared surname means you're related. What this does mean, however, is that he has two Belltowers visiting him. That's a big deal. In the post '99 New World Order, Belltowers and former Belltowers are senior staff.
"And here you are, Hyena, here to scavenge off the dead," he mutters.
"You're not dead, Aristide," she said in that exceptionally annoying calm voice she's prone to using. "Why don't we step inside? We should talk."
"The coffee machine broke years ago," Harlan Aristide mutters, turning on his heel and heading towards the entrance. Time to see if his swipe card still works.
"Oh, don't worry," the other Belltower, Jaren, says. He gestures at one of the lorries, and the doors are swung open. Men in Black in coveralls get out, and start unloading... well. A lot of things. "I'm sure we have a new coffee machine somewhere in here."
Yellowfields 01: The Weary Road
The fields of golden corn wave in the wind. The old black Cadillac makes its way out of town, along the dusty road. It could almost be a scene from the 1950s, if it wasn't for the billboard on the outskirts advertising a new smartphone.
Inside an old, obsolete car, an old, obsolete man shifts from second to third gear, and mutters to himself as the car almost stalls. Harlan Aristide has kept this old Priest - long since replaced by the Paladin - working as best he can, but she left the production line forty years ago and the last time she broke down he had to find a young Iterator who took the job of repairing her because they wanted to do a report on machines operating past their lifespan.
Harlan is on the way to his construct for the first time in years. He hasn't been since the last of his Men in Black died of organ failure. There are a few Sympathisers who show up every week to clean the place. As far as they're concerned, it's an old federal facility kept running despite the fact that no one works there. They probably make jokes about government bloat.
The New World Order does like its bloat. It would always prefer to cut an old facility back to a shoestring budget and mothball it, than actually shut it down. Which means there are probably tens, hundreds of places like this all over the US, manned by agents out of favour or by old Men in Black given a retirement as a caretaker.
In his long career, Harlan Aristide has seen many places other people wouldn't believe. He's seen lakes of burning sulphur. He's been trapped outside reality from his own powers going haywire, barely managing to escape. He's fought terrorists armed with nuclear power robots possessed by aliens which look like classical demons.
And in his case, rural Ohio is his personal purgatory.
But for once, the higher ups have remembered he exists. That's probably a bad sign, because he's an old drunk who is the Director of a construct which was high tech in 1970 and leads an amalgam consisting of himself and the metaphorical ghosts of his past. Which means he got disrupted from his drinking and had to go change into a fresh shirt and tie in his car before he drove here.
He wonders what this is going to be. A formal reprimand for being absent from the office during working hours? Actual, formal retirement? A 9mm retirement? Maybe it's just a trick by some Virtual Adepts who found where an old enemy is and he's about to be murdered by a bunch of fanatics for things he did thirty years ago. He doesn't think it's anything to do with his attempts to get out of this deadwater which he started after the visit from Jasmine Bao. He'd just started putting out feelers when Moscow happened and any chance of attention being spared for someone like him was snuffed out.
He has a headache. The voices in his head, the ones which claim to be Control, are muttering again. Not loud enough to hear what they're saying, but loud enough to be annoying. Normally about now, he'd be ordering another drink, but work intrudes. Dammit.
He pulls off the highway, past the old rusting sign proclaiming 'DEPARTMENT OF AGRICULTURE ARCHIVES AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY', and follows the half-mile road through the cornfields to the old barbed wire perimeter around his construct. The yellowing grass is overgrown and there are bird droppings all over the roof. It's quiet out here. The only noise is the sound of his car and the wind through the corn.
But for once, the parking lot isn't empty. There's a shiny new Paladin there, next to three large lorries with Department of Agriculture markings. That casts a distinctly... peculiar tone to the current events. Maybe they're moving something new into his construct because they need a new laboratory, and they're putting a new Director in charge. He shouldn't care, but he does. It's his construct, even if he hasn't been inside in five years. Maybe they're just dumping more stuff here for long term storage and they need him to sign the papers acknowledging receipt.
That's certainly plausible.
He parks the car, and gets out, stretching. A little bit of pride makes him dust off his faded black jacket and slick down his iron grey hair before he gets out. Time to face his destiny, it seems. Or maybe sign some paperwork. Whatever.
His arrival seems to prompt the occupants of the Paladin to get out. The driver is a tall man with the bearing of - Harlan narrows his eyes. A bearing which is somewhere between that of an Iteration X commando and a NWO Operative. Yes, the man is heavily cyberised. But he pays little attention to the man, compared to the woman beside him.
Smart black suit. Olive-coloured skin. Lilac headscarf clearly chosen to match the deep purple trimmings visible inside her sleeves. X-10 Protector at her hip, and the bulge of a second pistol inside her jacket. Mirrorshades protruding from her pocket.
She's a face from his past. Literally. She hasn't aged a day. You wouldn't believe that he's actually two years younger than her.
And then he gets closer and realises that he's wrong. One look at her eyes, and he can see the difference. The last time he saw her, she had the eyes of a pitiless meat machine. The time before that, they were hollowed and doubting, broken. And before that, they burned with the gleam of the fanatic.
Now? Now, they're more... more human than last time. But they're still colder. They don't have the fires they used to. And under the coldness, there seems to be pity in them. Yes. She's pitying him.
Her, the voices in his head scream. The Adversary!
"Director Aristide," she says. "It's been a while."
"What should I call you this time?" he asks, his voice cracking slightly. He knows the name she currently uses, of course. He might be stuck in rural Ohio, but he has so little to do that he can at least keep track of NWO internal politics. And the voices in his head hate her. Oh yes, they do.
"Jamelia will do," she says. "Director Belltower if you really want to be formal. Director Aristide, this is Jaron Belltower of Project Tyrant."
He doesn't ask if they're married. New World Order agents get over the idea that a shared surname means you're related. What this does mean, however, is that he has two Belltowers visiting him. That's a big deal. In the post '99 New World Order, Belltowers and former Belltowers are senior staff.
"And here you are, Hyena, here to scavenge off the dead," he mutters.
"You're not dead, Aristide," she said in that exceptionally annoying calm voice she's prone to using. "Why don't we step inside? We should talk."
"The coffee machine broke years ago," Harlan Aristide mutters, turning on his heel and heading towards the entrance. Time to see if his swipe card still works.
"Oh, don't worry," the other Belltower, Jaren, says. He gestures at one of the lorries, and the doors are swung open. Men in Black in coveralls get out, and start unloading... well. A lot of things. "I'm sure we have a new coffee machine somewhere in here."
Last edited:
Jamelia 02: Breach
Because it apparently isn't enough to be providing write-ins for things which are actually happening where the focus is.
Yellowfields 02: Breach
"What's going on?" Harlan tries, blinking. He's feeling overwhelmed. The most contact he's had with the rest of the Union in years has been email chats with other bitter old retired agents and occasionally being called in to give 'nothing to report' reports in person.
"We will brief you in full once we're inside," Jamelia says. "Jaron, they probably shouldn't unload until we find the proper cargo entrance. Where is it, Harlan?"
"Um... uh, around the back. Two big double doors for deliveries for the archives and the rest of the facility. But we'll need to get down into the control centre to bring the cargo lifts back online," Harlan says, rubbing his temples as he tries to recall the exact protocols. "Well, the two which are still working. And we'll need to bring the reactor out of hibernation first. We should have enough battery power to get down there, but the fuel is low. Have your MIBs get the lorries into the vehicle garages around the back. That's where the cargo lifts connect up to."
Jaron Belltower purses his lips. "I was expecting to have to verify the reactor status considering how long it's gone without refuelling. Ms Wall, bring the fuel kit."
"Understood, sir," says one of the Men in Black. Harlan takes her in. Clearly a 2.0, unless she's a Reclaimed. Yes, he's leaning towards Reclaimed. There's a feel to her mind which suggests she's been 'smoothed' down to her current purpose, rather than built from scratch like this. She returns to one of the lorries and comes out carrying a bulky briefcase, followed by three other Men In Black wheeling a large box between them.
Harlan knows that what that is. That's a standard radioisotope fuel cartridge, good for five years of operation. The New World Order still uses fission in places where the rest of the Technocracy has switched to fusion, because old facilities like this can go without maintenance for much longer with fission rather than fusion. But if they're bringing a five year fuel supply...
"Director Aristide, are the proper tools for maintenance and installation present?" Ms Wall asks him.
He blinks. "Yes," he manages. "They should be." Turning to Jamelia, he tries, "Hy- Jamelia, what's going on here?"
"This may take some time," Jaron says, answering for her. He tilts his head. "Bring the coffee machine," he orders the MIBs.
The surface facility is in truth an old, abandoned Department of Agriculture archives facility. It had been built in the sixties to preserve knowledge of farming techniques and seed crops if the Cold War went nuclear. At least that was the excuse the Union had used. The Department of Agriculture had been owned lock, stock and barrel by the Union since its foundation by Abraham Lincoln in 1862.
The click of the dress shoes and the squeak of the wheels of the case is the only noise in the building. The grey corridors are filled with dust in unswept corridors, and there's a faint smell of mouse urine. The calendar up on the wall is a yellowing piece of paper showing January 1992. Harlan leads the other agents to one of the lifts, and presses the call button.
There are all sorts of things he wants to say to Jamelia. Questions he never asked her, things he wants to know. She isn't the same woman he knew, who he fought with - but that was the point, wasn't it? She did this to herself, knowing full well what she was getting into by volunteering for INVISIBLE BEAR. "Have you seen any of the others?" he asks, in place of what he wanted to ask her.
She knows what he means. "I actually saw Kingsley fairly recently," she says, brushing down her sleeve and looking around the corridor with an alert gaze. "He's... well, he's himself. He hasn't changed much. At the moment he's running tactical in Nigeria against superstitionist groups." She shakes her head. "He's building what seems to be a quasi-HELMETSHRIKE team in the Enforcers for this."
"He's never happier than when he's out in some backwater making people terrified of him," Harlan observes.
"You're right there," she agrees. "I directed someone I passed over for my amalgam to him. I did consider if he might want to join mine, but all things considered? He's more useful where he is."
"And it would feel wrong giving orders to Ratel, eh, Hyena?" Harlan says, probing her.
She seems to consider it. "Not really," she says in a neutral tone.
And it's another sign of how she's changed. He shakes his head as the lift arrives, and they all bundle in. Harlan inserts the key into the safety lock underneath the lift buttons, and turns it. He then presses the bottom buttons, A2 and A3, together.
"Please enter appropriate authorisation," a pre-recorded female voice says pleasantly.
He clears his throat. "Safety authorisation - Director Aristide, two guests, and four assets." He gestures at them. "Say your names," he whispers.
"Jaron Belltower."
"Jamelia Belltower."
"Mr White."
"Mr Day."
"Ms Wall."
"Ms Salmon."
"Processing. Processing. Processing. Please wait. Guest identities not stored on local data banks. Processing. Please wait. Accessing remote data banks. Please wait. Verifying guest identities. Please wait. Please wait. Please wait. Please wait. Unknown file format detected. Accessing remote data banks to update handshake protocols. Please wait. Update systems out of date. Accessing remote data banks to update update systems."
Harlan feels Jaron's eyebrows rise. "Haven't shown up to work in a long time?"
"The last guests I had were a decade ago," he says quietly. "And no one ever wants to use this facility for its intended purpose, so I'm not needed down here. I do all my work on my phone, which is more powerful than the 'supercomputers' down here."
They waited. And waited a little more.
"Identities verified. Welcome back, [Director Aristide]. It has been [1903] [days] since you last accessed this facility. Welcome, guests [Jaron] [Belltower] and [Jamelia] [Belltower]. Local access files now created," the system voice said. The lift rumbled into motion, and the dial began to count its way down through the floors, through the underground archives of the cover facility.
0
A1
A2
A3
...
...
S
"Welcome to the Yellowfield Facility, home of Project Source," the pleasant voice said. "All glory to the Technocratic Union. Please depart the lift. Remember, it is an offence to enter secure areas if you lack the correct clearance. All guests must remain within twenty metres of their sponsor until they have been processed by the current Chief Security Officer, [File Not Found]."
It pauses as the doors roll open, revealing a red-lit corridor. The lights are flickering, and there's a faint whine in the air. At first inspection, all the potted plants died long ago, leaving leafless shrugs reaching for the sky like skeletal hands.
"The facility is currently running on backup power. There are currently [one] [hour] and [thirty] [one] minutes of operational power remaining. Please restart the reactor to recharge the backup supply, or otherwise connect an external power source."
"This is concerning," Ms Wall says to Jaron. "It can take upwards of one hour to restart a reactor of this age."
"That's part of the reason I stopped working from here," Harlan grumbles. "Fuel was running low, I wasn't sure if I'd get a refill if it ran out, and the old lithium batteries of the backup were holding less and less charge. So I put the reactor into hibernation so if I ever needed to go down here, I'd probably be able to start it up again in less than an hour." He raises his voice. "Unity, status report."
"Yes, [Director Artistide]. Main reactor is in [hibernation] mode. Secondary reactor is [WARNING: REACTOR NOT PRESENT] mode."
"It got decommissioned eightish years ago," Harlan whispers.
"There is [one] [hour] and [thirty] [exactly] minutes of backup power. Communications shielding is [secure]," the dumb system continues. "Extradimensional shielding is [insecure]. WARNING: Extradimensional shielding suffered power failure [three] [hundred] and [zero] [six] days ago. Please restart reactor to connect [extradimensional shielding] to main power grid. Automated alert system is [offline]. WARNING: Automated alert system failed [three] [hundred] and [zero] [six] days ago. Test labs containment is [insecure]. WARNING: Test labs containment failed [three] [hundred] and [zero] [six] days ago."
"Harlan." Jamelia's voice is cold and flat. "What was in the test labs?"
"Nothing!" he protests. "You heard it! I haven't been here in five years! And I was the last person left by that point! The labs were certainly empty! We hadn't been running experiments here for two decades! It was decommissioned in 1992!" He closes his eyes and focuses, reaching out with his mind. Dust dances around him, and if he had his eyes open, the others would be able to see the faint purple-red glow coming from them.
"There are anomalous EDEs in the facility," he says, after some thought. "Almost all clustered around the test labs, or the cloning facilities. They feel... yes, they feel more like RNEs than aliens."
"What hardware do you have down here?" Jaron asks, gun in hand.
"There should be anti-EDE Engineer hardware in the Armoury," Harlan says, after some thought. "Eighties in origin, but it was made to last. They always had some problems with the way that EDEs were attracted to untrained psychics here, so the security had to be prepared." He frowns. "If we can get the reactor back online, that'll bring up the anti-EDE partition fields. We can lock them down and get the VEs in to sterilise this place properly."
Jamelia and Jaron exchange a glance.
"Well," Jamelia says. "We can consider this field experience, I suppose."
"Quite," Jaron says. "I think we should evac and get the rest of the Tyrants. The gear in the Armoury can kill EDEs, right?" he asks Harlan.
"Uh... yes, yes, there's plenty of phononic resonance rounds and other such things," Harlan says, "but... this is really the Engineers' job, isn't it?"
Jaron pushes the up button on the lift. "There are complications there," he says. "If you don't operate out of here, where do you work from? We should go there so we can brief you."
"... um," says Harlan, awkwardly. "Funny story, there..."
Yellowfields 02: Breach
...
"What's going on?" Harlan tries, blinking. He's feeling overwhelmed. The most contact he's had with the rest of the Union in years has been email chats with other bitter old retired agents and occasionally being called in to give 'nothing to report' reports in person.
"We will brief you in full once we're inside," Jamelia says. "Jaron, they probably shouldn't unload until we find the proper cargo entrance. Where is it, Harlan?"
"Um... uh, around the back. Two big double doors for deliveries for the archives and the rest of the facility. But we'll need to get down into the control centre to bring the cargo lifts back online," Harlan says, rubbing his temples as he tries to recall the exact protocols. "Well, the two which are still working. And we'll need to bring the reactor out of hibernation first. We should have enough battery power to get down there, but the fuel is low. Have your MIBs get the lorries into the vehicle garages around the back. That's where the cargo lifts connect up to."
Jaron Belltower purses his lips. "I was expecting to have to verify the reactor status considering how long it's gone without refuelling. Ms Wall, bring the fuel kit."
"Understood, sir," says one of the Men in Black. Harlan takes her in. Clearly a 2.0, unless she's a Reclaimed. Yes, he's leaning towards Reclaimed. There's a feel to her mind which suggests she's been 'smoothed' down to her current purpose, rather than built from scratch like this. She returns to one of the lorries and comes out carrying a bulky briefcase, followed by three other Men In Black wheeling a large box between them.
Harlan knows that what that is. That's a standard radioisotope fuel cartridge, good for five years of operation. The New World Order still uses fission in places where the rest of the Technocracy has switched to fusion, because old facilities like this can go without maintenance for much longer with fission rather than fusion. But if they're bringing a five year fuel supply...
"Director Aristide, are the proper tools for maintenance and installation present?" Ms Wall asks him.
He blinks. "Yes," he manages. "They should be." Turning to Jamelia, he tries, "Hy- Jamelia, what's going on here?"
"This may take some time," Jaron says, answering for her. He tilts his head. "Bring the coffee machine," he orders the MIBs.
...
The surface facility is in truth an old, abandoned Department of Agriculture archives facility. It had been built in the sixties to preserve knowledge of farming techniques and seed crops if the Cold War went nuclear. At least that was the excuse the Union had used. The Department of Agriculture had been owned lock, stock and barrel by the Union since its foundation by Abraham Lincoln in 1862.
The click of the dress shoes and the squeak of the wheels of the case is the only noise in the building. The grey corridors are filled with dust in unswept corridors, and there's a faint smell of mouse urine. The calendar up on the wall is a yellowing piece of paper showing January 1992. Harlan leads the other agents to one of the lifts, and presses the call button.
There are all sorts of things he wants to say to Jamelia. Questions he never asked her, things he wants to know. She isn't the same woman he knew, who he fought with - but that was the point, wasn't it? She did this to herself, knowing full well what she was getting into by volunteering for INVISIBLE BEAR. "Have you seen any of the others?" he asks, in place of what he wanted to ask her.
She knows what he means. "I actually saw Kingsley fairly recently," she says, brushing down her sleeve and looking around the corridor with an alert gaze. "He's... well, he's himself. He hasn't changed much. At the moment he's running tactical in Nigeria against superstitionist groups." She shakes her head. "He's building what seems to be a quasi-HELMETSHRIKE team in the Enforcers for this."
"He's never happier than when he's out in some backwater making people terrified of him," Harlan observes.
"You're right there," she agrees. "I directed someone I passed over for my amalgam to him. I did consider if he might want to join mine, but all things considered? He's more useful where he is."
"And it would feel wrong giving orders to Ratel, eh, Hyena?" Harlan says, probing her.
She seems to consider it. "Not really," she says in a neutral tone.
And it's another sign of how she's changed. He shakes his head as the lift arrives, and they all bundle in. Harlan inserts the key into the safety lock underneath the lift buttons, and turns it. He then presses the bottom buttons, A2 and A3, together.
"Please enter appropriate authorisation," a pre-recorded female voice says pleasantly.
He clears his throat. "Safety authorisation - Director Aristide, two guests, and four assets." He gestures at them. "Say your names," he whispers.
"Jaron Belltower."
"Jamelia Belltower."
"Mr White."
"Mr Day."
"Ms Wall."
"Ms Salmon."
"Processing. Processing. Processing. Please wait. Guest identities not stored on local data banks. Processing. Please wait. Accessing remote data banks. Please wait. Verifying guest identities. Please wait. Please wait. Please wait. Please wait. Unknown file format detected. Accessing remote data banks to update handshake protocols. Please wait. Update systems out of date. Accessing remote data banks to update update systems."
Harlan feels Jaron's eyebrows rise. "Haven't shown up to work in a long time?"
"The last guests I had were a decade ago," he says quietly. "And no one ever wants to use this facility for its intended purpose, so I'm not needed down here. I do all my work on my phone, which is more powerful than the 'supercomputers' down here."
They waited. And waited a little more.
"Identities verified. Welcome back, [Director Aristide]. It has been [1903] [days] since you last accessed this facility. Welcome, guests [Jaron] [Belltower] and [Jamelia] [Belltower]. Local access files now created," the system voice said. The lift rumbled into motion, and the dial began to count its way down through the floors, through the underground archives of the cover facility.
0
A1
A2
A3
...
...
S
"Welcome to the Yellowfield Facility, home of Project Source," the pleasant voice said. "All glory to the Technocratic Union. Please depart the lift. Remember, it is an offence to enter secure areas if you lack the correct clearance. All guests must remain within twenty metres of their sponsor until they have been processed by the current Chief Security Officer, [File Not Found]."
It pauses as the doors roll open, revealing a red-lit corridor. The lights are flickering, and there's a faint whine in the air. At first inspection, all the potted plants died long ago, leaving leafless shrugs reaching for the sky like skeletal hands.
"The facility is currently running on backup power. There are currently [one] [hour] and [thirty] [one] minutes of operational power remaining. Please restart the reactor to recharge the backup supply, or otherwise connect an external power source."
"This is concerning," Ms Wall says to Jaron. "It can take upwards of one hour to restart a reactor of this age."
"That's part of the reason I stopped working from here," Harlan grumbles. "Fuel was running low, I wasn't sure if I'd get a refill if it ran out, and the old lithium batteries of the backup were holding less and less charge. So I put the reactor into hibernation so if I ever needed to go down here, I'd probably be able to start it up again in less than an hour." He raises his voice. "Unity, status report."
"Yes, [Director Artistide]. Main reactor is in [hibernation] mode. Secondary reactor is [WARNING: REACTOR NOT PRESENT] mode."
"It got decommissioned eightish years ago," Harlan whispers.
"There is [one] [hour] and [thirty] [exactly] minutes of backup power. Communications shielding is [secure]," the dumb system continues. "Extradimensional shielding is [insecure]. WARNING: Extradimensional shielding suffered power failure [three] [hundred] and [zero] [six] days ago. Please restart reactor to connect [extradimensional shielding] to main power grid. Automated alert system is [offline]. WARNING: Automated alert system failed [three] [hundred] and [zero] [six] days ago. Test labs containment is [insecure]. WARNING: Test labs containment failed [three] [hundred] and [zero] [six] days ago."
"Harlan." Jamelia's voice is cold and flat. "What was in the test labs?"
"Nothing!" he protests. "You heard it! I haven't been here in five years! And I was the last person left by that point! The labs were certainly empty! We hadn't been running experiments here for two decades! It was decommissioned in 1992!" He closes his eyes and focuses, reaching out with his mind. Dust dances around him, and if he had his eyes open, the others would be able to see the faint purple-red glow coming from them.
"There are anomalous EDEs in the facility," he says, after some thought. "Almost all clustered around the test labs, or the cloning facilities. They feel... yes, they feel more like RNEs than aliens."
"What hardware do you have down here?" Jaron asks, gun in hand.
"There should be anti-EDE Engineer hardware in the Armoury," Harlan says, after some thought. "Eighties in origin, but it was made to last. They always had some problems with the way that EDEs were attracted to untrained psychics here, so the security had to be prepared." He frowns. "If we can get the reactor back online, that'll bring up the anti-EDE partition fields. We can lock them down and get the VEs in to sterilise this place properly."
Jamelia and Jaron exchange a glance.
"Well," Jamelia says. "We can consider this field experience, I suppose."
"Quite," Jaron says. "I think we should evac and get the rest of the Tyrants. The gear in the Armoury can kill EDEs, right?" he asks Harlan.
"Uh... yes, yes, there's plenty of phononic resonance rounds and other such things," Harlan says, "but... this is really the Engineers' job, isn't it?"
Jaron pushes the up button on the lift. "There are complications there," he says. "If you don't operate out of here, where do you work from? We should go there so we can brief you."
"... um," says Harlan, awkwardly. "Funny story, there..."
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Jamelia 03: Shadows of the Past
Continued from here
Yellowfields 03: Shadows of the Past
In the end, they don't go to the bar that is the place he does most of his work in. Instead, they head back to Harlan's home. And Jaron and Jamelia take a chance to talk.
Right after they turn on the ultrasonic squealers, the white-noise generators, the Van Eck Phreaking Phuckers and all the suite of gadgets in the Paladin designed to stop people listening in. They don't think they're secure, of course. But it's enough to allow moderately casual conversation.
One does not achieve a Belltower name without a certain level of fully justified paranoia, especially when one is around a known psychic.
"He's a mess," Jaron says clinically, drumming his fingers on the seat as the cornfields go by. "He's a high functioning alcoholic - and I use the term 'high functioning' loosely - who's the Director of an amalgam of one and a construct which was overrun by RNEs without him even noticing."
It's a valid criticism, Jamelia has to agree. "Too many agents put in 'retirement' positions wind up like this," she notes, trailing Harlan's car as it turns. "A shame."
"If I was feeling cruel, I would say that the only spirits he's seen in years have come in bottles," Jaron says drolly. He smirks. "That's one advantage the RDs have. It's harder to make puns about extradimensional entities."
"I'm sure they enjoy it a lot."
"Though we should beware the EDEs of March."
"Or any other month." Jamelia shifts gears. "And that was dreadful."
"Thank you." Jaron massages his knuckles. "How much effort is it going to take to bring him up to usability?" he asks.
Jamelia purses her lips. "Hmm," she says deliberately. "Physically he's somewhat out of shape - mix of age-related degradation, and the alcoholism. We'll want to have that fixed, so he doesn't drop dead on us from heart failure and waste the asset. He's kept up with his training - probably because going through the training regime gives him structure to his day. But that's a triviality. I'm more concerned about his mental state. The man I knew thirty years ago wouldn't have wound up like this."
They drive on in silence for a bit.
"So. I need more information on HELMETSHRIKE," Jaron says out of the blue. "I need to know more about the man and how you can say something like that with such certainty."
She instinctive bristles. "You know what HELMETSHRIKE was," she says flatly.
"I do. But I'd rather hear it from you," he says. "The official histories depict them more as recon teams. A lot is still classified."
She shifts gears, literally and metaphorically. She'll make a concession here, as it is necessary. "Oh, very well. The programme started in the late Sixties, as the Pogrom stepped up. As did the losses of Iterator and Progenitor assault teams in the Third World, because they were taking things meant for urban use into all kinds of backwaters. The Operatives and the Enforcers got tapped to set up a combat asset which could go into... well, pretty much anywhere baseline-ish humans could survive, even if tech couldn't. Black ops and wetworks teams. Mostly assassination and sabotage, some abduction, occasional extraction."
"Messy work," Jaron observes.
"Very much so," Jamelia says calmly. Another car passes in the other direction, and both agents stiffen slightly tracking it as it goes by. "I had... oh, around five to ten years of experience under my belt when I was headhunted for a HELMETSHRIKE team." She doesn't give precise values. "That's the general level of expertise they were looking for. Long enough to wash away the new agents smell, but not so experienced that you'd be a great loss."
Jaron looks out the window. "High attrition rate, yes. I'd read that."
"You don't know the half of it. I was lucky. I wound up in a good one. We only lost a few team members, but we'd regularly lose 75%+ on our support sections. We happened to have a very heavy stealth and infiltration focus, and enough pull to refuse to be used for frontal assaults by tin-headed Comptrollers.
She laughs, with a trace of old remembered bitterness. "When you've spent three weeks crawling through some forsaken jungle to get into position when the most high tech gear you have is a WW2 field radio and an AK47, all you could take out a cult leader in their sleep… well, you aren't left feeling too sympathetic to whining Iterators going on about how they got a little bit of mud on them and that's why they can't give backup. We just managed to dodge their attempts to get us to carry out the main attack for them." She shakes her head. "So annoying. Iteration X never liked HELMETSHRIKE."
She catches Jaron's sideways glance, and strongly suspects he's slotting this into his model of her. "Self reliant, used to operating when cut off," he says out loud.
Jamelia slows at some lights. "I can't help you with how he's changed in the mean time, of course," she says. "He very much self-defines as a psychic, so the phasing out of the programmes can't have been good for him. We were colleagues and… yes, I would say 'friends' at the time, but it's been thirty years."
"Romantic involvement?" The words are coldly professional.
"None. No feelings on my behalf, none known about from him. No leverage there, but also no resentment," Jamelia says just as coldly. "There may be some jealousy about the difference in our relative positions - I'll need to take care about that. I don't think he's a defection risk, because if he was, he would have taken the chance already."
"And not be stuck out here."
"Quite so."
The two black cars pull up at Harlan's house.
It has a large back garden and a soppy-looking dog wearing a straw hat snoozing on the porch. The front garden is almost inhumanly neat and puts the neighbours to shame. There's even a white picket fence.
No 2.5 kids, though. No kids have ever lived here.
Harlan carefully parks his old car in his garage, and closes the door. He notes that his two guests have parked just outside, and he can sense all the security features coming online.
"Leave your shoes on the mat," he tells them. "Don't walk dirt into the house."
Jamelia gives him a Look. It is a capital-L Look. "Regulation shoes don't pick up dirt," she says.
"Well, lucky you," Harlan grumbles. "Some of us have to buy our own shoes."
He feels oddly ashamed as he slips off his shoes, and not just because there are patches in his socks. The two other agents follow his lead, and he doesn't even crack a smile at how Jamelia gets even shorter. He leads them to the basement, and fumbles around until he finds the switch hidden under the breaker box. A pulse of psychic energy is all he needs to identify himself, and now the switch pops open the hatch hidden in the floor, leading down to the sub-basement.
"It's a bit of a tight squeeze," he apologises as he swings starts to clamber down the ladder. "Well, it's fine when it's just me, but it's not really meant to more than that."
It is just a single room down here. The walls are shiny with aluminium foil and electrical wiring, and while a few attempts have been made to add a human touch, they're lost under the off-the-shelf modern computers, the obsolete Technocratic hardware, the psi-commander chair, and the bed.
"Tin foil?" Jaron asks, raising his eyebrows.
"It covers up the Faraday cage," Harlan says. "I have this place set up for security. It should be invisible to anything but the most high-powered scanners, and it's also opaque to psychic influences." He gives a self-effacing shrug. "Just an old man's paranoia," he lies. Because it is a lie. The voices can't touch him down here, and his dreams are his own.
He settles down on the psi command chair, although he doesn't engage the locks. That leaves the desk chair and the bed for the other two. The desk is laden down with heavily bookmarked books, with titles like 'Epigenetic Development of Powers in Mothers of Psychics" and "Creatures of the Mind (Authorised Censored Edition, with Commentary)", and he watches Jamelia's eyes flick over them. She doesn't say anything about the fact that those texts should technically all be a in a secure facility.
All the drive back, the voices were whispering to him until he focussed on keeping up a mental shield. They hate her. They really hate her. They accuse her of being a traitor, a bane, a foe of the Technocratic Union. Evil, purest evil - the Prodigal Daughter who has refused to return to the flock and instead revels in her wicked ways. And so on. At least down here, he can think without having to concentrate on keeping them silent.
Compared to her, the other man is more of a mystery. He's seen some references to Jaron Belltower in various reports and some of his papers. He's quite the prodigy, a Senior Operative despite being relatively young, and he is very heavily enhanced. He has very heavy mental shielding built into his combat chassis, on top of the primium. Harlan has seen combat Iterators less augmented than him.
Very strange.
"So," he says, steepling his fingers. "I suppose I might as well ask why the Order remembered that an old alcoholic embarrassment like me still exists. And why two Belltowers have shown up, when I never got past Blithe before I gave up on the whole name thing."
Jamelia and Jaron exchange a glance. Jaron gestures at her to begin. "The New World Order is considering its future," Jamelia begins. "Certain events, such as the assault by an previously-unknown EDE enemy in Moscow have convinced senior figures of the necessity of reactivating old programmes which were mistakenly shut down due to political interference."
He stares at her flatly. "Cut the bullshit, Hyena," he says, butterflies squirming in his stomach. He thinks he knows what's going on here, and he doesn't know how to feel about it. He's dreamed of something like this happening, but never expected it. Not really.
She rolls her eyes. "Fine," she says. "After Moscow, we need more DSci, and we need it organic to the NWO. We need to be able to trust it. A lot - and I mean a lot - of the currently senior members of the NWO are Operatives who remember how useful people like you were, and the Operatives never wanted the psychic programmes to be shut down. We know how useful they are."
Jaron clears his throat. "Professor Bastion has decided that we should reactivate as many of the old trainers and facilities belonging to various mothballed programmes as part of a viability study. Yellowfields is - was, I should say - thought to be an intact location, and you're marked in your files as being one of the most powerful and well-trained psychics left to us."
Jamelia leans forwards. "Basically, Harlan," she says, "the NWO wants you back, because we're trying to start up another psychic programme. You got screwed over by political games. I know. You have the right to feel bitter about…"
"Bitter? Why would I be bitter?" Harlan says softly, arms tightening on his chair. "Because I've spent twenty years in a meaningless position, pickling my liver out of sheer boredom? Because I got fucked over and no one spoke up for me? Because out of the blue, you show back up into my life after not a single word for decades and go 'Oh yes, we're reactivating you'?"
The other two agents are looking at him with a look of sympathy. He just knows they'll sit back and take everything he says, and at the end of his venting, he'll feel better.
Of course he can recognise what they're doing. Harlan has done exactly the same to other people. He gets the catharsis of shouting at them as a symbolic substitute for the New World Order which has mistreated him. After doing that, he'll be able to move on having let go of his anger and resentment.
Bastards. And it'll work too. Even though he know that's what they're doing.
So he does exactly that, and feels better.
Jamelia has been shouted at by a bitter old friend for about a quarter of an hour, and he seems to be running out of steam. It's now one of the awkward pauses, and she feels her presence might be making things more complicated. There is, however, something else on her mind.
"Where's your toilet?" Jamelia asks.
Harlan blinks. "Uh… up the ladder, then up the stairs, second on the left," he says as she gets up. "Oh, and Hyena?" he adds. "Once you've finished your business, wash your hands and keep your poking around in my personal possessions to a tasteful level."
None of the agents in the room were under any misapprehensions that instructions not to look through his stuff would be heeded.
Away from him, Jamelia takes the time to think over what's happened today.
There's one specific thing that Harlan's basement psi-lab reminds her of, and it is… disconcerting. Jamelia has seen this kind of place before. It looks just like the kind of hidden, underfunded place which Shadow Ministry psychic operatives build. Jamelia has kicked down the door to several of those places in her career. The same pastiche of New World Order technology, the same shabbiness from trying to do too much with not enough, and of course, the same massive use of aluminium foil.
Not that it's necessarily that surprising. The Shadow Ministry exists in its modern form largely because of the New World Order defectors who flipped sides when the Virtual Adepts left the Union. They're a strange little group, the Shadow Ministry, formally part of the Sons of Ether but maintaining their own operational structure - but there's always the edge of doubt. How many of their number are deep cover infiltrators from the Order? How many of them started as deep cover infiltrators and flipped for real? How many are still loaded up with Conditioned access codes which will allow them to recall their original mission?
Yes, Jamelia thinks, washing her hands, they'll need to vet Harlan Aristide quite thoroughly for Shadow Ministry contact. All the gear she's seen down in his basement seems to be either Technocratic or home-made, but of course he wouldn't let them down there if he was really sourcing equipment from the Traditions.
And with that done, she decides to poke around his bedroom. She suspects he never sleeps there - the bed down in the tiny cramped improvised psi lab is too well-used for that. New World Order paranoia never leaves you. The double-bed is unaired and the entire room is too neat. It's like a prop, to show he's a well-balanced human being. The closet is full of black suits, and there's a selection of unread novels stacked on one bedside table.
The room looks like it was repainted about six years ago - that was when his wife died, Jamelia remembers - and it's just been left to moulder. The surfaces have been dusted, but with none-too-much diligence. It's heaped into mounds around the unread books.
Jamelia drifts through the room, making judgements on the man by what he leaves lying around to convey an impression about himself. The books are chosen to make him look vaguely academic. She suspects that his wife picked the curtains and the wall colour, because they don't fit with what she knows of him, although she considers that maybe that's what an onlooker like her is meant to pick. There's a picture on his bedside table, and she takes it in.
The younger Harlan, his hair still black, is standing with his arm around a woman - his wife, Jamelia vaguely remembers. She looks Mediterranean - maybe Greek, judging from the backdrop where the photo was taken. Though that could just be a holiday. Jamelia briefly considers whether she's really his wife or is just a cover identity, but no, she vaguely remembers the face from their days together. She might have been on one of the support teams, maybe? Or had she been one of their liaisons back in HQ? Her face was certainly familiar.
Plus, it's probably not a mission, because his daughter is there with him and almost no-one takes their children with them on missions. Apart from cases where the child is something like Rose. If your mission requires you to be accompanied by a child as part of the disguise, the NWO issues you with what the Operatives snidely refer to as a CIB. Jamelia's had a few. They're useful, because no one ever suspects the bright orange plastic toy gun the little kid is holding to actually be a real gun.
Internally, she sighs. Just a little bit. That's a bit of a normal life which passed her by. She doesn't treat her CIBs as some kind of child surrogate, because that would be ridiculous and foolish. She knows Serafina thinks she uses her various proteges and pet projects as a displacement, but she thinks Serafina is projecting there, because Serafina mothers people. But still. She does have a little pang of jealousy there, deep deep down, to see Harlan smiling with his daughter.
Of course, because she doesn't have children, she doesn't have her children run away from school aged fourteen and defect to the Traditions. So she's probably ahead of the game there.
She picks up the picture, cradling it in both hands, and sits down on his bed. The date down the bottom indicates that this is about eight months after the HELMETSHRIKE team fell apart. She would have been undergoing INVISIBLE BEAR at the same time. She was a wreck of a human being, being remade into what she is now, while he seems happy and smiling next to his daughter.
And to think that now he's the washed up wreck.
Why didn't she contact him before? Ever? She'd had quite a few interactions with Winston Kingsley over the years. And not all of them had been mission-related. If they happened to be in the same city at the same time, they'd at least chat. Had it been instinctive loyalty to the fact that psychics were becoming No Longer Acceptable? And of course, he'd taken up a training and research position, and her job had never really taken him near him.
She doesn't remember any reason why she'd avoid him, but - Jamelia shakes her head - she doesn't know. Maybe she's just feeling nostalgic, staring at this photo. Maybe she's wondering how things would have gone if she'd transferred out of the Operatives after Sil… after the team fell apart, had her burnout and taken up a position with the Watchers or the Ivory Tower. She'd probably have been just about senior enough to get into the Ivory Tower if she'd asked for it, and she'd have been a nice face to show how it wasn't just old white men.
But that's all water under the bridge.
She hears footsteps behind her. She recognises the step pattern and doesn't react. Trying to pretend she wasn't staring at the photo would be silly. "Hyena," Harlan says. "What are you doing?"
Jamelia looks up and smiles. "Just poking around your things," she says.
There's a strange look on his face for just a moment as he takes the picture from her hands, and puts it back down where it sat. "Trying to work out if I miss her? Or maybe if I could have done things a different way?" he asks.
"Your wife? Or your daughter?" Jamelia says.
The corner of his mouth twitches. "Both," he says sadly. He wipes the dust off the top of the frame. "How many regrets do you have, Hyena?" he says. "What was going on in your head when you stared at my old holiday photos?"
"We all have regrets," Jamelia says. "It's part of being human."
"Ah," he says, the same flicker passing over his face. "The stock answer. I'm not surprised. You've grown into that Senior Operative rank nicely. All-closed-in, like a metal sphere. Well, I have plenty," he says bitterly, "and you probably wouldn't even understand them. Except to use them." He shakes his head. "Jaron wants to talk. He wants to consider what to do next."
Yellowfields 03: Shadows of the Past
In the end, they don't go to the bar that is the place he does most of his work in. Instead, they head back to Harlan's home. And Jaron and Jamelia take a chance to talk.
Right after they turn on the ultrasonic squealers, the white-noise generators, the Van Eck Phreaking Phuckers and all the suite of gadgets in the Paladin designed to stop people listening in. They don't think they're secure, of course. But it's enough to allow moderately casual conversation.
One does not achieve a Belltower name without a certain level of fully justified paranoia, especially when one is around a known psychic.
"He's a mess," Jaron says clinically, drumming his fingers on the seat as the cornfields go by. "He's a high functioning alcoholic - and I use the term 'high functioning' loosely - who's the Director of an amalgam of one and a construct which was overrun by RNEs without him even noticing."
It's a valid criticism, Jamelia has to agree. "Too many agents put in 'retirement' positions wind up like this," she notes, trailing Harlan's car as it turns. "A shame."
"If I was feeling cruel, I would say that the only spirits he's seen in years have come in bottles," Jaron says drolly. He smirks. "That's one advantage the RDs have. It's harder to make puns about extradimensional entities."
"I'm sure they enjoy it a lot."
"Though we should beware the EDEs of March."
"Or any other month." Jamelia shifts gears. "And that was dreadful."
"Thank you." Jaron massages his knuckles. "How much effort is it going to take to bring him up to usability?" he asks.
Jamelia purses her lips. "Hmm," she says deliberately. "Physically he's somewhat out of shape - mix of age-related degradation, and the alcoholism. We'll want to have that fixed, so he doesn't drop dead on us from heart failure and waste the asset. He's kept up with his training - probably because going through the training regime gives him structure to his day. But that's a triviality. I'm more concerned about his mental state. The man I knew thirty years ago wouldn't have wound up like this."
They drive on in silence for a bit.
"So. I need more information on HELMETSHRIKE," Jaron says out of the blue. "I need to know more about the man and how you can say something like that with such certainty."
She instinctive bristles. "You know what HELMETSHRIKE was," she says flatly.
"I do. But I'd rather hear it from you," he says. "The official histories depict them more as recon teams. A lot is still classified."
She shifts gears, literally and metaphorically. She'll make a concession here, as it is necessary. "Oh, very well. The programme started in the late Sixties, as the Pogrom stepped up. As did the losses of Iterator and Progenitor assault teams in the Third World, because they were taking things meant for urban use into all kinds of backwaters. The Operatives and the Enforcers got tapped to set up a combat asset which could go into... well, pretty much anywhere baseline-ish humans could survive, even if tech couldn't. Black ops and wetworks teams. Mostly assassination and sabotage, some abduction, occasional extraction."
"Messy work," Jaron observes.
"Very much so," Jamelia says calmly. Another car passes in the other direction, and both agents stiffen slightly tracking it as it goes by. "I had... oh, around five to ten years of experience under my belt when I was headhunted for a HELMETSHRIKE team." She doesn't give precise values. "That's the general level of expertise they were looking for. Long enough to wash away the new agents smell, but not so experienced that you'd be a great loss."
Jaron looks out the window. "High attrition rate, yes. I'd read that."
"You don't know the half of it. I was lucky. I wound up in a good one. We only lost a few team members, but we'd regularly lose 75%+ on our support sections. We happened to have a very heavy stealth and infiltration focus, and enough pull to refuse to be used for frontal assaults by tin-headed Comptrollers.
She laughs, with a trace of old remembered bitterness. "When you've spent three weeks crawling through some forsaken jungle to get into position when the most high tech gear you have is a WW2 field radio and an AK47, all you could take out a cult leader in their sleep… well, you aren't left feeling too sympathetic to whining Iterators going on about how they got a little bit of mud on them and that's why they can't give backup. We just managed to dodge their attempts to get us to carry out the main attack for them." She shakes her head. "So annoying. Iteration X never liked HELMETSHRIKE."
She catches Jaron's sideways glance, and strongly suspects he's slotting this into his model of her. "Self reliant, used to operating when cut off," he says out loud.
Jamelia slows at some lights. "I can't help you with how he's changed in the mean time, of course," she says. "He very much self-defines as a psychic, so the phasing out of the programmes can't have been good for him. We were colleagues and… yes, I would say 'friends' at the time, but it's been thirty years."
"Romantic involvement?" The words are coldly professional.
"None. No feelings on my behalf, none known about from him. No leverage there, but also no resentment," Jamelia says just as coldly. "There may be some jealousy about the difference in our relative positions - I'll need to take care about that. I don't think he's a defection risk, because if he was, he would have taken the chance already."
"And not be stuck out here."
"Quite so."
...
The two black cars pull up at Harlan's house.
It has a large back garden and a soppy-looking dog wearing a straw hat snoozing on the porch. The front garden is almost inhumanly neat and puts the neighbours to shame. There's even a white picket fence.
No 2.5 kids, though. No kids have ever lived here.
Harlan carefully parks his old car in his garage, and closes the door. He notes that his two guests have parked just outside, and he can sense all the security features coming online.
"Leave your shoes on the mat," he tells them. "Don't walk dirt into the house."
Jamelia gives him a Look. It is a capital-L Look. "Regulation shoes don't pick up dirt," she says.
"Well, lucky you," Harlan grumbles. "Some of us have to buy our own shoes."
He feels oddly ashamed as he slips off his shoes, and not just because there are patches in his socks. The two other agents follow his lead, and he doesn't even crack a smile at how Jamelia gets even shorter. He leads them to the basement, and fumbles around until he finds the switch hidden under the breaker box. A pulse of psychic energy is all he needs to identify himself, and now the switch pops open the hatch hidden in the floor, leading down to the sub-basement.
"It's a bit of a tight squeeze," he apologises as he swings starts to clamber down the ladder. "Well, it's fine when it's just me, but it's not really meant to more than that."
It is just a single room down here. The walls are shiny with aluminium foil and electrical wiring, and while a few attempts have been made to add a human touch, they're lost under the off-the-shelf modern computers, the obsolete Technocratic hardware, the psi-commander chair, and the bed.
"Tin foil?" Jaron asks, raising his eyebrows.
"It covers up the Faraday cage," Harlan says. "I have this place set up for security. It should be invisible to anything but the most high-powered scanners, and it's also opaque to psychic influences." He gives a self-effacing shrug. "Just an old man's paranoia," he lies. Because it is a lie. The voices can't touch him down here, and his dreams are his own.
He settles down on the psi command chair, although he doesn't engage the locks. That leaves the desk chair and the bed for the other two. The desk is laden down with heavily bookmarked books, with titles like 'Epigenetic Development of Powers in Mothers of Psychics" and "Creatures of the Mind (Authorised Censored Edition, with Commentary)", and he watches Jamelia's eyes flick over them. She doesn't say anything about the fact that those texts should technically all be a in a secure facility.
All the drive back, the voices were whispering to him until he focussed on keeping up a mental shield. They hate her. They really hate her. They accuse her of being a traitor, a bane, a foe of the Technocratic Union. Evil, purest evil - the Prodigal Daughter who has refused to return to the flock and instead revels in her wicked ways. And so on. At least down here, he can think without having to concentrate on keeping them silent.
Compared to her, the other man is more of a mystery. He's seen some references to Jaron Belltower in various reports and some of his papers. He's quite the prodigy, a Senior Operative despite being relatively young, and he is very heavily enhanced. He has very heavy mental shielding built into his combat chassis, on top of the primium. Harlan has seen combat Iterators less augmented than him.
Very strange.
"So," he says, steepling his fingers. "I suppose I might as well ask why the Order remembered that an old alcoholic embarrassment like me still exists. And why two Belltowers have shown up, when I never got past Blithe before I gave up on the whole name thing."
Jamelia and Jaron exchange a glance. Jaron gestures at her to begin. "The New World Order is considering its future," Jamelia begins. "Certain events, such as the assault by an previously-unknown EDE enemy in Moscow have convinced senior figures of the necessity of reactivating old programmes which were mistakenly shut down due to political interference."
He stares at her flatly. "Cut the bullshit, Hyena," he says, butterflies squirming in his stomach. He thinks he knows what's going on here, and he doesn't know how to feel about it. He's dreamed of something like this happening, but never expected it. Not really.
She rolls her eyes. "Fine," she says. "After Moscow, we need more DSci, and we need it organic to the NWO. We need to be able to trust it. A lot - and I mean a lot - of the currently senior members of the NWO are Operatives who remember how useful people like you were, and the Operatives never wanted the psychic programmes to be shut down. We know how useful they are."
Jaron clears his throat. "Professor Bastion has decided that we should reactivate as many of the old trainers and facilities belonging to various mothballed programmes as part of a viability study. Yellowfields is - was, I should say - thought to be an intact location, and you're marked in your files as being one of the most powerful and well-trained psychics left to us."
Jamelia leans forwards. "Basically, Harlan," she says, "the NWO wants you back, because we're trying to start up another psychic programme. You got screwed over by political games. I know. You have the right to feel bitter about…"
"Bitter? Why would I be bitter?" Harlan says softly, arms tightening on his chair. "Because I've spent twenty years in a meaningless position, pickling my liver out of sheer boredom? Because I got fucked over and no one spoke up for me? Because out of the blue, you show back up into my life after not a single word for decades and go 'Oh yes, we're reactivating you'?"
The other two agents are looking at him with a look of sympathy. He just knows they'll sit back and take everything he says, and at the end of his venting, he'll feel better.
Of course he can recognise what they're doing. Harlan has done exactly the same to other people. He gets the catharsis of shouting at them as a symbolic substitute for the New World Order which has mistreated him. After doing that, he'll be able to move on having let go of his anger and resentment.
Bastards. And it'll work too. Even though he know that's what they're doing.
So he does exactly that, and feels better.
...
Jamelia has been shouted at by a bitter old friend for about a quarter of an hour, and he seems to be running out of steam. It's now one of the awkward pauses, and she feels her presence might be making things more complicated. There is, however, something else on her mind.
"Where's your toilet?" Jamelia asks.
Harlan blinks. "Uh… up the ladder, then up the stairs, second on the left," he says as she gets up. "Oh, and Hyena?" he adds. "Once you've finished your business, wash your hands and keep your poking around in my personal possessions to a tasteful level."
None of the agents in the room were under any misapprehensions that instructions not to look through his stuff would be heeded.
Away from him, Jamelia takes the time to think over what's happened today.
There's one specific thing that Harlan's basement psi-lab reminds her of, and it is… disconcerting. Jamelia has seen this kind of place before. It looks just like the kind of hidden, underfunded place which Shadow Ministry psychic operatives build. Jamelia has kicked down the door to several of those places in her career. The same pastiche of New World Order technology, the same shabbiness from trying to do too much with not enough, and of course, the same massive use of aluminium foil.
Not that it's necessarily that surprising. The Shadow Ministry exists in its modern form largely because of the New World Order defectors who flipped sides when the Virtual Adepts left the Union. They're a strange little group, the Shadow Ministry, formally part of the Sons of Ether but maintaining their own operational structure - but there's always the edge of doubt. How many of their number are deep cover infiltrators from the Order? How many of them started as deep cover infiltrators and flipped for real? How many are still loaded up with Conditioned access codes which will allow them to recall their original mission?
Yes, Jamelia thinks, washing her hands, they'll need to vet Harlan Aristide quite thoroughly for Shadow Ministry contact. All the gear she's seen down in his basement seems to be either Technocratic or home-made, but of course he wouldn't let them down there if he was really sourcing equipment from the Traditions.
And with that done, she decides to poke around his bedroom. She suspects he never sleeps there - the bed down in the tiny cramped improvised psi lab is too well-used for that. New World Order paranoia never leaves you. The double-bed is unaired and the entire room is too neat. It's like a prop, to show he's a well-balanced human being. The closet is full of black suits, and there's a selection of unread novels stacked on one bedside table.
The room looks like it was repainted about six years ago - that was when his wife died, Jamelia remembers - and it's just been left to moulder. The surfaces have been dusted, but with none-too-much diligence. It's heaped into mounds around the unread books.
Jamelia drifts through the room, making judgements on the man by what he leaves lying around to convey an impression about himself. The books are chosen to make him look vaguely academic. She suspects that his wife picked the curtains and the wall colour, because they don't fit with what she knows of him, although she considers that maybe that's what an onlooker like her is meant to pick. There's a picture on his bedside table, and she takes it in.
The younger Harlan, his hair still black, is standing with his arm around a woman - his wife, Jamelia vaguely remembers. She looks Mediterranean - maybe Greek, judging from the backdrop where the photo was taken. Though that could just be a holiday. Jamelia briefly considers whether she's really his wife or is just a cover identity, but no, she vaguely remembers the face from their days together. She might have been on one of the support teams, maybe? Or had she been one of their liaisons back in HQ? Her face was certainly familiar.
Plus, it's probably not a mission, because his daughter is there with him and almost no-one takes their children with them on missions. Apart from cases where the child is something like Rose. If your mission requires you to be accompanied by a child as part of the disguise, the NWO issues you with what the Operatives snidely refer to as a CIB. Jamelia's had a few. They're useful, because no one ever suspects the bright orange plastic toy gun the little kid is holding to actually be a real gun.
Internally, she sighs. Just a little bit. That's a bit of a normal life which passed her by. She doesn't treat her CIBs as some kind of child surrogate, because that would be ridiculous and foolish. She knows Serafina thinks she uses her various proteges and pet projects as a displacement, but she thinks Serafina is projecting there, because Serafina mothers people. But still. She does have a little pang of jealousy there, deep deep down, to see Harlan smiling with his daughter.
Of course, because she doesn't have children, she doesn't have her children run away from school aged fourteen and defect to the Traditions. So she's probably ahead of the game there.
She picks up the picture, cradling it in both hands, and sits down on his bed. The date down the bottom indicates that this is about eight months after the HELMETSHRIKE team fell apart. She would have been undergoing INVISIBLE BEAR at the same time. She was a wreck of a human being, being remade into what she is now, while he seems happy and smiling next to his daughter.
And to think that now he's the washed up wreck.
Why didn't she contact him before? Ever? She'd had quite a few interactions with Winston Kingsley over the years. And not all of them had been mission-related. If they happened to be in the same city at the same time, they'd at least chat. Had it been instinctive loyalty to the fact that psychics were becoming No Longer Acceptable? And of course, he'd taken up a training and research position, and her job had never really taken him near him.
She doesn't remember any reason why she'd avoid him, but - Jamelia shakes her head - she doesn't know. Maybe she's just feeling nostalgic, staring at this photo. Maybe she's wondering how things would have gone if she'd transferred out of the Operatives after Sil… after the team fell apart, had her burnout and taken up a position with the Watchers or the Ivory Tower. She'd probably have been just about senior enough to get into the Ivory Tower if she'd asked for it, and she'd have been a nice face to show how it wasn't just old white men.
But that's all water under the bridge.
She hears footsteps behind her. She recognises the step pattern and doesn't react. Trying to pretend she wasn't staring at the photo would be silly. "Hyena," Harlan says. "What are you doing?"
Jamelia looks up and smiles. "Just poking around your things," she says.
There's a strange look on his face for just a moment as he takes the picture from her hands, and puts it back down where it sat. "Trying to work out if I miss her? Or maybe if I could have done things a different way?" he asks.
"Your wife? Or your daughter?" Jamelia says.
The corner of his mouth twitches. "Both," he says sadly. He wipes the dust off the top of the frame. "How many regrets do you have, Hyena?" he says. "What was going on in your head when you stared at my old holiday photos?"
"We all have regrets," Jamelia says. "It's part of being human."
"Ah," he says, the same flicker passing over his face. "The stock answer. I'm not surprised. You've grown into that Senior Operative rank nicely. All-closed-in, like a metal sphere. Well, I have plenty," he says bitterly, "and you probably wouldn't even understand them. Except to use them." He shakes his head. "Jaron wants to talk. He wants to consider what to do next."
[ ] Just Like Old Times: You'd need some kind of… infiltration specialist to get down to the reactor. Someone who's used to going into unfriendly environments to accomplish missions. Someone with a proven track record. And then Jamelia told Jaron she got the point. Now she's headed down into an abandoned NWO facility filled with evil psychic ghosts along with her alcoholic washed-up out-of-shape former teammate, while the combat cyborgs sit back where it's safe providing commentary down the comms line. Sure, Harlan knows the place like the back of his hand and two people can move silently in a way a large squad can't, but… sigh. Cyborgs. So annoying. (x1.1)
[ ] First Encounter Assault Recon: The New World Order has picked up some small degree of skill in dealing with EDEs post-1999. However, this skill base is still underdeveloped, and so the NWO tends to mostly send in teams of special forces MiBs with phasic rounds with a few specialists in a support and advisory position. Call them in, systematically work your way through the facility wiping out every RNE you come across, and think up your explanations for Professor Bastion as to why you had to do this in the first place. On the plus side, you don't really have to explain the (probably quite heavy) casualties. They're just MiBs. (x1.0)
[ ] Thus Always To Tyrants: If the Tyrants are ever going to assault a Void Engineer construct, this might be vital training. Get them in, and Jamelia, Harlan, and a team of elite murdercyborgs will punch through to the objective in a hard assault. They'll be able to operate at full capacity as it's still a Union facility, and you'll have more than enough firepower that way. Assuming there isn't some ghostly surprise you're not prepared for. Because if there are any fatalities, Professor Bastion may be… terse. Yes, very terse. Perhaps even sarcastic. And you'll also have to explain to him why you had to do this in the first place. (x1.1)
[ ] Who Ya Gonna Call?: "It's the job of the Void Engineers to help with this sort of thing, right?" asks Harlan. So get the Void Engineers in, cleanse and purge, and bring things up and running by the standard procedures. Fast, easy, and efficient, with minimal risk for the NWO. (x0.0) (Veto'd by Jamelia and Jaron).
[ ] First Encounter Assault Recon: The New World Order has picked up some small degree of skill in dealing with EDEs post-1999. However, this skill base is still underdeveloped, and so the NWO tends to mostly send in teams of special forces MiBs with phasic rounds with a few specialists in a support and advisory position. Call them in, systematically work your way through the facility wiping out every RNE you come across, and think up your explanations for Professor Bastion as to why you had to do this in the first place. On the plus side, you don't really have to explain the (probably quite heavy) casualties. They're just MiBs. (x1.0)
[ ] Thus Always To Tyrants: If the Tyrants are ever going to assault a Void Engineer construct, this might be vital training. Get them in, and Jamelia, Harlan, and a team of elite murdercyborgs will punch through to the objective in a hard assault. They'll be able to operate at full capacity as it's still a Union facility, and you'll have more than enough firepower that way. Assuming there isn't some ghostly surprise you're not prepared for. Because if there are any fatalities, Professor Bastion may be… terse. Yes, very terse. Perhaps even sarcastic. And you'll also have to explain to him why you had to do this in the first place. (x1.1)
[ ] Who Ya Gonna Call?: "It's the job of the Void Engineers to help with this sort of thing, right?" asks Harlan. So get the Void Engineers in, cleanse and purge, and bring things up and running by the standard procedures. Fast, easy, and efficient, with minimal risk for the NWO. (x0.0) (Veto'd by Jamelia and Jaron).
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Jamelia 04: Just Like Old Times
Yellowfields 04: Just Like Old Times
Senior Operative Jamelia Belltower is not exactly a happy bunny at this current moment in time. And not just because she isn't a bunny. No, the reason for her displeasure is that she is heading into a ghost-haunted Technocratic facility for the second time in just over two weeks.
At least this time there shouldn't be ghost Nazi Technocrats present. Hopefully.
And she'll have the Tyrants outside in case the Subjugation Corps decide to show up again. Which she really hopes they won't, because that would let the cat out of the bag and almost certainly cause a Technocracy Civil War if they're IDed as Void Engineers. Jaron has ordered the Tyrants brought on station just in case an emergency extraction is needed, and also so they can get some experience on clean-up afterwards. The tip of the spear, however, is going to be an old alcoholic washed-up agent who hasn't been getting rejuve treatments and thus has the body of a man in his late fifties, and her. Who admittedly has the body of a woman aged twenty four who is also a comic book peak human in almost every way (having managed to stop Serafina from giving her certain enhancements and so keeping the 'almost').
Such is life.
Jamelia finishes adjusting the sit of her Hazardous Environment Combat Suit's helmet, and ruins it through its test sequence. It's another Alanson variant, which she'll be wearing because she's going to be carrying the radioactive fuel source the reactor needs. At least it's a modern ultralight power armour, so it compensates for the weight of the fuel source. The Tyrants have made a few modifications to it so it shouldn't compromise her stealth, starting with changing the colour so it isn't its default bright orange.
Glancing at the mirror, she flicks through the vision modes and confirms that the faceplate depolarisation works in case the HUD fails in proximity to entropic RNEs. Stepping out of the changing rooms, she submits herself to a final check from a technician.
"You took your time," Jaron says.
"Most droll," she says flatly. "No comment about how I was doing my lipstick?"
"Don't be silly. It isn't that kind of mission. And I'll not tolerate you speaking ill of Jawdropper Lipstick."
Operative Juliet Baxter sighs. She's wearing the same armour model as Jamelia, and has a Void Engineer phase disruptor slung over her back. As the sole member of the Tyrants with training in DSci, she'll be going with them, to establish the security cordon around the access lift so if needed they can retreat back to it. "With respect, sir, don't go on about the virtues of Jawdropper. Now is not the time."
"But don't you know? RD women never expect the suave agent to be wearing knockout lip gloss," John Bacon says, mimicking Jaron even as his cybernetics whir and he installs a new module on Baxter's armour. "And the men only suspect a woman to be using it."
"Incidentally," Baxter says, staring admiringly at Jamelia's chest - specifically the knife holstered there - with envious eyes, "is that a Barnes-Sykes? Wow! How did you get hold of one of those?" She sighs. "I saw someone go through nine centimetres of Etherite lunargent metamorphics with one and it only stopped because they reached the control core. They're nearly impossible to find!"
"Are we done cooing?" Harlan says bitterly, slumped down on one of the benches. "The psychic RNEs aren't going to vanish back to where they came from just because we're delaying to talk about lipstick and knives." Below the shoulders, he's wearing modern combat webbing over the same kind of generic urban camo that the MiBs are wearing. His head, however, has prominent electrodes attached to his temples, he has a wire mesh conductive hood clipped to his neck, and he's holding a gas mask which resembles a skull. Jamelia's eyebrow rises under her helmet.
"Is that really the same psi-amp you used to run around in?" she asks.
Harlan glances at it. "No," he says in the same tone of voice. "This is a Mark VI-C, not a Mark IV-B. They got a few more upgrade cycles in before the programme was shut down. Early nineties design." He puts it on over the hood, and there's a hiss of escaping gas as the coolant lines connect up. "Ah, this takes me back," he says, suddenly sounding a bit more at ease.
Only the unkind would compare the characteristic hiss of this design of psionic amplifier to a death rattle. Even if the Order had specifically tweaked the escape patterns to produce that effect. Jamelia can feel a shift in the air, and she's suddenly sure that he's 'flexing' a mental muscle. Almost like he's stretching, only with his brain.
"Now," he says, "I don't intend to take any risks. Hyena, stay close to me. I can shield your presence from their senses. I must warn you - and you too, Baxter - these are not just any RNEs. They are most likely a mix of ex test subjects, enhanced Men in Black, and possibly even stranger things. That means that at least some of them will retain their psionic enhancements. The mind survives the transition to posthuman status at least somewhat intact, and so does the will. Psychic powers are not solely rooted in the physical brain, and so the RNEs will likely display them too."
"Understood," Juliet says, adjusting the sling of her phase disrupter. "I've got mental shielding built in, and a primium headcase. I should be fine for short durations."
Jamelia nods. "I've got some enhancements to help with that, and I'm on anti-contranoetics anyway." They tasted horrible, but the drugs helped prevent external influences from interfering with the brain. "Aristide, we did go over this before."
"Then I will re-emphasise that this is dangerous," he says intensely. "I would rather not be torn apart, I felt a dimensional rift down there, a transitory one, which will make the practice of dimensional science more complicated. The power of the human mind is nearly incomprehensible when properly focussed - and when improperly focussed, it can destroy the very fabric of space and time. Flesh, matter, energy - all of these things are playthings to the mind. These are the forces caught up in these once-human things. And if we get caught in such a rift, the RNEs will be in-phase with our reality… because we will be in theirs."
He pauses. "That would be ill-advised," he concludes.
The lift had been anchored in position, and a hole had been cut in its bottom. The Tyrants had been working to defuse the security systems down the lift shaft, and the access is was clear. Jamelia hooks onto the cable now hanging down to the bottom of the shaft, and swings out, lowering herself past the grids of deactivated laser emitters and monowire shredders designed to terminate someone who tries what she's doing right now.
The Tyrants had not been too appreciative of Aristide's lecture. Jamelia could read them, even if they were heavily cyberised. She's not entirely surprised. The kind of operative who'd volunteer for full-body cyberisation would by their very nature incline more towards the Iteration X view of the world. Having someone talk about how the human mind has the power to rend apart space and time is… contrary to their view of the world.
Of course, fortunately she was there, and she could prod Aristide into admitting that he was being melodramatic, and he was specifically speaking about the power of the human mind when it was hooked into psionic amplifiers and after it had been heavily trained and been subjected to modifications and implants and various other things along those lines. She perhaps hadn't fully considered that side of things. She'll need to make sure that proper resources are dedicated to ensuring a clean integration of the old psychic agents with the modern NWO.
Shaking her head, she puts those thoughts out of her head. She activates her IR emitters, and looks around the area, the false colour projection on the inside of her helmet making it almost as bright as day. Weapon drawn, she scans the area, even as behind her Baxter and Aristide rope down.
"Entrance point is clear," Baxter says softly over comms. "Beginning to deploy defensive emitters. Belltower, you've got the relays. Set them up as you go. And good luck, you two. I'll hold down the fort."
Jamelia glances back at Harlan. Covered up like this, he could almost be the man he was back when they were on a team. "Which way?" she asks.
"The top two floors are offices," he says. "We head to the nearest stairwell, and then cut down through to the armoury. There's a security station there, which has camera access to everywhere in the low security areas, as well as equipment. We can spare some power to check the cameras. From there, we take the stairs down to Checkpoint Omega, which leads to the high security area."
"You can bypass that," Jamelia prompts.
"I have the codes, yes," Aristide says. "If that does not work, I will open a rift there to allow us to bypass the checkpoint, and from there, we will descend to the central core. We will keep clear of the labs and the cells. Once we've refuelled the reactor, we can bring the facility back online from Central, including the dimensional shielding. Central has the strongest shielding in the facility. Then your charming pet Iterators can advance through."
Jamelia sighs to herself. She'd forgotten how Aristide could be quite a snob about people who rejected psychic powers. That much about the man hadn't changed, evidently. But she'll probably have to stay a while to help mend fences between him and the Tyrants if they're going to be working together - and probably some of the other old psychic agents they're bringing back, too. Psychic NWO agents tend to have very large egos. They used to claim it was because a large ego was a necessary part of psychic powers, but Jamelia was always a bit sceptical about that.
It's a good thing that her own psychic powers aren't enough to affect her judgment. She doesn't think she's better than people just because she has powers. There are plenty of other reasons she's better than most people.
She draws her IX-11-X, and keeps it idly by her side. It's loaded with phasic rounds, but she isn't sure that it can acquire an RNE. It still has a mundane link to her HUD, though, and iron sights just in case that fails. Keeping her eyes and ears open for any of the characteristic static that RNEs produce, she trails close behind Harlan.
It's when they're cutting through an abandoned office, filled with slowly rusting filing cabinets and bone dry leaves of crumbling paper, that the first oddities start.
Despite the darkness, despite the rust, despite everything, the fans on the desks hum to life. They kick up dust, and send paper flapping around the room with a noise like a flock of birds.
The two agents freeze, and sink down, ready to dodge.
"Remote telekinesis," Harlan breathes. "No power. Something is moving the blades." He frowns. "I'm shielding our presence," he says softly. "This may be happenstance, but when in doubt…"
"... suspect enemy action aimed at you," Jamelia completes for him. She scans the room with her pistol, reaching out with her nascent psychic senses. Nothing. Nothing at all. Harlan seems to know what he's talking about when he calls it remote telekinesis.
"You remember '77?" Harlan asks quietly, as they advance again. "The church?"
"I remember I had a mine teleported under me and got medivac'd," Jamelia replies, a little tartly. "I didn't see what happened in there."
"That was what I was thinking of," he says. "Keep your eyes open for traps."
A sudden cold feeling rushes over the room, and both of them whirl. Jamelia is looking for a threat. Harlan's eyes are glowing under the gas mask, and the air around him is rippling slightly. He must be-
Sensation overwhelms her.
Light. Noise. Not much pain. There isn't enough time for pain.
And then there's a lot of pain.
Silent Starling is leaning over her, holding her hand, telling her to focus on him and she grips onto his armoured hand as if it's the only thing in the world. It hurts. It hurts so much. As long as she holds on, she can stop screaming and as long as she doesn't scream, they won't know that they got one of the 'Shrikes.
Somewhere in the distance, she can hear Ratel wanting to push on and Starling arguing back and then the morphine comes and there is nothing that's quite like morphine when she looks down and sees the mess it made of her feet.
She misses New Year 1978 in hospital. There is surgery and shouting and angry glares at her and Progenitor doctors and an iron-
-worried.
She flinches. That flashback was… it felt forced. "Owl," she whispers, falling back to old habits in the moment. "Sudden deja-vu, flashback, possibly external source."
"When?"
"'77. The graveyard."
His helmet bobs up and down as he nods. "RNE's go for memories," he says softly. "I have a mental shield raised now. The force down here… it feels powerful. Not one being. Many. That's good news and bad news. Bad news, it can try several lines of attack. Good news, we can whittle it down, and it doesn't have the raw capacity of a single powerful hostile. Let's step up the pace. It's a strain holding up a mental shield for two."
Jamelia reports this to Jaron. They manage to make it to the armoury, although there's a strange pool of dark water near an empty vending machine which Harlan insists they detour around.
There's something scrawled on the armoury door. No, Jamelia realises, it's not scrawled there. It's burned into it. Harlan doesn't seem to care, brushing his hand over it, but from the glow coming from under his mask he seems to be viewing the world entirely through his powers.
Jamelia stares at it, and shivers. There's something about the symbol that's putting her on edge.
The shape is:
Senior Operative Jamelia Belltower is not exactly a happy bunny at this current moment in time. And not just because she isn't a bunny. No, the reason for her displeasure is that she is heading into a ghost-haunted Technocratic facility for the second time in just over two weeks.
At least this time there shouldn't be ghost Nazi Technocrats present. Hopefully.
And she'll have the Tyrants outside in case the Subjugation Corps decide to show up again. Which she really hopes they won't, because that would let the cat out of the bag and almost certainly cause a Technocracy Civil War if they're IDed as Void Engineers. Jaron has ordered the Tyrants brought on station just in case an emergency extraction is needed, and also so they can get some experience on clean-up afterwards. The tip of the spear, however, is going to be an old alcoholic washed-up agent who hasn't been getting rejuve treatments and thus has the body of a man in his late fifties, and her. Who admittedly has the body of a woman aged twenty four who is also a comic book peak human in almost every way (having managed to stop Serafina from giving her certain enhancements and so keeping the 'almost').
Such is life.
Jamelia finishes adjusting the sit of her Hazardous Environment Combat Suit's helmet, and ruins it through its test sequence. It's another Alanson variant, which she'll be wearing because she's going to be carrying the radioactive fuel source the reactor needs. At least it's a modern ultralight power armour, so it compensates for the weight of the fuel source. The Tyrants have made a few modifications to it so it shouldn't compromise her stealth, starting with changing the colour so it isn't its default bright orange.
Glancing at the mirror, she flicks through the vision modes and confirms that the faceplate depolarisation works in case the HUD fails in proximity to entropic RNEs. Stepping out of the changing rooms, she submits herself to a final check from a technician.
"You took your time," Jaron says.
"Most droll," she says flatly. "No comment about how I was doing my lipstick?"
"Don't be silly. It isn't that kind of mission. And I'll not tolerate you speaking ill of Jawdropper Lipstick."
Operative Juliet Baxter sighs. She's wearing the same armour model as Jamelia, and has a Void Engineer phase disruptor slung over her back. As the sole member of the Tyrants with training in DSci, she'll be going with them, to establish the security cordon around the access lift so if needed they can retreat back to it. "With respect, sir, don't go on about the virtues of Jawdropper. Now is not the time."
"But don't you know? RD women never expect the suave agent to be wearing knockout lip gloss," John Bacon says, mimicking Jaron even as his cybernetics whir and he installs a new module on Baxter's armour. "And the men only suspect a woman to be using it."
"Incidentally," Baxter says, staring admiringly at Jamelia's chest - specifically the knife holstered there - with envious eyes, "is that a Barnes-Sykes? Wow! How did you get hold of one of those?" She sighs. "I saw someone go through nine centimetres of Etherite lunargent metamorphics with one and it only stopped because they reached the control core. They're nearly impossible to find!"
"Are we done cooing?" Harlan says bitterly, slumped down on one of the benches. "The psychic RNEs aren't going to vanish back to where they came from just because we're delaying to talk about lipstick and knives." Below the shoulders, he's wearing modern combat webbing over the same kind of generic urban camo that the MiBs are wearing. His head, however, has prominent electrodes attached to his temples, he has a wire mesh conductive hood clipped to his neck, and he's holding a gas mask which resembles a skull. Jamelia's eyebrow rises under her helmet.
"Is that really the same psi-amp you used to run around in?" she asks.
Harlan glances at it. "No," he says in the same tone of voice. "This is a Mark VI-C, not a Mark IV-B. They got a few more upgrade cycles in before the programme was shut down. Early nineties design." He puts it on over the hood, and there's a hiss of escaping gas as the coolant lines connect up. "Ah, this takes me back," he says, suddenly sounding a bit more at ease.
Only the unkind would compare the characteristic hiss of this design of psionic amplifier to a death rattle. Even if the Order had specifically tweaked the escape patterns to produce that effect. Jamelia can feel a shift in the air, and she's suddenly sure that he's 'flexing' a mental muscle. Almost like he's stretching, only with his brain.
"Now," he says, "I don't intend to take any risks. Hyena, stay close to me. I can shield your presence from their senses. I must warn you - and you too, Baxter - these are not just any RNEs. They are most likely a mix of ex test subjects, enhanced Men in Black, and possibly even stranger things. That means that at least some of them will retain their psionic enhancements. The mind survives the transition to posthuman status at least somewhat intact, and so does the will. Psychic powers are not solely rooted in the physical brain, and so the RNEs will likely display them too."
"Understood," Juliet says, adjusting the sling of her phase disrupter. "I've got mental shielding built in, and a primium headcase. I should be fine for short durations."
Jamelia nods. "I've got some enhancements to help with that, and I'm on anti-contranoetics anyway." They tasted horrible, but the drugs helped prevent external influences from interfering with the brain. "Aristide, we did go over this before."
"Then I will re-emphasise that this is dangerous," he says intensely. "I would rather not be torn apart, I felt a dimensional rift down there, a transitory one, which will make the practice of dimensional science more complicated. The power of the human mind is nearly incomprehensible when properly focussed - and when improperly focussed, it can destroy the very fabric of space and time. Flesh, matter, energy - all of these things are playthings to the mind. These are the forces caught up in these once-human things. And if we get caught in such a rift, the RNEs will be in-phase with our reality… because we will be in theirs."
He pauses. "That would be ill-advised," he concludes.
...
The lift had been anchored in position, and a hole had been cut in its bottom. The Tyrants had been working to defuse the security systems down the lift shaft, and the access is was clear. Jamelia hooks onto the cable now hanging down to the bottom of the shaft, and swings out, lowering herself past the grids of deactivated laser emitters and monowire shredders designed to terminate someone who tries what she's doing right now.
The Tyrants had not been too appreciative of Aristide's lecture. Jamelia could read them, even if they were heavily cyberised. She's not entirely surprised. The kind of operative who'd volunteer for full-body cyberisation would by their very nature incline more towards the Iteration X view of the world. Having someone talk about how the human mind has the power to rend apart space and time is… contrary to their view of the world.
Of course, fortunately she was there, and she could prod Aristide into admitting that he was being melodramatic, and he was specifically speaking about the power of the human mind when it was hooked into psionic amplifiers and after it had been heavily trained and been subjected to modifications and implants and various other things along those lines. She perhaps hadn't fully considered that side of things. She'll need to make sure that proper resources are dedicated to ensuring a clean integration of the old psychic agents with the modern NWO.
Shaking her head, she puts those thoughts out of her head. She activates her IR emitters, and looks around the area, the false colour projection on the inside of her helmet making it almost as bright as day. Weapon drawn, she scans the area, even as behind her Baxter and Aristide rope down.
"Entrance point is clear," Baxter says softly over comms. "Beginning to deploy defensive emitters. Belltower, you've got the relays. Set them up as you go. And good luck, you two. I'll hold down the fort."
Jamelia glances back at Harlan. Covered up like this, he could almost be the man he was back when they were on a team. "Which way?" she asks.
"The top two floors are offices," he says. "We head to the nearest stairwell, and then cut down through to the armoury. There's a security station there, which has camera access to everywhere in the low security areas, as well as equipment. We can spare some power to check the cameras. From there, we take the stairs down to Checkpoint Omega, which leads to the high security area."
"You can bypass that," Jamelia prompts.
"I have the codes, yes," Aristide says. "If that does not work, I will open a rift there to allow us to bypass the checkpoint, and from there, we will descend to the central core. We will keep clear of the labs and the cells. Once we've refuelled the reactor, we can bring the facility back online from Central, including the dimensional shielding. Central has the strongest shielding in the facility. Then your charming pet Iterators can advance through."
Jamelia sighs to herself. She'd forgotten how Aristide could be quite a snob about people who rejected psychic powers. That much about the man hadn't changed, evidently. But she'll probably have to stay a while to help mend fences between him and the Tyrants if they're going to be working together - and probably some of the other old psychic agents they're bringing back, too. Psychic NWO agents tend to have very large egos. They used to claim it was because a large ego was a necessary part of psychic powers, but Jamelia was always a bit sceptical about that.
It's a good thing that her own psychic powers aren't enough to affect her judgment. She doesn't think she's better than people just because she has powers. There are plenty of other reasons she's better than most people.
She draws her IX-11-X, and keeps it idly by her side. It's loaded with phasic rounds, but she isn't sure that it can acquire an RNE. It still has a mundane link to her HUD, though, and iron sights just in case that fails. Keeping her eyes and ears open for any of the characteristic static that RNEs produce, she trails close behind Harlan.
...
It's when they're cutting through an abandoned office, filled with slowly rusting filing cabinets and bone dry leaves of crumbling paper, that the first oddities start.
Despite the darkness, despite the rust, despite everything, the fans on the desks hum to life. They kick up dust, and send paper flapping around the room with a noise like a flock of birds.
The two agents freeze, and sink down, ready to dodge.
"Remote telekinesis," Harlan breathes. "No power. Something is moving the blades." He frowns. "I'm shielding our presence," he says softly. "This may be happenstance, but when in doubt…"
"... suspect enemy action aimed at you," Jamelia completes for him. She scans the room with her pistol, reaching out with her nascent psychic senses. Nothing. Nothing at all. Harlan seems to know what he's talking about when he calls it remote telekinesis.
"You remember '77?" Harlan asks quietly, as they advance again. "The church?"
"I remember I had a mine teleported under me and got medivac'd," Jamelia replies, a little tartly. "I didn't see what happened in there."
"That was what I was thinking of," he says. "Keep your eyes open for traps."
A sudden cold feeling rushes over the room, and both of them whirl. Jamelia is looking for a threat. Harlan's eyes are glowing under the gas mask, and the air around him is rippling slightly. He must be-
Sensation overwhelms her.
Light. Noise. Not much pain. There isn't enough time for pain.
And then there's a lot of pain.
Silent Starling is leaning over her, holding her hand, telling her to focus on him and she grips onto his armoured hand as if it's the only thing in the world. It hurts. It hurts so much. As long as she holds on, she can stop screaming and as long as she doesn't scream, they won't know that they got one of the 'Shrikes.
Somewhere in the distance, she can hear Ratel wanting to push on and Starling arguing back and then the morphine comes and there is nothing that's quite like morphine when she looks down and sees the mess it made of her feet.
She misses New Year 1978 in hospital. There is surgery and shouting and angry glares at her and Progenitor doctors and an iron-
-worried.
She flinches. That flashback was… it felt forced. "Owl," she whispers, falling back to old habits in the moment. "Sudden deja-vu, flashback, possibly external source."
"When?"
"'77. The graveyard."
His helmet bobs up and down as he nods. "RNE's go for memories," he says softly. "I have a mental shield raised now. The force down here… it feels powerful. Not one being. Many. That's good news and bad news. Bad news, it can try several lines of attack. Good news, we can whittle it down, and it doesn't have the raw capacity of a single powerful hostile. Let's step up the pace. It's a strain holding up a mental shield for two."
Jamelia reports this to Jaron. They manage to make it to the armoury, although there's a strange pool of dark water near an empty vending machine which Harlan insists they detour around.
There's something scrawled on the armoury door. No, Jamelia realises, it's not scrawled there. It's burned into it. Harlan doesn't seem to care, brushing his hand over it, but from the glow coming from under his mask he seems to be viewing the world entirely through his powers.
Jamelia stares at it, and shivers. There's something about the symbol that's putting her on edge.
The shape is:
[ ] A spiral. The great looping spiralling pattern covers the entire door, and is surrounded by blotches which might have once been writing. If it was, it's been burned out.
[ ] A small bird. It has its wings spread in flight, but there's something repulsively wrong about its proportions that you can't put your finger on.
[ ] A heart. This isn't a romantic heart, of the kind seen on Valentine's cards. You can see what is clearly the aorta sticking out of the top of the crude shape. And there's a bullet hole in it.
[ ] Three stick figures. One of them - the one in the centre - is smaller than the others, but it's head is proportionately larger, so it's almost the same size as the the larger ones. Inside each head, there's another stick person. And inside those ones...
[ ] A small bird. It has its wings spread in flight, but there's something repulsively wrong about its proportions that you can't put your finger on.
[ ] A heart. This isn't a romantic heart, of the kind seen on Valentine's cards. You can see what is clearly the aorta sticking out of the top of the crude shape. And there's a bullet hole in it.
[ ] Three stick figures. One of them - the one in the centre - is smaller than the others, but it's head is proportionately larger, so it's almost the same size as the the larger ones. Inside each head, there's another stick person. And inside those ones...
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Jamelia 05: The Little Bird
Yellowfields 05: The Little Bird
The bird burned into the door has its wings spread in flight. Jamelia shudders. There's something off about it. Something repulsive about it. Is it the beak, slightly parted and jagged? Is it the slightly finger-like shape of its feathers.
No, there's nothing specific she can pin it down to. Nevertheless, she is relieved when the security door grinds open, taking the burned-on picture out of sight. The two agents step through, covering both sides. There is a breaking of glass as Harlan pulls a wall-mounted lever.
The lights flicker on - and they're proper lights, not the emergency red lighting.
"Good," Harlan says in a satisfied tone of voice, checking an analogue dial next to the lever. "A stroke of luck. The security station's local backup battery has kept its charge better than I expected. We have nearly four hours of charge here - I'd expected it to have deteriorated to one at most. That's excellent."
He strides over to the security monitoring station, and begins the start-up sequence for the computers, turning on their bulky CRT screens. Jamelia joins him. They're both familiar with technology from this era. The NWO's computer technology has always been more grounded than Iteration X, and a facility like this certainly wouldn't want an Iterator AI or anything which relies on a neural uplink. That's one interoperability issue removed when trying to start up old hardware.
"You know," Jamelia says out loud, as she waits for the login screen to appear. "Iterator Langley from my amalgam would be outraged at the sight of this place."
"Not a fan of psychics?" Harlan says darkly.
"No," Jamelia says, smiling faintly as she inputs her override codes. She begins to set up one of the relays so the Tyrants will be able to access the security footage. "She's only nineteen and would consider these computers to be totally unacceptable and probably start muttering about how no one can be expected to run security systems on a processor slower than her phone."
"Still won't be a fan of psychics," he retorts. The keyboard clacks as he types. "Let's see the cameras… they're down in Sector 3. We'll want to keep clear of there - something took them out. Checkpoint Omega is clear, however, and the security station there appears clear and deactivated. I should be able to bring it online, if the emergency batteries are holding up better… possibly even bring the external containment fields up if we're lucky."
Jamelia, for her part, keeps one eye on the monitors as she scans quickly through the security station logs for this facility. She can track the declining numbers of staff through the Noughties (Mr R. Door - DECEASED - CRANIAL TRAUMA (ACCIDENTAL), J. Ladislao - TRANSFERRED, Ms S. Car - DECEASED - REINHALT SYNDROME) until the last one (A. Aristide - DECEASED - REINHALT SYNDROME) is marked off in 2009 and-
Jamelia blinks. Reinhalt syndrome. Natural humans didn't get that. It was a very characteristic pattern of organ failure which only showed up in Gen 2.0 MiBs. That would imply Harlan's wife was a Man in Black. Well, a Woman in Black. That hadn't been mentioned in his file.
She narrows her eyes. There's no accounting for taste. Anyway, older MIBs are independently minded and can hold their own positions of authority in the NWO. She has met other MIBs in relationships, despite their typically diminished emotional responses. Perhaps that's what drew Harlan to her. Men in Black have muted emotions, and considering how strongly psychic Harlan is, someone who keeps their feelings to themselves is probably someone that he could enter a long-term relationship with.
And when the vast majority of the children of field-active Technocrats are vat-born - barring accidents which are often transferred to an artificial womb when it's discovered - the fact that most MiBs aren't made fertile doesn't pose a real barrier. Not that that wouldn't be fixable by a doctor, anyway.
She doesn't say anything to Harlan about that, though, and keeps on working through the files.
"Armoury unlocked," Harlan says tersely. "Grab what you need. You'll need to use the manual handle, though. I'm not wasting power opening the door for you."
It takes some time on the crank, but in the power armour it's light work for Jamelia. "Are you getting this?" she sends to the Tyrants, looking around the hollow space of the armoury.
"I certainly am," Jaron replies, his picture on her HUD looking distinctly impressed despite the occasional lines of static. "This is a treasure trove of Eighties Void Engineer gear. I'm surprised they haven't pillaged it themselves… actually, that's a good point. We should check the inventory lists for other similar facilities and see if they've been light-fingered. Baxter?"
"This is great," the DSci expert agrees. "I can't believe they just crated this stuff up and forgot about it. It's very Eighties, but who cares about the aesthetics when you get this kind of thing dropped in your lap!"
Jamelia can't help but agree. It's enough to equip several squads of ghostbusters, and equip them well. There's row after row of phase disruptor rifles, and she confirms that they're still working when the neon lights on their side reactivate at a touch. Crates of power packs. Dispensers full of VE-FM29s, grenades which disperse charged particles which selectively bond to out-of-phase matter and bring it into line with reality. Bulky three-eyed goggles by the cartload. An entire side room just full of dusty Hazardous Environment (Extradimesional) suits which come with their own air supply in the shoulders and protect against extradimensional influences. And - oh my, she thinks - a heavy weapons locker.
"See what's inside... uh, if you would, Director?" Agent Baxter asks her, her image looking disturbingly enthusiastic about the prospect of big guns.
Inputting her override codes, Jamelia does exactly that. The cabinet unfolds, revealing the carefully packed VE-SG9s with their suspensor servoharnesses and their gyro-stabilised phase-pulse emitters looking as good as new. Jamelia sighs. The problem with VE-SG9s, she'd always found, was that even if the suspensors meant that they could be maneuvered around, they were still large and cumbersome. Oh, they could lay down covering fire and shred anything which came down a corridor - no doubt why they had them here - but even with the servoharness, they were bulky and over a metre and a half long. She'd used one back in '87 and she'd been left bruised all over from the recoil and with burns to her hands from when the coolant ran out.
Now, on the other hand, they have a DS3A1 Illuminator, and checking the logs in her helmet, Jamelia decides that's much more her size. Literally. It's still bulky with the phased plasma projection coils and requires a hip-mounted transphase module to be operated. but at least it's not nearly as tall as she is. It comes with a sling, so she can have her hands free and, of course, it's rated as safe to be used around the generator. It's designed to kill EDEs and leave materiel intact. The bright red lights on the side are a problem, but the application of some opaque tape is enough to cover them up.
"Damn, I'd almost be tempted to try to join you down there, just to get my hands on-" begins Juliet, before her image is lost in static. Union digital secured communications shouldn't get static, which is why it was such a useful improvised detector for hostile entities.
Juliet reappeared for "-breaking up, what's going on?"
"Large cluster of RNEs moving between us and you, I repeat, large cluster of RNEs," Harlan says from the entrance to the armoury. "Do you copy? We are not, repeat, are not, negative, under attack. Hold position."
"-copy, Forwards. Will be-" they get, before the channel descends into static again.
Jamelia glances at Harlan. "Are you taking anything?" she asks. "If they're cutting off our comms…"
"We'll be fine for the moment," he says. "We just need to wait for the cluster to move. And while we wait," Harlan says, his mask staring impassively at her, "perhaps you can tell me the truth for once in your life. Don't worry about the cyborgs - the RNEs are filling all the lines with static. They can't hear us. What are you playing at? And don't pretend you weren't at least involved in this. They're clearly not fans of psychics. What the fuck are you playing at, Hyena?"
Jamelia glares back. "We should get moving," she says.
"We have time," Harlan says. "Now. The truth. Why the fuck are we - rather, you - bringing the old psychic programmes back online?"
There's an edge to the air. She can feel it.She considers how little truth she can get away with. "You know most of it already. After Moscow, Professor Bastion and I had a talk about certain things. One of the things which came up was how we're critically lacking in integrated DSci assets, especially when the Void Engineers are being unreliable. If they're not going to show up for minor cases, then we need our own source of DSci which can handle small cases."
"Bullshit," Harlan says. "You wouldn't be bringing an old mothballed drunk like me back in from the cold if it was just a matter of getting some of the PSC to train up some Operatives in ghostbusting. Something else is going on."
"I suspect Bastion might have been looking for a chance to do this for a while," Jamelia notes. "After all, I first met him on one of my first missions in Tehran, during the Iranian Revolution, and he was working in close coordination with a team of psychics there. He may feel the Order needs the abilities of people like you, and has been looking for an excuse."
"Again, bullshit," Harlan says, in a cold flat tone. "Not about him. What the fuck do you think you're doing, claiming that Tehran was one of your first missions? That was a 'Shrike mission… hell, it was a Vigilance mission. Do you expect me to believe your bullshit?"
The bottom drops out of Jamelia's stomach, and she's thankful for the opaque helmet because it conceals her expression. Hyperpsych and force of habit compels her to keep cool, to avoid showing her shock. Tehran was one of her first missions. Her first proper missions, anyway. What's he playing at? Why is he trying to gaslamp her? She - but she remembered '77. When it had just come up. Even if she hadn't thought about it in a long time.
She remembers '77 with the 'Shrikes. She'd had about six years with the Union by then. She also remembers '79 as a rank newbie.
She chuckles. "Some of us know not to talk about classified missions," she says archly, assuming an air of confidence she doesn't really feel. She wonders if it'll work. One of the first things any Operative learns is that displaying uncertainty in the face of others weakens your position. It's probably why the NWO has such a reputation for smugness among the other Conventions. And also the Traditions.
Harlan stares at her. At least, she thinks he's staring. She wonders how this conversation would be going if they could see each other's faces, and narrows her eyes. Had he timed this specifically so they couldn't be listened in on and he'd have the upper hand with his psychic powers while she couldn't read his cues? She wouldn't put it past him. She wouldn't put it past him at all.
"Of course," he says. His voice is studiously neutral. "My mistake. You can't be too careful. Now. The psychic powers."
Jamelia sighs. "We need it in-house," she tells him, mouth working almost reflexively to produce the plausible-sounding 'truth' hidden under the first layer of cover story. "Minimal reliance on other Conventions. The Syndicate is throwing its weight around, the Void Engineers aren't reliably providing low-level support, Iteration X is still terrible at DSci and that leaves us entirely dependent on Progenitor constructs. Now, Progenitor constructs can be very useful - I have one under my command - but we can't rely on them entirely. The Progenitors are swinging pro-Pogrom and the Order knows we can't afford the Ascension War kicking off again."
"Hrmm." He doesn't say anything more. That's enough of a tell from him. He's suspicious of her now. And he has right to be. The New World Order, she thinks through the shock. So annoying. So she can't trust her own memories. Why is this coming up now, of all times? Of course. No INVISIBLE BEAR anymore. She can notice the discrepancies now. Once she's done here, she'll need to sit down with S… sit down all on her own and sort through her own history.
Well, she'll have time for that later. Jamelia takes a moment to clear her head, and force down her emotions. They'd only get in the way at the moment. "Do you want anything from here?" she says.
He continues to stare at her for a moment, and then shakes his head. She can read the use of the same hyperpsych techniques to force the emotions out of mind. "I'll just take one of the rifles," he says. "Some of us haven't been getting rejuve for decades. I'm not up to lugging something like that around, even with suspensors. And you look like you've had more radical work done."
"Very recently," Jamelia says, her voice calm. She ventures a comment, probes him for a reaction. "I recently had INVISIBLE BEAR purged, and exchanged for more modern Progenitor enhancements which don't leave me dependent on painkillers."
He freezes up for just a fraction of a second. "Wonderful," he says bitterly. "Meanwhile on my part, the closest to Progenitor enhancements I've had recently is a doctor look at my knee. A conventional doctor, too."
How very interesting. She waits to see if he responds, but he simply heads over to the weapon racks and grabs a VE-PR4, checking it with the casual preparedness of an old agent.
"-are you there? We have your signal again." Jaron's cracking signal reappears, and then solidifies.
Jamelia notes how neatly the reestablishment of communications matches with her and Harlan having said everything they are going to say for now. She wonders if Jaron knows that Harlan can jam communications with his mind. Well, no doubt he does, it's in his file. She's not going to say anything about that, though, and simply says, "We are receiving you. Harlan, what's the status of the route?"
"Clear, for now," the old man says. "I'm tracking a major psychic presence beyond Checkpoint Omega, though, and the cameras fail when it passes near them. I should be able to shield us from its senses as long as it isn't too close. We're just arming up," he glances at Jamelia, who is filling her pouches with Void Engineer-made grenades, "and should be ready to move again in approximately point 2 kilosecs."
"Welcome back, [Director Aristide] and [Guest]," the door mechanisms state blandly. "Please wait. The current on-duty security officer, [FILE_NOT_FOUND], will be with you shortly to handle the required forms for [Guest]."
"Can you deal with that?" Jamelia asks, covering the rear. There's red emergency lightning on around Checkpoint Omega, as Harlan uses up what little battery remains in this security station's batteries. "Or at least shut it up?"
Metal crumples behind her as Harlan tears off the covering to the old hardware with his mind, and sticks his gloved hands into the mess of wires.
"Auth-auth-authorisation has been r-r-received from security officer [Harlan Aristide]," the system says, waves of static washing through the speakers. "Dual authorisation sign in complete. Welcome [Guest]. Your auth-authorisation has been cleared by [Director Aristide] and security officer [Harlan Aristide]. Verifying identity with central servers and-"
There is a sound of sparking wires.
"... i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-"
The sparking intensifies.
"-i-identity verified. Welcome back, [Agent Jazmin Blade]. Pl-please verify your ret-ret-retina."
Jamelia sighs. "Really?" she asks.
"I forced it to dig up your old profile from when we all went through psi-testing," Harlan says tersely. "You'll still pass." He pauses and sighs. "You had your eyes changed, didn't you?" he says.
She grits her teeth. "I have," she says. "Several times. VA remote ret-scans are far too good these days to rely on this anyway."
"Oh. I didn't notice." There is another crackle of electricity.
"Ret-retinal scan ver-ver-ver-verified. Unlocking door."
The air which washes out of the sealed doors tastes state and old, with a hint of sickly-sweet lillies underneath it all. And that's very wrong, because Jamelia is wearing a sealed suit of power armour with its own air supply. She inhales, despite the fact she knows that she isn't really smelling it. What does it remind her of?
She has it. There's something about it which resembles the old rotted house the Senex had led her to. There was the same sense of… of age to the air, and the same scent of lilies. It's probably a synaesthetic symptom of her powers.
The world fades to shades of grey. The hallways are less like an office, and more like a bunker. Or a lab. There are fewer posters up on the walls, and many more safety briefings warning of protocols and reminding people to take their anti-psiotics. It's hard to see through the false colour of her HUD, but there's a tipping point when it's no longer able to compensate for the shifting world and it simply stops attempting to render things in their 'real' shades.
Real shades. Yes. How appropriate.
The loudspeakers in the base are crackling. Jamelia can catch the occasional words. They overlap and remix, like a warped choir.
"... all security please report to… obey... this is a class one announcement… remember that the security are here to protect… obey… would the second shift please report to…" Sirens sound for a moment, and then die away.
Echoes. Echoes and memories. She remembers what the Senex said about the state of being an RNE. So what do the echoes here say about this place? That it's a place of rules. Regulations. A mix of bland mundanity and forced obedience.
Despite the years, despite the harsh words, the two of them move with a coordination which was drilled in decades ago. Harlan knows exactly where he's going, and as for Jamelia, the New World Order builds its secret facilities to a template. Except when it doesn't, of course, but even then it leaves them looking like they were built to the same standard, the better to conceal things. She hasn't been here before, but she's been to ones like it.
They head down, specifically avoiding the holding cells. It's when they're passing through a security area that Harlan hisses a warning and the two of them freeze, blending in with the wall behind them. Jamelia sees movement on the other side of a diamondglass wall and resists the urge to open fire. To burn the thing she sees from existence.
A snake, a worm, a centipede of pale flesh and arms and legs and faces and so many glowing eyes squirms down through the ranks of the mothballed, drained clonding vats. It is almost as tall as them, and its bulk barely fits. There is a constant susurrus of voices coming from its many, many mouths.
And then it's gone, crawling on its countless arms out through a broken-open door, and the two of them can breathe again.
"Ah," Harlan says faintly. "Yes. That would do it?"
"What would do it?" Jamelia hisses.
"That's a RNE hivemind coalescence derived from the psychic imprint of Templars. That is to say, failed psychic MiBs. There was always quite a high… attrition rate in the cloning. They never resolved the problems with brain development, which…"
"How many RNEs are in that thing?" Jamelia asks with forced calm, gripping her Illuminator tight.
"There was around a forty percent wastage rate, but… it doesn't feel that powerful." Light momentarily flares behind his mask, and Jamelia's own weak psychic powers can feel him stretch out to carefully examine it. "Perhaps a hundred," he says frankly. "Individually, their psychic powers are pretty pathetic, of course. It's only powerful because it's a LEGION phenomenon."
Jamelia, whose psychic powers are pretty pathetic, does not feel greatly reassured by this.
"There's at least three of them down here," he adds. "Their senses don't seem so acute, though."
"They'll notice when we bring the reactor online," Jamelia says.
"The reactor complex has self-fuelled shielding," Harlan says smugly. "I'm expecting that."
She resists the urge to make a comment, and nods. "Let's get that up and running, then," she says.
"No," he says in the same smug tone. "We're going to the control centre. We can set things up so the dimensional shielding will come online as soon as power is restored - reactor failure was a contingent failstate when this place was designed."
Jamelia takes a deep breath, and tastes the lilly-sweetness of the air. "Why wasn't this part of the original plan?" she says.
"It damages the shields," Harlan admits. "If we were just dealing with independent MIB RNEs, rather than a LEGION coalescence, it'd be rash and possibly counterproductive."
Jamelia sighs. "Very well," she says, and tries to reach the Tyrants on the comms.
There's just static.
"One is around Checkpoint Omega right now," Harlan informs her. "Conventional retreat and communications are cut off." He tilts his head. "Just like old times."
She wants to contradict him, but in all honesty, yes, this is going not-atypically for a 'Shrike mission.
… or a lot of her more recent missions, come to think of it. She wishes her team was here as support. She really could do with two more DSci specialists on the ground. The fact that the two specialists would be Rose and Kessler would only be an added advantage, because she's feeling somewhat squishy when faced by giant RNE coalescences.
Oh well. They have some time off. Presumably they're doing what other people do with time off, which is to say, wasting it. Rather than using it productively to develop assets and prepare for her next mission.
But they're probably having fun.
It is stop-start moving through the corridors, but the two humans are small enough that they can take the side-corridors and avoid the bulk of the LEGION coalescences swarming through the main halls. The command centre is secure and fortified, and Jamelia is almost reluctant to leave it. It was designed specifically so if there was a containment breach, the hostiles couldn't overrun it, and so it remains secure.
Then they're moving again, heading down and down again to the very bottom of the facility, where the reactor is located. The lifts are out of action, and not only due to the lack of power - they've been smashed open by the worm-creatures using them as tunnels to get around.
The operatives take the stairs.
But even there, there's signs that the RNEs have been using them. Perhaps they were smaller once. Perhaps the worms are the end product of the fusion of all the lesser creatures, and Jamelia and Harlan are just stuck in the middle as they hunt each other, each trying to become the only one left.
Regardless of what happened here, the walls of the stairs down are covered in ectoplasm, glowing green-blue in the dark. And it would perhaps be better if it was some mantra of madness, some scrawl about how the unknown writer would make them all pay.
It's not.
It's carefully copied out NWO handbooks, scrawled over the walls in ectoplasm.
The two of them are glad to get to the bottom. It means there are security systems to bypass, and each intact system is one the worms haven't broken through.
The reactor core itself is a tall, cylindrical room with the reactor reacting from top to bottom. Coolant lies thick and heavy in the darkness below them, and the gantries creak as the two old Operatives edge closer to the insertion point. Once it's in, the machinery will take the fuel and lower it down into the main body, down under the layers of coolant and the shielding.
"I think I'll ask Professor Bastion to make sure that all our mothballed facilities are in a state where they can be started up more easily," Jamelia says darkly, as she detaches the fuel cell from the back of her armour.
Harlan doesn't say a thing as he pops off the cover of the, working the mechanical systems with little sign that he's rusty. "Take the left handle," he eventually says, "and pull."
Straining, the two of them expose the receptacle. It's almost an anti-climax as Jamelia inserts the fuel source into the receptacle, and then seals it. Harlan slams the big red button for an emergency refuelling, and the systems draw on emergency battery power to bring the warm-up sequence online.
"Emergency refuelling in process," says a male voice. "[One] [hundred] [and] [twenty] seconds until full power restored."
All along the reactor's height, blue lights turn on, marking the fuel's descent. It's almost blinding after so long in the dark. Jamelia's faceplate automatically darkens to protect her. When it clears, the patterns of light and shadow among the machinery and playing over the coolant lake are almost beautiful.
Then the chaos starts.
Jamelia is moving without realising why, relying on her gut instinct and maybe a hint of precog. Pulling up her Illuminator, she hoses down the sealed blast doors, and there's a satisfying screech from the other side, which suddenly cuts off.
No, it doesn't cut off. It moves.
A hundred voices scream, and Harlan looks up. "Fuck," he says. "They can teleport."
Because he is an Operative, he only says that after setting the ceiling on fire.
Screaming, writhing, the LEGION draws back. It's already blackened from Jamelia's Illuminator, and the psychic powers have only hurt it more. Spectral blood red fire drips from Harlan's hands, and his eyes glow a deep crimson. The power conduits close to where it broke through arc, red lightning dancing to blacken and burn the creature. One of the sticking out arms falls off, splashing into ectoplasm when it hits the floor, and the open wound ignites. A deep scar is gouged into its corpus before it can escape from the unnatural flames.
And it drops. Its bulk smashes through cables and wires. Jamelia throws herself at Harlan and barely manages to pull him out of the train-sized bulk of arms and eyes and screaming. Rolling, she slams into the concrete wall of the room, and is on her feet almost instantly. Leaping, she runs along the curving wall of the chamber and kicks off it. Leaping from pipe to wall to gantry, she scales the room in a way no normal human could.
The worm shrieks in a choir of mad voices, and gives chase. Its countless hands dig into the wall, tearing out concrete and steel to pull its bulk out. It'd do the same if it got its hands on her.
But she wants it following her. If it's following her, it's not wrecking the reactor. And-
something wails, high-pitched and young and full of misery
-she nearly falls as agony wracks her mind. She doesn't need to look at its glowing eyes to see that it's doing something to her head. She grits her teeth and powers through, leaping between closely spaced pipes in a vertical sprint. Behind her, the LEGION tears up the wall, spraying itself with coolant, which just produces more screams as its burns are joined by ice.
It hits her again. And again. And again. Waves of deja vu hit her. Deja vu, and fear, and panic and regret hit her, a cacophony of projected emotions all intended to make her STOP RIGHT NOW.
And when she reaches the top of the room, she lets herself fall. Fall straight towards the waiting many mouths of the worm, made up of so many crippled mutated failed Men in Black.
Only she has her Illuminator in one hand and the Barnes-Sykes in the other.
In the end, Harlan finds her floating in an ectoplasmic scum in the lake of coolant, surrounded by floating body parts. None of which are hers. But that's just her flesh he finds.
Because her mind is… elsewhen.
The year is (pick 3):
[ ] 1954 - The Tree
[ ] 1971 - The Cell
[ ] 1976 - The Offer
[ ] 1977 - The Bird
[ ] 1979 - The Revolution
[ ] 1980 - The Knight
[ ] 1982 - The Massacre
[ ] 1983 - The Knife
[ ] 1984 - The Room
[ ] 1985 - The New You
The bird burned into the door has its wings spread in flight. Jamelia shudders. There's something off about it. Something repulsive about it. Is it the beak, slightly parted and jagged? Is it the slightly finger-like shape of its feathers.
No, there's nothing specific she can pin it down to. Nevertheless, she is relieved when the security door grinds open, taking the burned-on picture out of sight. The two agents step through, covering both sides. There is a breaking of glass as Harlan pulls a wall-mounted lever.
The lights flicker on - and they're proper lights, not the emergency red lighting.
"Good," Harlan says in a satisfied tone of voice, checking an analogue dial next to the lever. "A stroke of luck. The security station's local backup battery has kept its charge better than I expected. We have nearly four hours of charge here - I'd expected it to have deteriorated to one at most. That's excellent."
He strides over to the security monitoring station, and begins the start-up sequence for the computers, turning on their bulky CRT screens. Jamelia joins him. They're both familiar with technology from this era. The NWO's computer technology has always been more grounded than Iteration X, and a facility like this certainly wouldn't want an Iterator AI or anything which relies on a neural uplink. That's one interoperability issue removed when trying to start up old hardware.
"You know," Jamelia says out loud, as she waits for the login screen to appear. "Iterator Langley from my amalgam would be outraged at the sight of this place."
"Not a fan of psychics?" Harlan says darkly.
"No," Jamelia says, smiling faintly as she inputs her override codes. She begins to set up one of the relays so the Tyrants will be able to access the security footage. "She's only nineteen and would consider these computers to be totally unacceptable and probably start muttering about how no one can be expected to run security systems on a processor slower than her phone."
"Still won't be a fan of psychics," he retorts. The keyboard clacks as he types. "Let's see the cameras… they're down in Sector 3. We'll want to keep clear of there - something took them out. Checkpoint Omega is clear, however, and the security station there appears clear and deactivated. I should be able to bring it online, if the emergency batteries are holding up better… possibly even bring the external containment fields up if we're lucky."
Jamelia, for her part, keeps one eye on the monitors as she scans quickly through the security station logs for this facility. She can track the declining numbers of staff through the Noughties (Mr R. Door - DECEASED - CRANIAL TRAUMA (ACCIDENTAL), J. Ladislao - TRANSFERRED, Ms S. Car - DECEASED - REINHALT SYNDROME) until the last one (A. Aristide - DECEASED - REINHALT SYNDROME) is marked off in 2009 and-
Jamelia blinks. Reinhalt syndrome. Natural humans didn't get that. It was a very characteristic pattern of organ failure which only showed up in Gen 2.0 MiBs. That would imply Harlan's wife was a Man in Black. Well, a Woman in Black. That hadn't been mentioned in his file.
She narrows her eyes. There's no accounting for taste. Anyway, older MIBs are independently minded and can hold their own positions of authority in the NWO. She has met other MIBs in relationships, despite their typically diminished emotional responses. Perhaps that's what drew Harlan to her. Men in Black have muted emotions, and considering how strongly psychic Harlan is, someone who keeps their feelings to themselves is probably someone that he could enter a long-term relationship with.
And when the vast majority of the children of field-active Technocrats are vat-born - barring accidents which are often transferred to an artificial womb when it's discovered - the fact that most MiBs aren't made fertile doesn't pose a real barrier. Not that that wouldn't be fixable by a doctor, anyway.
She doesn't say anything to Harlan about that, though, and keeps on working through the files.
"Armoury unlocked," Harlan says tersely. "Grab what you need. You'll need to use the manual handle, though. I'm not wasting power opening the door for you."
It takes some time on the crank, but in the power armour it's light work for Jamelia. "Are you getting this?" she sends to the Tyrants, looking around the hollow space of the armoury.
"I certainly am," Jaron replies, his picture on her HUD looking distinctly impressed despite the occasional lines of static. "This is a treasure trove of Eighties Void Engineer gear. I'm surprised they haven't pillaged it themselves… actually, that's a good point. We should check the inventory lists for other similar facilities and see if they've been light-fingered. Baxter?"
"This is great," the DSci expert agrees. "I can't believe they just crated this stuff up and forgot about it. It's very Eighties, but who cares about the aesthetics when you get this kind of thing dropped in your lap!"
Jamelia can't help but agree. It's enough to equip several squads of ghostbusters, and equip them well. There's row after row of phase disruptor rifles, and she confirms that they're still working when the neon lights on their side reactivate at a touch. Crates of power packs. Dispensers full of VE-FM29s, grenades which disperse charged particles which selectively bond to out-of-phase matter and bring it into line with reality. Bulky three-eyed goggles by the cartload. An entire side room just full of dusty Hazardous Environment (Extradimesional) suits which come with their own air supply in the shoulders and protect against extradimensional influences. And - oh my, she thinks - a heavy weapons locker.
"See what's inside... uh, if you would, Director?" Agent Baxter asks her, her image looking disturbingly enthusiastic about the prospect of big guns.
Inputting her override codes, Jamelia does exactly that. The cabinet unfolds, revealing the carefully packed VE-SG9s with their suspensor servoharnesses and their gyro-stabilised phase-pulse emitters looking as good as new. Jamelia sighs. The problem with VE-SG9s, she'd always found, was that even if the suspensors meant that they could be maneuvered around, they were still large and cumbersome. Oh, they could lay down covering fire and shred anything which came down a corridor - no doubt why they had them here - but even with the servoharness, they were bulky and over a metre and a half long. She'd used one back in '87 and she'd been left bruised all over from the recoil and with burns to her hands from when the coolant ran out.
Now, on the other hand, they have a DS3A1 Illuminator, and checking the logs in her helmet, Jamelia decides that's much more her size. Literally. It's still bulky with the phased plasma projection coils and requires a hip-mounted transphase module to be operated. but at least it's not nearly as tall as she is. It comes with a sling, so she can have her hands free and, of course, it's rated as safe to be used around the generator. It's designed to kill EDEs and leave materiel intact. The bright red lights on the side are a problem, but the application of some opaque tape is enough to cover them up.
"Damn, I'd almost be tempted to try to join you down there, just to get my hands on-" begins Juliet, before her image is lost in static. Union digital secured communications shouldn't get static, which is why it was such a useful improvised detector for hostile entities.
Juliet reappeared for "-breaking up, what's going on?"
"Large cluster of RNEs moving between us and you, I repeat, large cluster of RNEs," Harlan says from the entrance to the armoury. "Do you copy? We are not, repeat, are not, negative, under attack. Hold position."
"-copy, Forwards. Will be-" they get, before the channel descends into static again.
Jamelia glances at Harlan. "Are you taking anything?" she asks. "If they're cutting off our comms…"
"We'll be fine for the moment," he says. "We just need to wait for the cluster to move. And while we wait," Harlan says, his mask staring impassively at her, "perhaps you can tell me the truth for once in your life. Don't worry about the cyborgs - the RNEs are filling all the lines with static. They can't hear us. What are you playing at? And don't pretend you weren't at least involved in this. They're clearly not fans of psychics. What the fuck are you playing at, Hyena?"
Jamelia glares back. "We should get moving," she says.
"We have time," Harlan says. "Now. The truth. Why the fuck are we - rather, you - bringing the old psychic programmes back online?"
There's an edge to the air. She can feel it.She considers how little truth she can get away with. "You know most of it already. After Moscow, Professor Bastion and I had a talk about certain things. One of the things which came up was how we're critically lacking in integrated DSci assets, especially when the Void Engineers are being unreliable. If they're not going to show up for minor cases, then we need our own source of DSci which can handle small cases."
"Bullshit," Harlan says. "You wouldn't be bringing an old mothballed drunk like me back in from the cold if it was just a matter of getting some of the PSC to train up some Operatives in ghostbusting. Something else is going on."
"I suspect Bastion might have been looking for a chance to do this for a while," Jamelia notes. "After all, I first met him on one of my first missions in Tehran, during the Iranian Revolution, and he was working in close coordination with a team of psychics there. He may feel the Order needs the abilities of people like you, and has been looking for an excuse."
"Again, bullshit," Harlan says, in a cold flat tone. "Not about him. What the fuck do you think you're doing, claiming that Tehran was one of your first missions? That was a 'Shrike mission… hell, it was a Vigilance mission. Do you expect me to believe your bullshit?"
The bottom drops out of Jamelia's stomach, and she's thankful for the opaque helmet because it conceals her expression. Hyperpsych and force of habit compels her to keep cool, to avoid showing her shock. Tehran was one of her first missions. Her first proper missions, anyway. What's he playing at? Why is he trying to gaslamp her? She - but she remembered '77. When it had just come up. Even if she hadn't thought about it in a long time.
She remembers '77 with the 'Shrikes. She'd had about six years with the Union by then. She also remembers '79 as a rank newbie.
She chuckles. "Some of us know not to talk about classified missions," she says archly, assuming an air of confidence she doesn't really feel. She wonders if it'll work. One of the first things any Operative learns is that displaying uncertainty in the face of others weakens your position. It's probably why the NWO has such a reputation for smugness among the other Conventions. And also the Traditions.
Harlan stares at her. At least, she thinks he's staring. She wonders how this conversation would be going if they could see each other's faces, and narrows her eyes. Had he timed this specifically so they couldn't be listened in on and he'd have the upper hand with his psychic powers while she couldn't read his cues? She wouldn't put it past him. She wouldn't put it past him at all.
"Of course," he says. His voice is studiously neutral. "My mistake. You can't be too careful. Now. The psychic powers."
Jamelia sighs. "We need it in-house," she tells him, mouth working almost reflexively to produce the plausible-sounding 'truth' hidden under the first layer of cover story. "Minimal reliance on other Conventions. The Syndicate is throwing its weight around, the Void Engineers aren't reliably providing low-level support, Iteration X is still terrible at DSci and that leaves us entirely dependent on Progenitor constructs. Now, Progenitor constructs can be very useful - I have one under my command - but we can't rely on them entirely. The Progenitors are swinging pro-Pogrom and the Order knows we can't afford the Ascension War kicking off again."
"Hrmm." He doesn't say anything more. That's enough of a tell from him. He's suspicious of her now. And he has right to be. The New World Order, she thinks through the shock. So annoying. So she can't trust her own memories. Why is this coming up now, of all times? Of course. No INVISIBLE BEAR anymore. She can notice the discrepancies now. Once she's done here, she'll need to sit down with S… sit down all on her own and sort through her own history.
Well, she'll have time for that later. Jamelia takes a moment to clear her head, and force down her emotions. They'd only get in the way at the moment. "Do you want anything from here?" she says.
He continues to stare at her for a moment, and then shakes his head. She can read the use of the same hyperpsych techniques to force the emotions out of mind. "I'll just take one of the rifles," he says. "Some of us haven't been getting rejuve for decades. I'm not up to lugging something like that around, even with suspensors. And you look like you've had more radical work done."
"Very recently," Jamelia says, her voice calm. She ventures a comment, probes him for a reaction. "I recently had INVISIBLE BEAR purged, and exchanged for more modern Progenitor enhancements which don't leave me dependent on painkillers."
He freezes up for just a fraction of a second. "Wonderful," he says bitterly. "Meanwhile on my part, the closest to Progenitor enhancements I've had recently is a doctor look at my knee. A conventional doctor, too."
How very interesting. She waits to see if he responds, but he simply heads over to the weapon racks and grabs a VE-PR4, checking it with the casual preparedness of an old agent.
"-are you there? We have your signal again." Jaron's cracking signal reappears, and then solidifies.
Jamelia notes how neatly the reestablishment of communications matches with her and Harlan having said everything they are going to say for now. She wonders if Jaron knows that Harlan can jam communications with his mind. Well, no doubt he does, it's in his file. She's not going to say anything about that, though, and simply says, "We are receiving you. Harlan, what's the status of the route?"
"Clear, for now," the old man says. "I'm tracking a major psychic presence beyond Checkpoint Omega, though, and the cameras fail when it passes near them. I should be able to shield us from its senses as long as it isn't too close. We're just arming up," he glances at Jamelia, who is filling her pouches with Void Engineer-made grenades, "and should be ready to move again in approximately point 2 kilosecs."
...
"Welcome back, [Director Aristide] and [Guest]," the door mechanisms state blandly. "Please wait. The current on-duty security officer, [FILE_NOT_FOUND], will be with you shortly to handle the required forms for [Guest]."
"Can you deal with that?" Jamelia asks, covering the rear. There's red emergency lightning on around Checkpoint Omega, as Harlan uses up what little battery remains in this security station's batteries. "Or at least shut it up?"
Metal crumples behind her as Harlan tears off the covering to the old hardware with his mind, and sticks his gloved hands into the mess of wires.
"Auth-auth-authorisation has been r-r-received from security officer [Harlan Aristide]," the system says, waves of static washing through the speakers. "Dual authorisation sign in complete. Welcome [Guest]. Your auth-authorisation has been cleared by [Director Aristide] and security officer [Harlan Aristide]. Verifying identity with central servers and-"
There is a sound of sparking wires.
"... i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-"
The sparking intensifies.
"-i-identity verified. Welcome back, [Agent Jazmin Blade]. Pl-please verify your ret-ret-retina."
Jamelia sighs. "Really?" she asks.
"I forced it to dig up your old profile from when we all went through psi-testing," Harlan says tersely. "You'll still pass." He pauses and sighs. "You had your eyes changed, didn't you?" he says.
She grits her teeth. "I have," she says. "Several times. VA remote ret-scans are far too good these days to rely on this anyway."
"Oh. I didn't notice." There is another crackle of electricity.
"Ret-retinal scan ver-ver-ver-verified. Unlocking door."
The air which washes out of the sealed doors tastes state and old, with a hint of sickly-sweet lillies underneath it all. And that's very wrong, because Jamelia is wearing a sealed suit of power armour with its own air supply. She inhales, despite the fact she knows that she isn't really smelling it. What does it remind her of?
She has it. There's something about it which resembles the old rotted house the Senex had led her to. There was the same sense of… of age to the air, and the same scent of lilies. It's probably a synaesthetic symptom of her powers.
The world fades to shades of grey. The hallways are less like an office, and more like a bunker. Or a lab. There are fewer posters up on the walls, and many more safety briefings warning of protocols and reminding people to take their anti-psiotics. It's hard to see through the false colour of her HUD, but there's a tipping point when it's no longer able to compensate for the shifting world and it simply stops attempting to render things in their 'real' shades.
Real shades. Yes. How appropriate.
The loudspeakers in the base are crackling. Jamelia can catch the occasional words. They overlap and remix, like a warped choir.
"... all security please report to… obey... this is a class one announcement… remember that the security are here to protect… obey… would the second shift please report to…" Sirens sound for a moment, and then die away.
Echoes. Echoes and memories. She remembers what the Senex said about the state of being an RNE. So what do the echoes here say about this place? That it's a place of rules. Regulations. A mix of bland mundanity and forced obedience.
Despite the years, despite the harsh words, the two of them move with a coordination which was drilled in decades ago. Harlan knows exactly where he's going, and as for Jamelia, the New World Order builds its secret facilities to a template. Except when it doesn't, of course, but even then it leaves them looking like they were built to the same standard, the better to conceal things. She hasn't been here before, but she's been to ones like it.
They head down, specifically avoiding the holding cells. It's when they're passing through a security area that Harlan hisses a warning and the two of them freeze, blending in with the wall behind them. Jamelia sees movement on the other side of a diamondglass wall and resists the urge to open fire. To burn the thing she sees from existence.
A snake, a worm, a centipede of pale flesh and arms and legs and faces and so many glowing eyes squirms down through the ranks of the mothballed, drained clonding vats. It is almost as tall as them, and its bulk barely fits. There is a constant susurrus of voices coming from its many, many mouths.
And then it's gone, crawling on its countless arms out through a broken-open door, and the two of them can breathe again.
"Ah," Harlan says faintly. "Yes. That would do it?"
"What would do it?" Jamelia hisses.
"That's a RNE hivemind coalescence derived from the psychic imprint of Templars. That is to say, failed psychic MiBs. There was always quite a high… attrition rate in the cloning. They never resolved the problems with brain development, which…"
"How many RNEs are in that thing?" Jamelia asks with forced calm, gripping her Illuminator tight.
"There was around a forty percent wastage rate, but… it doesn't feel that powerful." Light momentarily flares behind his mask, and Jamelia's own weak psychic powers can feel him stretch out to carefully examine it. "Perhaps a hundred," he says frankly. "Individually, their psychic powers are pretty pathetic, of course. It's only powerful because it's a LEGION phenomenon."
Jamelia, whose psychic powers are pretty pathetic, does not feel greatly reassured by this.
"There's at least three of them down here," he adds. "Their senses don't seem so acute, though."
"They'll notice when we bring the reactor online," Jamelia says.
"The reactor complex has self-fuelled shielding," Harlan says smugly. "I'm expecting that."
She resists the urge to make a comment, and nods. "Let's get that up and running, then," she says.
"No," he says in the same smug tone. "We're going to the control centre. We can set things up so the dimensional shielding will come online as soon as power is restored - reactor failure was a contingent failstate when this place was designed."
Jamelia takes a deep breath, and tastes the lilly-sweetness of the air. "Why wasn't this part of the original plan?" she says.
"It damages the shields," Harlan admits. "If we were just dealing with independent MIB RNEs, rather than a LEGION coalescence, it'd be rash and possibly counterproductive."
Jamelia sighs. "Very well," she says, and tries to reach the Tyrants on the comms.
There's just static.
"One is around Checkpoint Omega right now," Harlan informs her. "Conventional retreat and communications are cut off." He tilts his head. "Just like old times."
She wants to contradict him, but in all honesty, yes, this is going not-atypically for a 'Shrike mission.
… or a lot of her more recent missions, come to think of it. She wishes her team was here as support. She really could do with two more DSci specialists on the ground. The fact that the two specialists would be Rose and Kessler would only be an added advantage, because she's feeling somewhat squishy when faced by giant RNE coalescences.
Oh well. They have some time off. Presumably they're doing what other people do with time off, which is to say, wasting it. Rather than using it productively to develop assets and prepare for her next mission.
But they're probably having fun.
...
It is stop-start moving through the corridors, but the two humans are small enough that they can take the side-corridors and avoid the bulk of the LEGION coalescences swarming through the main halls. The command centre is secure and fortified, and Jamelia is almost reluctant to leave it. It was designed specifically so if there was a containment breach, the hostiles couldn't overrun it, and so it remains secure.
Then they're moving again, heading down and down again to the very bottom of the facility, where the reactor is located. The lifts are out of action, and not only due to the lack of power - they've been smashed open by the worm-creatures using them as tunnels to get around.
The operatives take the stairs.
But even there, there's signs that the RNEs have been using them. Perhaps they were smaller once. Perhaps the worms are the end product of the fusion of all the lesser creatures, and Jamelia and Harlan are just stuck in the middle as they hunt each other, each trying to become the only one left.
Regardless of what happened here, the walls of the stairs down are covered in ectoplasm, glowing green-blue in the dark. And it would perhaps be better if it was some mantra of madness, some scrawl about how the unknown writer would make them all pay.
It's not.
It's carefully copied out NWO handbooks, scrawled over the walls in ectoplasm.
The two of them are glad to get to the bottom. It means there are security systems to bypass, and each intact system is one the worms haven't broken through.
The reactor core itself is a tall, cylindrical room with the reactor reacting from top to bottom. Coolant lies thick and heavy in the darkness below them, and the gantries creak as the two old Operatives edge closer to the insertion point. Once it's in, the machinery will take the fuel and lower it down into the main body, down under the layers of coolant and the shielding.
"I think I'll ask Professor Bastion to make sure that all our mothballed facilities are in a state where they can be started up more easily," Jamelia says darkly, as she detaches the fuel cell from the back of her armour.
Harlan doesn't say a thing as he pops off the cover of the, working the mechanical systems with little sign that he's rusty. "Take the left handle," he eventually says, "and pull."
Straining, the two of them expose the receptacle. It's almost an anti-climax as Jamelia inserts the fuel source into the receptacle, and then seals it. Harlan slams the big red button for an emergency refuelling, and the systems draw on emergency battery power to bring the warm-up sequence online.
"Emergency refuelling in process," says a male voice. "[One] [hundred] [and] [twenty] seconds until full power restored."
All along the reactor's height, blue lights turn on, marking the fuel's descent. It's almost blinding after so long in the dark. Jamelia's faceplate automatically darkens to protect her. When it clears, the patterns of light and shadow among the machinery and playing over the coolant lake are almost beautiful.
Then the chaos starts.
Jamelia is moving without realising why, relying on her gut instinct and maybe a hint of precog. Pulling up her Illuminator, she hoses down the sealed blast doors, and there's a satisfying screech from the other side, which suddenly cuts off.
No, it doesn't cut off. It moves.
A hundred voices scream, and Harlan looks up. "Fuck," he says. "They can teleport."
Because he is an Operative, he only says that after setting the ceiling on fire.
Screaming, writhing, the LEGION draws back. It's already blackened from Jamelia's Illuminator, and the psychic powers have only hurt it more. Spectral blood red fire drips from Harlan's hands, and his eyes glow a deep crimson. The power conduits close to where it broke through arc, red lightning dancing to blacken and burn the creature. One of the sticking out arms falls off, splashing into ectoplasm when it hits the floor, and the open wound ignites. A deep scar is gouged into its corpus before it can escape from the unnatural flames.
And it drops. Its bulk smashes through cables and wires. Jamelia throws herself at Harlan and barely manages to pull him out of the train-sized bulk of arms and eyes and screaming. Rolling, she slams into the concrete wall of the room, and is on her feet almost instantly. Leaping, she runs along the curving wall of the chamber and kicks off it. Leaping from pipe to wall to gantry, she scales the room in a way no normal human could.
The worm shrieks in a choir of mad voices, and gives chase. Its countless hands dig into the wall, tearing out concrete and steel to pull its bulk out. It'd do the same if it got its hands on her.
But she wants it following her. If it's following her, it's not wrecking the reactor. And-
something wails, high-pitched and young and full of misery
-she nearly falls as agony wracks her mind. She doesn't need to look at its glowing eyes to see that it's doing something to her head. She grits her teeth and powers through, leaping between closely spaced pipes in a vertical sprint. Behind her, the LEGION tears up the wall, spraying itself with coolant, which just produces more screams as its burns are joined by ice.
It hits her again. And again. And again. Waves of deja vu hit her. Deja vu, and fear, and panic and regret hit her, a cacophony of projected emotions all intended to make her STOP RIGHT NOW.
And when she reaches the top of the room, she lets herself fall. Fall straight towards the waiting many mouths of the worm, made up of so many crippled mutated failed Men in Black.
Only she has her Illuminator in one hand and the Barnes-Sykes in the other.
In the end, Harlan finds her floating in an ectoplasmic scum in the lake of coolant, surrounded by floating body parts. None of which are hers. But that's just her flesh he finds.
Because her mind is… elsewhen.
The year is (pick 3):
[ ] 1954 - The Tree
[ ] 1971 - The Cell
[ ] 1976 - The Offer
[ ] 1977 - The Bird
[ ] 1979 - The Revolution
[ ] 1980 - The Knight
[ ] 1982 - The Massacre
[ ] 1983 - The Knife
[ ] 1984 - The Room
[ ] 1985 - The New You
Jamelia 06: Flight
Yellowfields 06: Flight
1971
When they seized her, they beat her.
Oh, it wasn't anything out of the ordinary. That's just what happened. The police weren't for people like her. She might have been born here, but she has no papers. Neither did her mother, dead along with her elder half-sister these past six years - no, her mother had arrived in the country in 1947 carrying her sister, and everyone knew what that meant. And her father was long gone, lost at sea leaving not even a childish memory and certainly not anything which'd help make her a citizen in the eyes of the law.
When a familyless, stateless woman from the slums of Beirut gets grabbed by the police, that's what happens. Especially when she's found in a government building dressed as a stolen man's suit with a stolen ID around her neck.
So after the first round of questioning and her failure to break immediately, they threw her in a bare concrete cell and left her to nurse the bruises. The fingers on her right hand are swollen and stiff, the digits bloated. It hurts to move them. She thinks at least one of them is broken, because her ring finger is off at a funny angle. She gingerly touches her hand, and winces at the stab of pain when she brushes the ring finger in the wrong way. Yes. She thinks that finger is broken.
The man she'd hit had a very hard head.
Perhaps that hadn't helped with the beating, she thinks, blotting her eyes on the sleeve of her stolen white shirt. They weren't going to like that. The man she'd punched certainly hadn't liked it, because he was the reason her left eye felt all puffy and she was having problems seeing out of it. Although that might have been more because she'd managed to get her knee into a sensitive place than because she'd punched him in the face. Her knee was also hurting, which now that she thought about it was rather strange. Most men would have doubled over in pain from that.
She shakes her head, trying to put the worrying thoughts out of mind. What kind of man has a head so hard that someone breaks a finger punching them and doesn't respond to being kneed in the groin?
Mind you, they probably also didn't like the fact that she'd swiped the wallet of one of the suited men who worked here when they'd stopped at the cafe for a coffee after work. That's where she'd got the ID pass which had got her past the swipe door.
She didn't even know how that card-thing worked. She'd just touched it to the sensor with the red light on it and then it had turned green and the door had let her in. Maybe there had been a doorman out of sight who'd been lazy and had mistaken a woman with her hair tied up wearing loose mannish clothing for the man on the card. And once she had got in, she'd found a changing room full of lockers, tried her stolen card on them until she found one which opened to it. Once she'd changed into the black suit she found in the locker, she had just blended in. No one had suspected her. Right until they had. And then they'd beaten her up.
All things considered, she regretted breaking in here. Well, that wasn't true. It's more that she regretted getting caught.
It had all started in quiet bits in her shifts in Café Dar. She'd started watching the coming and going of the cars from this building. And then she'd started noticing things. Patterns. Like how the licence plates of the cars would change on Mondays and Thursdays. Like how a lot of the drivers were strangely pale men who never seemed to leave the building when the rest of the workers got off shift.
And she'd worked extra shifts not for the money, but just so she could watch the building to see if she could catch it to see when the pale men went home. She hadn't seen any of them leave the building, even though she'd sat on a bench outside until past midnight. That had got her shaken down by the police for her troubles, who'd suspected that she was a streetwalker.
But this was a mystery. She hadn't been able to get it out of her mind. She'd listened to the conversations of the men who worked in that building when they stopped for coffee, and made notes on what they said. They mostly spoke in French, so she'd picked up more of the language so she could understand conversations rather than just take orders.
What she'd heard had only made her more confused. Some of it was certainly her lack of understanding of the language. But there were these references to government agencies, the police and the army, and they always sounded slightly… well, contemptuous. She thought that they were probably linked to the 'UT' they mentioned a few times, although they also seemed to be linked to a group called the 'NOM'.
Of course, she didn't let on that she was listening. She was just the pretty girl in a headscarf bringing coffee and food to the men in suits sitting in the corner. They all smoked the same brand of high-price cigarette, and the blue smoke coiled around them as they sat and drank. Sometimes they'd have other people join them at their table, who didn't wear the same Western-style suits. She liked those days. Their guests were usually generous tippers. That alone marked them out as probably not being government. And yet they'd go into, and come out of, the government building.
It had all come to a head when one of them had mentioned the 'messy business in Achrafieh' and another one had joked about how they hoped 'that'd keep the dee-arr quiet'. Because she knew what had happened over in Achrafieh. Her landlady had mentioned how her friend had seen black cars grab a woman off the street, and then there had been shots from within the car.
That sounded like the same kind of black car the men who worked in the building opposite used.
She'd gone home after her shift, back to her tiny room in a decrepit tenement, and sat there staring at the wall, book in her hands. She'd gone to prayers, but no inspiration had come. She'd thought about who she could tell, but she didn't know anyone who would be able to do anything about it. In the end, she'd fallen asleep with a book in her hands.
She had found certainty in her dreams. She would find out the truth. She would find out what had happened to the woman they'd snatched, if it had been them who'd done it. And she'd awoken with new eyes.
"He who is hostile to a friend of Mine I declare war against. My slave approaches Me with nothing more beloved to Me than what I have made obligatory upon him, and My slave keeps drawing nearer to Me with voluntary works until I love him," she read, on the page before her. "And when I love him, I am his hearing with which he hears, his sight with which he sees, his hand with which he seizes, and his foot with which he walks. If he asks me, I will surely give to him, and if he seeks refuge in Me, I will surely protect him."
She could do with some protection now, she thinks. Sitting in her cell, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in her hand, the woman prays.
1979
The dining area smells of fresh bread and rosemary, and there's a roaring fire in the fireplace. This isn't the main dining area, of course. The MiBs and the sympathisers and the constructs and other lesser staff have a canteen, with such delicacies as painted concrete walls, communal benches, and a carefully selected diet supplemented by drugs designed to encourage optimum efficiency. The enlightened staff and extraordinary citizens have their own, rather better quality of dining area.
Jazmin snuggles down in her chair and gnaws on breadsticks as she reads her book. Looking out the 'window', she notices that it's raining on the viewscreen. She quite likes these quiet bits between missions. Over the past two years, especially, she's been given reason to enjoy moments when she's not in a field and has time to live the strange little life she's built up for herself.
Of course, recovery downtime is nearly over, which means she probably has a few months crawling through some forsaken jungle in her near future.
Her concentration is broken by the scraping of a chair as one of her teammates pulls up a chair. She looks up and smiles warmly.
"How are you?" James asks, sitting down on the other side of the table and calling over one of the blank-faced waiters. "Sorry about being away - psychic checkups, you know. We're going to pester them again to see if they can get a proper on-base psi-lab so Harlan and I don't have to jet off for check-ups."
"Heya," she says, closing her her book and sitting up straight. "Good to see you back. And it does you good to get out and about. Imagine what you'd get up to if you were left around here to get up to mischief?"
He sighs. "I never get any sympathy from you, do I?" he says plaintively.
"Woe is me, I can cause fields of silence," she says, raising her eyebrows. "How can I ever live with being able to set fire to things with my mind?"
"So little sympathy. You're a cruel woman, with a machine heart and a machine mind."
"You take that back," Jazmin says sternly. "I'm not an Iterator."
James does a half-bow in his seat. "My eternal apologies," he says, brushing back an errant lock of hair. "However can I make it up to you?"
Jazmin gives him a Look. "Are you quite done?"
"If I must. Thank you," he tells the construct-waiter. "Have you eaten yet, or have you just filled up on breadsticks?" he asks Jazmin.
She coughs in an embarrassed manner which says basically everything it needs to. "I was reading!" she says, turning slightly pink.
"I see." He makes his order, and then turns back to her. "It is good to be back, though. Harlan was being insufferable on the flight."
"Harlan is usually insufferable," Jazmin says dryly.
"Quite so." He leans back in his chair and sighs. "I checked on Elissa before coming here," he says. "She was in a bad mood, and wasn't very happy to see me."
"I entirely understand how she feels," Jazmin tells him archly.
"You're a cruel, cruel woman," he says sadly. "Has Winston said anything about how Ami's doing?"
"Haven't heard in a few days. She's getting some kind of refit, but," she shakes her head, "well, you know how she gets about Damage Control these days."
"I suppose it's only natural," James says, with a shrug. "She's been doing it for twenty years, and DC's changed a lot from when it was bright-coloured uniforms and superpowers from radiation. Or sometimes gene therapy. I think she misses the old days and doesn't like to see DC pick up so much cross-training from us. Us as the NWO and us as the 'Shrikes, too."
"Personally, I can't help but feel it's an improvement to see the Progenitors pulling their weight more," Jazmin says, dropping her voice. "That team from the last mission was very good at what they did. Constable Cross was very capable. I think there's maybe has always been a core of DC looking to be treated as more than the Union's mall-cops."
"Their Victors were frightfully stupid, though. I can't help but wonder what possessed the Progenitors to make those dumb things in the first place. Probably isolation in academia, I have to-"
All the viewscreens in the room fuzz to grey-white static. The speakers broadcast white noise. The lights flicker in an oddly hypnotic lulling pattern. The two agents straighten up. They both know what is coming. As they watch, the constructs and extraordinary citizens in the room freeze in place, and then mechanically file out.
When the last one leaves, the door closes with an automated mechanical click. A faint background hum can be heard, barely noticeable unless the listener was trained for the sound of wide-spectrum jamming. Even the clocks are no longer ticking, frozen in place.
"HELMETSHRIKE Squadron 7," states a bland, emotionless voice, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. "This is Control. This location is secure."
The viewscreen fuzzes in again, displaying a blank white background. On it is a pattern of ten eyes, nine positioned in a circle around the central one.
"Your status as Vigilance assets is now ACTIVE. Vigilance Cell Epsilon-1, Agents Stalking Hyena and Silent Starling, please acknowledge."
Hyena rises. "Agent Stalking Hyena is ACTIVE, Control," she says, saluting.
So does Starling. "Agent Silent Starling is ACTIVE, Control," he says, also saluting.
"Activation has been confirmed. The briefing now shall begin. Agents, the situation in Iran is progressing as per forecast 32-43-92-MD. The Shah will flee Iran in three days. In four days time, Comptroller Beimore of South West Asia Command will issue an emergency call for reinforcements to attempt to contain the Reality Deviant-backed instability," Control says in its bland, neutral voice. "The systematic mishandling of this situation indicates either incompetence or subversion. Intercepts from hostile Reality Deviant forces support the latter interpretation. Neither is permissible.
"Agents, Vigilance Epsilon-1 will be deployed to conduct on-site housecleaning of local forces and commanding officials. This is an ULTRAVIOLET mission. Use of lethal force against Technocratic forces is authorised. Use of provided override codes against Technocratic forces is authorised. Use of deniable Reality Deviant forces to eliminate targets is authorised. Use of simulated Reality Deviancy by qualified assets is authorised. This operation exists under Protocol-137 justification."
Hyena swallows. She understands that simulated Reality Deviancy isn't really RDism. It's merely cloaking things like psychic powers and transgenic implants under the trappings of the enemy. But she doesn't like it. Control has approved it, though, so it is necessary.
"Agent Silent Starling, you shall be placed among a Vigilance TROJAN formation. You are to consider your TROJAN command entirely expendable in the course of completing the mission. Further information shall be provided as and when it is needed. Your primary targets will be provided when they are identified. You shall be contacted once you have assumed command of the TROJAN formation. Agent Furious Ratel shall be your field commander in this operation."
Starling nods, squaring his jawline. "Yes, Control," he says. "I hear and I obey."
"Agent Stalking Hyena, you shall report immediately to the landing bay at Facility 2501. A stealth craft is approaching to take you to Facility 283 for hypnotic implantation of a false memory package. It will arrive in approximately ninety minutes. You shall be assuming the role of a junior member of the Union assigned to one of the amalgams responding to the request for assistance. You shall be briefed in-flight as to the primary mission objectives. The memory package shall contain the briefing on the cover mission objectives. You shall be contacted if there is any change in primary objectives."
Hyena nods. "Yes, Control," she says. "I hear and I obey."
"Agents Silent Starling and Stalking Hyena. Your previous performance has been entirely satisfactory. We expect nothing less of you on this operation."
"Thank you, Control," Hyena and Starling say in perfect unison.
"That will be all, citizens," Control says. The image disappears from the viewscreen, replaced again with static, and there is a click from the door as it unlocks again. The other occupants mechanically file in, and take up their positions silently. Neither Hyena nor Starling move. They know the protocol.
And then the screen returns to showing the above-ground view. The clocks in the room start ticking again, and a moment later the noise resumes as everyone else starts to move again.
Jazmin rises, a faint smile on her face. Her nerves are pleasantly buzzing. She always feels like this after praise from Control. "Well," she says, conscious of the need for opsec, "I have a plane to catch. Orders from above Ratel, I'm afraid."
James nods understandingly. "They're shipping me out now the checks are done," he says. "Is the location classified?"
"I'm afraid so," Jazmin says. She shakes her head. "Oh well. I should have some mandatory downtime after this, at least." She brushes the crumbs from the breadsticks off her shirt, and puts her jacket back on, sticking her book in her pocket. She frowns. "I should get something else to read on the plane," she says. "I've nearly finished this. I have over an hour until it arrives anyway." She shoots a glance at him. "Come on, help me pick out some reading material."
He shrugs. "I might as well take the chance to say goodbye properly." James brushes against her hand as they exit. "Are you going to be all right?" he asks softly.
Jazmin shrugs. "Unless I get shot, yes," she says.
"Try to avoid that," he advises.
"Helpful. Very helpful."
1977
Ratel sits back in his chair, feet up on the desk. The walls of their Construct are decorated with paper chains and there are bottles and empty cups still lying around. The man still has his party hat on, and looks like he's suffering. "Welcome to '77," he says wearily, holding a cigarette in his hand. "Another year gone by. More dead friends. More crawling in the mud. Great life we have here."
"Next year in Doissetep!" Wolf cheers, also looking decidedly under the weather. His good mood may be explained by the presence of a half-full glass of a hair of the dog in front of him, and its three companions.
"Not likely. I'm turning forty this year," Ratel grumbles, letting out a cloud of smoke. "It's disgusting."
"Don't worry, sir," Hyena says, grinning like her namesake, "you don't look a day over thirty eight." She's being facetious, and everyone here knows it - all of them have the bodies of people in their early twenties. Ratel is just a gloomy drunk, and he shows it immediately.
"Shut the hell up. So being so damn perky and sober. And loud. And see if you can get them to turn down the lights." He groans. "I blame you for the existence for this morning."
Hyena raises her eyebrows. "Because I choose not to drink, it's all my fault that the lights are too bright? Or is it my fault that the first of January is a thing? Or is it my fault you drank so heavily last night and this morning?"
"Yes. That's it. We get a party budget and if…" he massages his temples, "... if we don't use it up, they'll give us less next year. So me and… and Squid had to cover for your allocation for drinks."
"With all due respect, sir, you brought this on yourself."
"You just don't understand the requirements of command, Hyena."
Wolf frowns. "I don't see Squid at all," he says.
Hyena points. The woman in question is fast asleep, sprawled back in her chair in a way which only a Progenitor combat specialist whose bones have been replaced with cartilage and whose skin is embedded with chromatophores can. The fact that her dress is a similar colour to the chair means she's passing unnoticed.
"Oh yeah. So there she is." Wolf pinches his brow. "I think I need to sober up."
"I think you do," Hyena says archly.
"Me too," Ratel groans, and staggers through into his office. There is shortly afterwards a bout of sulphurous swearing.
"... wazzat?" Squid moans, her skin turning a nauseated green as she holds her head in her hands.
"Good morning," Hyena tells her sweetly. "Would you like some coffee?"
The glare she gets is positively murderous. "Yes."
Ratel's door opens very loudly, and Squid moans again. "Not so loud!" she says.
"Fax on New Year's Day!" Ratel says, jabbing one finger at Hyena. He is still wearing his party hat, and the corner of her mouth creeps up. "Hawk's replacement went and finished his last assignment early, so he's headed here right now. For eight. Eight in the morning. That is, in half an hour!"
Hyena smooths out her shirt. "When was the message sent?" she asks. She is feeling somewhat annoyed by this extra task just because everyone else is hung over, and so is retaliating through the power of passive-aggressiveness. "Is it compromised? Should I have security move to amber alert, sir?"
"Six yesterday, and the Control codes are clear," Ratel says, waving the paper. "Curse all Ivory Tower bureaucrats! Who decides to have the new recruit show up with no warning? Surprised Raven's replacement isn't showing up now too! Jazmin, go delay the fuck out of him with a GREEN level briefing, show him around, whatever."
She skims the paper he hands her, taking in the basics of the new teammate. Snapping off a perfect salute and clicking her heels together as loudly as possible, she straightens out fully. "Sir! I will take this mission for the good of the Union! Long live Progress! Long live Rationality!"
"Hyena," Ratel says through clenched teeth.
"Yes, sir!"
"Cut that shit out. You're just doing it to be annoying."
Honestly, she considers half an hour later as she watches from the arrival lounge, she doesn't mind the chance to head up to the upper levels of the facility. She took a brief walk outside in the fresh air, and then settled down to wait for the sky-coloured Union transport. And here it is now on the cameras, the pilot expertly navigating through the gap opened up by the unfolding fake wall of this secret alpine facility. The wall closes behind it, concealing the entrance as soon as it's through, and the lander taxis to the docking station.
"Union transport TU-312-531-452-032 has arrived," the loudspeakers announce. "Welcome to Facility 2501 'Bergkönig'. Please enjoy your stay."
Hyena rises and takes in her new teammate as he steps through the umbilical connector, flanked by the generous bodyguard of Men in Black. He's tall and built like an athlete - very typical for a lot of Operatives. His grey suit has been carefully chosen and he has hints of well-selected blues visible in the lining and the pockets, which manages to look tasteful without being gaudy or breaking dress code. Matching that impression, he's wearing sunglasses inside, and she's almost certain that he's spent quite a bit of time making his hair look so effortlessly styled. She takes in his laser watch, the subtle stiffness of rifle-grade ballistic fibre, and - oh for goodness sake - the retracted primium knives in the shoes that are so polished they could probably deflect lasers.
All in all, Stalking Hyena detests him on first sight.
"Operative Britannia," he says, in an RP accent crisp enough to cut glass. "James Britannia. I'm supposed to be reporting to… ah, Enforcer Kingsley immediately, as per my orders."
"Pleased to meet you," she says. A small polite smile creeps over her lips, at the way he'll learn that HELMETSHRIKE teams very rarely wear neat suits. "Operative Jazmin Blade," she adds, offering him her hand.
"Yes, I read the briefings on my new teammates," he says casually, taking her hand.
He goes to kiss it, but she slips free and gives him a very coldly professional glare. "You are earlier than expected, and Ratel is currently meeting with someone else," she lies blithely. "I've been instructed to lead you through initial orientation until he's free." Of self-inflicted hangovers, she doesn't say or let show.
"Wonderful," the man says, beaming at her. "And may I say that accent is wonderful? Arabic, French, a trace of RP - are you Algerian?" he asks, dropping into Arabic. "Or maybe Lebanese?"
"Neither," she says brusquely, staying in English. The statement is technically correct, which is the best kind of correct.
"Ah," he says, with a smirk. "Dual citizenship. Technically correct answers are the best, aren't they? Well, in case you didn't realise, I'm British."
"I had gathered."
"I know! It's rather astonishing what Order training lets you pick up!" He pauses. "Not even a smile? Tough crowd. And, yes, Eton, Cambridge, Sandhurst, recruited by MI6, spent some time in Oman, joined special international task force, MK-SUPREME. All very standard, I'm afraid. You?"
"Picked up by the Union at twenty one, trained from scratch," she says non-committally. "Do you have any baggage?"
"Well, I've felt that possibly I was always pressured too hard by my father to follow in his footsteps," James says with a perfectly straight face. "I've always wondered what it would have been like if I was an artist instead." His face takes on an expression of perfect contrition. "Oh, I'm sorry. The MiBs took my luggage."
"Very well. First thing to keep in mind," Hyena tells him, not letting her annoyance show as she gestures around the clean lobby. "This is our HQ. We spend maybe a hundred days a year here. Most of the time we're in the field. There's a very good Progenitor medical team based here. You'll need it."
"Being based in the Alps was probably too good to be true," James says mournfully. "I should get as much skiing in as possible before we head out. Do you ski?"
"I'm trained," Hyena says coldly.
"There's a difference between training and pleasure," he says. "So I'll take that as a no."
"The surface and near-surface levels here are just a fraction of the overall facility," Hyena says, continuing on. She forces herself to try to be nicer to him."Most of the installation is underground. The facility dates back to the Order of Reason, which captured it from the Hermetics. Originally the Reality Deviants had used it as a fortress and an archive. Since then, it has been used for a number of purposes. For example, before it was converted to its current purpose, particle physics experiments were carried out down in the test chamber tunnels. In fact, those tunnels are now one of our firing ranges. In addition, the Progenitors have a platoon of White Tower units maintained down there. They're formally part of HELMETSHRIKE Squadron 6, but we deploy with them frequently."
"Progenitor meat-zombies?" James asks, a slight quirk in his expression marking his disgust. "We have to rely on Frankensteins who probably died in the Fifties? If they're not WW2 vintage?"
"That's not a very accurate term," she says sternly. "And they work in more hostile environments, are smart and independent, and follow orders without question. I like them." She pauses. "And Frankenstein was the creator, not the monster, and I'd rather you didn't credit an RD with their existence. White Tower is completely unrelated to Etherite deviancy."
"My apologies."
Hyena clears her throat. "This facility will also be designed to link up to the LHC surface-to-orbit particle weapon currently under production, as one of its backup control stations. The intention is that this will become a major command hub, fortified even if there is a traumatic split with the Russian branch of the Union. It is for that reason that there is primium shielding integrated into the structure of this place."
The man makes an appreciative sound. "Please, go on," he says.
Hyena does just that, despite the feeling that she's being wound up or played in some way. Still, at least he's a good listener, and she has picked up a lot on the Union from her studies and her time working under Blanc. And on missions, it allows her to pass as a fact-obsessed junior member of the Ivory Tower, which is what she tells those among her teammates who seem less impressed with her capacity to recite sections of history primers.
She still doesn't like him, though, and when a call from Ratel tells her that he needs more time, she decides to put him through his paces down on the range. Hyena is probably the second best with near-conventional and conventional weapons on the HELMETSHRIKE team, and she can beat Ratel maybe three times out of ten. She's up from one time out of ten when she joined the team. And according to his file, Agent Britannia is a psychic and the last psychic on the team, Feeding Raven, was no great shot.
Hyena shortly afterwards makes the unpleasant discovery that Operative James Britannia does not define himself primarily as a psychic.
In the end, it takes Squid to track down their guest and the agent who was meant to be taking care of him.
"What's happening?" she says to Jasmine, who is standing, watching with her arms crossed and with narrowed eyes.
"I am not letting him win. He doesn't get to beat me," Hyena mutters through clenched teeth. "I am beating him after he got ahead of me and don't put me off!"
The other woman's face falls. "Oh dear," she says softly. "Are you being all competitive again?"
"I am not being all competitive!"
The Damage Control agent gives her a flat look. "Sure. No one has ever accused you of being a sore loser before." She edges up close to the man, and runs her hand over his shoulder. He flinches, and misses the next shot. "Sorry to interrupt," she says in a husky voice, "but Kingsley would very much like to see you."
Hyena watches with hidden disdain as his eyes dip down to Squid's chest, and up again. "And who are you?" he asks.
"Constable Ami Shirai, Damage Control," Squid very nearly purrs, "and while I hate to interrupt your playtime with Jazmin, your commanding officer requests your presence."
Operative Britannia gives a light chuckle. "Well, let's not leave him waiting. This was frightfully ill-mannered of me." He glances at Hyena. "Looks like you got the better of me this time," he says casually. "We should do this again sometime. I haven't met someone who can outshoot me in a while. Where did you train, Hereford?"
Hyena shakes her head. "Mostly Bentham," she says.
He cracks a smile. "Should I have addressed you as 'your highness'?" he says teasingly.
The response is a glare. "No," she says. "I was nominated for training there. I didn't get in through family connections."
He leans in, crocking an eyebrow. "My goodness," he says. "That sounds like an interesting story." He smiles. "I've always wanted to have a proper chance to go face-to-face with a Bentham graduate."
Squid laughs. "Ignore Little Miss Humourless," she says. "Emphasis on both 'little' and 'humourless'. So, have they actually given us an Noowhoo agent who has all the alleged charm they're meant to have? Hyena is very uptight - honestly, she's almost as warm as one of those meat popsicles she likes so much - and Raven and Hawk were both total mirrorshades. Though at least they drank, unlike her."
"An Operative who doesn't drink? Gosh. How do you stay sane?" he asks Hyena.
"She runs mostly off smug self-satisfaction when everyone else has a hangover," Squid says. She offers her arm to James, who takes it. "Now, did you train at Hereford? I cross-trained there for a year in '63, back when I was new to Damage Control and…"
Jazmin narrows her eyes. "Utterly shameless," she mutters, trailing after them. "Progenitors. So annoying."
1971
The light in her eyes is blinding. The young woman blinks, and tries to shield them, but her hands are cuffed to the chair. There are pad-things with wires coming off them stuck to her forehead, and when she tries to jerk her head away, she finds they won't come off. There's music playing in the background, too - something classical. She doesn't recognise it.
How did she get here? Last thing she remembers, she was sitting there in the cell. Now she's fastened to a chair, wearing some kind of grey jumpsuit. Despite everything, she can't help but blush at the fact that someone must have undressed her. She hopes it was a woman.
"Mademoiselle," says a man in French-accented Arabic. "Look at the screen. Focus on it, if it pleases you."
She can't help but obey. She feels her head turn even before she's processed his words. There's something commanding about that voice, which doesn't leave her with a choice despite the pretence of asking her.
The whiteness of the screen - yes, that's what the bright white light in front of her is, she realises - flickers. She can't catch what it's showing, but she's sure there's something there - and she can feel a feathery feeling behind her eyes. She wants to blink, to look away, but the man told her to look at the screen.
"Sir," a voice says through speakers. "No abnormal emotional responses to any RD iconography." They say it in quite badly pronounced Arabic - they're clearly not a native speaker. Why do they want her to understand what they're saying?
"Very well. Mademoiselle," says the man in the room with her, "I am Jeremiah Blanc. Do you recognise that name?"
She swallows, her throat feeling very dry. "No," she says. Is this an electric chair? Is this what she's tied to? Her stomach is twisted up into little knots. She knows what she says here might determine whether she lives or dies. And maybe they just want to know before they kill her.
"Fear, but no recognition," the voice over the speakers says.
That isn't reassuring. She can hear her heart pounding in her ears like a drum, faster and faster.
"Mademoiselle, listen to my voice," the man - Blanc - says. "Do you understand the situation you find yourself in? Answer me honestly, please."
"No," she says, her heart slowing to normal. She feels very calm indeed. "I don't understand."
He chuckles softly. "No, how interesting. You don't. And yet you managed to breach INFRARED, RED, and ORANGE security, and were only caught by a YELLOW ID grid. So who put you up to this? Who is your employer? The PLO? The Jordanians? Mossad? The Camarilla? Would you care to volunteer the information, mademoiselle? It will make things easier."
"I work for Café Dar," she answers automatically, and then blinks. Why had she even said that? He… he wasn't asking about where she really worked, was he?
"Café Dar. Cafédar." He rolls the words around his mouth. "Interesting. And what are the beliefs of this group?"
"Beliefs?"
There is a pause. "My subordinates have just informed me that it is a cafe across the street from the main entrance to this facility," the man says. "Apparently it does acceptable coffee. Well, mademoiselle, if you are not going to cooperate and attempt to make a mockery of the process… a shame. You might feel a slight… sting," says Blanc.
He lies. Oh, how he lies. It starts with a feeling like a static shock from each of the things stuck onto her head, but it goes on and on. Her fingers tighten into claws around the padded bit where her hands are fastened, and she realises what it's for and why there are little dimples in it.
Then the hallucinations start.
Stealing the keycard from the man at the cafe.
Her mother and sister's funerals, a day after the accident.
Sitting alone in her room, deciding that something has to be done.
Her notebook full of her overheard observations.
Sitting on the bench outside, watching the building, waiting for the pale men to come out.
And then it lets her go. She starts crying, but it's soft, quiet sobbing. She feels violated. Unclean. All the way down to the core of her. She could feel… feel whatever they were doing to her head. Rummaging around through her memories. Making her feel like they were happening again. She doesn't cry loudly, though. If she makes noise, they might do it again.
"Nothing," says the voice on the speakers, sounding faintly disgusted. "Not a dratted thing. No RD influence beyond baseline, no accomplices, nothing. Reading the tape now… systems analysis suggests development of genius is recent. Psi-analysis is coming through… yes, Agent Bayes can find no signs of tampering. Should we run another scan to verify?"
"Please," she begs quietly. "D-don't… I… I don't want that to h-happen again."
She feels someone blot her tears, and then undo the restraints on her wrists. The glowing white screen in front of her dims, and she can focus on the white handkerchief embroidered with 'JB' she's just been handed. She dabs at her eyes and then shifts her attention to the man who handed it to her.
He's a European, with iron grey hair and a neatly trimmed beard. His head almost seems to float in this white room, because his immaculate suit is as white as the walls. He has a golden signet ring on his right hand, marked with an א symbol. "There, there," he says. "Dry your eyes and blow your nose, and you'll feel better. The trauma of a trawl is designed to fade quickly."
The woman does what he says, and finds that, yes, the feeling of defilement is fading. It was unpleasant, yes. She doesn't want to do it again. But it becomes harder and harder to grasp exactly what made her burst into tears. "Sorry for getting it all wet," she says weakly, holding his handkerchief.
"Keep it," he tells her. "I have several." He leans in. "And mademoiselle, I feel I owe you an apology. We misread the situation. And you are… hmm. Yes, you interest me." He raises a hand. "Not romantically," he adds, to her relief. "But there are two kinds of people in the world. There are the kind that men like me find. And then there are the kind who find us. The latter are rather rarer, and often more interesting."
She says nothing. It seems safest.
"Young lady," Blanc says, "I look at you, and I see a woman who's about to be offered a choice she can either say 'oui' or 'non' to - that would be yes or no to you. If she answers one way, she'll be released, with just some bad dreams and some injuries from being roughed up by the police. She'll get to go back to her ordinary life, serving coffee to slovenly, incompetent men. Things will start to go a little better for her, and she will find a better job, working for the government. She will be dealt with, fairly and not unkindly."
"And if I say no?" she breathes.
"I think you misunderstand me, mademoiselle," the man says. "That is what happens if you turn down the offer I am about to make. Young lady, I want you to work for me. Personally."
"Why?" she asks, in shock. She did not expect anything like this.
The man suddenly smiles, and it even looks genuine. "Excellent," he says, sounding delighted. "I was inspecting this facility when you triggered that alert. So far, you are the most impressive thing I have seen in this entirely slackly run facility - and that says much to your credit and little to theirs. You are like clay, raw and unformed. I believe I may be able to make something exceptional from you." He chuckles. "Or maybe I'm just amused by a woman who breaks her hand and bruises her knee on a HITMark."
The woman swallows. This is outside her frame of reference. She asks herself what she should do, and her gut tells her she should take the offer. The man is clearly in charge here, and the men here will remember her. She can't go back to the cafe. She'll need to find a new job, and she hasn't paid this month's rent yet.
A little bit of her wonders if the man knew this when he asked the question.
But those thoughts are going on in the background. Because in the foreground is the strange certainty that what she's being offered will never come again. She can almost feel the pressure in the air, like the air is taut fabric which will either rip one way or the other, but will never be whole again.
"So what will it be?" he asks.
She takes a breath, and thinks a short prayer. "Yes," she says. She came here looking for the truth, and she found people who can read your mind with machines and have technology that she didn't think really existed.
How could she turn back now?
"Excellent," Blanc tells her paternally. He frees her legs and the straps around her waist. "Now, I think the first thing we will do is take you to the medical facilities to get those injuries seen to, and then we will have a little talk about what your new duties will be." He pauses. "Do you have any family or close friends who will ask questions if you are away for a few days?" he asks.
She shakes her head. "No family," she whispers. "My parents are dead, and I'm not married. I sh-should probably phone my landlady and tell her I'll be away. And. Um. Tell the cafe I'm leaving."
"Excellent," the man, Blanc, says in a satisfied tone. "No family, no papers, no state. Nothing to hold you back. Mademoiselle, welcome to the Technocratic Union. I have a feeling you'll go far."
1984
"... and here we are again," Blanc says. The ceiling fan of this anonymous meeting room drifts lazily overhead. This isn't a normal Union facility. Keen eyes might notice the gleams from the building on the other side of the road. There are a lot of snipers trained on this place. "Hello again, Jazmin."
She looks up at her old mentor, from beneath her lank, slightly greasy fringe. Her face is blotchy and lacks make-up, and her eyes are bloodshot. "Sir," she says quietly. In recognition of the fact that she came in willingly, she isn't tied to the chair. She is quite aware that any incorrect action will lead to the rescinding of that privilege.
He sits there, utterly impassive. His hair is now white, but his face hasn't changed at all. She knows now that this is a marker of some internal play in the Men in White. Blanc's star is in the ascendancy. He isn't smiling. There's no sign of the amused affection he normally shows her.
"So good of you to show up," he says. "I was wondering if I was going to have to dispatch a HELMETSHRIKE team to have you brought in. And recover your hostage."
Jazmin swallows. She knows what that would have involved. She's been part of such 'retrieval' teams. The brain has to be recovered intact. It doesn't need to necessarily be alive. "I… I just had a nervous breakdown, sir," she says, her voice cracking. "I didn't defect. And... and I brought her back."
"Normally, Jazmin, I could have trusted you when you made such statements," he says. "Now? Now, I don't believe I can trust you, and most importantly, I don't believe I can trust your judgement."
She tries not to look away. "I didn't… I couldn't trust my own judgement," she says. "I had to get away. To think. And…" she tries to stop the shake in her hands, conceal the fresh red scars there, "... and think."
"Well." His tongue clicks around his words, like he's loading each syllable into a magazine. "And now you're back."
"Yes," she says quietly.
Blanc rises, and strides. He stares out the window. Jazmin thinks he might even be angry, that this is personal with him. She doesn't move, anyway. The watchers won't appreciate that.
"Why?" he says.
Jazmin closes her eyes. "Because I'm loyal to the Union," she says sadly. "Because it… it was my failure and… and I'm willing to face my punishment. Because… because I killed someone who I thought was him. Out to drag me back to that place. But it wasn't. I don't think it was, anyway. Because I… I couldn't cope on my own. I feel like I'm half-asleep, that my genius is numbed. I was talking to my reflection and it was talking back and I was hearing voices and dreaming about things I don't remember doing and… I couldn't l-look after… and... and… and I managed to self-medicate enough to get a grip on myself. And I can't let him win. I won't let him beat me."
"No. Not that. Why did you let it happen?" Blanc whirls on her, and she can see the genuine anger in his eyes. Anger and possibly even a hint of madness, of the ice-cold fury of a powerful man who's just found the world isn't working like he thinks it should. "You were one of the best I've trained. How could you let something so petty get in your way? You should have medicated such deviancy away!"
She flinches away. "I should have," she says quietly.
"How did you fail to notice?"
"I… I don't know," she whispers. "I… I keep on asking myself it, and… and I don't know." She takes a shuddering breath. "I'm compromised," Jazmin says. "It doesn't matter that… that no one else caught on. That the protocols should have caught him. I should have noticed. They… they won't want me back."
"Who? Squadron 7? It's been disbanded. There is no Squadron 7 for you to go back to." Blanc turns his back on her again. "Human weakness," he mutters, in a disgusted tone of voice. "Another failure. No much potential, so much talent. Wasted. Like the others."
So they're going to pretend that she was never part of Vigilance. Jazmin isn't surprised. She was expecting this. She already knew that her team was being shut down. That's why she had that last conversation in Owl, in a cafe in Paris, before she handed herself in. She's made arrangements for dealing with everything that remains of the rotten, wretched, miserable life she thought she had. She can trust him to look after Elissa. She… she can't be the mother to a six year old.
Her daughter deserves a better mother than her.
So she's going to walk away from it. Forget it all. Better that, than another night asking herself whether James had been right down in that place. Trying not to think about how he must have had a reason. She wishes she'd hadn't heard what he told her. And if she gets her way, if Blanc accepts what she's about to propose, she won't have.
1954
It is the height of summer, and the heat in Beirut is sweltering. The air over the city is stagnant, and there isn't even a breeze off the Mediterranean to carry away the fumes from the cars in the streets. The white-washed apartments surrounding a small square are gritty with fumes and flaking from neglect. The noise of radios can be heard playing from the many open windows, as the residents try to cool down.
And down in the square, a little girl manages to get one leg up onto the low wall which runs around the grassy area. Slowly, she pulls herself up until she's straddling it.
This would not be much of an accomplishment for an adult. For a child who exists at waist height and thus cannot normally even see over this wall, it's rather more of an achievement. If you were to ask some of the people who've had the mixed blessing of looking after this little girl, they'd probably tell you that she's clearly part monkey. She is not the kind of child who is scared of heights. She is the kind of child who has to be kept away from balconies.
And to reaffirm this fact, she gets up, until she's balancing barefoot on top of the heated stone. Her shoes lie discarded on the ground. This is a not-uncommon occurrence. Her mother is driven to the edge of frustration trying to prevent her daughter going barefoot. This is not helped by the fact that she learned young how to both fasten and unfasten her own laces. Even if they're double-knotted.
But, no, her primary objective is not to scale the towering heights of this wall. No, this little girl has a much grander objective.
At the corner of the square, there is a cedar tree. It is much, much taller than the wall. But if she's standing on top of the wall, the girl has definitively calculated that she almost certainly probably will be able to reach the lowest branch of the cedar. And if she can get up onto that branch she should be able to climb the forked trunk
With the clear and precise logic of a five-year old, the girl considers that while she had been told she had to stay in the square and play with the other children in the neighbourhood, at no point had she been forbidden from trying to climb the really really really tall tree. Her mother was always very detailed about all the things that she wasn't allowed to do, and since she hadn't been told she couldn't climb that tree, that must mean that it was allowed.
She does vaguely consider, in a fuzzy hazy way, whether if she gets caught trying it might get added to the list of things she's not allowed to do. She decides she won't get caught, and that's that.
Standing on tip-toes, she runs her hands along the branch, until it reaches the trunk. Putting one foot, then the other against the main body of the tree, she walks her way up, bare feet clinging onto the hot sticky wood. A complicated shuffle-and-twist motion, and she's now lying on top of the thick branch.
Success. Because now that she's here, she can use other branches to climb higher. The whole tree leans away from the road which leads down to the harbour, and that means that it's easier once she's into the foliage. From far, far below - why, she's even above adult head height now! - she can hear her sister calling her name. Well, she's certainly not going to let someone ruin it now that she's up to dizzying heights she's never scaled before! Her toes grip onto the stump of a cut branch, and she boosts herself up to dangle from the next fork.
In the hot, dry weather, her hands and feet are soon covered in resin from the trunk. She has also acquired a patina of scratches on her limbs, because that is what happens when one does such things barefoot in a short-sleeved dress. But the sweet rush of success leads her on through the pain and the ache of her muscles, and she keeps on going until she can go no higher, because she's in the crown of the tree. She would still keep going, but when she tries to climb further the branch wobbles alarmingly. So instead she wedges herself in between two branches, and lets her legs dangle freely.
She's never been up this high before. Except in buildings and the like, but they don't count because they don't require anywhere near as much effort.
The girl grins to herself. The air is moving a little bit up here, as well. So, yes, her arms may feel like they're going to fall off and her feet are all hurty and sticky and she's not entirely sure how she's going to get down, but that's a problem for later. Like most problems. So instead she looks to the west.
From the tree she can see the sea. She can't see it from the window at home, because the tree is in the way, which isn't very nice of it.
The girl wipes her hands on her dress, and inches her way up into a standing position, braced against the wood. She looks out over the Mediterranean sea. "Daddy!" she calls out, waving. "Daddy! I'm here! Come find me!"
Mummy said that Daddy was lost at sea. Well, she has plenty of experience of getting lost. Mummy and her sister say she gets lost all the time, although the girl is pretty sure that most of the time she's not lost. She knows exactly where she is. She's just not where Mummy thinks she should be. Which isn't getting lost at all!
She doesn't explain that to Mummy any more, though, because usually that gets her told off. It's easier to have people think that you're lost than to get shouted at for trying to get up onto the roof of the tenement.
But the point stands! If she calls out and makes herself obvious, he'll be able to find her and come back. And maybe he'll help her with the whole 'getting down' from the tree issue, which is, as previously noted, not an immediate problem but will be one soon.
Fairly soon. Her arms and legs are very sore.
"Daddy!" she calls. She can hear voices down below. They're calling her name. She ignores them. They're not the ones she's interested in. "Daddy!" she tries once again.
Her sister is down there, and she calls up to her. The girl calls back. She's not coming down. She refuses. Not until he comes back. What if he looks and he can't see her because she's not up the tree?
This produces some confusion, but the girl ignores it, just as she ignores the heat and the discomfort and the biting insects which take a liking for a resin-covered little girl. Her mother is working today, but other women from her block try to coax her to come down. Men try to climb up to fetch her, but she's too high and while the branches might support a five year old, they're less accepting of fully grown men.
And then she sees something. It's a man, with skin a bit paler than her.
The man looks away from his scrying mirror, and looks out over Beirut. The Ottomans are coming. Not today, not tomorrow, but the walls of Fakr ed-Din Maan II will not keep them out. They will occupy it.
He sighs. He can also see the weaknesses of the Ottomans. They will fall. Not today, not tomorrow, but the star of Europe is rising, and the Order of Reason will turn its attention to the Ottomans. They will fall, whether conquered by the pawns of the Order or simply absorbed into the hegemony it wishes to create.
Cemal Twice-Traitor sighs again. He is leaving for the New World once he has finished cleaning up the House Janissary hide-outs here. There are papers here which cannot be thrown into the hands of uncertainty. He knows the Cabal of Pure Thought has spies working in this area, and he would not put it past them to try to make a play for sites which once belonged to the Order of Reason in the chaos. So he'll leave them things to find. They'll discover all sorts of things about algorithms, cryptography, and obscure symbolism. What they won't find is anything he minds them having.
And then there are the other ones, the Grigori. Oh, he knows the Grigori. The Inner Circle has always permitted itself agents who act against what it publicly proclaims. Sorcerers, wizards, witches, fanatics - the Grigori have all of these among their ranks, wedded to the latest in the weaponry and training of the Order of Reason.
'Unreason can be bent to serve the cause of Reason,' the Inner Circle no doubt says.
He had a close run-in with one of their teams. He left a woman and two men dead in an alley in Acre, and then fled. He pulls the pistol he got off the woman out of a pocket. A six-barrelled thing, firing shot from resin cartridges. It doesn't need a powder pan, and was only as loud as a cough when it was fired. An assassin's weapon, with an א enraged on each barrel. An aleph. Well, well, well. And for them to find him… well. When he invoked Father Time over the weapon, he heard the orders for the kill-team, coming directly from one of his old enemies on the Magisterium. Yes, there is a reason why he is heading to the New World and it is not because - as the Council thinks - he is doing them a favour.
They want havoc, rebellion, strife sowed in the colonies of the Spanish and the English there. He will give them that. Perhaps if there is rebellion and strife in the New World, the tendrils of the Order already embedded there will rally to the cause of nationalism and break from the European Order.
And at the very least, he may be able to spread the principles of House Janissary into willing ears there.
Perhaps.
The girl bursts into tears. She's confused. She doesn't know what's going on or what she just saw. And she's been up this tree for hours and… and… and her Daddy hasn't come back and she doesn't know what to do. She remembered something which she didn't remember. That doesn't happen.
Next time they try to coax her down, she lets them persuade her to climb down to where a man can help her back to the ground.
She is scolded at length. Some of the women relent slightly when she tries to explain why she does doing it and why she was trying to help her daddy find them again, but when her mother finds out what she had done, there is no saving her. Her mother's rambling speech is equal parts condemnation, warnings, and pity, and then she has to be taken inside to be bathed and to get the many, many cuts on her hands and feet and her insect bites and bumps and grazes seen to.
Her daddy doesn't come back. Not soon. Not ever.
By the time she's ten, the girl has forgotten this day entirely.
2015
The woman wakes to the sight of an unfamiliar ceiling.
Well, no, it isn't unfamiliar. It's the ceiling of a standard design medical bay. She's seen that kind of ceiling quite a lot. However, it's not the ceiling she went to sleep under, and she's not sure how she got here.
On second thoughts, that's also something which has happened not-infrequently.
"I see you still haven't got over your habit of throwing yourself at things far larger than you," a male voice says sourly. "That surprises me. You're still alive. I'd have thought you'd have learned better by now. Take more care of your life." He sighs. "No clever comments about how it was necessary for the mission?"
Jamelia, Hyena, Jazmin blinks. "My head hurts," she says. Her world is reeling, and she's having problems… wait, no, she remembers her name. She's Jamelia Belltower. And it is who she is. It's the name she's used the longest. Yes, she thinks, she earned Belltower rank in 1992, so she's now used it longer than her birth name, or any of the other names she's had.
Well. That's fortunate. To have total amnesia one in a month might be accidental, but having it twice would be careless.
Harlan throws his hands out in a plaintive gesture. "She says her head hurts!" he exclaims to thin air. His grey brows furrow. "Why would that be, I wonder? Could it be because you threw yourself at a LEGION of post-Templar RNEs? I have no idea how you managed to avoid breaking your neck from that fall, either!" He slumps back into his chair again, an old man for all that he's a few years younger than Jamelia. "I must have been mad to do this in the old days," he mutters.
Groggily, Jamelia massages her temples. "Calm down," she says, wearily. "It was either pull it away from you and the reactor, or let it break either. Both of those would be mission fail-states. And if it destroyed the reactor, it'd kill us both anyway." She pauses. "Do you have any painkillers? No, wait, first. Status of the facility? Are the other LEGIONs still a threat."
"I'm fine, thank you, by the way," he says, and then sighs. "No. No, after we got the reactor and the shielding back online, they were contained. Me and your pet cyborgs neutralised up the one which didn't retreat back to extradimenisional space. They're very fond of the old VE gear. There were a few other RNEs in the facility, but they're all now either destroyed or they retreated." He smoothes his moustache with his fingers. "I suppose I should be thanking you," he says reluctantly. "We have a chance of keeping what happened here quiet. The other Belltower is being very… Iterator about wanting to inspect all these other psychic facilities for similar containment breaches."
Jamelia props herself up on her elbows, shaking her head to try to clear the fog. Except how much of the fog is perfectly normal pain and a mild concussion, and how much of it is… everything that's been done to her?
Were those memories true? Did Harlan implant them when she was unconscious? She doesn't know. They feel real, but so did the things she thought she remembered before. Even now she has a sense of double-memory about her past. She can remember her time as Blanc's protege, even as she remembers her time as an unknowing Sympathiser who only graduated to being taught by him at a class at Bentham in 1976, where she excelled and he took a liking to her.
And… and INVISIBLE BEAR. She remembers volunteering for it, because she wanted to be stronger, better, less weak. She didn't remember anything about a breakdown which led to her going AWOL and taking hostages before now. She doesn't want to think about Silent Starling. About James. About the fact that she had a child. Because if… if what she now remembers is really real?
Bringing her sheet-covered knees up, she rests her head on them, hugging her legs tight.
"Is something the problem?" Harlan asks her.
"My head hurts," she whispers, trying to hide that she's crying. "And my chest. Can you find me some painkillers?"
What does Jamelia take from this?
[ ] Discuss
1971
When they seized her, they beat her.
Oh, it wasn't anything out of the ordinary. That's just what happened. The police weren't for people like her. She might have been born here, but she has no papers. Neither did her mother, dead along with her elder half-sister these past six years - no, her mother had arrived in the country in 1947 carrying her sister, and everyone knew what that meant. And her father was long gone, lost at sea leaving not even a childish memory and certainly not anything which'd help make her a citizen in the eyes of the law.
When a familyless, stateless woman from the slums of Beirut gets grabbed by the police, that's what happens. Especially when she's found in a government building dressed as a stolen man's suit with a stolen ID around her neck.
So after the first round of questioning and her failure to break immediately, they threw her in a bare concrete cell and left her to nurse the bruises. The fingers on her right hand are swollen and stiff, the digits bloated. It hurts to move them. She thinks at least one of them is broken, because her ring finger is off at a funny angle. She gingerly touches her hand, and winces at the stab of pain when she brushes the ring finger in the wrong way. Yes. She thinks that finger is broken.
The man she'd hit had a very hard head.
Perhaps that hadn't helped with the beating, she thinks, blotting her eyes on the sleeve of her stolen white shirt. They weren't going to like that. The man she'd punched certainly hadn't liked it, because he was the reason her left eye felt all puffy and she was having problems seeing out of it. Although that might have been more because she'd managed to get her knee into a sensitive place than because she'd punched him in the face. Her knee was also hurting, which now that she thought about it was rather strange. Most men would have doubled over in pain from that.
She shakes her head, trying to put the worrying thoughts out of mind. What kind of man has a head so hard that someone breaks a finger punching them and doesn't respond to being kneed in the groin?
Mind you, they probably also didn't like the fact that she'd swiped the wallet of one of the suited men who worked here when they'd stopped at the cafe for a coffee after work. That's where she'd got the ID pass which had got her past the swipe door.
She didn't even know how that card-thing worked. She'd just touched it to the sensor with the red light on it and then it had turned green and the door had let her in. Maybe there had been a doorman out of sight who'd been lazy and had mistaken a woman with her hair tied up wearing loose mannish clothing for the man on the card. And once she had got in, she'd found a changing room full of lockers, tried her stolen card on them until she found one which opened to it. Once she'd changed into the black suit she found in the locker, she had just blended in. No one had suspected her. Right until they had. And then they'd beaten her up.
All things considered, she regretted breaking in here. Well, that wasn't true. It's more that she regretted getting caught.
It had all started in quiet bits in her shifts in Café Dar. She'd started watching the coming and going of the cars from this building. And then she'd started noticing things. Patterns. Like how the licence plates of the cars would change on Mondays and Thursdays. Like how a lot of the drivers were strangely pale men who never seemed to leave the building when the rest of the workers got off shift.
And she'd worked extra shifts not for the money, but just so she could watch the building to see if she could catch it to see when the pale men went home. She hadn't seen any of them leave the building, even though she'd sat on a bench outside until past midnight. That had got her shaken down by the police for her troubles, who'd suspected that she was a streetwalker.
But this was a mystery. She hadn't been able to get it out of her mind. She'd listened to the conversations of the men who worked in that building when they stopped for coffee, and made notes on what they said. They mostly spoke in French, so she'd picked up more of the language so she could understand conversations rather than just take orders.
What she'd heard had only made her more confused. Some of it was certainly her lack of understanding of the language. But there were these references to government agencies, the police and the army, and they always sounded slightly… well, contemptuous. She thought that they were probably linked to the 'UT' they mentioned a few times, although they also seemed to be linked to a group called the 'NOM'.
Of course, she didn't let on that she was listening. She was just the pretty girl in a headscarf bringing coffee and food to the men in suits sitting in the corner. They all smoked the same brand of high-price cigarette, and the blue smoke coiled around them as they sat and drank. Sometimes they'd have other people join them at their table, who didn't wear the same Western-style suits. She liked those days. Their guests were usually generous tippers. That alone marked them out as probably not being government. And yet they'd go into, and come out of, the government building.
It had all come to a head when one of them had mentioned the 'messy business in Achrafieh' and another one had joked about how they hoped 'that'd keep the dee-arr quiet'. Because she knew what had happened over in Achrafieh. Her landlady had mentioned how her friend had seen black cars grab a woman off the street, and then there had been shots from within the car.
That sounded like the same kind of black car the men who worked in the building opposite used.
She'd gone home after her shift, back to her tiny room in a decrepit tenement, and sat there staring at the wall, book in her hands. She'd gone to prayers, but no inspiration had come. She'd thought about who she could tell, but she didn't know anyone who would be able to do anything about it. In the end, she'd fallen asleep with a book in her hands.
She had found certainty in her dreams. She would find out the truth. She would find out what had happened to the woman they'd snatched, if it had been them who'd done it. And she'd awoken with new eyes.
"He who is hostile to a friend of Mine I declare war against. My slave approaches Me with nothing more beloved to Me than what I have made obligatory upon him, and My slave keeps drawing nearer to Me with voluntary works until I love him," she read, on the page before her. "And when I love him, I am his hearing with which he hears, his sight with which he sees, his hand with which he seizes, and his foot with which he walks. If he asks me, I will surely give to him, and if he seeks refuge in Me, I will surely protect him."
She could do with some protection now, she thinks. Sitting in her cell, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in her hand, the woman prays.
...
1979
The dining area smells of fresh bread and rosemary, and there's a roaring fire in the fireplace. This isn't the main dining area, of course. The MiBs and the sympathisers and the constructs and other lesser staff have a canteen, with such delicacies as painted concrete walls, communal benches, and a carefully selected diet supplemented by drugs designed to encourage optimum efficiency. The enlightened staff and extraordinary citizens have their own, rather better quality of dining area.
Jazmin snuggles down in her chair and gnaws on breadsticks as she reads her book. Looking out the 'window', she notices that it's raining on the viewscreen. She quite likes these quiet bits between missions. Over the past two years, especially, she's been given reason to enjoy moments when she's not in a field and has time to live the strange little life she's built up for herself.
Of course, recovery downtime is nearly over, which means she probably has a few months crawling through some forsaken jungle in her near future.
Her concentration is broken by the scraping of a chair as one of her teammates pulls up a chair. She looks up and smiles warmly.
"How are you?" James asks, sitting down on the other side of the table and calling over one of the blank-faced waiters. "Sorry about being away - psychic checkups, you know. We're going to pester them again to see if they can get a proper on-base psi-lab so Harlan and I don't have to jet off for check-ups."
"Heya," she says, closing her her book and sitting up straight. "Good to see you back. And it does you good to get out and about. Imagine what you'd get up to if you were left around here to get up to mischief?"
He sighs. "I never get any sympathy from you, do I?" he says plaintively.
"Woe is me, I can cause fields of silence," she says, raising her eyebrows. "How can I ever live with being able to set fire to things with my mind?"
"So little sympathy. You're a cruel woman, with a machine heart and a machine mind."
"You take that back," Jazmin says sternly. "I'm not an Iterator."
James does a half-bow in his seat. "My eternal apologies," he says, brushing back an errant lock of hair. "However can I make it up to you?"
Jazmin gives him a Look. "Are you quite done?"
"If I must. Thank you," he tells the construct-waiter. "Have you eaten yet, or have you just filled up on breadsticks?" he asks Jazmin.
She coughs in an embarrassed manner which says basically everything it needs to. "I was reading!" she says, turning slightly pink.
"I see." He makes his order, and then turns back to her. "It is good to be back, though. Harlan was being insufferable on the flight."
"Harlan is usually insufferable," Jazmin says dryly.
"Quite so." He leans back in his chair and sighs. "I checked on Elissa before coming here," he says. "She was in a bad mood, and wasn't very happy to see me."
"I entirely understand how she feels," Jazmin tells him archly.
"You're a cruel, cruel woman," he says sadly. "Has Winston said anything about how Ami's doing?"
"Haven't heard in a few days. She's getting some kind of refit, but," she shakes her head, "well, you know how she gets about Damage Control these days."
"I suppose it's only natural," James says, with a shrug. "She's been doing it for twenty years, and DC's changed a lot from when it was bright-coloured uniforms and superpowers from radiation. Or sometimes gene therapy. I think she misses the old days and doesn't like to see DC pick up so much cross-training from us. Us as the NWO and us as the 'Shrikes, too."
"Personally, I can't help but feel it's an improvement to see the Progenitors pulling their weight more," Jazmin says, dropping her voice. "That team from the last mission was very good at what they did. Constable Cross was very capable. I think there's maybe has always been a core of DC looking to be treated as more than the Union's mall-cops."
"Their Victors were frightfully stupid, though. I can't help but wonder what possessed the Progenitors to make those dumb things in the first place. Probably isolation in academia, I have to-"
All the viewscreens in the room fuzz to grey-white static. The speakers broadcast white noise. The lights flicker in an oddly hypnotic lulling pattern. The two agents straighten up. They both know what is coming. As they watch, the constructs and extraordinary citizens in the room freeze in place, and then mechanically file out.
When the last one leaves, the door closes with an automated mechanical click. A faint background hum can be heard, barely noticeable unless the listener was trained for the sound of wide-spectrum jamming. Even the clocks are no longer ticking, frozen in place.
"HELMETSHRIKE Squadron 7," states a bland, emotionless voice, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. "This is Control. This location is secure."
The viewscreen fuzzes in again, displaying a blank white background. On it is a pattern of ten eyes, nine positioned in a circle around the central one.
"Your status as Vigilance assets is now ACTIVE. Vigilance Cell Epsilon-1, Agents Stalking Hyena and Silent Starling, please acknowledge."
Hyena rises. "Agent Stalking Hyena is ACTIVE, Control," she says, saluting.
So does Starling. "Agent Silent Starling is ACTIVE, Control," he says, also saluting.
"Activation has been confirmed. The briefing now shall begin. Agents, the situation in Iran is progressing as per forecast 32-43-92-MD. The Shah will flee Iran in three days. In four days time, Comptroller Beimore of South West Asia Command will issue an emergency call for reinforcements to attempt to contain the Reality Deviant-backed instability," Control says in its bland, neutral voice. "The systematic mishandling of this situation indicates either incompetence or subversion. Intercepts from hostile Reality Deviant forces support the latter interpretation. Neither is permissible.
"Agents, Vigilance Epsilon-1 will be deployed to conduct on-site housecleaning of local forces and commanding officials. This is an ULTRAVIOLET mission. Use of lethal force against Technocratic forces is authorised. Use of provided override codes against Technocratic forces is authorised. Use of deniable Reality Deviant forces to eliminate targets is authorised. Use of simulated Reality Deviancy by qualified assets is authorised. This operation exists under Protocol-137 justification."
Hyena swallows. She understands that simulated Reality Deviancy isn't really RDism. It's merely cloaking things like psychic powers and transgenic implants under the trappings of the enemy. But she doesn't like it. Control has approved it, though, so it is necessary.
"Agent Silent Starling, you shall be placed among a Vigilance TROJAN formation. You are to consider your TROJAN command entirely expendable in the course of completing the mission. Further information shall be provided as and when it is needed. Your primary targets will be provided when they are identified. You shall be contacted once you have assumed command of the TROJAN formation. Agent Furious Ratel shall be your field commander in this operation."
Starling nods, squaring his jawline. "Yes, Control," he says. "I hear and I obey."
"Agent Stalking Hyena, you shall report immediately to the landing bay at Facility 2501. A stealth craft is approaching to take you to Facility 283 for hypnotic implantation of a false memory package. It will arrive in approximately ninety minutes. You shall be assuming the role of a junior member of the Union assigned to one of the amalgams responding to the request for assistance. You shall be briefed in-flight as to the primary mission objectives. The memory package shall contain the briefing on the cover mission objectives. You shall be contacted if there is any change in primary objectives."
Hyena nods. "Yes, Control," she says. "I hear and I obey."
"Agents Silent Starling and Stalking Hyena. Your previous performance has been entirely satisfactory. We expect nothing less of you on this operation."
"Thank you, Control," Hyena and Starling say in perfect unison.
"That will be all, citizens," Control says. The image disappears from the viewscreen, replaced again with static, and there is a click from the door as it unlocks again. The other occupants mechanically file in, and take up their positions silently. Neither Hyena nor Starling move. They know the protocol.
And then the screen returns to showing the above-ground view. The clocks in the room start ticking again, and a moment later the noise resumes as everyone else starts to move again.
Jazmin rises, a faint smile on her face. Her nerves are pleasantly buzzing. She always feels like this after praise from Control. "Well," she says, conscious of the need for opsec, "I have a plane to catch. Orders from above Ratel, I'm afraid."
James nods understandingly. "They're shipping me out now the checks are done," he says. "Is the location classified?"
"I'm afraid so," Jazmin says. She shakes her head. "Oh well. I should have some mandatory downtime after this, at least." She brushes the crumbs from the breadsticks off her shirt, and puts her jacket back on, sticking her book in her pocket. She frowns. "I should get something else to read on the plane," she says. "I've nearly finished this. I have over an hour until it arrives anyway." She shoots a glance at him. "Come on, help me pick out some reading material."
He shrugs. "I might as well take the chance to say goodbye properly." James brushes against her hand as they exit. "Are you going to be all right?" he asks softly.
Jazmin shrugs. "Unless I get shot, yes," she says.
"Try to avoid that," he advises.
"Helpful. Very helpful."
...
1977
Ratel sits back in his chair, feet up on the desk. The walls of their Construct are decorated with paper chains and there are bottles and empty cups still lying around. The man still has his party hat on, and looks like he's suffering. "Welcome to '77," he says wearily, holding a cigarette in his hand. "Another year gone by. More dead friends. More crawling in the mud. Great life we have here."
"Next year in Doissetep!" Wolf cheers, also looking decidedly under the weather. His good mood may be explained by the presence of a half-full glass of a hair of the dog in front of him, and its three companions.
"Not likely. I'm turning forty this year," Ratel grumbles, letting out a cloud of smoke. "It's disgusting."
"Don't worry, sir," Hyena says, grinning like her namesake, "you don't look a day over thirty eight." She's being facetious, and everyone here knows it - all of them have the bodies of people in their early twenties. Ratel is just a gloomy drunk, and he shows it immediately.
"Shut the hell up. So being so damn perky and sober. And loud. And see if you can get them to turn down the lights." He groans. "I blame you for the existence for this morning."
Hyena raises her eyebrows. "Because I choose not to drink, it's all my fault that the lights are too bright? Or is it my fault that the first of January is a thing? Or is it my fault you drank so heavily last night and this morning?"
"Yes. That's it. We get a party budget and if…" he massages his temples, "... if we don't use it up, they'll give us less next year. So me and… and Squid had to cover for your allocation for drinks."
"With all due respect, sir, you brought this on yourself."
"You just don't understand the requirements of command, Hyena."
Wolf frowns. "I don't see Squid at all," he says.
Hyena points. The woman in question is fast asleep, sprawled back in her chair in a way which only a Progenitor combat specialist whose bones have been replaced with cartilage and whose skin is embedded with chromatophores can. The fact that her dress is a similar colour to the chair means she's passing unnoticed.
"Oh yeah. So there she is." Wolf pinches his brow. "I think I need to sober up."
"I think you do," Hyena says archly.
"Me too," Ratel groans, and staggers through into his office. There is shortly afterwards a bout of sulphurous swearing.
"... wazzat?" Squid moans, her skin turning a nauseated green as she holds her head in her hands.
"Good morning," Hyena tells her sweetly. "Would you like some coffee?"
The glare she gets is positively murderous. "Yes."
Ratel's door opens very loudly, and Squid moans again. "Not so loud!" she says.
"Fax on New Year's Day!" Ratel says, jabbing one finger at Hyena. He is still wearing his party hat, and the corner of her mouth creeps up. "Hawk's replacement went and finished his last assignment early, so he's headed here right now. For eight. Eight in the morning. That is, in half an hour!"
Hyena smooths out her shirt. "When was the message sent?" she asks. She is feeling somewhat annoyed by this extra task just because everyone else is hung over, and so is retaliating through the power of passive-aggressiveness. "Is it compromised? Should I have security move to amber alert, sir?"
"Six yesterday, and the Control codes are clear," Ratel says, waving the paper. "Curse all Ivory Tower bureaucrats! Who decides to have the new recruit show up with no warning? Surprised Raven's replacement isn't showing up now too! Jazmin, go delay the fuck out of him with a GREEN level briefing, show him around, whatever."
She skims the paper he hands her, taking in the basics of the new teammate. Snapping off a perfect salute and clicking her heels together as loudly as possible, she straightens out fully. "Sir! I will take this mission for the good of the Union! Long live Progress! Long live Rationality!"
"Hyena," Ratel says through clenched teeth.
"Yes, sir!"
"Cut that shit out. You're just doing it to be annoying."
Honestly, she considers half an hour later as she watches from the arrival lounge, she doesn't mind the chance to head up to the upper levels of the facility. She took a brief walk outside in the fresh air, and then settled down to wait for the sky-coloured Union transport. And here it is now on the cameras, the pilot expertly navigating through the gap opened up by the unfolding fake wall of this secret alpine facility. The wall closes behind it, concealing the entrance as soon as it's through, and the lander taxis to the docking station.
"Union transport TU-312-531-452-032 has arrived," the loudspeakers announce. "Welcome to Facility 2501 'Bergkönig'. Please enjoy your stay."
Hyena rises and takes in her new teammate as he steps through the umbilical connector, flanked by the generous bodyguard of Men in Black. He's tall and built like an athlete - very typical for a lot of Operatives. His grey suit has been carefully chosen and he has hints of well-selected blues visible in the lining and the pockets, which manages to look tasteful without being gaudy or breaking dress code. Matching that impression, he's wearing sunglasses inside, and she's almost certain that he's spent quite a bit of time making his hair look so effortlessly styled. She takes in his laser watch, the subtle stiffness of rifle-grade ballistic fibre, and - oh for goodness sake - the retracted primium knives in the shoes that are so polished they could probably deflect lasers.
All in all, Stalking Hyena detests him on first sight.
"Operative Britannia," he says, in an RP accent crisp enough to cut glass. "James Britannia. I'm supposed to be reporting to… ah, Enforcer Kingsley immediately, as per my orders."
"Pleased to meet you," she says. A small polite smile creeps over her lips, at the way he'll learn that HELMETSHRIKE teams very rarely wear neat suits. "Operative Jazmin Blade," she adds, offering him her hand.
"Yes, I read the briefings on my new teammates," he says casually, taking her hand.
He goes to kiss it, but she slips free and gives him a very coldly professional glare. "You are earlier than expected, and Ratel is currently meeting with someone else," she lies blithely. "I've been instructed to lead you through initial orientation until he's free." Of self-inflicted hangovers, she doesn't say or let show.
"Wonderful," the man says, beaming at her. "And may I say that accent is wonderful? Arabic, French, a trace of RP - are you Algerian?" he asks, dropping into Arabic. "Or maybe Lebanese?"
"Neither," she says brusquely, staying in English. The statement is technically correct, which is the best kind of correct.
"Ah," he says, with a smirk. "Dual citizenship. Technically correct answers are the best, aren't they? Well, in case you didn't realise, I'm British."
"I had gathered."
"I know! It's rather astonishing what Order training lets you pick up!" He pauses. "Not even a smile? Tough crowd. And, yes, Eton, Cambridge, Sandhurst, recruited by MI6, spent some time in Oman, joined special international task force, MK-SUPREME. All very standard, I'm afraid. You?"
"Picked up by the Union at twenty one, trained from scratch," she says non-committally. "Do you have any baggage?"
"Well, I've felt that possibly I was always pressured too hard by my father to follow in his footsteps," James says with a perfectly straight face. "I've always wondered what it would have been like if I was an artist instead." His face takes on an expression of perfect contrition. "Oh, I'm sorry. The MiBs took my luggage."
"Very well. First thing to keep in mind," Hyena tells him, not letting her annoyance show as she gestures around the clean lobby. "This is our HQ. We spend maybe a hundred days a year here. Most of the time we're in the field. There's a very good Progenitor medical team based here. You'll need it."
"Being based in the Alps was probably too good to be true," James says mournfully. "I should get as much skiing in as possible before we head out. Do you ski?"
"I'm trained," Hyena says coldly.
"There's a difference between training and pleasure," he says. "So I'll take that as a no."
"The surface and near-surface levels here are just a fraction of the overall facility," Hyena says, continuing on. She forces herself to try to be nicer to him."Most of the installation is underground. The facility dates back to the Order of Reason, which captured it from the Hermetics. Originally the Reality Deviants had used it as a fortress and an archive. Since then, it has been used for a number of purposes. For example, before it was converted to its current purpose, particle physics experiments were carried out down in the test chamber tunnels. In fact, those tunnels are now one of our firing ranges. In addition, the Progenitors have a platoon of White Tower units maintained down there. They're formally part of HELMETSHRIKE Squadron 6, but we deploy with them frequently."
"Progenitor meat-zombies?" James asks, a slight quirk in his expression marking his disgust. "We have to rely on Frankensteins who probably died in the Fifties? If they're not WW2 vintage?"
"That's not a very accurate term," she says sternly. "And they work in more hostile environments, are smart and independent, and follow orders without question. I like them." She pauses. "And Frankenstein was the creator, not the monster, and I'd rather you didn't credit an RD with their existence. White Tower is completely unrelated to Etherite deviancy."
"My apologies."
Hyena clears her throat. "This facility will also be designed to link up to the LHC surface-to-orbit particle weapon currently under production, as one of its backup control stations. The intention is that this will become a major command hub, fortified even if there is a traumatic split with the Russian branch of the Union. It is for that reason that there is primium shielding integrated into the structure of this place."
The man makes an appreciative sound. "Please, go on," he says.
Hyena does just that, despite the feeling that she's being wound up or played in some way. Still, at least he's a good listener, and she has picked up a lot on the Union from her studies and her time working under Blanc. And on missions, it allows her to pass as a fact-obsessed junior member of the Ivory Tower, which is what she tells those among her teammates who seem less impressed with her capacity to recite sections of history primers.
She still doesn't like him, though, and when a call from Ratel tells her that he needs more time, she decides to put him through his paces down on the range. Hyena is probably the second best with near-conventional and conventional weapons on the HELMETSHRIKE team, and she can beat Ratel maybe three times out of ten. She's up from one time out of ten when she joined the team. And according to his file, Agent Britannia is a psychic and the last psychic on the team, Feeding Raven, was no great shot.
Hyena shortly afterwards makes the unpleasant discovery that Operative James Britannia does not define himself primarily as a psychic.
In the end, it takes Squid to track down their guest and the agent who was meant to be taking care of him.
"What's happening?" she says to Jasmine, who is standing, watching with her arms crossed and with narrowed eyes.
"I am not letting him win. He doesn't get to beat me," Hyena mutters through clenched teeth. "I am beating him after he got ahead of me and don't put me off!"
The other woman's face falls. "Oh dear," she says softly. "Are you being all competitive again?"
"I am not being all competitive!"
The Damage Control agent gives her a flat look. "Sure. No one has ever accused you of being a sore loser before." She edges up close to the man, and runs her hand over his shoulder. He flinches, and misses the next shot. "Sorry to interrupt," she says in a husky voice, "but Kingsley would very much like to see you."
Hyena watches with hidden disdain as his eyes dip down to Squid's chest, and up again. "And who are you?" he asks.
"Constable Ami Shirai, Damage Control," Squid very nearly purrs, "and while I hate to interrupt your playtime with Jazmin, your commanding officer requests your presence."
Operative Britannia gives a light chuckle. "Well, let's not leave him waiting. This was frightfully ill-mannered of me." He glances at Hyena. "Looks like you got the better of me this time," he says casually. "We should do this again sometime. I haven't met someone who can outshoot me in a while. Where did you train, Hereford?"
Hyena shakes her head. "Mostly Bentham," she says.
He cracks a smile. "Should I have addressed you as 'your highness'?" he says teasingly.
The response is a glare. "No," she says. "I was nominated for training there. I didn't get in through family connections."
He leans in, crocking an eyebrow. "My goodness," he says. "That sounds like an interesting story." He smiles. "I've always wanted to have a proper chance to go face-to-face with a Bentham graduate."
Squid laughs. "Ignore Little Miss Humourless," she says. "Emphasis on both 'little' and 'humourless'. So, have they actually given us an Noowhoo agent who has all the alleged charm they're meant to have? Hyena is very uptight - honestly, she's almost as warm as one of those meat popsicles she likes so much - and Raven and Hawk were both total mirrorshades. Though at least they drank, unlike her."
"An Operative who doesn't drink? Gosh. How do you stay sane?" he asks Hyena.
"She runs mostly off smug self-satisfaction when everyone else has a hangover," Squid says. She offers her arm to James, who takes it. "Now, did you train at Hereford? I cross-trained there for a year in '63, back when I was new to Damage Control and…"
Jazmin narrows her eyes. "Utterly shameless," she mutters, trailing after them. "Progenitors. So annoying."
...
1971
The light in her eyes is blinding. The young woman blinks, and tries to shield them, but her hands are cuffed to the chair. There are pad-things with wires coming off them stuck to her forehead, and when she tries to jerk her head away, she finds they won't come off. There's music playing in the background, too - something classical. She doesn't recognise it.
How did she get here? Last thing she remembers, she was sitting there in the cell. Now she's fastened to a chair, wearing some kind of grey jumpsuit. Despite everything, she can't help but blush at the fact that someone must have undressed her. She hopes it was a woman.
"Mademoiselle," says a man in French-accented Arabic. "Look at the screen. Focus on it, if it pleases you."
She can't help but obey. She feels her head turn even before she's processed his words. There's something commanding about that voice, which doesn't leave her with a choice despite the pretence of asking her.
The whiteness of the screen - yes, that's what the bright white light in front of her is, she realises - flickers. She can't catch what it's showing, but she's sure there's something there - and she can feel a feathery feeling behind her eyes. She wants to blink, to look away, but the man told her to look at the screen.
"Sir," a voice says through speakers. "No abnormal emotional responses to any RD iconography." They say it in quite badly pronounced Arabic - they're clearly not a native speaker. Why do they want her to understand what they're saying?
"Very well. Mademoiselle," says the man in the room with her, "I am Jeremiah Blanc. Do you recognise that name?"
She swallows, her throat feeling very dry. "No," she says. Is this an electric chair? Is this what she's tied to? Her stomach is twisted up into little knots. She knows what she says here might determine whether she lives or dies. And maybe they just want to know before they kill her.
"Fear, but no recognition," the voice over the speakers says.
That isn't reassuring. She can hear her heart pounding in her ears like a drum, faster and faster.
"Mademoiselle, listen to my voice," the man - Blanc - says. "Do you understand the situation you find yourself in? Answer me honestly, please."
"No," she says, her heart slowing to normal. She feels very calm indeed. "I don't understand."
He chuckles softly. "No, how interesting. You don't. And yet you managed to breach INFRARED, RED, and ORANGE security, and were only caught by a YELLOW ID grid. So who put you up to this? Who is your employer? The PLO? The Jordanians? Mossad? The Camarilla? Would you care to volunteer the information, mademoiselle? It will make things easier."
"I work for Café Dar," she answers automatically, and then blinks. Why had she even said that? He… he wasn't asking about where she really worked, was he?
"Café Dar. Cafédar." He rolls the words around his mouth. "Interesting. And what are the beliefs of this group?"
"Beliefs?"
There is a pause. "My subordinates have just informed me that it is a cafe across the street from the main entrance to this facility," the man says. "Apparently it does acceptable coffee. Well, mademoiselle, if you are not going to cooperate and attempt to make a mockery of the process… a shame. You might feel a slight… sting," says Blanc.
He lies. Oh, how he lies. It starts with a feeling like a static shock from each of the things stuck onto her head, but it goes on and on. Her fingers tighten into claws around the padded bit where her hands are fastened, and she realises what it's for and why there are little dimples in it.
Then the hallucinations start.
Stealing the keycard from the man at the cafe.
Her mother and sister's funerals, a day after the accident.
Sitting alone in her room, deciding that something has to be done.
Her notebook full of her overheard observations.
Sitting on the bench outside, watching the building, waiting for the pale men to come out.
And then it lets her go. She starts crying, but it's soft, quiet sobbing. She feels violated. Unclean. All the way down to the core of her. She could feel… feel whatever they were doing to her head. Rummaging around through her memories. Making her feel like they were happening again. She doesn't cry loudly, though. If she makes noise, they might do it again.
"Nothing," says the voice on the speakers, sounding faintly disgusted. "Not a dratted thing. No RD influence beyond baseline, no accomplices, nothing. Reading the tape now… systems analysis suggests development of genius is recent. Psi-analysis is coming through… yes, Agent Bayes can find no signs of tampering. Should we run another scan to verify?"
"Please," she begs quietly. "D-don't… I… I don't want that to h-happen again."
She feels someone blot her tears, and then undo the restraints on her wrists. The glowing white screen in front of her dims, and she can focus on the white handkerchief embroidered with 'JB' she's just been handed. She dabs at her eyes and then shifts her attention to the man who handed it to her.
He's a European, with iron grey hair and a neatly trimmed beard. His head almost seems to float in this white room, because his immaculate suit is as white as the walls. He has a golden signet ring on his right hand, marked with an א symbol. "There, there," he says. "Dry your eyes and blow your nose, and you'll feel better. The trauma of a trawl is designed to fade quickly."
The woman does what he says, and finds that, yes, the feeling of defilement is fading. It was unpleasant, yes. She doesn't want to do it again. But it becomes harder and harder to grasp exactly what made her burst into tears. "Sorry for getting it all wet," she says weakly, holding his handkerchief.
"Keep it," he tells her. "I have several." He leans in. "And mademoiselle, I feel I owe you an apology. We misread the situation. And you are… hmm. Yes, you interest me." He raises a hand. "Not romantically," he adds, to her relief. "But there are two kinds of people in the world. There are the kind that men like me find. And then there are the kind who find us. The latter are rather rarer, and often more interesting."
She says nothing. It seems safest.
"Young lady," Blanc says, "I look at you, and I see a woman who's about to be offered a choice she can either say 'oui' or 'non' to - that would be yes or no to you. If she answers one way, she'll be released, with just some bad dreams and some injuries from being roughed up by the police. She'll get to go back to her ordinary life, serving coffee to slovenly, incompetent men. Things will start to go a little better for her, and she will find a better job, working for the government. She will be dealt with, fairly and not unkindly."
"And if I say no?" she breathes.
"I think you misunderstand me, mademoiselle," the man says. "That is what happens if you turn down the offer I am about to make. Young lady, I want you to work for me. Personally."
"Why?" she asks, in shock. She did not expect anything like this.
The man suddenly smiles, and it even looks genuine. "Excellent," he says, sounding delighted. "I was inspecting this facility when you triggered that alert. So far, you are the most impressive thing I have seen in this entirely slackly run facility - and that says much to your credit and little to theirs. You are like clay, raw and unformed. I believe I may be able to make something exceptional from you." He chuckles. "Or maybe I'm just amused by a woman who breaks her hand and bruises her knee on a HITMark."
The woman swallows. This is outside her frame of reference. She asks herself what she should do, and her gut tells her she should take the offer. The man is clearly in charge here, and the men here will remember her. She can't go back to the cafe. She'll need to find a new job, and she hasn't paid this month's rent yet.
A little bit of her wonders if the man knew this when he asked the question.
But those thoughts are going on in the background. Because in the foreground is the strange certainty that what she's being offered will never come again. She can almost feel the pressure in the air, like the air is taut fabric which will either rip one way or the other, but will never be whole again.
"So what will it be?" he asks.
She takes a breath, and thinks a short prayer. "Yes," she says. She came here looking for the truth, and she found people who can read your mind with machines and have technology that she didn't think really existed.
How could she turn back now?
"Excellent," Blanc tells her paternally. He frees her legs and the straps around her waist. "Now, I think the first thing we will do is take you to the medical facilities to get those injuries seen to, and then we will have a little talk about what your new duties will be." He pauses. "Do you have any family or close friends who will ask questions if you are away for a few days?" he asks.
She shakes her head. "No family," she whispers. "My parents are dead, and I'm not married. I sh-should probably phone my landlady and tell her I'll be away. And. Um. Tell the cafe I'm leaving."
"Excellent," the man, Blanc, says in a satisfied tone. "No family, no papers, no state. Nothing to hold you back. Mademoiselle, welcome to the Technocratic Union. I have a feeling you'll go far."
...
1984
"... and here we are again," Blanc says. The ceiling fan of this anonymous meeting room drifts lazily overhead. This isn't a normal Union facility. Keen eyes might notice the gleams from the building on the other side of the road. There are a lot of snipers trained on this place. "Hello again, Jazmin."
She looks up at her old mentor, from beneath her lank, slightly greasy fringe. Her face is blotchy and lacks make-up, and her eyes are bloodshot. "Sir," she says quietly. In recognition of the fact that she came in willingly, she isn't tied to the chair. She is quite aware that any incorrect action will lead to the rescinding of that privilege.
He sits there, utterly impassive. His hair is now white, but his face hasn't changed at all. She knows now that this is a marker of some internal play in the Men in White. Blanc's star is in the ascendancy. He isn't smiling. There's no sign of the amused affection he normally shows her.
"So good of you to show up," he says. "I was wondering if I was going to have to dispatch a HELMETSHRIKE team to have you brought in. And recover your hostage."
Jazmin swallows. She knows what that would have involved. She's been part of such 'retrieval' teams. The brain has to be recovered intact. It doesn't need to necessarily be alive. "I… I just had a nervous breakdown, sir," she says, her voice cracking. "I didn't defect. And... and I brought her back."
"Normally, Jazmin, I could have trusted you when you made such statements," he says. "Now? Now, I don't believe I can trust you, and most importantly, I don't believe I can trust your judgement."
She tries not to look away. "I didn't… I couldn't trust my own judgement," she says. "I had to get away. To think. And…" she tries to stop the shake in her hands, conceal the fresh red scars there, "... and think."
"Well." His tongue clicks around his words, like he's loading each syllable into a magazine. "And now you're back."
"Yes," she says quietly.
Blanc rises, and strides. He stares out the window. Jazmin thinks he might even be angry, that this is personal with him. She doesn't move, anyway. The watchers won't appreciate that.
"Why?" he says.
Jazmin closes her eyes. "Because I'm loyal to the Union," she says sadly. "Because it… it was my failure and… and I'm willing to face my punishment. Because… because I killed someone who I thought was him. Out to drag me back to that place. But it wasn't. I don't think it was, anyway. Because I… I couldn't cope on my own. I feel like I'm half-asleep, that my genius is numbed. I was talking to my reflection and it was talking back and I was hearing voices and dreaming about things I don't remember doing and… I couldn't l-look after… and... and… and I managed to self-medicate enough to get a grip on myself. And I can't let him win. I won't let him beat me."
"No. Not that. Why did you let it happen?" Blanc whirls on her, and she can see the genuine anger in his eyes. Anger and possibly even a hint of madness, of the ice-cold fury of a powerful man who's just found the world isn't working like he thinks it should. "You were one of the best I've trained. How could you let something so petty get in your way? You should have medicated such deviancy away!"
She flinches away. "I should have," she says quietly.
"How did you fail to notice?"
"I… I don't know," she whispers. "I… I keep on asking myself it, and… and I don't know." She takes a shuddering breath. "I'm compromised," Jazmin says. "It doesn't matter that… that no one else caught on. That the protocols should have caught him. I should have noticed. They… they won't want me back."
"Who? Squadron 7? It's been disbanded. There is no Squadron 7 for you to go back to." Blanc turns his back on her again. "Human weakness," he mutters, in a disgusted tone of voice. "Another failure. No much potential, so much talent. Wasted. Like the others."
So they're going to pretend that she was never part of Vigilance. Jazmin isn't surprised. She was expecting this. She already knew that her team was being shut down. That's why she had that last conversation in Owl, in a cafe in Paris, before she handed herself in. She's made arrangements for dealing with everything that remains of the rotten, wretched, miserable life she thought she had. She can trust him to look after Elissa. She… she can't be the mother to a six year old.
Her daughter deserves a better mother than her.
So she's going to walk away from it. Forget it all. Better that, than another night asking herself whether James had been right down in that place. Trying not to think about how he must have had a reason. She wishes she'd hadn't heard what he told her. And if she gets her way, if Blanc accepts what she's about to propose, she won't have.
...
1954
It is the height of summer, and the heat in Beirut is sweltering. The air over the city is stagnant, and there isn't even a breeze off the Mediterranean to carry away the fumes from the cars in the streets. The white-washed apartments surrounding a small square are gritty with fumes and flaking from neglect. The noise of radios can be heard playing from the many open windows, as the residents try to cool down.
And down in the square, a little girl manages to get one leg up onto the low wall which runs around the grassy area. Slowly, she pulls herself up until she's straddling it.
This would not be much of an accomplishment for an adult. For a child who exists at waist height and thus cannot normally even see over this wall, it's rather more of an achievement. If you were to ask some of the people who've had the mixed blessing of looking after this little girl, they'd probably tell you that she's clearly part monkey. She is not the kind of child who is scared of heights. She is the kind of child who has to be kept away from balconies.
And to reaffirm this fact, she gets up, until she's balancing barefoot on top of the heated stone. Her shoes lie discarded on the ground. This is a not-uncommon occurrence. Her mother is driven to the edge of frustration trying to prevent her daughter going barefoot. This is not helped by the fact that she learned young how to both fasten and unfasten her own laces. Even if they're double-knotted.
But, no, her primary objective is not to scale the towering heights of this wall. No, this little girl has a much grander objective.
At the corner of the square, there is a cedar tree. It is much, much taller than the wall. But if she's standing on top of the wall, the girl has definitively calculated that she almost certainly probably will be able to reach the lowest branch of the cedar. And if she can get up onto that branch she should be able to climb the forked trunk
With the clear and precise logic of a five-year old, the girl considers that while she had been told she had to stay in the square and play with the other children in the neighbourhood, at no point had she been forbidden from trying to climb the really really really tall tree. Her mother was always very detailed about all the things that she wasn't allowed to do, and since she hadn't been told she couldn't climb that tree, that must mean that it was allowed.
She does vaguely consider, in a fuzzy hazy way, whether if she gets caught trying it might get added to the list of things she's not allowed to do. She decides she won't get caught, and that's that.
Standing on tip-toes, she runs her hands along the branch, until it reaches the trunk. Putting one foot, then the other against the main body of the tree, she walks her way up, bare feet clinging onto the hot sticky wood. A complicated shuffle-and-twist motion, and she's now lying on top of the thick branch.
Success. Because now that she's here, she can use other branches to climb higher. The whole tree leans away from the road which leads down to the harbour, and that means that it's easier once she's into the foliage. From far, far below - why, she's even above adult head height now! - she can hear her sister calling her name. Well, she's certainly not going to let someone ruin it now that she's up to dizzying heights she's never scaled before! Her toes grip onto the stump of a cut branch, and she boosts herself up to dangle from the next fork.
In the hot, dry weather, her hands and feet are soon covered in resin from the trunk. She has also acquired a patina of scratches on her limbs, because that is what happens when one does such things barefoot in a short-sleeved dress. But the sweet rush of success leads her on through the pain and the ache of her muscles, and she keeps on going until she can go no higher, because she's in the crown of the tree. She would still keep going, but when she tries to climb further the branch wobbles alarmingly. So instead she wedges herself in between two branches, and lets her legs dangle freely.
She's never been up this high before. Except in buildings and the like, but they don't count because they don't require anywhere near as much effort.
The girl grins to herself. The air is moving a little bit up here, as well. So, yes, her arms may feel like they're going to fall off and her feet are all hurty and sticky and she's not entirely sure how she's going to get down, but that's a problem for later. Like most problems. So instead she looks to the west.
From the tree she can see the sea. She can't see it from the window at home, because the tree is in the way, which isn't very nice of it.
The girl wipes her hands on her dress, and inches her way up into a standing position, braced against the wood. She looks out over the Mediterranean sea. "Daddy!" she calls out, waving. "Daddy! I'm here! Come find me!"
Mummy said that Daddy was lost at sea. Well, she has plenty of experience of getting lost. Mummy and her sister say she gets lost all the time, although the girl is pretty sure that most of the time she's not lost. She knows exactly where she is. She's just not where Mummy thinks she should be. Which isn't getting lost at all!
She doesn't explain that to Mummy any more, though, because usually that gets her told off. It's easier to have people think that you're lost than to get shouted at for trying to get up onto the roof of the tenement.
But the point stands! If she calls out and makes herself obvious, he'll be able to find her and come back. And maybe he'll help her with the whole 'getting down' from the tree issue, which is, as previously noted, not an immediate problem but will be one soon.
Fairly soon. Her arms and legs are very sore.
"Daddy!" she calls. She can hear voices down below. They're calling her name. She ignores them. They're not the ones she's interested in. "Daddy!" she tries once again.
Her sister is down there, and she calls up to her. The girl calls back. She's not coming down. She refuses. Not until he comes back. What if he looks and he can't see her because she's not up the tree?
This produces some confusion, but the girl ignores it, just as she ignores the heat and the discomfort and the biting insects which take a liking for a resin-covered little girl. Her mother is working today, but other women from her block try to coax her to come down. Men try to climb up to fetch her, but she's too high and while the branches might support a five year old, they're less accepting of fully grown men.
And then she sees something. It's a man, with skin a bit paler than her.
The man looks away from his scrying mirror, and looks out over Beirut. The Ottomans are coming. Not today, not tomorrow, but the walls of Fakr ed-Din Maan II will not keep them out. They will occupy it.
He sighs. He can also see the weaknesses of the Ottomans. They will fall. Not today, not tomorrow, but the star of Europe is rising, and the Order of Reason will turn its attention to the Ottomans. They will fall, whether conquered by the pawns of the Order or simply absorbed into the hegemony it wishes to create.
Cemal Twice-Traitor sighs again. He is leaving for the New World once he has finished cleaning up the House Janissary hide-outs here. There are papers here which cannot be thrown into the hands of uncertainty. He knows the Cabal of Pure Thought has spies working in this area, and he would not put it past them to try to make a play for sites which once belonged to the Order of Reason in the chaos. So he'll leave them things to find. They'll discover all sorts of things about algorithms, cryptography, and obscure symbolism. What they won't find is anything he minds them having.
And then there are the other ones, the Grigori. Oh, he knows the Grigori. The Inner Circle has always permitted itself agents who act against what it publicly proclaims. Sorcerers, wizards, witches, fanatics - the Grigori have all of these among their ranks, wedded to the latest in the weaponry and training of the Order of Reason.
'Unreason can be bent to serve the cause of Reason,' the Inner Circle no doubt says.
He had a close run-in with one of their teams. He left a woman and two men dead in an alley in Acre, and then fled. He pulls the pistol he got off the woman out of a pocket. A six-barrelled thing, firing shot from resin cartridges. It doesn't need a powder pan, and was only as loud as a cough when it was fired. An assassin's weapon, with an א enraged on each barrel. An aleph. Well, well, well. And for them to find him… well. When he invoked Father Time over the weapon, he heard the orders for the kill-team, coming directly from one of his old enemies on the Magisterium. Yes, there is a reason why he is heading to the New World and it is not because - as the Council thinks - he is doing them a favour.
They want havoc, rebellion, strife sowed in the colonies of the Spanish and the English there. He will give them that. Perhaps if there is rebellion and strife in the New World, the tendrils of the Order already embedded there will rally to the cause of nationalism and break from the European Order.
And at the very least, he may be able to spread the principles of House Janissary into willing ears there.
Perhaps.
The girl bursts into tears. She's confused. She doesn't know what's going on or what she just saw. And she's been up this tree for hours and… and… and her Daddy hasn't come back and she doesn't know what to do. She remembered something which she didn't remember. That doesn't happen.
Next time they try to coax her down, she lets them persuade her to climb down to where a man can help her back to the ground.
She is scolded at length. Some of the women relent slightly when she tries to explain why she does doing it and why she was trying to help her daddy find them again, but when her mother finds out what she had done, there is no saving her. Her mother's rambling speech is equal parts condemnation, warnings, and pity, and then she has to be taken inside to be bathed and to get the many, many cuts on her hands and feet and her insect bites and bumps and grazes seen to.
Her daddy doesn't come back. Not soon. Not ever.
By the time she's ten, the girl has forgotten this day entirely.
...
2015
The woman wakes to the sight of an unfamiliar ceiling.
Well, no, it isn't unfamiliar. It's the ceiling of a standard design medical bay. She's seen that kind of ceiling quite a lot. However, it's not the ceiling she went to sleep under, and she's not sure how she got here.
On second thoughts, that's also something which has happened not-infrequently.
"I see you still haven't got over your habit of throwing yourself at things far larger than you," a male voice says sourly. "That surprises me. You're still alive. I'd have thought you'd have learned better by now. Take more care of your life." He sighs. "No clever comments about how it was necessary for the mission?"
Jamelia, Hyena, Jazmin blinks. "My head hurts," she says. Her world is reeling, and she's having problems… wait, no, she remembers her name. She's Jamelia Belltower. And it is who she is. It's the name she's used the longest. Yes, she thinks, she earned Belltower rank in 1992, so she's now used it longer than her birth name, or any of the other names she's had.
Well. That's fortunate. To have total amnesia one in a month might be accidental, but having it twice would be careless.
Harlan throws his hands out in a plaintive gesture. "She says her head hurts!" he exclaims to thin air. His grey brows furrow. "Why would that be, I wonder? Could it be because you threw yourself at a LEGION of post-Templar RNEs? I have no idea how you managed to avoid breaking your neck from that fall, either!" He slumps back into his chair again, an old man for all that he's a few years younger than Jamelia. "I must have been mad to do this in the old days," he mutters.
Groggily, Jamelia massages her temples. "Calm down," she says, wearily. "It was either pull it away from you and the reactor, or let it break either. Both of those would be mission fail-states. And if it destroyed the reactor, it'd kill us both anyway." She pauses. "Do you have any painkillers? No, wait, first. Status of the facility? Are the other LEGIONs still a threat."
"I'm fine, thank you, by the way," he says, and then sighs. "No. No, after we got the reactor and the shielding back online, they were contained. Me and your pet cyborgs neutralised up the one which didn't retreat back to extradimenisional space. They're very fond of the old VE gear. There were a few other RNEs in the facility, but they're all now either destroyed or they retreated." He smoothes his moustache with his fingers. "I suppose I should be thanking you," he says reluctantly. "We have a chance of keeping what happened here quiet. The other Belltower is being very… Iterator about wanting to inspect all these other psychic facilities for similar containment breaches."
Jamelia props herself up on her elbows, shaking her head to try to clear the fog. Except how much of the fog is perfectly normal pain and a mild concussion, and how much of it is… everything that's been done to her?
Were those memories true? Did Harlan implant them when she was unconscious? She doesn't know. They feel real, but so did the things she thought she remembered before. Even now she has a sense of double-memory about her past. She can remember her time as Blanc's protege, even as she remembers her time as an unknowing Sympathiser who only graduated to being taught by him at a class at Bentham in 1976, where she excelled and he took a liking to her.
And… and INVISIBLE BEAR. She remembers volunteering for it, because she wanted to be stronger, better, less weak. She didn't remember anything about a breakdown which led to her going AWOL and taking hostages before now. She doesn't want to think about Silent Starling. About James. About the fact that she had a child. Because if… if what she now remembers is really real?
Bringing her sheet-covered knees up, she rests her head on them, hugging her legs tight.
"Is something the problem?" Harlan asks her.
"My head hurts," she whispers, trying to hide that she's crying. "And my chest. Can you find me some painkillers?"
What does Jamelia take from this?
[ ] Discuss
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Guest Update: Date Night
The bar is busy, but there 'just happened' to be a corner table for two when they show up there. Donald wasn't responsible for that, but one of the costs of going on an 'undercover mission' with Jamelia Belltower - which totally isn't a contrived excuse to get her to relax a little while they wait to hear back from some contacts - is that she insists on picking the bars.
Returning to the table, drinks in hand, he puts her cranberry juice down in front of her, sits down, taking a sip from his beer.
"Relax, would you?" Donald says easily, leaning back in his seat. "Or at least focus on pretending that you're relaxing." He lifts his drink, ironically saluting her. "To long delays while waiting to hear from a client."
That wins him a smile, and little more. "To a good night's sleep," she retorts, taking a drink.
Donald checks the table, and notices the sweepers and the jammers and the like stuck around and the faint hum coming from her purse. Well, he had left her alone for five minutes, so it was perhaps inevitable. He checks his phone, and makes sure his Faker is indicating that he's seated on the other side of the city if someone tries to track him by his expenditure or signals.
"Any word from them?" she asks.
"No," Donald says, shaking his head. "Probably won't be today or tomorrow, either. Most people don't work at the weekend." He watches her sigh and take another drink. "I'm surprised I could talk you into coming along," he says, pushing. "I thought you'd have been put off by the last time we went to a hockey game."
He just about manages to catch a complex flicker of emotions before she shoots him one of her usual bland smiles. "I did enjoy the last time we did something like this," she says easily. "Despite everything which happened afterwards." She smiles rather more smugly. "And there were a few individuals from our party of interest present at the game," she informs him sweetly. "Their smartphones are now compromised, and Langley and Williams are working to check if any of them have been breaking security policy. And also trawling their online profiles for data and passwords and blackmail material while they're at it."
Donald sighs. "So that's what you were doing in your phone," he says.
"Be sensible, Donald," Jamelia tells him. "There were periods where nothing interesting was happening. And I'm more than capable of paying attention to two things at once." She doesn't sit back, although her posture relaxes slightly. She's still clearly sat so if someone approaches their table, she'll see them.
Being Director Belltower's henchman (Donald likes the term 'henchman' in an ironic way) is hard work. Admittedly, he's had much worse Directors. Like the ones who are similarly workaholic, but also expect all their subordinates to work that hard. Or the ones who fob too much work off on him. But the fact is, she has no life outside her work. He shakes his head minutely at that thought. As far as he's concerned, there's something broken in her if she can live with so little time for herself.
Hah. Broken, or 'fixed'. More likely the latter. She didn't even take a day off after getting back from her Top Secret No Answers At All business. She told him that it was NWO business, and then she told him to stop trying to trick her into telling him about what she had been doing and that she was wise to his tricks. And had told him to get back to work when he said yes, she was wise to them because she'd probably been doing them since he was in nappies.
Donald eyes up his boss out of the corner of his eye. The fact that for once she's out of that suit - or combat gear - means she doesn't look... well, she doesn't look like herself, especially since her hair is barely covered and she's wearing reading glasses, not mirrorshades. Sometimes he finds himself looking at her like an average man on the street must. And yes, he does mean 'man', because he's sitting next to a pretty woman in her mid-twenties who's very attractive without being unapproachable, and whose long-sleeved t-shirt is just loose enough to tantalise while hinting that there's a very attractive body under it. There's also a 'cute' pink logo on her t-shirt.
He has to believe that she picked it out specifically as a tool of disguise or to confuse him, because the alternative is that this is what she'd wear by choice if she wasn't a workaholic who seemed to live in her suits and that's just disturbing.
"Stop trying to work out where I have my holdout," she tells him, a little archly.
He smiles back. Onlookers won't be able to hear them or read their mouths easily. "I'm not presuming you only have one," he says.
He gets a smirk in return. "And I hope you've learned your lesson about failure to do such," she tells him.
Donald spreads his hands. "I'm a lover, not a fighter," he says self-effacingly. "If anything, it's Henriette who's blaming herself about that."
Jamelia nods. "I know," she says. She sighs. "I've had proteges and trainees before," she tells him. "Operatives, a few Watchers who wound up picking up more field skills. I know how to handle this."
There's a slight hint in her voice, though, something he barely catches. Something that isn't just coolly professional. And that's two slips in one night, and that's not something he sees from her.
Donald's brain, that machine-like bit which he tries to ignore most of the time gets to work. He ignores the mild buzz of alcohol in his bloodstream.
Oh dear. He has a gut feeling it's about whatever went on around London while he was trying to track her down and being attacked by a transhuman thing which he tries very hard not to think of as 'Evil Rose'. She had an extended conversation with the Senex while in a mentally vulnerable state, which alone would probably be enough to flag most Technocrats as potentially INSECURE, and now she's digging into the past of the Union and the Order of Reason. And she knows that the people she spent most of her career reporting to are out there, as twisted EDEs. He can honestly say that the darker deeds of the pre-1999 Technocracy had nothing to do with him. She... uh, probably carried a bunch of them out on their orders.
That's alarming. If she's doubting herself, if she's asking herself questions about whether she's been working for the right side for... uh, however long, well. But no. If she was seriously doing that, she wouldn't be interested in bringing DNA and CyberSolutions back into the fold. Maybe there's another source of doubt in there.
Music starts in the background, something slow and sad as someone turns on the jukebox.
Something that Christos Barberi said to him recently springs to mind. 'You're the same person. Or rather, you are who she was.' Donald doesn't pretend to understand how her old set of augs were different from the new ones, apart from the fact that the new ones left him notably poorer, but he does know that the old one was mostly mental stuff, while the new stuff is a lot more physical. So if the old stuff isn't there any more, on top of whatever changes in... hormones and stuff the new augs caused, she's probably finding herself off-balance. And if down there, under layers of... her-ness, is a base her who's a lot more like him... well.
Maybe she's feeling as shit about some of the things she's done as he feels about the whole mess involving Karen, and having problems coping because she's not used to it. Or because she doesn't drink or take drugs, except where work requires it - which is how he copes.
She's staring at him with a raised eyebrow. "Yes?" she asks.
He considers whether he should say what he's about to say. No, he shouldn't, he decides, and moderates it down. "I don't envy what it must be like to be you," he says quietly. "And I think I have a better clue of what it entails than Henriette. I know she looks up to you - after all, you showed her kindness and for all her people's smartness, that's not something they're good at."
Jamelia nods. "No. 'Defective' people don't get treated well," she says, her voice totally flat and calm. "And she didn't have a very stable childhood."
"I've picked up enough of that," Donald says, downing half his drink. He eyes her up, and scoots sideways. "God," he says, muttering into his drink and obscuring his mouth, "she's basically a child soldier. She'd be fucked up even without everything else. I hate it when we do that, just like that poor Vee-Eee girl we considered. Just... I don't even know how to say it."
Jamelia takes a sip of her cranberry juice. "I don't want to turn her into another me," she says faintly but clearly, her lips not moving. "We don't have the decades of experience and sheer dumb luck needed for that, and I should have been dead several times over. It's been touch-and-go a few times, and I've clocked up years spent in recovery." Another sip. "She just sees the glamour and the fact I seem unflappable and in control of myself and understand people, and wants that for herself. Especially the self-control. And so she looks up to me as a surrogate mother figure." She smiles softly, and a little sadly. "She's still young. It takes all of us a long time to learn to think of others and how to think before acting. And if that means she goes through life thinking more about people than machines, I don't think that's a hardship."
"Hah," Donald says. "Yeah." He shakes his head. "Sometimes it's hard to remember how young she is. It's not quite as bad as with Rose, but, still." His boss is in her sixties. Rose is five. If anything, Rose looks slightly older, although maybe that's just because he finds it easier to guess her age than Director Belltower's. Or maybe just that he underestimates Jamelia's apparent age because she's petite.
Hmm. He entertains himself for a moment by considering the image she gives to the rest of the Union. He's pretty sure she's not a Union princess, and he suspects she was already an adult when she was picked up by the Technocracy. It's hard to tell. He wonders for a moment if she looks younger now than when she joined, and whether she was picked straight up or whether she was ever a Traditionalist. He's not certain. Either way, he's pretty sure that she's more like him and Kessler, people who spent their formative years as normal people. He just has a sixth sense about that. There's something a bit different about people who are born into the Union, and Jamelia reads as a 'naturalised immigrant', not a native like Henriette and Serafina.
He finishes off his drink. "Do you want some food?" he asks, looking towards the bar.
Jamelia frowns. "You know what," she says, "I am kind of peckish. Let's see what they're serving. Can you see a specials board around here?"
"I saw one over by the bar," Donald says, still thinking about the conversation he's just had. No, he doesn't think she's seriously doubting the rightness of the Union. He's not so sure about whether she's having self-doubts, but trying to read her is hard. "It's... uh, probably not something you'd be interested in. There was only one vegetarian option, and it was a macaroni thing."
"I like macaroni," Jamelia tells him. "I'll go up and check the specials board when I order - you got the drinks. Same again for you?"
"Yes, thank you," he says, checking his phone again. He notices that there's been a reply from Watcher Williams saying that it looks likely that she'll get the interview, but decides not to mention it. She's also on the replies list, and if she wants to bring it up, she will.
After all, if - and this is an 'if' - his boss is feeling weary and doesn't want Henriette to turn out like her, he's not about to go push her back into her normal working habits. If she did used to be like him - as Barberi said - then she can be allowed a little bit of time when nothing is urgent to be a normal human. And he certainly doesn't complain about the fact that he's on a psuedo-date with a pretty woman who's acting like it's a date for cover purposes. And then they go to another ribald comedy club, since she enjoyed it the last time they went, and much fun is had.
She even snuggles up to him on the subway back to the hotel. Dammit, Donald thinks as he looks at the woman to his left who has her arm around him, this makes it very hard to remember that she's a cold-blooded mass-murdering superspy. "Thank you," she whispers, her lips right up against his neck. "I did enjoy tonight. We... we should do something like this again next time we're waiting on someone else and have nothing vital going on."
It's oddly adorable.
He then notices she's checking her phone with her other hand, and the screen is showing some kind of encrypted format which his brain can't process and makes his eyes ache.
Well, she's taking baby steps, at least.
Returning to the table, drinks in hand, he puts her cranberry juice down in front of her, sits down, taking a sip from his beer.
"Relax, would you?" Donald says easily, leaning back in his seat. "Or at least focus on pretending that you're relaxing." He lifts his drink, ironically saluting her. "To long delays while waiting to hear from a client."
That wins him a smile, and little more. "To a good night's sleep," she retorts, taking a drink.
Donald checks the table, and notices the sweepers and the jammers and the like stuck around and the faint hum coming from her purse. Well, he had left her alone for five minutes, so it was perhaps inevitable. He checks his phone, and makes sure his Faker is indicating that he's seated on the other side of the city if someone tries to track him by his expenditure or signals.
"Any word from them?" she asks.
"No," Donald says, shaking his head. "Probably won't be today or tomorrow, either. Most people don't work at the weekend." He watches her sigh and take another drink. "I'm surprised I could talk you into coming along," he says, pushing. "I thought you'd have been put off by the last time we went to a hockey game."
He just about manages to catch a complex flicker of emotions before she shoots him one of her usual bland smiles. "I did enjoy the last time we did something like this," she says easily. "Despite everything which happened afterwards." She smiles rather more smugly. "And there were a few individuals from our party of interest present at the game," she informs him sweetly. "Their smartphones are now compromised, and Langley and Williams are working to check if any of them have been breaking security policy. And also trawling their online profiles for data and passwords and blackmail material while they're at it."
Donald sighs. "So that's what you were doing in your phone," he says.
"Be sensible, Donald," Jamelia tells him. "There were periods where nothing interesting was happening. And I'm more than capable of paying attention to two things at once." She doesn't sit back, although her posture relaxes slightly. She's still clearly sat so if someone approaches their table, she'll see them.
Being Director Belltower's henchman (Donald likes the term 'henchman' in an ironic way) is hard work. Admittedly, he's had much worse Directors. Like the ones who are similarly workaholic, but also expect all their subordinates to work that hard. Or the ones who fob too much work off on him. But the fact is, she has no life outside her work. He shakes his head minutely at that thought. As far as he's concerned, there's something broken in her if she can live with so little time for herself.
Hah. Broken, or 'fixed'. More likely the latter. She didn't even take a day off after getting back from her Top Secret No Answers At All business. She told him that it was NWO business, and then she told him to stop trying to trick her into telling him about what she had been doing and that she was wise to his tricks. And had told him to get back to work when he said yes, she was wise to them because she'd probably been doing them since he was in nappies.
Donald eyes up his boss out of the corner of his eye. The fact that for once she's out of that suit - or combat gear - means she doesn't look... well, she doesn't look like herself, especially since her hair is barely covered and she's wearing reading glasses, not mirrorshades. Sometimes he finds himself looking at her like an average man on the street must. And yes, he does mean 'man', because he's sitting next to a pretty woman in her mid-twenties who's very attractive without being unapproachable, and whose long-sleeved t-shirt is just loose enough to tantalise while hinting that there's a very attractive body under it. There's also a 'cute' pink logo on her t-shirt.
He has to believe that she picked it out specifically as a tool of disguise or to confuse him, because the alternative is that this is what she'd wear by choice if she wasn't a workaholic who seemed to live in her suits and that's just disturbing.
"Stop trying to work out where I have my holdout," she tells him, a little archly.
He smiles back. Onlookers won't be able to hear them or read their mouths easily. "I'm not presuming you only have one," he says.
He gets a smirk in return. "And I hope you've learned your lesson about failure to do such," she tells him.
Donald spreads his hands. "I'm a lover, not a fighter," he says self-effacingly. "If anything, it's Henriette who's blaming herself about that."
Jamelia nods. "I know," she says. She sighs. "I've had proteges and trainees before," she tells him. "Operatives, a few Watchers who wound up picking up more field skills. I know how to handle this."
There's a slight hint in her voice, though, something he barely catches. Something that isn't just coolly professional. And that's two slips in one night, and that's not something he sees from her.
Donald's brain, that machine-like bit which he tries to ignore most of the time gets to work. He ignores the mild buzz of alcohol in his bloodstream.
Oh dear. He has a gut feeling it's about whatever went on around London while he was trying to track her down and being attacked by a transhuman thing which he tries very hard not to think of as 'Evil Rose'. She had an extended conversation with the Senex while in a mentally vulnerable state, which alone would probably be enough to flag most Technocrats as potentially INSECURE, and now she's digging into the past of the Union and the Order of Reason. And she knows that the people she spent most of her career reporting to are out there, as twisted EDEs. He can honestly say that the darker deeds of the pre-1999 Technocracy had nothing to do with him. She... uh, probably carried a bunch of them out on their orders.
That's alarming. If she's doubting herself, if she's asking herself questions about whether she's been working for the right side for... uh, however long, well. But no. If she was seriously doing that, she wouldn't be interested in bringing DNA and CyberSolutions back into the fold. Maybe there's another source of doubt in there.
Music starts in the background, something slow and sad as someone turns on the jukebox.
Something that Christos Barberi said to him recently springs to mind. 'You're the same person. Or rather, you are who she was.' Donald doesn't pretend to understand how her old set of augs were different from the new ones, apart from the fact that the new ones left him notably poorer, but he does know that the old one was mostly mental stuff, while the new stuff is a lot more physical. So if the old stuff isn't there any more, on top of whatever changes in... hormones and stuff the new augs caused, she's probably finding herself off-balance. And if down there, under layers of... her-ness, is a base her who's a lot more like him... well.
Maybe she's feeling as shit about some of the things she's done as he feels about the whole mess involving Karen, and having problems coping because she's not used to it. Or because she doesn't drink or take drugs, except where work requires it - which is how he copes.
She's staring at him with a raised eyebrow. "Yes?" she asks.
He considers whether he should say what he's about to say. No, he shouldn't, he decides, and moderates it down. "I don't envy what it must be like to be you," he says quietly. "And I think I have a better clue of what it entails than Henriette. I know she looks up to you - after all, you showed her kindness and for all her people's smartness, that's not something they're good at."
Jamelia nods. "No. 'Defective' people don't get treated well," she says, her voice totally flat and calm. "And she didn't have a very stable childhood."
"I've picked up enough of that," Donald says, downing half his drink. He eyes her up, and scoots sideways. "God," he says, muttering into his drink and obscuring his mouth, "she's basically a child soldier. She'd be fucked up even without everything else. I hate it when we do that, just like that poor Vee-Eee girl we considered. Just... I don't even know how to say it."
Jamelia takes a sip of her cranberry juice. "I don't want to turn her into another me," she says faintly but clearly, her lips not moving. "We don't have the decades of experience and sheer dumb luck needed for that, and I should have been dead several times over. It's been touch-and-go a few times, and I've clocked up years spent in recovery." Another sip. "She just sees the glamour and the fact I seem unflappable and in control of myself and understand people, and wants that for herself. Especially the self-control. And so she looks up to me as a surrogate mother figure." She smiles softly, and a little sadly. "She's still young. It takes all of us a long time to learn to think of others and how to think before acting. And if that means she goes through life thinking more about people than machines, I don't think that's a hardship."
"Hah," Donald says. "Yeah." He shakes his head. "Sometimes it's hard to remember how young she is. It's not quite as bad as with Rose, but, still." His boss is in her sixties. Rose is five. If anything, Rose looks slightly older, although maybe that's just because he finds it easier to guess her age than Director Belltower's. Or maybe just that he underestimates Jamelia's apparent age because she's petite.
Hmm. He entertains himself for a moment by considering the image she gives to the rest of the Union. He's pretty sure she's not a Union princess, and he suspects she was already an adult when she was picked up by the Technocracy. It's hard to tell. He wonders for a moment if she looks younger now than when she joined, and whether she was picked straight up or whether she was ever a Traditionalist. He's not certain. Either way, he's pretty sure that she's more like him and Kessler, people who spent their formative years as normal people. He just has a sixth sense about that. There's something a bit different about people who are born into the Union, and Jamelia reads as a 'naturalised immigrant', not a native like Henriette and Serafina.
He finishes off his drink. "Do you want some food?" he asks, looking towards the bar.
Jamelia frowns. "You know what," she says, "I am kind of peckish. Let's see what they're serving. Can you see a specials board around here?"
"I saw one over by the bar," Donald says, still thinking about the conversation he's just had. No, he doesn't think she's seriously doubting the rightness of the Union. He's not so sure about whether she's having self-doubts, but trying to read her is hard. "It's... uh, probably not something you'd be interested in. There was only one vegetarian option, and it was a macaroni thing."
"I like macaroni," Jamelia tells him. "I'll go up and check the specials board when I order - you got the drinks. Same again for you?"
"Yes, thank you," he says, checking his phone again. He notices that there's been a reply from Watcher Williams saying that it looks likely that she'll get the interview, but decides not to mention it. She's also on the replies list, and if she wants to bring it up, she will.
After all, if - and this is an 'if' - his boss is feeling weary and doesn't want Henriette to turn out like her, he's not about to go push her back into her normal working habits. If she did used to be like him - as Barberi said - then she can be allowed a little bit of time when nothing is urgent to be a normal human. And he certainly doesn't complain about the fact that he's on a psuedo-date with a pretty woman who's acting like it's a date for cover purposes. And then they go to another ribald comedy club, since she enjoyed it the last time they went, and much fun is had.
She even snuggles up to him on the subway back to the hotel. Dammit, Donald thinks as he looks at the woman to his left who has her arm around him, this makes it very hard to remember that she's a cold-blooded mass-murdering superspy. "Thank you," she whispers, her lips right up against his neck. "I did enjoy tonight. We... we should do something like this again next time we're waiting on someone else and have nothing vital going on."
It's oddly adorable.
He then notices she's checking her phone with her other hand, and the screen is showing some kind of encrypted format which his brain can't process and makes his eyes ache.
Well, she's taking baby steps, at least.
Guest Update: Medi(t)ation
Henriette feels a hand on her shoulder, and flinches. Coming out of the sim, she meets Watcher William's eyes.
"Come on," Rachael tells her. "I'm calling it a night. You should too."
"I can still go on," Henriette insists, blinking blearily as she looks around the rented warehouse where the amalgam is carrying out their business which needs more space than hotel rooms. She rubs her eyes, still getting used to the feeling of true binocularity.
The other woman stuffs her hands in her pockets. "You might be able to, but the rest of us don't have computers in our brains which cope with a lack of sleep," she informs Henriette. "And there's nothing critical enough to make us pull an all-nighter. Save that for when it's needed."
"I'm still good for a bit longer," Henriette insists.
"The security convoy back to the hotel can't leave until you do, and the Director would have my head if I let you go back on your own," Williams tells her. "Come on. You need to eat, and you don't look like you can skip meals."
Henriette notices that yes, she is actually quite hungry. "Fine," she says, gracelessly.
They get Chinese on the way back, and Henriette sits there quietly, picking at her food. She doesn't want to admit it in front of Rachael and the TAC-1 team, but she's crashing. She's been grabbing a few hours sleep for the last few days, and it's all catching up with her. Williams probably saw that, although at least she has enough tact to not point it out as she helps Henriette back to her room and jokes about how she shouldn't let herself drown in the bath.
Henriette can see what she's doing, putting the thought of having a nice warm bath in her head. She considers getting annoyed by it, but the annoying thing is that she knows she'd feel better with one. She does briefly consider getting annoyed about how she's annoyed by it, but she's just too tired for that kind of recursion.
She does feel better in the bath. Williams, the SIGINT guys, and TAC-1 aren't bad people, she has to admit. Henriette doesn't feel like she's one of them, but that's probably partly because they're all a bunch of NWO spies and tactical troopers (the latter being, according to her Iteration X training, barely above Masses soldiers in threat level) and mostly because they're all older than her and yet newer to the Union. She's been a member of the Technocratic Union for twenty years, after all, and considering that she's only nineteen that tells everyone that she gestated in Union property. That separates her from them. They're still amazed at the idea that nuclear fusion is a stable technology. She played with toy tokamaks when she was little.
Getting out, she dries herself off and wraps herself in the fluffy hotel dressing gown. Pausing, she wipes down the full length mirror and peers at her reflection.
Maybe she should try experimenting with hair dye, Henriette considers, coiling a lock of hair around her finger. Just to see what it's like. She could always test it first with something which would come out easily. Maybe she could call up Serafina and ask her to do some Progenitor stuff to work out what hair colour she would have had if she'd been naturally conceived. She sighs. Probably some shade of brown. Normal human hair colours are so boring. But maybe she can use that colour for when she has to go unnoticed, and then save her real hair colour for the Union. It... it wouldn't be like she was disrespecting the memory of her parents to use the colour she would have had if they hadn't picked another colour when they were designing her, would it?
Henriette smiles a little bitterly to herself. It's so annoying when people call her a 'princess'. Yes, she would have been one, but she didn't get most of the benefits because of '99. Apart from the cleaned up genome and the enhancements, but they don't count. She's earned her place, not got things through family connections. Admittedly, when she'd complained about that to Baptysme the other girl had said 'Gosh. Family. Wouldn't it be nice to have that, so then I could have family connections? And annoying sisters don't count', but Baptysme said that sort of thing a lot.
But all in all, she... she likes what she's sees. Even if she's still getting used to true binocular vision. But now she has two normal eyes again, she... she looks more like how she used to. Not exactly. She's changed. Grown up. She tries to pretend that she's really enthusiastic about going on the mission to Autochtonia and how she's finally managed what she's been working towards since she was five and... and she can't repress a shiver. She'd really believed back then. The Computer was out there and so were her parents and she was going to find them back and then the Computer would come back and everything would go back to how things had been in the stories she'd been told in MIHT. Back when Iteration X was unbeatable and all the other Conventions respected them for their unstoppable force, back when the path to the Singularity was so very clear.
How could she have been so stupid? The Computer hadn't been worthy of the belief she'd had in it. Maybe it never had been. The Computer has taken her entire family away from her, and turned them against her. The reverence Iteration X has for it meant they'd all-but kicked her out after she'd punched a Comptroller for talking about it in front of her, and she'd lost her foster parents.
So, no, she's not who she was back then. She's older and wiser. She's not as happy. She's not as certain. She's talked with Kessler more, and... and she's not sure she'd have liked that pre-1999 world. If something like... like what had happened on that mission had happened back then, she'd have been brought in for another upgrade package and then she'd have walked out with all her worries gone and a bunch of new skillsofts so she could do her missions more efficiently.
Henriette sighs, and slumps down on her bed, hands unconsciously feeling her skull where she knows her cranial implants are hidden. She hates this inner conflict. She's had an ADEI since she was six, and it's part of who she is. If it was removed, it'd be like losing a hand. Or worse. Not being able to instantly check up information would be... well, it'd be dreadful. Her implants are good. Things would be better if everyone could have them. Even a bunch of RDs agree! Virtual Adepts and Etherites use similar things!
But... but there's such a thing as too far. Kessler had mentioned one of his ex-girlfriends, who had become an ex- when she'd had her emotions removed out of devotion to the Computer. And from what Antoinette had implied, her mother had done something similar to try to cope with the loss post '99. Why would you do something like that? It was just... alien to her. Sure, emotions hurt. Sure, she was still trying to pick through the mess of feelings the events of Moscow had stirred up and the mix of sadness and pity and hate she felt about... about the thing which was sort of her sister. But she wouldn't want to get rid of them. Even when she wants to have them under control, they're... they're part of her.
She massages her temples, almost feeling like she can sense the metal and silicon lying under her skull. How is she meant to phrase 'things would be better if everyone got to have ADEIs like this' without it sounding like... like she wanted people to have things forced into them? Like the Computer had done to her parents. It was obvious how much better having an ADEI was, but... but if people wanted to be stupid and refuse to use something made everything so obviously better, maybe they should just be allowed to do it?
Henriette sits up, and gets a plastic cup of water. Sitting back down, she settles down on her bed, crossing her legs. It's the NWOism, she finds herself forced to decide. It's insidious. It gets in your head, even without any surgery. Since she learned that basic hyperpsychology, she's finding herself more contemplative. More prone to self-reflection. Thinking more about what she says and how it'll appear to other people. Better at controlling her temper, and seeing when people are trying to prompt a reaction from her.
Which is why she learned it, of course. But still. It's a way of thinking about your own brain which is... odd. Well, no, it's not odd. It's a much less... rigorous manner of doing it. Henriette knows very well that the brain is just meat and electricity and potentials and electrochemical reactions. She and her implants make a seamless whole - the person who calls herself 'Henriette' is her brain and her ADEI, just as she's her cerebrum and her limbic core. She could get implants fitted which make her feel whatever she wants. It's all just electricity.
The NWO hyperpsych doesn't really care about that. It acknowledges that the brain is just chemicals, of course, because it talks about how drugs can help stabilise your mood and correct chemical imbalances and the like, which is what you have to do when you don't have hardware in there. But at the heart, it's very... very non-reductionist. It teaches you to suppress your own emotions through breath control and awareness of your own biomarkers. It - somehow - lets you protect yourself from RD attempts at mental manipulation by distractionary exercises! You can stop superstitionists from reading your mind by counting cards or practising plays in your head, so they only catch that mental trap and not your real thoughts!
It's laughably primitive. It seems almost petty and trite. But it works. And it'll always work. Someone - say, someone who has a name very like hers - can't stop her from staying calm by corrupting her ADEI.
Henriette thinks she's seen a little bit into the core of the New World Order, which a lot of Iterators don't grasp. The NWO doesn't care as much about efficiency as Iteration X. They'll often do things in a deliberately slow and backwards way, and she used to find it frustrating. They'd rather take a Protector with a selection of specialist rounds to battle, rather than any number of superior weapons which might have a teeny tendency to shut down in field conditions. They don't care, because they prize redundancy more.
... although Director Belltower is also disgustingly efficient, and somehow can outperform mid-end hyperstatistical forecasting implants with a baseline brain. Henriette isn't quite sure how to feel about that. Her common sense tells her that there's no way that the human brain should be able to outperform a compact quantum computer, but she's seen it enough that she has to concede that it's a thing.
Clearly their training gives them very good heuristics or something.
She's getting distracted, anyway, and even more tired. She should get it done before she goes to bed, while she waits for her hair to dry properly. Henriette checks her posture, adjusts her legs, and begins to breathe like the training tells her. Slowly, she desynchronises with her body, and tries to calm down. Her autonomous breathing slows. Painfully slowly, she focuses on her hands, trying not to break her state of mind.
Just as slowly, her index fingers curl. It's just a fractional thing, but it's progress. A little more than yesterday. A little more than the day before. She measures it. And then her middle finger on her left hand twitches slightly.
Meditation. Honestly. To think she'd find herself seriously doing this. What's next, finding herself sitting around healing crystals searching for a sense of oneness with the universe? But it works. It's so annoying! All her Iteration X training and biases tell her that it's just mystical, but the NWO is very clear that there's a solid effective core under the mysticism - and there is! She's been able to curl her fingers even when desynchronised. It's hardly a miraculous recovery, but still. Her nerves might be shot to hell, but this way she can maybe learn to work through the damage the Void Engineers did with the mindtape. Fucking Void Engineers.
And... nerves can be fixed. Especially when you know a Progenitor super-genius.
Wait, dammit. She's specifically not meant to complain about it in her head. Stupid monologuing about stupid meditation and stupid Void Engineers. She's lost it now.
Henriette sighs, and tries again.
"Come on," Rachael tells her. "I'm calling it a night. You should too."
"I can still go on," Henriette insists, blinking blearily as she looks around the rented warehouse where the amalgam is carrying out their business which needs more space than hotel rooms. She rubs her eyes, still getting used to the feeling of true binocularity.
The other woman stuffs her hands in her pockets. "You might be able to, but the rest of us don't have computers in our brains which cope with a lack of sleep," she informs Henriette. "And there's nothing critical enough to make us pull an all-nighter. Save that for when it's needed."
"I'm still good for a bit longer," Henriette insists.
"The security convoy back to the hotel can't leave until you do, and the Director would have my head if I let you go back on your own," Williams tells her. "Come on. You need to eat, and you don't look like you can skip meals."
Henriette notices that yes, she is actually quite hungry. "Fine," she says, gracelessly.
They get Chinese on the way back, and Henriette sits there quietly, picking at her food. She doesn't want to admit it in front of Rachael and the TAC-1 team, but she's crashing. She's been grabbing a few hours sleep for the last few days, and it's all catching up with her. Williams probably saw that, although at least she has enough tact to not point it out as she helps Henriette back to her room and jokes about how she shouldn't let herself drown in the bath.
Henriette can see what she's doing, putting the thought of having a nice warm bath in her head. She considers getting annoyed by it, but the annoying thing is that she knows she'd feel better with one. She does briefly consider getting annoyed about how she's annoyed by it, but she's just too tired for that kind of recursion.
She does feel better in the bath. Williams, the SIGINT guys, and TAC-1 aren't bad people, she has to admit. Henriette doesn't feel like she's one of them, but that's probably partly because they're all a bunch of NWO spies and tactical troopers (the latter being, according to her Iteration X training, barely above Masses soldiers in threat level) and mostly because they're all older than her and yet newer to the Union. She's been a member of the Technocratic Union for twenty years, after all, and considering that she's only nineteen that tells everyone that she gestated in Union property. That separates her from them. They're still amazed at the idea that nuclear fusion is a stable technology. She played with toy tokamaks when she was little.
Getting out, she dries herself off and wraps herself in the fluffy hotel dressing gown. Pausing, she wipes down the full length mirror and peers at her reflection.
Maybe she should try experimenting with hair dye, Henriette considers, coiling a lock of hair around her finger. Just to see what it's like. She could always test it first with something which would come out easily. Maybe she could call up Serafina and ask her to do some Progenitor stuff to work out what hair colour she would have had if she'd been naturally conceived. She sighs. Probably some shade of brown. Normal human hair colours are so boring. But maybe she can use that colour for when she has to go unnoticed, and then save her real hair colour for the Union. It... it wouldn't be like she was disrespecting the memory of her parents to use the colour she would have had if they hadn't picked another colour when they were designing her, would it?
Henriette smiles a little bitterly to herself. It's so annoying when people call her a 'princess'. Yes, she would have been one, but she didn't get most of the benefits because of '99. Apart from the cleaned up genome and the enhancements, but they don't count. She's earned her place, not got things through family connections. Admittedly, when she'd complained about that to Baptysme the other girl had said 'Gosh. Family. Wouldn't it be nice to have that, so then I could have family connections? And annoying sisters don't count', but Baptysme said that sort of thing a lot.
But all in all, she... she likes what she's sees. Even if she's still getting used to true binocular vision. But now she has two normal eyes again, she... she looks more like how she used to. Not exactly. She's changed. Grown up. She tries to pretend that she's really enthusiastic about going on the mission to Autochtonia and how she's finally managed what she's been working towards since she was five and... and she can't repress a shiver. She'd really believed back then. The Computer was out there and so were her parents and she was going to find them back and then the Computer would come back and everything would go back to how things had been in the stories she'd been told in MIHT. Back when Iteration X was unbeatable and all the other Conventions respected them for their unstoppable force, back when the path to the Singularity was so very clear.
How could she have been so stupid? The Computer hadn't been worthy of the belief she'd had in it. Maybe it never had been. The Computer has taken her entire family away from her, and turned them against her. The reverence Iteration X has for it meant they'd all-but kicked her out after she'd punched a Comptroller for talking about it in front of her, and she'd lost her foster parents.
So, no, she's not who she was back then. She's older and wiser. She's not as happy. She's not as certain. She's talked with Kessler more, and... and she's not sure she'd have liked that pre-1999 world. If something like... like what had happened on that mission had happened back then, she'd have been brought in for another upgrade package and then she'd have walked out with all her worries gone and a bunch of new skillsofts so she could do her missions more efficiently.
Henriette sighs, and slumps down on her bed, hands unconsciously feeling her skull where she knows her cranial implants are hidden. She hates this inner conflict. She's had an ADEI since she was six, and it's part of who she is. If it was removed, it'd be like losing a hand. Or worse. Not being able to instantly check up information would be... well, it'd be dreadful. Her implants are good. Things would be better if everyone could have them. Even a bunch of RDs agree! Virtual Adepts and Etherites use similar things!
But... but there's such a thing as too far. Kessler had mentioned one of his ex-girlfriends, who had become an ex- when she'd had her emotions removed out of devotion to the Computer. And from what Antoinette had implied, her mother had done something similar to try to cope with the loss post '99. Why would you do something like that? It was just... alien to her. Sure, emotions hurt. Sure, she was still trying to pick through the mess of feelings the events of Moscow had stirred up and the mix of sadness and pity and hate she felt about... about the thing which was sort of her sister. But she wouldn't want to get rid of them. Even when she wants to have them under control, they're... they're part of her.
She massages her temples, almost feeling like she can sense the metal and silicon lying under her skull. How is she meant to phrase 'things would be better if everyone got to have ADEIs like this' without it sounding like... like she wanted people to have things forced into them? Like the Computer had done to her parents. It was obvious how much better having an ADEI was, but... but if people wanted to be stupid and refuse to use something made everything so obviously better, maybe they should just be allowed to do it?
Henriette sits up, and gets a plastic cup of water. Sitting back down, she settles down on her bed, crossing her legs. It's the NWOism, she finds herself forced to decide. It's insidious. It gets in your head, even without any surgery. Since she learned that basic hyperpsychology, she's finding herself more contemplative. More prone to self-reflection. Thinking more about what she says and how it'll appear to other people. Better at controlling her temper, and seeing when people are trying to prompt a reaction from her.
Which is why she learned it, of course. But still. It's a way of thinking about your own brain which is... odd. Well, no, it's not odd. It's a much less... rigorous manner of doing it. Henriette knows very well that the brain is just meat and electricity and potentials and electrochemical reactions. She and her implants make a seamless whole - the person who calls herself 'Henriette' is her brain and her ADEI, just as she's her cerebrum and her limbic core. She could get implants fitted which make her feel whatever she wants. It's all just electricity.
The NWO hyperpsych doesn't really care about that. It acknowledges that the brain is just chemicals, of course, because it talks about how drugs can help stabilise your mood and correct chemical imbalances and the like, which is what you have to do when you don't have hardware in there. But at the heart, it's very... very non-reductionist. It teaches you to suppress your own emotions through breath control and awareness of your own biomarkers. It - somehow - lets you protect yourself from RD attempts at mental manipulation by distractionary exercises! You can stop superstitionists from reading your mind by counting cards or practising plays in your head, so they only catch that mental trap and not your real thoughts!
It's laughably primitive. It seems almost petty and trite. But it works. And it'll always work. Someone - say, someone who has a name very like hers - can't stop her from staying calm by corrupting her ADEI.
Henriette thinks she's seen a little bit into the core of the New World Order, which a lot of Iterators don't grasp. The NWO doesn't care as much about efficiency as Iteration X. They'll often do things in a deliberately slow and backwards way, and she used to find it frustrating. They'd rather take a Protector with a selection of specialist rounds to battle, rather than any number of superior weapons which might have a teeny tendency to shut down in field conditions. They don't care, because they prize redundancy more.
... although Director Belltower is also disgustingly efficient, and somehow can outperform mid-end hyperstatistical forecasting implants with a baseline brain. Henriette isn't quite sure how to feel about that. Her common sense tells her that there's no way that the human brain should be able to outperform a compact quantum computer, but she's seen it enough that she has to concede that it's a thing.
Clearly their training gives them very good heuristics or something.
She's getting distracted, anyway, and even more tired. She should get it done before she goes to bed, while she waits for her hair to dry properly. Henriette checks her posture, adjusts her legs, and begins to breathe like the training tells her. Slowly, she desynchronises with her body, and tries to calm down. Her autonomous breathing slows. Painfully slowly, she focuses on her hands, trying not to break her state of mind.
Just as slowly, her index fingers curl. It's just a fractional thing, but it's progress. A little more than yesterday. A little more than the day before. She measures it. And then her middle finger on her left hand twitches slightly.
Meditation. Honestly. To think she'd find herself seriously doing this. What's next, finding herself sitting around healing crystals searching for a sense of oneness with the universe? But it works. It's so annoying! All her Iteration X training and biases tell her that it's just mystical, but the NWO is very clear that there's a solid effective core under the mysticism - and there is! She's been able to curl her fingers even when desynchronised. It's hardly a miraculous recovery, but still. Her nerves might be shot to hell, but this way she can maybe learn to work through the damage the Void Engineers did with the mindtape. Fucking Void Engineers.
And... nerves can be fixed. Especially when you know a Progenitor super-genius.
Wait, dammit. She's specifically not meant to complain about it in her head. Stupid monologuing about stupid meditation and stupid Void Engineers. She's lost it now.
Henriette sighs, and tries again.
Last edited:
Side Story: Seraphim; SR I: Inferno
SR I: Inferno
2015
If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly.
Serafina can't stop thinking of this lonely stupid line from Macbeth. It doesn't make sense in context. Macbeth was talking about ambition and the assassination of a king. It's nothing like that for her.
Because it's all her fault. She can't do anything right. She should just go. They won't even miss her. She doesn't want to go. But it's all her fault.
She needs to make things right. So she'll stop hurting other people. So she'll stop being a terrible person who only feels sorry about deaths when they're of someone she knows. People like Director Belltower might be fine with being… being cold-blooded killers who just force down their feelings with 'it was for the mission', but she just can't.
None of the drugs in here will do. Oh! But there's the containment cabinet, in case of lab accidents. Legs stiff, she shambles like an already-dead woman to it and unlocks the closet with her auth codes. There's a treasure trove of things in here. Weapons and containment biosuits and defence packages. They're made for specimen breakouts or RD invasions, but she can use them to make the world safer from her. She could use the flamethrower. But that would hurt too much and the sensors would detect the burning. There are lots of drugs in the needlers, though. Flechette rounds into the head, and then an agent to dissolve her brain tissue. One which'll quickly convert what remains into biological sludge. No way to revive her from that kind of destruction. That'd be good.
And then she flinches. No, she's still being selfish. She… she can't let Rose be that ashamed of her. Or make her think that she killed herself because of Rose's actions. It's all on her head. She can't spread the pain any more. She can't let her feel bad about her. She needs to make it look like an accident. Not shooting herself, but… some kind of accident. Pricking herself with a needle when working with dangerous compounds.
Rose will be sad but it was an accident and she can leave her behind. Move on. Forget what a mockery Serafina made of her life.
Carefully, Serafina lowers the needler, ejects its magazine, and puts it back on the rack. She holds up the magazine. She can take one of the flechettes and mix the P-PCD2 with the contents of one of the paralytic syringes in here. It's just a contaminant tool and that it got P-PCD2 is a problem back in the supply chain.
It's very easy when it comes down to it.
2015
It's dark outside. The Moscow skyline is still punctuated by black spots, where the power hasn't been restored. Or where there's simply no buildings to restore it to. Rising from her chair, she rests her forehead against the cool glass and simply tries not to think.
She's been talking so much her voice is nearly gone. Every free moment in her day has been spent cramming for the next meeting or answering emails. She's had three hours of sleep in the past six days.
1991
The scent of newly cut grass wafts in through the old stone window. There's the sound of sweaty adolescent boys playing rugby against each other. However, despite the fact that the current inhabitant of this room often takes the chance to watch such free entertainment, right now she's hunkered down over her desk.
Working. Bleargh. She told Alicia to go away and stop bothering her, and Alice is at another training session with her personal tutor.
Pinching her brow, she looks up from her work and takes the call. It's her mother. And she looks disappointed. When her mother looks disappointed, it's basically the nuclear option.
"Serafina," her mother begins with no preamble. "Serafina, Serafina, Serafina. How could you do something like this?"
Pia Rosario's eyes widen in apparently genuine sympathy. "Oh. I know you think you're a big grown up girl, but you just can't do anything right! There, there. It's only to be expected."
1987
Serafina reflexively smoothes down her cream blazer, and clutches her books to her chest. Everything is changing now that she's back at school for the new year. And not just because she's now nine! Anyone can manage to be nine, if they survive that long!
And now she's being moved classes, to the special classes! Everyone knows that's where the best people go and that if you're not in the special classes, you're not as good as them!
She takes a deep breath, and steps through the door. There's only one special class for the under tens, so there are only six other people here.
"This is the wrong room," the girl tells Sera, flatly. "You shouldn't be here. You should go."
2013
The room smells of copper. The room smells red. Rose stands in the shower, the water running crimson around her. Her eyes aren't focussed, and she flinches when she sees her own reflection.
1998
It's her twentieth birthday, and she's alone. There's someone in the bed with her but she's alone. He's asleep, but even when Jack is awake she doesn't feel he really keeps her company. Their relationship is built on sex, and right now it feels hollow and empty. He's not in love with her. He's just in lust with her. And she was in lust with him too, but now she's bored.
Sometimes she wonders if things would be easier if she was closer to baseline. Jack is blunt. It's one of the things which interested her at first. He was plain-spoken and amusing, but now she's really just finding that he uses being plain-spoken to avoid really thinking about what he says. And now it just makes her feel awkward and lonely when he says things and he's obviously not using his brain.
"We'll just break it off," Serafina whispers into his ear. Practicing. "It was only for a while. I'll just leave. You won't even miss me."
1982
Sitting on the too-high chair, Serafina swings her legs, trying very hard not to cry. Beside her, Mario squeezes her hand. It's good he's here. Her brand new shoes are itching her feet and she doesn't like the new uniform. It's uncomfortable. Mama and Papa have told her that she's starting school now and that Mario will be going with her because you get to take your servants with you to Damien. And that she's being very brave and she'll see them soon.
1987
Serafina has detention. Again. It really isn't her fault. Well, not entirely. She did do the thing they're blaming her for, but in her defence, she only did it because it looked interesting and she wanted to see what would happen. Alicia totally agreed with her and said it would be educational.
Regardless, it wasn't really her fault that the chemistry labs had to be evacuated because of the thick white clouds of hydrochloric acid. But the teachers disagreed! How mean is that?
Shoulders slumping, Serafina turns over the page. She doesn't like to get blamed for things or make other people upset. "I'm sorry," she says softly.
Alice harrumphs and glares. "You're so annoying," she tells her.
2011
The phone rings, and Serafina answers. She listens. The bottom falls out of her stomach as she hears what has just happened at the EXEMPLAR III facility.
2015
The Series-P agent freezes, head tilting. "Orders/Mission objectives/update?" he says, freezing in place. The idiotic obsolete battlesuit opens fire, blathering on about something Serafina isn't listening to, and it shakes the rogue Series-P out of his stupor. "Close proximity threat. Potential hostages. Hostages may be RDs. Neutralizing with caution."
The commando dodges past a gatling gun burst that manages to shoot holes through a bedroom, tackles her, and holds his knife to her throat. "Stand down. Stop the vehicle and open the door or she dies." He pushes the blade just hard enough to draw her blood. Threat.
Better to die now.
1991
Serafina steps up to Alice's room, and knocks sharply on her door. She's grinning. She's done her homework and her mice embryos are going nicely and their skin is already displaying the appropriate chromatophore density - actually it's rather better than Professor Been asked for - and oh yes, she might have managed to sneakily get her hands on some Svalfor 312-a xenobiological material by sending one of her little 'test' projects to 'borrow' it from Been when she distracted him.
It's Miss Clock at the door. She's a short woman with olive-coloured skin. Alice says her gene-donor was from Mossad. That wouldn't surprise Serafina. She looks vaguely irritated, which is bad news. She's Alice's maid - except she's also one of her tutors and Alice does everything she says so it's like she's a live-in teacher and that's super-weird. Mario nowadays just looks after Serafina and makes sure to fight her corner when it comes to things like 'what room will she get next year' and stuff like that. She hasn't used him as a teddy bear to cry into for literally years.
Serafina doesn't think Alice has ever used Miss Clock to cry into. For one, Alice doesn't cry. Ever. For two, Miss Clock is kind of scary. Kind of really scary, just like the Nu-Woo combat instructors. And she remains scary, even though Serafina is now quite a bit taller than her.
"No."
1992
The hospital room is white-walled and smells clinical. The guilt and the shame and the sickness squirms through Sera's stomach. They say she's sick. That she's suffering enhancile schizophrenia, seeing things that aren't there, hearing voices. It's not her fault. She's done all these bad things because there are things wrong with her brain.
1999
The New York skyline is glowing bright. Serafina Rosario sits in her dark hotel room all alone, staring out at the cars below. The light plays across her face, highlighting moisture in her eyes.
"God," she breathes, letting her head sink into her hands. "I'm so fucked up."
Rising, Serafina presses her head against the window, looking out at the world. She'll… she'll just force it down. Like everything else. Hide it from everyone else. Try to make this placement work before she gets bored with it. Try to let someone else through her barriers. She doesn't really have a choice.
"You always have a choice, Sera," Alicia says softly from the bed. "I'll always be here for you. No matter how bad it looks. Even after what they did to you."
2015
The world around her is grey and winds are howling all around. Flensing, cold winds that chill her to the very bone. Chill her to the very soul. Incoherent, distant moans fill the air.
Serafina screams. No. No. She's meant to be dead. She shouldn't be seeing things. Hearing things. Her brain should be mush. Her organs should be dead. She shouldn't be here.
She screams until she's hoarse.
********************************************************************************************************
Serafina is dead
[ ] Fade to White
[ ] Fade to Black
2015
If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly.
Serafina can't stop thinking of this lonely stupid line from Macbeth. It doesn't make sense in context. Macbeth was talking about ambition and the assassination of a king. It's nothing like that for her.
"What
And yet. If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly. Her unseeing eyes look around the lab, flicking from point to point. The pressure behind her eyes escapes in the form of tears, making it blurred, but she has to pick well. If she picks the wrong method, it'll take too long. Or it'll leave her in a state where she's not really dead and someone can save her.did she do to herself?"
She needs something quick, painless and fast which'll obstruct salvage attempts. Because if they salvage her, she'll wake up again in a hospital still feeling like this and it won't be done when the deed is done.Because it's all her fault. She can't do anything right. She should just go. They won't even miss her. She doesn't want to go. But it's all her fault.
She needs to make things right. So she'll stop hurting other people. So she'll stop being a terrible person who only feels sorry about deaths when they're of someone she knows. People like Director Belltower might be fine with being… being cold-blooded killers who just force down their feelings with 'it was for the mission', but she just can't.
None of the drugs in here will do. Oh! But there's the containment cabinet, in case of lab accidents. Legs stiff, she shambles like an already-dead woman to it and unlocks the closet with her auth codes. There's a treasure trove of things in here. Weapons and containment biosuits and defence packages. They're made for specimen breakouts or RD invasions, but she can use them to make the world safer from her. She could use the flamethrower. But that would hurt too much and the sensors would detect the burning. There are lots of drugs in the needlers, though. Flechette rounds into the head, and then an agent to dissolve her brain tissue. One which'll quickly convert what remains into biological sludge. No way to revive her from that kind of destruction. That'd be good.
"What do you think?
If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly. Yes. Serafina takes down a needler, loads it with a protease-heavy P-PCD2 package, and works the cycle. Hands shaking, she places it against her temple.And then she flinches. No, she's still being selfish. She… she can't let Rose be that ashamed of her. Or make her think that she killed herself because of Rose's actions. It's all on her head. She can't spread the pain any more. She can't let her feel bad about her. She needs to make it look like an accident. Not shooting herself, but… some kind of accident. Pricking herself with a needle when working with dangerous compounds.
Rose will be sad but it was an accident and she can leave her behind. Move on. Forget what a mockery Serafina made of her life.
Carefully, Serafina lowers the needler, ejects its magazine, and puts it back on the rack. She holds up the magazine. She can take one of the flechettes and mix the P-PCD2 with the contents of one of the paralytic syringes in here. It's just a contaminant tool and that it got P-PCD2 is a problem back in the supply chain.
It's very easy when it comes down to it.
It's not her fault,
And then all that's left is the last flickers of a dying brain.someone pushed her into it."
2015
It's dark outside. The Moscow skyline is still punctuated by black spots, where the power hasn't been restored. Or where there's simply no buildings to restore it to. Rising from her chair, she rests her forehead against the cool glass and simply tries not to think.
It's dark in here.
Serafina has spent all day in meetings. Meetings with Watchers and Media Control complaining about how Moscow is basically taking up pretty much every last member of those two Methodologies and how the longer they have to keep everything coming out of Moscow censored, the greater the chance there'll be a slip. Meetings with Disbursements who are very, very unhappy about how much this is costing - thank God for Financier Romanov who's distracting them with the work the Enforcers are doing to seize control of every haemophage controlled industry. Meetings with overworked and overstressed FACADE Engineers who are just thankful that they have someone at the top who understands the limits of cloning vats and how there is literally no more capacity for them.She's been talking so much her voice is nearly gone. Every free moment in her day has been spent cramming for the next meeting or answering emails. She's had three hours of sleep in the past six days.
There's a stale, unwashed
And yet it's moments like this which are the worse. When she has a moment to dwell and ponder.scent in the air
"It's all my fault," she whispers, looking out at Moscow. Trying to apologise to the dead. Trying to apologise to the city. "It's not fair. I'm left alive when it was me who…" she trails off. "It's my fault. I'm sorry."1991
The scent of newly cut grass wafts in through the old stone window. There's the sound of sweaty adolescent boys playing rugby against each other. However, despite the fact that the current inhabitant of this room often takes the chance to watch such free entertainment, right now she's hunkered down over her desk.
Working. Bleargh. She told Alicia to go away and stop bothering her, and Alice is at another training session with her personal tutor.
and her eyes don't work properly.
The viewscreen rings, and Serafina looks up from her anatomy textbook. And it really is a real anatomy textbook this time - not an 'anatomy textbook'. She has another lab report due in for tomorrow, so she needs to write up the things she did to the cockroaches except it all went wrong and most of them died so now she needs to explain why all her insects died rather than displaying neoteny.Pinching her brow, she looks up from her work and takes the call. It's her mother. And she looks disappointed. When her mother looks disappointed, it's basically the nuclear option.
"Serafina," her mother begins with no preamble. "Serafina, Serafina, Serafina. How could you do something like this?"
Everything hurts.
Serafina swallows. Um. Oh dear. Her mother might have sort of found out that she signed herself up for the Basics Of Microelectronics module rather than the Advanced Retroviral Engineering course. Well, that's not her fault! The guy who teaches BoMe is really cute and maybe she wants to try something else for once! Something which isn't yet more biology. She's thirteen! She should get to pick some things for herself! She opens her mouth to protest, but can't find the words.Pia Rosario's eyes widen in apparently genuine sympathy. "Oh. I know you think you're a big grown up girl, but you just can't do anything right! There, there. It's only to be expected."
1987
Serafina reflexively smoothes down her cream blazer, and clutches her books to her chest. Everything is changing now that she's back at school for the new year. And not just because she's now nine! Anyone can manage to be nine, if they survive that long!
Her muscles burn.
No, she's now an enlightened scientist. It is the bestest best thing ever! And also her bestestest bestest best birthday present ever! Even better than the unicorn! As soon as the house sensors picked it up, Mama and Papa came right back from their conference and then they were around all the time and then when they went back off to their meetings they took her with them and she got to sit in and watch as long as she was quiet and she got to go to lots of nice meals and then Mama took her into her labs and she got to do things with plants! And feed mice to the plants! And Mama says that the plants are both autotrophic and heterotrophic and incorporate alien genetic material from a place called Thaimeran or somewhere like that and she let Serafina check if all the plants were healthy and she says when she's a little better at hyperbiology, she'll let her experiment with retroviral therapy!And now she's being moved classes, to the special classes! Everyone knows that's where the best people go and that if you're not in the special classes, you're not as good as them!
She takes a deep breath, and steps through the door. There's only one special class for the under tens, so there are only six other people here.
She feels as weak
"Who are you?" asks the girl at the nearest desk, looking up from her book. At least, Sera thinks she looked up. The other girl's hair is long and dark and hangs in front of her face, covering most of her face. Maybe she's using enlightened science to read through it.as a kitten.
"I'm… um, Serafina," she says. "Hi!""This is the wrong room," the girl tells Sera, flatly. "You shouldn't be here. You should go."
2013
The room smells of copper. The room smells red. Rose stands in the shower, the water running crimson around her. Her eyes aren't focussed, and she flinches when she sees her own reflection.
She tries to speak
Outside, Serafina sinks down against the wall. "Rose," she whispers, trying not to make any sound as she cries. "I'm… I'm so sorry. I didn't… I should have… you should have been demilitarised. It shouldn't have been like this."1998
It's her twentieth birthday, and she's alone. There's someone in the bed with her but she's alone. He's asleep, but even when Jack is awake she doesn't feel he really keeps her company. Their relationship is built on sex, and right now it feels hollow and empty. He's not in love with her. He's just in lust with her. And she was in lust with him too, but now she's bored.
Sometimes she wonders if things would be easier if she was closer to baseline. Jack is blunt. It's one of the things which interested her at first. He was plain-spoken and amusing, but now she's really just finding that he uses being plain-spoken to avoid really thinking about what he says. And now it just makes her feel awkward and lonely when he says things and he's obviously not using his brain.
but nothing responds.
Well. She's also getting bored of this research placement. She knows she can get something better. Maybe in Paris. Paris is fun. And they have some really interesting things there. She can pull some strings and since it's better than this current one no one will look askew at her for moving. Then she can dump him without hurting his feelings, because no one should expect her to keep up a casual fling as a cross-continental thing."We'll just break it off," Serafina whispers into his ear. Practicing. "It was only for a while. I'll just leave. You won't even miss me."
1982
Sitting on the too-high chair, Serafina swings her legs, trying very hard not to cry. Beside her, Mario squeezes her hand. It's good he's here. Her brand new shoes are itching her feet and she doesn't like the new uniform. It's uncomfortable. Mama and Papa have told her that she's starting school now and that Mario will be going with her because you get to take your servants with you to Damien. And that she's being very brave and she'll see them soon.
It's like she's
Well, by Christmas at the latest. Probably. If something doesn't come up.trapped
She doesn't want to be very brave. She wants Mama and Papa. She wants them!in her own body.
"I don't want to go," she whispers, biting her lip. "I don't want to!"1987
Serafina has detention. Again. It really isn't her fault. Well, not entirely. She did do the thing they're blaming her for, but in her defence, she only did it because it looked interesting and she wanted to see what would happen. Alicia totally agreed with her and said it would be educational.
Regardless, it wasn't really her fault that the chemistry labs had to be evacuated because of the thick white clouds of hydrochloric acid. But the teachers disagreed! How mean is that?
Her own
So now she's in detention, writing lines on the proper handling of chemical compounds and being glared at by the girl who was her lab partner at the time. Who also has lines because they were meant to be doing things together. Her name is Alice and Alicia finds the fact that their names are so similar to be hilarious. Then again, Alicia finds a lot of things hilarious.cold
Serafina is fairly sure it's cheating to use psychic powers to telekinetically write with four pens at once, but she mostly thinks it's really cool to watch.body.
"This is all your fault," Alice says sulkily, staring at her from behind her veil of hair. "Why did you have to get me in trouble?"Shoulders slumping, Serafina turns over the page. She doesn't like to get blamed for things or make other people upset. "I'm sorry," she says softly.
Alice harrumphs and glares. "You're so annoying," she tells her.
2011
The phone rings, and Serafina answers. She listens. The bottom falls out of her stomach as she hears what has just happened at the EXEMPLAR III facility.
No heartbeat.
"They're all dead?" she whispers. "All of them? What… what happens now?"2015
The Series-P agent freezes, head tilting. "Orders/Mission objectives/update?" he says, freezing in place. The idiotic obsolete battlesuit opens fire, blathering on about something Serafina isn't listening to, and it shakes the rogue Series-P out of his stupor. "Close proximity threat. Potential hostages. Hostages may be RDs. Neutralizing with caution."
The commando dodges past a gatling gun burst that manages to shoot holes through a bedroom, tackles her, and holds his knife to her throat. "Stand down. Stop the vehicle and open the door or she dies." He pushes the blade just hard enough to draw her blood. Threat.
No pulse.
"Just shoot him already!" Serafina says. "I can heal!" Except if the armour shoots, he'll cut her throat. She doesn't mind dying. There are worse things than death. Like what the haemophages will do to her. Trap her. Make her less than human. A slave. A willing one.Better to die now.
No breath.
1991
Serafina steps up to Alice's room, and knocks sharply on her door. She's grinning. She's done her homework and her mice embryos are going nicely and their skin is already displaying the appropriate chromatophore density - actually it's rather better than Professor Been asked for - and oh yes, she might have managed to sneakily get her hands on some Svalfor 312-a xenobiological material by sending one of her little 'test' projects to 'borrow' it from Been when she distracted him.
Blind and hurting
So if Alice has done her homework, they'll be all set for tonight's planned escapade when they sneak up the North Tower and use it to disperse mutagens onto the cricket pitch. Mutagens which should dye it the colours of House Tycho - which neither of them are in. The chaos should be hilarious. Alicia came up with the mutagen plan and Alice with the false-flag attack.and useless.
Alice hasn't answered yet. Serafina knocks again on the old oak door, louder. It groans open, and Serafina finds herself with an unwelcome surprise.It's Miss Clock at the door. She's a short woman with olive-coloured skin. Alice says her gene-donor was from Mossad. That wouldn't surprise Serafina. She looks vaguely irritated, which is bad news. She's Alice's maid - except she's also one of her tutors and Alice does everything she says so it's like she's a live-in teacher and that's super-weird. Mario nowadays just looks after Serafina and makes sure to fight her corner when it comes to things like 'what room will she get next year' and stuff like that. She hasn't used him as a teddy bear to cry into for literally years.
Serafina doesn't think Alice has ever used Miss Clock to cry into. For one, Alice doesn't cry. Ever. For two, Miss Clock is kind of scary. Kind of really scary, just like the Nu-Woo combat instructors. And she remains scary, even though Serafina is now quite a bit taller than her.
Something bad happened.
"Alice isn't here," Ms Clock says clinically. "There was an accident."Something very bad and
"Oh." Every few months, Alice has a training accident and winds up in the infirmary. But she's always better again in a day or so, so they'll just have to postpone the planned prank. "Do you know when I can see her?""No."
she's starving.
Serafina sighs. "I see."She's thirsty.
"Yes," Miss Clock says. "Please go away. Stop disrupting the scenario."1992
The hospital room is white-walled and smells clinical. The guilt and the shame and the sickness squirms through Sera's stomach. They say she's sick. That she's suffering enhancile schizophrenia, seeing things that aren't there, hearing voices. It's not her fault. She's done all these bad things because there are things wrong with her brain.
She wants something
She doesn't want to believe it. But she… she saw what the… the thing she made did. And what it did to people. She's not talking to Alicia anymore because this was all her fault for suggesting it!. And maybe… they said that if she cooperates and doesn't fight and accepts that she's ill, they can make her better. She'd rather be better than feeling like this. She'd rather do anything than have to feel like this. Her stomach is churning and her body is all tense and she can't keep food down. And they told her that if she does any enlightened science at all when she's in here, they'll keep her sedated.she can't describe.
"Help me," Sera whispers.1999
The New York skyline is glowing bright. Serafina Rosario sits in her dark hotel room all alone, staring out at the cars below. The light plays across her face, highlighting moisture in her eyes.
Something she isn't sure she
Another city. Another placement. It'll hold her attention for a little while, and then she'll get bored once she's solved all the interesting challenges in the labs. Maybe she'll pick up a girlfriend this time. She'll hold her attention for a little while, and then she'll get bored after a few months at most.should want when
Damn it. Why doesn't… why doesn't her head work right? There are other people she knew from school who seem to be perfectly happy. They've ensconced themselves in academia and are already professors or lab directors. She's almost twenty-one and she still has no idea what she wants to do with her life. She's in the FACADE Engineers because… well, she couldn't cut it in Damage Control. Not after Japan. She likes having problems to solve, but she just can't stand boredom. She doesn't like how Progenitor academic politics are so full of backstabbing.she feels like she does.
She just wants to make the world a better place, and everything seems to get in the way."God," she breathes, letting her head sink into her hands. "I'm so fucked up."
She's so fucked up.
A soft pair of arms envelops her from behind. "Don't go," a familiar voice whispers in her ear. "I'm here for you. Trust me, Sera. Don't go."Rising, Serafina presses her head against the window, looking out at the world. She'll… she'll just force it down. Like everything else. Hide it from everyone else. Try to make this placement work before she gets bored with it. Try to let someone else through her barriers. She doesn't really have a choice.
"You always have a choice, Sera," Alicia says softly from the bed. "I'll always be here for you. No matter how bad it looks. Even after what they did to you."
2015
The world around her is grey and winds are howling all around. Flensing, cold winds that chill her to the very bone. Chill her to the very soul. Incoherent, distant moans fill the air.
Serafina screams. No. No. She's meant to be dead. She shouldn't be seeing things. Hearing things. Her brain should be mush. Her organs should be dead. She shouldn't be here.
She screams until she's hoarse.
Something happened and she doesn't want to think about it.
But maybe she has to. Because her mind keeps on
coming back to it, time and time again, no matter
what the voices in the background say. They're
talking to each other but she's not listening.
She's all alone in a dead body and the
worst part about all of this is:
she deserves it.
But maybe she has to. Because her mind keeps on
coming back to it, time and time again, no matter
what the voices in the background say. They're
talking to each other but she's not listening.
She's all alone in a dead body and the
worst part about all of this is:
she deserves it.
********************************************************************************************************
Serafina is dead
[ ] Fade to White
[ ] Fade to Black
SR II: Purgatorio
SR II: Purgatorio
2015
Eventually Serafina stops screaming. If only because her voice isn't working anymore. She tries curling up into a ball, but she feels cold. So very cold. Not cold enough to make her stop moving, though. She needs to find some kind of warmth.
Shivering, her rumpled lab-coat wrapped around her, she stumbles through the ruined landscape. She's in a building, only she can see the iron grey sky through the holes in the roof. And that's not the only thing that's wrong. The world around her is grey and somehow… blurred. It's not that her eyes aren't working right. It's that everything is smeared out and faded. The exit sign is colourless and the letters are smudged.
Something's happened. Maybe she has brain damage. That's why she can't read things properly and can't see colour.
There's something she needs to do. She can't remember what. She can't remember a lot of things.
She looks at her hands - maybe she wrote a note on them - and winces at the mess of her right arm. It's mottled with bruises, running all the way up and down. There are black streaks in it, too. That can't be good. It makes her asymmetric, because her other arm is a pale grey. It's amazing it isn't hurting more. She prods at it experimentally. No. It doesn't hurt. It's just a bit stiff feeling.
What happened? How is she alive? Why was she screaming about being alive?
Shambling, staggering she picks her way down the stairs and-
1997
Whiteness. An antiseptic smell. She's wearing a heavy full biohazard suit, and her back hurts. She's been on her feet all day, being shown around Chieron Station. She has rules about when to sleep, because they don't follow a day-night cycle here. Rules about when she can access the eating facilities. Rules about waste disposal. Rules about everything. It's worse than Damian, and she was glad to see the back of the place.
She feels so sorry for the junior staff she's seen - well, the ones which aren't task-built clones, anyway. Family status has its privileges. She gets her own quarters. She doesn't have to hot bunk. But that just means she feels guilty about it, because she's not actually contributing more. Izzy might just be able to accept it, but she's a bitch. Sera sometimes really wants to tell her what she thinks of her to her face, but of course she's just nice bubbly Sera, who gets on with people. She puts work into not having enemies, but it does mean she has to hide the retorts. She doesn't want to get bogged down in their stupid games.
Shaking her head, she puts those thoughts out of mind.
At the moment, she's being shown the GeneOva. Now this? This is amazing. They're taking advantage of zero-g growth techniques here. Her fingers itch at what she could do with such a fast development cycle. She stands on the narrow rim of grav-plating around the edge of the room, and stares up at the row after row after row of egg-like red-lit pods. FACADE have gestation time down to twenty-one days, with minimal clone defects. There are two thousand pods in this vast chamber, a secular cathedral of science under a diamond roof letting the sunlight through to feed the photosynthetic gatherer-constructs. The GeneOva hang down from the ceilings like fruit, sprawling from their vine-like nutrient conduits.
"Shift 3a. Please prepare for shift handover to Shift 3b," the speakers boom. "Remember! The Administration rewards excellent performance! We are, all of us, part of the Progenitors and here on Chieron Station we must work to maintain the delicate ecological balance of the habitat. Your efforts aid the whole! Parasites will be excised!"
"We better go," her tour guide tells her. "There's only so long scheduled and then we'll need to get you settled for when you start shadowing Professor Guilder the cycle after next."
1992
There's the scent of blood. Blood and something vaguely insectoid. Someone is screaming. No, lots of people are screaming, but most of the screams are ones of fear. They've found the mess. The screams which stick in her mind are ones of pain.
Numbly, Serafina lifts her hands. They're shaking like leaves. Something has gone wrong with him. Really, really, really wrong. And now he's loose and isn't responding… and she should be outraged that he was cheating on her but that's just a reflex which can't even burn through the horror of everything. Everything that he's done. And she wasn't stupid! She built in shutdown codes! They just… didn't work.
She doesn't know what to do. It's all gone so very wrong.
2015
The world around her is grey and winds are howling all around. Flensing, cold winds that chill her to the very bone. Chill her to the very soul. Incoherent, distant moans fill the air.
Serafina screams. No. No. She's meant to be dead. She shouldn't be seeing things. Hearing things. Her brain should be mush. Her organs should be dead. She shouldn't be here.
She screams until she's hoarse.
Eventually Serafina stops screaming. If only because her voice isn't working anymore. She tries curling up into a ball, but she feels cold. So very cold. Not cold enough to make her stop moving, though. She needs to find some kind of warmth.
Shivering, her rumpled lab-coat wrapped around her, she stumbles through the ruined landscape. She's by the side of the road. An endless highway, littered with countless burned out cars. It's like a nuclear bomb went off. She half expects to see some maniacs in assless chaps running around. The sky is an iron grey and the sand by the side of the highway is grey and every car is black.
Well, that last bit is usually evidence that she's hanging around the NWO, but it's probably more serious this time. Something's happened. Maybe she has brain damage. That's why she can't read things properly and can't see colour. And why's everyone gone?
Is she in… Moscow? Something about that hurts. It hurts so very much. It makes her want to...to something. There's something she needs to do. She can't remember what. She can't remember a lot of things.
She looks at her hands - maybe she wrote a note on them - and winces at the mess of her right arm. It's mottled with bruises, running all the way up and down. There are black streaks in it, too. That can't be good. It makes her asymmetric, because her other arm is a pale grey. It's amazing it isn't hurting more. She prods at it experimentally. No. It doesn't hurt. It's just a bit stiff feeling.
What happened? How is she alive? Why was she screaming about being alive? She needs to find a car. Get out of the cold. Maybe a working one so she can drive away. Or a motorbike. Yes. She thinks she knows how to use a motorbike.
Limbs stiff, she tries to pick her way up onto the embankment and-
2013
The bar is lit in a deep purple. Glow-in-the-dark cocktails sit stickily on the tables. Grinning, Serafina adjusts the sit of her very little black dress and enjoys the catty looks she's getting from some of the other women here. There's nothing quite like the ego boost of having women young enough to be your daughter glare at you like they're not sure whether they want to claw your eyes out or start frenching you.
Actually, she'd consider some of them, but she's taken for this evening.
God, sometimes she just needs a night out! She's been working hard and she just needs to unwind! And Alex is around which means she's taking him out to the clubs - so she can show off her arm candy, if nothing else - and then. Then he might well shoot his arrow into her heel.
Alex doesn't let her make those kind of comments anymore. He hears them from everyone. Oh well. She'll just make them in the privacy of her own head.
"Sera!" She turns to face him. He's wearing an incredibly sheer white t-shirt. Like, it probably was painted on. She has no idea how she's going to get him out of it without tearing it. "Sorry about being late. I just got caught up with handling a call from New York and…"
"Shh," she tells him. "You're here now. Now, let's have some fun! What do you want to dr-"
And that's when an indistinct figure steps up behind Alexander Cross, places their Protector against his skull and pulls the trigger.
Serafina slumps, her eyes wandering over the corpse. Alexander hasn't shown up. She's been waiting and… and he's not here. Oh, she knows they don't exactly have a conventional relationship, but he said he'd be here.
She dabs at the red moisture on her face. Oh, great. She's crying. She probably looks like she's been stood up. Because she has. Great. Just fucking great. He hasn't even called.
Story of her life.
2015
The world around her is grey and winds are howling all around. Flensing, cold winds that chill her to the very bone. Chill her to the very soul. Incoherent, distant moans fill the air.
Serafina screams. No. No. She's meant to be dead. She shouldn't be seeing things. Hearing things. Her brain should be mush. Her organs should be dead. She shouldn't be here.
She screams until she's hoarse.
Eventually Serafina stops screaming. If only because her voice isn't working anymore. She tries curling up into a ball, but she feels cold. So very cold. Not cold enough to make her stop moving, though. She needs to find some kind of warmth.
Shivering, her rumpled lab-coat wrapped around her, she picks herself up, and clutches at her head. She's feeling stiff and her head is spinning. She's… she's got this strangest sense of deja vu. She's done this before, she thinks, looking at the expanses of barbed wire and barricades. There are figures up on the barricades, which look sort of like some post-apocalyptic border crossing. They look… not entirely human. The proportions aren't quite right.
She lowers her arms. There's something wrong with her right hand. It's puffy and bloated and covered in bruises. She can see her veins as dark shapes. It's unlike her left hand, which is pale grey. What happened? Why is she like this? What's going on?
A pain stabs her in the chest and she sinks to her hands and knees. It feels like she was just kicked by something. A horse, or maybe a unicorn, Stupid pets. Black blood drips from her mouth, splashing down on the filthy and degraded tarmac.
Something bad must have happened. Something very bad. There's something she needs to do. She can't remember what. She can't remember a lot of things.
The pooling blood flows into words.
What does that-
1989
The Legate Model-1988 is a sleek jet black machine which handles like a dream. Q Division did a wonderful job with it. However, even their skill has its limits, and right now this expensive superbike isn't starting because one of the compression coils in the rear wheel's engine is blown. This is quite an annoyance to its owner, who had wanted to take it out today.
A smaller face, her hair tied up and with oil smudges on her face, pokes up from behind it. "Okay, papa!" Serafina calls out. She's sweating from the July heat in Rome. "Now the missile pod's out, I think I can get my hand up inside and work the screws loose! Pass me the magdriver!"
"Sera," Daniel Rosario cautions. "Be careful. Your mother will have my head if you get hurt."
Serafina grins at him cheekily. "But she'll keep the head alive, right?" she asks. "Maybe it'll do you good. Give you time to get away from work!"
"Yes, but don't you know how boring it is in the specimen fridge?" he retorts. "Anyway, worse, not only will she cut my head off and keep it in a jar, but then she won't let us mess around with bikes any more. So please, darling, be careful," he says, passing her the tool.
"How much is it worth to you?"
"Sera!"
Serafina sticks her tongue out at him. "Yeah, yeah. I'll be careful." There's a whirring as she works away with the magdriver on the microscrews, before emerging again, offering him the broken coil. "See! Much faster than getting someone with big clunky hands to try to get it out!"
Her dad grins at her. "Yep." He shakes his head. "I'm going to need a replacement for this," he says sadly, inspecting it. "I can't fix it. So I guess we can't take the Legate out."
"Aww."
"I know! Aww!" Daniel grins wickedly. "How about we take the Hoshi instead?"
"Yesssssssss."
"And Sera, important question now. What's better? Motorbikes, or your unicorn?"
Serafina purses her lips. "Motorbikes!" she answers firmly. "Una's got boring anyway. And she doesn't have rocket launchers and oil slicks and super-boosters and she neighs rather than going brrrrrrrrr rrmmmmmmmm neeeeeeeyoh!"
"Plus ten points to Serafina!"
2002
"So I have a daughter," Pia Rosario says, rising to her feet as Serafina enters the restaurant. "I was beginning to think I dreamed you up. You don't call enough, you know." Despite that, she's smiling as she wraps Serafina up in an embrace. "You don't look like you've been eating properly. Are you cooking for yourself again? You should get a proper chef."
"Oh, mama," Serafina says, hugging back. When they meet like this, in semi-public, her mother is in 'stealth-mode'. People would ask questions if renown-in-her-field ecologist and conservationist 'Laura Renzi' didn't seem to age. That means that while she is growing old gracefully, her hair is an iron grey and her face has its fair share of lines. "I've missed you."
It's one of the reasons Serafina is quite glad she doesn't have a place in the public eye. She won't have to get the implants which allow the conscious creasing of her skin and the pigment-shifting chromatophores in her hair which allow her mother to look forty years older than her 'natural' appearance when the Masses might be looking. People would ask questions if a woman meant to be in her sixties could pass for a teenager. But whether she's Dr Laura Renzi or Research Director Pia Rosario, she's Serafina's mother either way.
"Well, it's lovely that you're at this conference," Pia says, letting go. "Sit, sit. You really do feel too thin, Serafina. At least I should be able to get one meal in you before you're off again. Where will you be heading now?"
"San Francisco, still," Serafina says. "Supreme want to keep me on with the extension they should be getting if tomorrow's speech goes well." She isn't sure if she'll take it. She quite enjoys the work she's doing on HumAug, but she doesn't want it to get stale.
"Supreme is a very good project," her mother tells her approvingly. "Gladys is a personal friend and she has wonderful things to say about your work. She's very interested in keeping you. She says you're one of her top RAs." Her mother leans forwards, cupping her chin in her hand. "Oh, Sera," Pia says in her soft voice. "I do worry about you, sometimes. You're too easy-going sometimes. You let people push you around. You're still an RA at twenty-four. You should be a Primary Investigator by now."
And here it goes.
"But I'm not going to ruin seeing my daughter by going on about that," Pia says. "So. Have you met anyone?"
Serafina flushes slightly. She really wishes her mother wouldn't ask her these things. "I… it's just something casual at the moment," she says.
"Mmm mmm. Just one thing, darling. Have you checked that they're not a werewolf this time?" her mother asks quietly.
The blush is accentuated. Her mother will not let this go. "Yes, mama," she says, head sinking into her hands. "I have."
"Good girl."
They make small talk for a while. Small talk she can do. Small talk is something she's good at with her parents. She doesn't mind spending time with her mother, at least when she's not asking about her love life. It's just… she doesn't know how to make big talk. Her mother is one of the world leads for crop development and botany. She now sits on the Administration - the new one made up of the Research Directors, because there's been no contact from the old Administration for nearly three years now. But she's almost a stranger to her own daughter. Her mother's soft voice draws her attention.
"Serafina?" Her mother sounds slightly hesitant, and that's a surprise. "There is something I've been wanting to talk to you about."
"I'm always listening, mama," Serafina responds automatically.
Pia reaches forwards, and rests her hands on Sera's. "I know things haven't always been easy with you," she says. "I… do you remember the row we had? In '97?"
Serafina blanches. "The one about the… um… Werewolf Incident?" she says.
"The other one, Sera."
"Oh. Um." Yes, the one after she rejected the offer on Chieron Station. "Yes."
Pia sighs. "I was wrong, Sera. I know we haven't always seen eye to eye and… and we have our differences and we're somewhat distant, but Chieron was wrong for you. And… and I'm so glad you didn't take it. Because if you'd been up there - God! We'd have lost you. And I'm glad we didn't. I'm not entirely happy with some of your choices, but even if I sometimes seem disappointed, I'm glad you're around."
Her thoughts are a whirl. What's this about? Reflexively, Serafina brushes back her hair, trying to work out what prompted this. "What's… well, I quite like not being dead," she says.
Her mother laughs. "Yes. Serafina, I was just thinking - when I was reading that paper you co-authored with Menes - how lucky I am and all the ways it could have turned out worse with you. I know you have the problems focusing and I wish we could find a cure for that, but you really do try your best most of the time and I am proud of you."
She drops her voice, ignoring the faceless, shadowy figure which stands directly behind her.
"And I might have heard rumours of a possible project you might like to be involved in. Very, very challenging. You won't be bored, I can promise you that - it uses some of the last data received from Chieron. It's still on the drawing boards at the moment, but if it gets the go-ahead, I'll tell you more. You're already on the long-list for involvement because of your work with Supreme. Just… darling, please. Try not to embarrass yourself in the next few years. Can I just ask that of you?"
2015
"Do you still need any help?" Rose asks, as Serafina runs another test for this next generation of synthetic antibiotics. It's the middle of December outside, although it never really gets that cold in LA. "It looks like there's still a lot of work to be done on this batch. Maybe it'll work this time." Rose muses. "The shapeshifter-derived stabilizing agents might work-it's what makes shapeshifter hyper-adrenaline so long-lasting."
"No, dear. I'll be fine on my own. You should go." Serafina says. "Donald's waiting for you and if you're going to keep seeing him you should at least be punctual about it." She's still slightly worried about Rose but after the past few months-her worries have been largely resolved by how well Donald's been treating Rose. He, at least, seems to understand that using his position of power and influence over a construct who has to listen and follow legitimate authority might not be the most ethical or moral thing to do.
Rose smiles at Serafina's response, and Serafina's worries vanish. "Thanks, Sera!" she says. "You've really warmed up to him in the past few months. I'll be good."
"I have." Serafina admits. "Not that much, though. So I'm not worried about you being good. I know you're always on your best behavior. I'm more worried about him being good. Tell me if he's not treating you right, Rose." He still gets bored, Serafina thinks. She doesn't know how Rose might react to understanding Donald's indiscretions and proclivities, but she's been convinced by Alicia and Rose herself that maybe Donald deserves a chance. And maybe Rose deserves something more than being bubble-wrapped and kept away from all mankind.
Her phone vibrates. It's a text message from an unknown number. "You can't trust him," it reads. "He'll break her heart."
Her stomach churns in fear. But Rose is so young. And she's just let her walk off, as if she… she were her biological age.
What has she done? It's all her fault.
1992
The pre-dawn light streams through the curtains. Inside, Serafina waits with bated breath.
"Chillax," Alicia says casually. "She'll be fine."
Serafina pouts. "But I want to worry," she mumbles, which makes Alicia fall off the bed laughing. "And keep it down!"
That comment only makes Alicia laugh harder.
There's a tap at her window. Carefully she slides it up, letting the dew-wet Alice in. The other girl is dressed in a greyish-greenish outfit which makes the eye skip away from her. She's not as tall as Sera, and it seems half her height is made out of knees and elbows.
"Got a towel?" Alice asks. Serafina tosses her one, and she begins to dry off her camosuit.
"You're okay?" Sera asks, twisting her nightie in both hands.
"Yeah," Alice says as she finishes drying, and begins to strip down, passing the illicitly 'borrowed' equipment to her friend to conceal under the floor tiles. Once she's dressed again in her nightclothes, she reaches out and touches Serafina's hand. "Easy enough," Alice's voice says in her head. "I took the B3 route over the roof via the North Tower, through the blindspot there."
"Niiiiiiiice," Alicia says.
Alice smiles. "Yes," she says "The ooze creature worked perfectly on the lock. Thanks for that. Then I doped Clayton's duck-bread just as before. He hasn't noticed it or anything, 'cause he isn't keeping it secure or anything. He shouldn't notice a thing. That's the third dose, right?"
"Great," Serafina thinks back, smiling. "Yes, that should be the final growth enhancer." Alice is squeezing her hand tight as she sits on the bed beside her and Alicia. "What've you got today? You're all tense."
Alice sighs, shoulders slumping. "Morning isn't so bad. Music, Literature, Politics," she thinks. "But all afternoon? Combat. More hand-to-hand, and they have me practicing techniques to use against stronger opponents." Her shoulders hunch in. "If I'm not at dinner, it's probably because I'll have broken something."
Sera gives her a hug. "Poor you," she whispers. "I'm so glad I've only got one Self-Defence module this year."
"Says you," Alicia mutters. "Damage Control is awesome."
Alice giggles. "'Licia's right," she transmits. "I'd rather have Combat than the number of practicals you have. It's bad enough that I have to take some Prog modules for my biokinesis." She shakes her head. "I need to go," she says softly. "I need to be back in bed before Miss Clock checks on me." She pauses, gives Serafina a fierce hug and then lets herself out silently.
"I don't see why you think Damage Control is awesome," Serafina tells Alicia, stretching out on her bed.
"I don't see why you think it isn't," Alicia retorts, spinning around on Serafina's chair. "First class is at eight today, yeah?"
"Yeah. Late start." Serafina pauses, trying not to grin. "Oh man. This is going to be great."
"I know, right?" says Alicia, grinning like the cat that's got the metaphorical cream. "The look on their faces! And it's going to look like Professor Clayton was the one who did it! Serves him right for being so boring! Who on earth makes xenobiology dull? It should be illegal!"
When the rowing team's training session on the lake is interrupted by a winged xenografted octopus the size of a small aircraft, it's totally worth it. And Alicia's whispered chanting of 'Ia! Ia!' throughout the assembly the entire school gets on the misuse of mutagenic compounds makes it incredibly hard for Sera to keep a straight face.
Miss Clock stares at her coldly throughout the entire assembly. It's like she knows. It makes cold shivers run up and down Serafina's spine.
2015
Serafina sits on an artificial leopard skin bed, surrounded by discarded hankies. Her hands grip the bed tightly. Director Belltower is a shorter shape to her left, sitting here and letting her sob her heart out without saying much. At least until she produces an impersonation out of nowhere, which brings a sudden giggle-hiccup of laughter from Serafina. "I shouldn't be finding this so funny," she gasps, shoulders shaking. "Even if I did literally make a robot of you. You should give up the spying and become an impressionist."
"I'll consider it," Jamelia says in an utterly flat and serious monotone, before relaxing again. The other woman is being… surprisingly open here. Serafina knows why, or at least suspects. Her boss is being honest with her because she thinks Serafina would know if she lied. "Though... no, I can't persuade you that you shouldn't feel bad about it. All I can say is that the fact that you feel bad about it means you're not as bad as you're claiming. I'm not surprised. I wouldn't have let you join my amalgam if you were. Someone who could give those orders and not consider eating a gun afterwards has lost most of their humanity."
Serafina doesn't say anything, but her hands relax slightly from their death-grip on the bed.
"It's not going to be easy," Jamelia says plainly. "You're going to live with this for the rest of your life. I can't tell you to say a hundred Hail Marys and absolve your sins. I do think we'll need to look at anti-depressants, because there are certainly safer ways for you to self-medicate than nearly drowning yourself in wine. I will help you resolve the current tension between you and Rose, because even if you don't believe I'm doing it out of altruism, I need both of you functional.
"And if you have to look for a sense of absolution in the longer run, the Union needs its shepherds as well as its butchers," Jamelia says, taking Serafina's hand. "If you can't forgive yourself, find a vaccine for malaria which is stable and can be distributed en masse. Or something like that - you're the biologist, not me. If you feel you have to 'pay back' the lives, you of all people are in a place where you can do that. You can't do that if you're dead."
Serafina lets out a deep, shuddering sigh. Yes, that's what it comes down to, doesn't it? Killing herself would be selfish. When you die, that's just the end. It'd be running away. And the fact that it's a cold-blooded Operative murderess who's telling her this… doesn't really change a thing. In fact, it makes it a little better. It's not like Belltower isn't familiar with killing. The fact that she's actually opened up here is… almost heartwarming.
Maybe it's cold and clinical. Maybe whatever machine ticks away in her head has decided that the best way to keep Serafina alive is to show her some of the woman underneath the coldness and the professionalism - some of the same woman she saw back when they'd had that first talk about the Computer in Moscow. Maybe it is just another lie - but she doesn't think so.
She hopes.
"I... I guess." Serafina manages, after a long bout of silence. "I suppose that's all I can do, make it up to the world somehow." She thinks she's found some steel inside her. Something she can use to stand against the onrushing tide. "I just... never signed up for this."
"Nobody did." Jamelia says. "And nobody thinks any less of you for how you feel. Now... take the rest of the day off. You probably need it."
"Thanks. Coming from you, just... thanks." Serafina says. "And Jamelia..."
"Yes?"
"Thank you for being a real friend." God. She's so fucked up. The closest she has to an actual close female friend is her workaholic boss who's got something not entirely human-normals-sane working away in her brain. And who's probably killed hundreds personally and many more indirectly. She needs to get back in contact with Alicia. Just for the contrast. "Even if you are an enigma wrapped in a mystery who's probably doing it in your own self-interest."
Jamelia smiles quietly. "Entirely true," she admits. "You only mean anything to me as long as you're alive and useful. I suspect I'll need to have you taken in to have those mental issues fixed. Unfortunately, I can't trust you to do it to yourself properly. You're damaged goods, Serafina. And this entire incident has compromised an operation. So annoying."
Serafina's shoulders slump. Yes. That's entirely r-
There's a figure in front of her. A figure with blond hair wearing a Damage Control biosuit.
"Caught you," Alicia hisses through clenched teeth.
Then she punches Director Belltower in the face, so hard she goes flying back through the wall and into
1990
the hockey goal, sending the goalie sprawling.
"Pass, Sera!" shouts Imogen from the left flank, but Serafina pushes forwards, past the first defender, and sends the ball humming low and fast into the goal.
The biosuited figure leaps in, moving faster than any unaugumented human could, but Director Belltower rolls out of the way and flips to her feet, knife in hand.
"I'm going to purge the fuck out of you," Alicia hisses, extending bone-blades from her forearms. She advances, slashing at the shorter woman's head but she rolls under the blow, bringing her knife around in a slash which nicks at the biosuit.
"Nice goal, Sera!" Jessica says cheerfully, although Imogen seems less happy.
Director Belltower feints, ducking around a sulky-looking girl wearing House Tycho team colours and steps out
1997
from behind the mirror. Discarded clothing litters the floor and neon light washes in through the narrow window. The room smells of sweat and a hint of something else. Something which Serafina might have noticed, if she wasn't drunk and her brain wasn't mostly occupied with how to get the man's belt off. She met him at a bar - well, wow. She doesn't even know his name, but then again, she's not really interested in such details. Not when compared to those abs and the sprawling, celtic-style tattoos which only accentuate his muscles..
Alicia kicks down the door, sending it flying off its hinges. "Different memory, Sera!" she shouts at her. "It's a trap!"
Fingers fumbling clumsily, Serafina lets out a quiet cheer as she finally manages to work out how the clasp on the belt work. It turns out that he isn't wearing any underwear.
"Oh, goddamnit! Stop thinking about the fucking werewolf!"
He reaches out and strokes her hair. Pets her.
Director Belltower smiles.
Alicia pulls out a grenade and there's just enough time for the other woman's eyes to widen before the flash and the boom and they're
2011
both flat on their backs in a sunlit room.
Rose cheers. "It's... it's amazing!" she says, pure glee in her voice. "It's for me? It's... it's really for me?" There's tears in her beautiful eyes, and her full red lips are wobbling.
"It is your birthday," Serafina tells her, smiling.
"Ow," Alicia manages, pulling herself to her feet, spitting blood as she circles her way around so she's between the mother and daughter, and the other woman. Director Belltower doesn't look hurt. "So, do you have anything to say for yourself?"
The other woman doesn't respond, circling Alicia, knife in hand. Alicia moves to obstruct her.
"Thought not," Alicia says, an adrenaline snarl locking her face. "You're not Jammy. She's not this good at hyperpsych," Alicia says. "QED you're a mnemosynic synaptic rendition of a Nu-Woo meme intrusion made by Sera's brain 'cause she actually likes Jammy, plus authority stuff." She pauses. "Anyway, if she was doing this, she wouldn't look like herself, so the fact you look like her means you're not her. Duh."
The woman lunges, faster than the eye can see
1995
through the glass window. Alicia is already here, perched on Serafina's desk, waiting for her. With a cattle prod in hand.
Lying on her bed, Serafina stares up at the ceiling. She's had this room since she was four. Lived here longer than she's ever lived at her parents house. If someone asked her, she'd say she's not sure how she's feeling. Obviously she'll miss good ol' Damien, but she's excited to be leaving and moving on to bigger things.
Of course, she'd be lying, she thinks as the room fills with the sound of a solid beating and the crackle of electricity.
It's quite possibly the happiest day of her life. She's had her last exams. They were… well, not a breeze, but only a small tornado. It's hot and sunny outside. And she's nearly out of this rotten stinking place forever. She's free.
"Yeah, funny thing?" Alicia says viciously to the prone figure, grabbing surgical tools from Serafina's desk. It's coming apart and doesn't look much like Director Belltower any more. "You're a suicide memeplex. You can't corrupt memories like this one. And now that I found you, it's a mind-vs-mind thing, and I'm smarter than you. Hmm."
She frowns, ramming a diagnostic tool through their forehead.
"Nu-Woo, obviously. Very organised mind. Clinical. Pragmatic. No, wait, there's a core underlayer." Her eyes widen. "Classic Progenitor neuroscience exploiting elements of Sera's enhancements and all those emotional smarts. Hit her right in how she hurts. Trap her mind in emotional pain. Accentuate the negative. Propagate through by emotional association. And welp, I hadn't even thought of some of these tricks." Her eyes narrow. "It's made by someone even smarter than me."
She cracks her knuckles.
"And doesn't that narrow down the candidate pool." The look on her face strongly implies that she wants to have words with whoever came up with this and see what they have to say for themselves. And that will turn out be 'please stop hurting me'. "So, let's take a look at-"
???
Blackness.
"-you." Alicia's voice comes from nowhere. "No. No. No no no! Not now! Sera! We beat it! We… we beat it! It can't… hold on! Please, hold on! Because-"
???
The world around her is grey and winds are howling all around. Flensing, cold winds that chill her to the very bone. Chill her to the very soul. Incoherent, distant moans fill the air.
Serafina screams. No. No. She's meant to be dead. She shouldn't be seeing things. Hearing things. Her brain should be mush. Her organs should be dead. She shouldn't be here. She's… she's got this strangest sense of deja vu. She's done this before, she thinks
She screams until she's hoarse. Tears roll down her face. Emptiness and loneliness bites at her.
Wailing, shivering, she pulls herself up staggering off with her labcoat loose around her. She needs to find some kind of warmth. There's something gnawing at her. Empty and hungry and old and cold. She needs something. Something she doesn't have words for. Because-
???
It's dark in here. There's a stale, unwashed scent in the air and her eyes don't work properly. Everything hurts. Her muscles burn. She feels as weak as a kitten.
She tries to speak but nothing responds. It's like she's trapped in her own body. Her own cold body.
No heartbeat. No pulse. No breath. Blind and hurting and useless.
Something bad happened. Something very bad and... she's starving. She's thirsty. She wants something she can't describe. Something she isn't sure she should want when she feels like she does.
She's so fucked up.
Something happened and she doesn't want to think about it. But maybe she has to. Because her mind keeps on coming back to it, time and time again, no matter what the voices in the background say. They're talking to each other but she's not listening. She's all alone in a dead body and the worst part about all of this is: she deserves it.
???
The sky above her is black. There are no stars in the sky, but the lights of the city around her bleed radiance up to the heavens above.
She sighs. What a beautiful night. She always likes this time of year. Smoothing down her the sleeves of her cerulean gown, she leans out over the balcony. The lighting of the city below spreads out as far as the eye can see. The fireworks display should be starting soon, and she's in a good position for it.
???
"Hello! My name's Alicia! What's yours?"
???
Above her, whiteness. Below her, blackness. She floats in a sea of slowly congealing crimson blood.
She isn't breathing. Her heart doesn't beat. But she can't stay here forever. Because between the white and the black, the grey waits for her, bone cold, and if she stays here she'll be trapped.
Slowly, painfully, she rises, pulling herself up onto her hands and knees. Copper fills her mouth. The light is above her and although her legs feel as weak as a newborn fawn's, she pulls herself upright.
Reaching for the light.
********************************************************************************************************
Night of the Living...
Someone has their hands on Serafina's body… and not in the fun way.
[ ] It's in the back of an ambulance. There's a Vanessa watching over it, needler close to hand. There's something wrong with the construct - something mad-eyed and twitchy like it's ODing on combat stims.
[ ] It's in a meat locker. The walls are frosted over and pig carcasses hang from hooks. There's the smell of flowers in the air, over the stale scent.
[ ] The operating theatre looks empty, but anything could be lurking in the shadows away from the pool of light. Countless surgical tools gleam in the light.
[ ] It's been laid out in an unpainted and windowless concrete cell. The heavy iron door is bolted. A single candle provides the only illumination.
[ ] The sky is dark above her. Dark earth surrounds her. She's at the bottom of an open grave.
2015
Eventually Serafina stops screaming. If only because her voice isn't working anymore. She tries curling up into a ball, but she feels cold. So very cold. Not cold enough to make her stop moving, though. She needs to find some kind of warmth.
Shivering, her rumpled lab-coat wrapped around her, she stumbles through the ruined landscape. She's in a building, only she can see the iron grey sky through the holes in the roof. And that's not the only thing that's wrong. The world around her is grey and somehow… blurred. It's not that her eyes aren't working right. It's that everything is smeared out and faded. The exit sign is colourless and the letters are smudged.
Something's happened. Maybe she has brain damage. That's why she can't read things properly and can't see colour.
There's something she needs to do. She can't remember what. She can't remember a lot of things.
She looks at her hands - maybe she wrote a note on them - and winces at the mess of her right arm. It's mottled with bruises, running all the way up and down. There are black streaks in it, too. That can't be good. It makes her asymmetric, because her other arm is a pale grey. It's amazing it isn't hurting more. She prods at it experimentally. No. It doesn't hurt. It's just a bit stiff feeling.
What happened? How is she alive? Why was she screaming about being alive?
Shambling, staggering she picks her way down the stairs and-
1997
Whiteness. An antiseptic smell. She's wearing a heavy full biohazard suit, and her back hurts. She's been on her feet all day, being shown around Chieron Station. She has rules about when to sleep, because they don't follow a day-night cycle here. Rules about when she can access the eating facilities. Rules about waste disposal. Rules about everything. It's worse than Damian, and she was glad to see the back of the place.
She feels so sorry for the junior staff she's seen - well, the ones which aren't task-built clones, anyway. Family status has its privileges. She gets her own quarters. She doesn't have to hot bunk. But that just means she feels guilty about it, because she's not actually contributing more. Izzy might just be able to accept it, but she's a bitch. Sera sometimes really wants to tell her what she thinks of her to her face, but of course she's just nice bubbly Sera, who gets on with people. She puts work into not having enemies, but it does mean she has to hide the retorts. She doesn't want to get bogged down in their stupid games.
Shaking her head, she puts those thoughts out of mind.
At the moment, she's being shown the GeneOva. Now this? This is amazing. They're taking advantage of zero-g growth techniques here. Her fingers itch at what she could do with such a fast development cycle. She stands on the narrow rim of grav-plating around the edge of the room, and stares up at the row after row after row of egg-like red-lit pods. FACADE have gestation time down to twenty-one days, with minimal clone defects. There are two thousand pods in this vast chamber, a secular cathedral of science under a diamond roof letting the sunlight through to feed the photosynthetic gatherer-constructs. The GeneOva hang down from the ceilings like fruit, sprawling from their vine-like nutrient conduits.
"Shift 3a. Please prepare for shift handover to Shift 3b," the speakers boom. "Remember! The Administration rewards excellent performance! We are, all of us, part of the Progenitors and here on Chieron Station we must work to maintain the delicate ecological balance of the habitat. Your efforts aid the whole! Parasites will be excised!"
"We better go," her tour guide tells her. "There's only so long scheduled and then we'll need to get you settled for when you start shadowing Professor Guilder the cycle after next."
1992
There's the scent of blood. Blood and something vaguely insectoid. Someone is screaming. No, lots of people are screaming, but most of the screams are ones of fear. They've found the mess. The screams which stick in her mind are ones of pain.
Numbly, Serafina lifts her hands. They're shaking like leaves. Something has gone wrong with him. Really, really, really wrong. And now he's loose and isn't responding… and she should be outraged that he was cheating on her but that's just a reflex which can't even burn through the horror of everything. Everything that he's done. And she wasn't stupid! She built in shutdown codes! They just… didn't work.
She doesn't know what to do. It's all gone so very wrong.
2015
The world around her is grey and winds are howling all around. Flensing, cold winds that chill her to the very bone. Chill her to the very soul. Incoherent, distant moans fill the air.
Serafina screams. No. No. She's meant to be dead. She shouldn't be seeing things. Hearing things. Her brain should be mush. Her organs should be dead. She shouldn't be here.
She screams until she's hoarse.
Eventually Serafina stops screaming. If only because her voice isn't working anymore. She tries curling up into a ball, but she feels cold. So very cold. Not cold enough to make her stop moving, though. She needs to find some kind of warmth.
Shivering, her rumpled lab-coat wrapped around her, she stumbles through the ruined landscape. She's by the side of the road. An endless highway, littered with countless burned out cars. It's like a nuclear bomb went off. She half expects to see some maniacs in assless chaps running around. The sky is an iron grey and the sand by the side of the highway is grey and every car is black.
Well, that last bit is usually evidence that she's hanging around the NWO, but it's probably more serious this time. Something's happened. Maybe she has brain damage. That's why she can't read things properly and can't see colour. And why's everyone gone?
Is she in… Moscow? Something about that hurts. It hurts so very much. It makes her want to...to something. There's something she needs to do. She can't remember what. She can't remember a lot of things.
She looks at her hands - maybe she wrote a note on them - and winces at the mess of her right arm. It's mottled with bruises, running all the way up and down. There are black streaks in it, too. That can't be good. It makes her asymmetric, because her other arm is a pale grey. It's amazing it isn't hurting more. She prods at it experimentally. No. It doesn't hurt. It's just a bit stiff feeling.
What happened? How is she alive? Why was she screaming about being alive? She needs to find a car. Get out of the cold. Maybe a working one so she can drive away. Or a motorbike. Yes. She thinks she knows how to use a motorbike.
Limbs stiff, she tries to pick her way up onto the embankment and-
2013
The bar is lit in a deep purple. Glow-in-the-dark cocktails sit stickily on the tables. Grinning, Serafina adjusts the sit of her very little black dress and enjoys the catty looks she's getting from some of the other women here. There's nothing quite like the ego boost of having women young enough to be your daughter glare at you like they're not sure whether they want to claw your eyes out or start frenching you.
Actually, she'd consider some of them, but she's taken for this evening.
God, sometimes she just needs a night out! She's been working hard and she just needs to unwind! And Alex is around which means she's taking him out to the clubs - so she can show off her arm candy, if nothing else - and then. Then he might well shoot his arrow into her heel.
Alex doesn't let her make those kind of comments anymore. He hears them from everyone. Oh well. She'll just make them in the privacy of her own head.
"Sera!" She turns to face him. He's wearing an incredibly sheer white t-shirt. Like, it probably was painted on. She has no idea how she's going to get him out of it without tearing it. "Sorry about being late. I just got caught up with handling a call from New York and…"
"Shh," she tells him. "You're here now. Now, let's have some fun! What do you want to dr-"
And that's when an indistinct figure steps up behind Alexander Cross, places their Protector against his skull and pulls the trigger.
Serafina slumps, her eyes wandering over the corpse. Alexander hasn't shown up. She's been waiting and… and he's not here. Oh, she knows they don't exactly have a conventional relationship, but he said he'd be here.
She dabs at the red moisture on her face. Oh, great. She's crying. She probably looks like she's been stood up. Because she has. Great. Just fucking great. He hasn't even called.
Story of her life.
2015
The world around her is grey and winds are howling all around. Flensing, cold winds that chill her to the very bone. Chill her to the very soul. Incoherent, distant moans fill the air.
Serafina screams. No. No. She's meant to be dead. She shouldn't be seeing things. Hearing things. Her brain should be mush. Her organs should be dead. She shouldn't be here.
She screams until she's hoarse.
Eventually Serafina stops screaming. If only because her voice isn't working anymore. She tries curling up into a ball, but she feels cold. So very cold. Not cold enough to make her stop moving, though. She needs to find some kind of warmth.
Shivering, her rumpled lab-coat wrapped around her, she picks herself up, and clutches at her head. She's feeling stiff and her head is spinning. She's… she's got this strangest sense of deja vu. She's done this before, she thinks, looking at the expanses of barbed wire and barricades. There are figures up on the barricades, which look sort of like some post-apocalyptic border crossing. They look… not entirely human. The proportions aren't quite right.
She lowers her arms. There's something wrong with her right hand. It's puffy and bloated and covered in bruises. She can see her veins as dark shapes. It's unlike her left hand, which is pale grey. What happened? Why is she like this? What's going on?
A pain stabs her in the chest and she sinks to her hands and knees. It feels like she was just kicked by something. A horse, or maybe a unicorn, Stupid pets. Black blood drips from her mouth, splashing down on the filthy and degraded tarmac.
Something bad must have happened. Something very bad. There's something she needs to do. She can't remember what. She can't remember a lot of things.
The pooling blood flows into words.
it's all just memories
to find her
think of better times
to find her
think of better times
What does that-
1989
The Legate Model-1988 is a sleek jet black machine which handles like a dream. Q Division did a wonderful job with it. However, even their skill has its limits, and right now this expensive superbike isn't starting because one of the compression coils in the rear wheel's engine is blown. This is quite an annoyance to its owner, who had wanted to take it out today.
A smaller face, her hair tied up and with oil smudges on her face, pokes up from behind it. "Okay, papa!" Serafina calls out. She's sweating from the July heat in Rome. "Now the missile pod's out, I think I can get my hand up inside and work the screws loose! Pass me the magdriver!"
"Sera," Daniel Rosario cautions. "Be careful. Your mother will have my head if you get hurt."
Serafina grins at him cheekily. "But she'll keep the head alive, right?" she asks. "Maybe it'll do you good. Give you time to get away from work!"
"Yes, but don't you know how boring it is in the specimen fridge?" he retorts. "Anyway, worse, not only will she cut my head off and keep it in a jar, but then she won't let us mess around with bikes any more. So please, darling, be careful," he says, passing her the tool.
"How much is it worth to you?"
"Sera!"
Serafina sticks her tongue out at him. "Yeah, yeah. I'll be careful." There's a whirring as she works away with the magdriver on the microscrews, before emerging again, offering him the broken coil. "See! Much faster than getting someone with big clunky hands to try to get it out!"
Her dad grins at her. "Yep." He shakes his head. "I'm going to need a replacement for this," he says sadly, inspecting it. "I can't fix it. So I guess we can't take the Legate out."
"Aww."
"I know! Aww!" Daniel grins wickedly. "How about we take the Hoshi instead?"
"Yesssssssss."
"And Sera, important question now. What's better? Motorbikes, or your unicorn?"
Serafina purses her lips. "Motorbikes!" she answers firmly. "Una's got boring anyway. And she doesn't have rocket launchers and oil slicks and super-boosters and she neighs rather than going brrrrrrrrr rrmmmmmmmm neeeeeeeyoh!"
"Plus ten points to Serafina!"
2002
"So I have a daughter," Pia Rosario says, rising to her feet as Serafina enters the restaurant. "I was beginning to think I dreamed you up. You don't call enough, you know." Despite that, she's smiling as she wraps Serafina up in an embrace. "You don't look like you've been eating properly. Are you cooking for yourself again? You should get a proper chef."
"Oh, mama," Serafina says, hugging back. When they meet like this, in semi-public, her mother is in 'stealth-mode'. People would ask questions if renown-in-her-field ecologist and conservationist 'Laura Renzi' didn't seem to age. That means that while she is growing old gracefully, her hair is an iron grey and her face has its fair share of lines. "I've missed you."
It's one of the reasons Serafina is quite glad she doesn't have a place in the public eye. She won't have to get the implants which allow the conscious creasing of her skin and the pigment-shifting chromatophores in her hair which allow her mother to look forty years older than her 'natural' appearance when the Masses might be looking. People would ask questions if a woman meant to be in her sixties could pass for a teenager. But whether she's Dr Laura Renzi or Research Director Pia Rosario, she's Serafina's mother either way.
"Well, it's lovely that you're at this conference," Pia says, letting go. "Sit, sit. You really do feel too thin, Serafina. At least I should be able to get one meal in you before you're off again. Where will you be heading now?"
"San Francisco, still," Serafina says. "Supreme want to keep me on with the extension they should be getting if tomorrow's speech goes well." She isn't sure if she'll take it. She quite enjoys the work she's doing on HumAug, but she doesn't want it to get stale.
"Supreme is a very good project," her mother tells her approvingly. "Gladys is a personal friend and she has wonderful things to say about your work. She's very interested in keeping you. She says you're one of her top RAs." Her mother leans forwards, cupping her chin in her hand. "Oh, Sera," Pia says in her soft voice. "I do worry about you, sometimes. You're too easy-going sometimes. You let people push you around. You're still an RA at twenty-four. You should be a Primary Investigator by now."
And here it goes.
"But I'm not going to ruin seeing my daughter by going on about that," Pia says. "So. Have you met anyone?"
Serafina flushes slightly. She really wishes her mother wouldn't ask her these things. "I… it's just something casual at the moment," she says.
"Mmm mmm. Just one thing, darling. Have you checked that they're not a werewolf this time?" her mother asks quietly.
The blush is accentuated. Her mother will not let this go. "Yes, mama," she says, head sinking into her hands. "I have."
"Good girl."
They make small talk for a while. Small talk she can do. Small talk is something she's good at with her parents. She doesn't mind spending time with her mother, at least when she's not asking about her love life. It's just… she doesn't know how to make big talk. Her mother is one of the world leads for crop development and botany. She now sits on the Administration - the new one made up of the Research Directors, because there's been no contact from the old Administration for nearly three years now. But she's almost a stranger to her own daughter. Her mother's soft voice draws her attention.
"Serafina?" Her mother sounds slightly hesitant, and that's a surprise. "There is something I've been wanting to talk to you about."
"I'm always listening, mama," Serafina responds automatically.
Pia reaches forwards, and rests her hands on Sera's. "I know things haven't always been easy with you," she says. "I… do you remember the row we had? In '97?"
Serafina blanches. "The one about the… um… Werewolf Incident?" she says.
"The other one, Sera."
"Oh. Um." Yes, the one after she rejected the offer on Chieron Station. "Yes."
Pia sighs. "I was wrong, Sera. I know we haven't always seen eye to eye and… and we have our differences and we're somewhat distant, but Chieron was wrong for you. And… and I'm so glad you didn't take it. Because if you'd been up there - God! We'd have lost you. And I'm glad we didn't. I'm not entirely happy with some of your choices, but even if I sometimes seem disappointed, I'm glad you're around."
Her thoughts are a whirl. What's this about? Reflexively, Serafina brushes back her hair, trying to work out what prompted this. "What's… well, I quite like not being dead," she says.
Her mother laughs. "Yes. Serafina, I was just thinking - when I was reading that paper you co-authored with Menes - how lucky I am and all the ways it could have turned out worse with you. I know you have the problems focusing and I wish we could find a cure for that, but you really do try your best most of the time and I am proud of you."
She drops her voice, ignoring the faceless, shadowy figure which stands directly behind her.
"And I might have heard rumours of a possible project you might like to be involved in. Very, very challenging. You won't be bored, I can promise you that - it uses some of the last data received from Chieron. It's still on the drawing boards at the moment, but if it gets the go-ahead, I'll tell you more. You're already on the long-list for involvement because of your work with Supreme. Just… darling, please. Try not to embarrass yourself in the next few years. Can I just ask that of you?"
2015
"Do you still need any help?" Rose asks, as Serafina runs another test for this next generation of synthetic antibiotics. It's the middle of December outside, although it never really gets that cold in LA. "It looks like there's still a lot of work to be done on this batch. Maybe it'll work this time." Rose muses. "The shapeshifter-derived stabilizing agents might work-it's what makes shapeshifter hyper-adrenaline so long-lasting."
"No, dear. I'll be fine on my own. You should go." Serafina says. "Donald's waiting for you and if you're going to keep seeing him you should at least be punctual about it." She's still slightly worried about Rose but after the past few months-her worries have been largely resolved by how well Donald's been treating Rose. He, at least, seems to understand that using his position of power and influence over a construct who has to listen and follow legitimate authority might not be the most ethical or moral thing to do.
Rose smiles at Serafina's response, and Serafina's worries vanish. "Thanks, Sera!" she says. "You've really warmed up to him in the past few months. I'll be good."
"I have." Serafina admits. "Not that much, though. So I'm not worried about you being good. I know you're always on your best behavior. I'm more worried about him being good. Tell me if he's not treating you right, Rose." He still gets bored, Serafina thinks. She doesn't know how Rose might react to understanding Donald's indiscretions and proclivities, but she's been convinced by Alicia and Rose herself that maybe Donald deserves a chance. And maybe Rose deserves something more than being bubble-wrapped and kept away from all mankind.
Her phone vibrates. It's a text message from an unknown number. "You can't trust him," it reads. "He'll break her heart."
Her stomach churns in fear. But Rose is so young. And she's just let her walk off, as if she… she were her biological age.
What has she done? It's all her fault.
1992
The pre-dawn light streams through the curtains. Inside, Serafina waits with bated breath.
"Chillax," Alicia says casually. "She'll be fine."
Serafina pouts. "But I want to worry," she mumbles, which makes Alicia fall off the bed laughing. "And keep it down!"
That comment only makes Alicia laugh harder.
There's a tap at her window. Carefully she slides it up, letting the dew-wet Alice in. The other girl is dressed in a greyish-greenish outfit which makes the eye skip away from her. She's not as tall as Sera, and it seems half her height is made out of knees and elbows.
"Got a towel?" Alice asks. Serafina tosses her one, and she begins to dry off her camosuit.
"You're okay?" Sera asks, twisting her nightie in both hands.
"Yeah," Alice says as she finishes drying, and begins to strip down, passing the illicitly 'borrowed' equipment to her friend to conceal under the floor tiles. Once she's dressed again in her nightclothes, she reaches out and touches Serafina's hand. "Easy enough," Alice's voice says in her head. "I took the B3 route over the roof via the North Tower, through the blindspot there."
"Niiiiiiiice," Alicia says.
Alice smiles. "Yes," she says "The ooze creature worked perfectly on the lock. Thanks for that. Then I doped Clayton's duck-bread just as before. He hasn't noticed it or anything, 'cause he isn't keeping it secure or anything. He shouldn't notice a thing. That's the third dose, right?"
"Great," Serafina thinks back, smiling. "Yes, that should be the final growth enhancer." Alice is squeezing her hand tight as she sits on the bed beside her and Alicia. "What've you got today? You're all tense."
Alice sighs, shoulders slumping. "Morning isn't so bad. Music, Literature, Politics," she thinks. "But all afternoon? Combat. More hand-to-hand, and they have me practicing techniques to use against stronger opponents." Her shoulders hunch in. "If I'm not at dinner, it's probably because I'll have broken something."
Sera gives her a hug. "Poor you," she whispers. "I'm so glad I've only got one Self-Defence module this year."
"Says you," Alicia mutters. "Damage Control is awesome."
Alice giggles. "'Licia's right," she transmits. "I'd rather have Combat than the number of practicals you have. It's bad enough that I have to take some Prog modules for my biokinesis." She shakes her head. "I need to go," she says softly. "I need to be back in bed before Miss Clock checks on me." She pauses, gives Serafina a fierce hug and then lets herself out silently.
"I don't see why you think Damage Control is awesome," Serafina tells Alicia, stretching out on her bed.
"I don't see why you think it isn't," Alicia retorts, spinning around on Serafina's chair. "First class is at eight today, yeah?"
"Yeah. Late start." Serafina pauses, trying not to grin. "Oh man. This is going to be great."
"I know, right?" says Alicia, grinning like the cat that's got the metaphorical cream. "The look on their faces! And it's going to look like Professor Clayton was the one who did it! Serves him right for being so boring! Who on earth makes xenobiology dull? It should be illegal!"
When the rowing team's training session on the lake is interrupted by a winged xenografted octopus the size of a small aircraft, it's totally worth it. And Alicia's whispered chanting of 'Ia! Ia!' throughout the assembly the entire school gets on the misuse of mutagenic compounds makes it incredibly hard for Sera to keep a straight face.
Miss Clock stares at her coldly throughout the entire assembly. It's like she knows. It makes cold shivers run up and down Serafina's spine.
2015
Serafina sits on an artificial leopard skin bed, surrounded by discarded hankies. Her hands grip the bed tightly. Director Belltower is a shorter shape to her left, sitting here and letting her sob her heart out without saying much. At least until she produces an impersonation out of nowhere, which brings a sudden giggle-hiccup of laughter from Serafina. "I shouldn't be finding this so funny," she gasps, shoulders shaking. "Even if I did literally make a robot of you. You should give up the spying and become an impressionist."
"I'll consider it," Jamelia says in an utterly flat and serious monotone, before relaxing again. The other woman is being… surprisingly open here. Serafina knows why, or at least suspects. Her boss is being honest with her because she thinks Serafina would know if she lied. "Though... no, I can't persuade you that you shouldn't feel bad about it. All I can say is that the fact that you feel bad about it means you're not as bad as you're claiming. I'm not surprised. I wouldn't have let you join my amalgam if you were. Someone who could give those orders and not consider eating a gun afterwards has lost most of their humanity."
Serafina doesn't say anything, but her hands relax slightly from their death-grip on the bed.
"It's not going to be easy," Jamelia says plainly. "You're going to live with this for the rest of your life. I can't tell you to say a hundred Hail Marys and absolve your sins. I do think we'll need to look at anti-depressants, because there are certainly safer ways for you to self-medicate than nearly drowning yourself in wine. I will help you resolve the current tension between you and Rose, because even if you don't believe I'm doing it out of altruism, I need both of you functional.
"And if you have to look for a sense of absolution in the longer run, the Union needs its shepherds as well as its butchers," Jamelia says, taking Serafina's hand. "If you can't forgive yourself, find a vaccine for malaria which is stable and can be distributed en masse. Or something like that - you're the biologist, not me. If you feel you have to 'pay back' the lives, you of all people are in a place where you can do that. You can't do that if you're dead."
Serafina lets out a deep, shuddering sigh. Yes, that's what it comes down to, doesn't it? Killing herself would be selfish. When you die, that's just the end. It'd be running away. And the fact that it's a cold-blooded Operative murderess who's telling her this… doesn't really change a thing. In fact, it makes it a little better. It's not like Belltower isn't familiar with killing. The fact that she's actually opened up here is… almost heartwarming.
Maybe it's cold and clinical. Maybe whatever machine ticks away in her head has decided that the best way to keep Serafina alive is to show her some of the woman underneath the coldness and the professionalism - some of the same woman she saw back when they'd had that first talk about the Computer in Moscow. Maybe it is just another lie - but she doesn't think so.
She hopes.
"I... I guess." Serafina manages, after a long bout of silence. "I suppose that's all I can do, make it up to the world somehow." She thinks she's found some steel inside her. Something she can use to stand against the onrushing tide. "I just... never signed up for this."
"Nobody did." Jamelia says. "And nobody thinks any less of you for how you feel. Now... take the rest of the day off. You probably need it."
"Thanks. Coming from you, just... thanks." Serafina says. "And Jamelia..."
"Yes?"
"Thank you for being a real friend." God. She's so fucked up. The closest she has to an actual close female friend is her workaholic boss who's got something not entirely human-normals-sane working away in her brain. And who's probably killed hundreds personally and many more indirectly. She needs to get back in contact with Alicia. Just for the contrast. "Even if you are an enigma wrapped in a mystery who's probably doing it in your own self-interest."
Jamelia smiles quietly. "Entirely true," she admits. "You only mean anything to me as long as you're alive and useful. I suspect I'll need to have you taken in to have those mental issues fixed. Unfortunately, I can't trust you to do it to yourself properly. You're damaged goods, Serafina. And this entire incident has compromised an operation. So annoying."
Serafina's shoulders slump. Yes. That's entirely r-
There's a figure in front of her. A figure with blond hair wearing a Damage Control biosuit.
"Caught you," Alicia hisses through clenched teeth.
Then she punches Director Belltower in the face, so hard she goes flying back through the wall and into
1990
the hockey goal, sending the goalie sprawling.
"Pass, Sera!" shouts Imogen from the left flank, but Serafina pushes forwards, past the first defender, and sends the ball humming low and fast into the goal.
The biosuited figure leaps in, moving faster than any unaugumented human could, but Director Belltower rolls out of the way and flips to her feet, knife in hand.
"I'm going to purge the fuck out of you," Alicia hisses, extending bone-blades from her forearms. She advances, slashing at the shorter woman's head but she rolls under the blow, bringing her knife around in a slash which nicks at the biosuit.
"Nice goal, Sera!" Jessica says cheerfully, although Imogen seems less happy.
Director Belltower feints, ducking around a sulky-looking girl wearing House Tycho team colours and steps out
1997
from behind the mirror. Discarded clothing litters the floor and neon light washes in through the narrow window. The room smells of sweat and a hint of something else. Something which Serafina might have noticed, if she wasn't drunk and her brain wasn't mostly occupied with how to get the man's belt off. She met him at a bar - well, wow. She doesn't even know his name, but then again, she's not really interested in such details. Not when compared to those abs and the sprawling, celtic-style tattoos which only accentuate his muscles..
Alicia kicks down the door, sending it flying off its hinges. "Different memory, Sera!" she shouts at her. "It's a trap!"
Fingers fumbling clumsily, Serafina lets out a quiet cheer as she finally manages to work out how the clasp on the belt work. It turns out that he isn't wearing any underwear.
"Oh, goddamnit! Stop thinking about the fucking werewolf!"
He reaches out and strokes her hair. Pets her.
Director Belltower smiles.
Alicia pulls out a grenade and there's just enough time for the other woman's eyes to widen before the flash and the boom and they're
2011
both flat on their backs in a sunlit room.
Rose cheers. "It's... it's amazing!" she says, pure glee in her voice. "It's for me? It's... it's really for me?" There's tears in her beautiful eyes, and her full red lips are wobbling.
"It is your birthday," Serafina tells her, smiling.
"Ow," Alicia manages, pulling herself to her feet, spitting blood as she circles her way around so she's between the mother and daughter, and the other woman. Director Belltower doesn't look hurt. "So, do you have anything to say for yourself?"
The other woman doesn't respond, circling Alicia, knife in hand. Alicia moves to obstruct her.
"Thought not," Alicia says, an adrenaline snarl locking her face. "You're not Jammy. She's not this good at hyperpsych," Alicia says. "QED you're a mnemosynic synaptic rendition of a Nu-Woo meme intrusion made by Sera's brain 'cause she actually likes Jammy, plus authority stuff." She pauses. "Anyway, if she was doing this, she wouldn't look like herself, so the fact you look like her means you're not her. Duh."
The woman lunges, faster than the eye can see
1995
through the glass window. Alicia is already here, perched on Serafina's desk, waiting for her. With a cattle prod in hand.
Lying on her bed, Serafina stares up at the ceiling. She's had this room since she was four. Lived here longer than she's ever lived at her parents house. If someone asked her, she'd say she's not sure how she's feeling. Obviously she'll miss good ol' Damien, but she's excited to be leaving and moving on to bigger things.
Of course, she'd be lying, she thinks as the room fills with the sound of a solid beating and the crackle of electricity.
It's quite possibly the happiest day of her life. She's had her last exams. They were… well, not a breeze, but only a small tornado. It's hot and sunny outside. And she's nearly out of this rotten stinking place forever. She's free.
"Yeah, funny thing?" Alicia says viciously to the prone figure, grabbing surgical tools from Serafina's desk. It's coming apart and doesn't look much like Director Belltower any more. "You're a suicide memeplex. You can't corrupt memories like this one. And now that I found you, it's a mind-vs-mind thing, and I'm smarter than you. Hmm."
She frowns, ramming a diagnostic tool through their forehead.
"Nu-Woo, obviously. Very organised mind. Clinical. Pragmatic. No, wait, there's a core underlayer." Her eyes widen. "Classic Progenitor neuroscience exploiting elements of Sera's enhancements and all those emotional smarts. Hit her right in how she hurts. Trap her mind in emotional pain. Accentuate the negative. Propagate through by emotional association. And welp, I hadn't even thought of some of these tricks." Her eyes narrow. "It's made by someone even smarter than me."
She cracks her knuckles.
"And doesn't that narrow down the candidate pool." The look on her face strongly implies that she wants to have words with whoever came up with this and see what they have to say for themselves. And that will turn out be 'please stop hurting me'. "So, let's take a look at-"
???
Blackness.
"-you." Alicia's voice comes from nowhere. "No. No. No no no! Not now! Sera! We beat it! We… we beat it! It can't… hold on! Please, hold on! Because-"
???
The world around her is grey and winds are howling all around. Flensing, cold winds that chill her to the very bone. Chill her to the very soul. Incoherent, distant moans fill the air.
Serafina screams. No. No. She's meant to be dead. She shouldn't be seeing things. Hearing things. Her brain should be mush. Her organs should be dead. She shouldn't be here. She's… she's got this strangest sense of deja vu. She's done this before, she thinks
She screams until she's hoarse. Tears roll down her face. Emptiness and loneliness bites at her.
Wailing, shivering, she pulls herself up staggering off with her labcoat loose around her. She needs to find some kind of warmth. There's something gnawing at her. Empty and hungry and old and cold. She needs something. Something she doesn't have words for. Because-
???
It's dark in here. There's a stale, unwashed scent in the air and her eyes don't work properly. Everything hurts. Her muscles burn. She feels as weak as a kitten.
She tries to speak but nothing responds. It's like she's trapped in her own body. Her own cold body.
No heartbeat. No pulse. No breath. Blind and hurting and useless.
Something bad happened. Something very bad and... she's starving. She's thirsty. She wants something she can't describe. Something she isn't sure she should want when she feels like she does.
She's so fucked up.
Something happened and she doesn't want to think about it. But maybe she has to. Because her mind keeps on coming back to it, time and time again, no matter what the voices in the background say. They're talking to each other but she's not listening. She's all alone in a dead body and the worst part about all of this is: she deserves it.
???
The sky above her is black. There are no stars in the sky, but the lights of the city around her bleed radiance up to the heavens above.
She sighs. What a beautiful night. She always likes this time of year. Smoothing down her the sleeves of her cerulean gown, she leans out over the balcony. The lighting of the city below spreads out as far as the eye can see. The fireworks display should be starting soon, and she's in a good position for it.
???
"Hello! My name's Alicia! What's yours?"
???
Above her, whiteness. Below her, blackness. She floats in a sea of slowly congealing crimson blood.
She isn't breathing. Her heart doesn't beat. But she can't stay here forever. Because between the white and the black, the grey waits for her, bone cold, and if she stays here she'll be trapped.
Slowly, painfully, she rises, pulling herself up onto her hands and knees. Copper fills her mouth. The light is above her and although her legs feel as weak as a newborn fawn's, she pulls herself upright.
Reaching for the light.
********************************************************************************************************
Night of the Living...
Someone has their hands on Serafina's body… and not in the fun way.
[ ] It's in the back of an ambulance. There's a Vanessa watching over it, needler close to hand. There's something wrong with the construct - something mad-eyed and twitchy like it's ODing on combat stims.
[ ] It's in a meat locker. The walls are frosted over and pig carcasses hang from hooks. There's the smell of flowers in the air, over the stale scent.
[ ] The operating theatre looks empty, but anything could be lurking in the shadows away from the pool of light. Countless surgical tools gleam in the light.
[ ] It's been laid out in an unpainted and windowless concrete cell. The heavy iron door is bolted. A single candle provides the only illumination.
[ ] The sky is dark above her. Dark earth surrounds her. She's at the bottom of an open grave.
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