I look at xem. I’m mildly surprised that xe even cares. I should be all for it. I used to care a lot about improving my skills and showing my worth - but I’m cold, tired, and my career is as stranded as a whale in the desert. So, I ask: “No offense. But does anyone care if we’re a good team?”
“Not here,” the corporal answers, cheerful. “The captain’s coasting for retirement, and regional HQ treats us like a trash heap for soldiers they don’t want. But I mean, we won’t be here forever. Most junior teams get a transfer in two or three years.” Xe shrugs “Yeah, we all fucked up something, but had we fucked up that bad, we’d get some official punishment, on record. So, whoever sent you here doesn’t care that you actually stay here.”
Xe makes a pause, then looks me in the eyes. Xe has big, round eyes - xe’d probably be cute if you like big, muscular idiots.
“I know having Rakavdon in your resume is bad. We’ll be overlooked for promotion, and the like,” xe adds. “But if we have a good record here, and maybe take some specialized qualifications, I think we can overcome that. We could still get a decent career and do something useful.”
I’m not convinced General Orner will forget about me that quickly. But then again, he got me booted from Intelligence School, and in three years, I’ll be too old to re-apply, so why should he worry about me anymore?
Not that as a rank-and-file agent I could do much of a career anyway. I’ll be a foot soldier. But I could still be useful. And not relegated to a frozen wasteland.
“Since we’re stuck here, we might as well practice,” I concede. “I mean, it’s not like we’ve much else to do. And keeping a good service record can’t be that hard, if our duties are so limited.”
Xe beams, and I realize xe was worried that I’d say nah, I prefer sleeping and binging sims every second here. Xe may be a big, muscular idiot, but at least xe’s not a lazy one.
“Great!” Xe says. “And, uh, about having something to do - Rakvdon’s night club scene isn’t that bad, to tell the truth. I guess with all this cold and winter, they must learn to have fun indoors.”
“Night clubs?” I ask. “I hate them. They’re noisy and full of sweaty people. In my free time, I prefer studying.”
The shock on xir face is so obvious I laugh. Of course, the rest of the world tends to see us Zelenians as boring and straight-laced. And even during my training in Saevin, they called me grandma.
Xe sighs. “Well, at least I got someone willing to work. Someone who also likes to have fun was asking for too much, I guess. Come, I’ll show you our room. It’s pretty large, this base was supposed to house way more people.”
I finish the last of my ginger tea and follow xem as xe gets up. We get into another cold, poorly lit corridor.
“Quick warning, since tomorrow you’ll meet everyone, and my brain doesn’t work in the morning,” xe says, looking deeply uncomfortable. “We share most shifts with a senior team, Team Green. The fellas in Team Green are nice people, even if they’re… not the most dedicated to the job. But their mage is a pain in the ass who only wants to get under people’s skin. Don’t let him. Oh, and since we’re here, we report to Lieutenant Sareas. He’s… very serious about rules and procedures.”
“You say that as if it’s a bad thing,” I point out.
“In his case, it kinda is,” xe says. “He really really doesn’t like being contradicted. He’s… well, he’s mean, and vengeful. So, please, try to avoid arguments with those two. The mage lives off arguments, and the LT will try to make your life a nightmare.”
“I thought that was the standard with officers,” I say, gritting my teeth at the thought of the Colonel’ Orner’s smug face.
Kaelich doesn’t answer, and xe leads me through what looks like a flimsy service door - this base has a real security problem, every door in the inner base should be able to lock and resist magical assault. We get into a hallway with six color-coded doors - one for each team in the base. Ours is blue.
The corporal swipes his wrist on the door’s sensor, it flashes green as it recognizes his biochip, and it slides open. The room is way too big, with four rickety bunk beds, even if there’s only three of us - the room was probably meant for a full squad, two teams. At least this way we won’t have to share.
“Hey, Sorivel. Say welcome to our new blademaster!” Kaelich says, waving at the only person in the room, a lanky young man curled up under way too many covers. Dozens of talismans hang above his bed, like windchimes. The book, the sextant, the scope - the signs of the Officers.
He turns to us, opening one bleary eye, and our Stemlink implants make contact.
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NAME: Sorivel Erusiani
AGE: 21
GENDER: M
OCCUPATION: Thaumological Control Agent – private rank, drone specialist
SPIRITUALITY: Student of the Books of the Officers
INTERESTS: Theology, history
BIO: “So much must be forgotten, but one thing must be remembered, above all others: reach not into the Else. Seek not the way of magic. Only this way humanity may flourish” – Navigator’s book, 15:1
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“Heavenly Captain,” he says, groggy with sleep, ”can’t we wait for… oh, wait, she’s Zelenian!”
He pokes his head out to get a clearer look at me, and I take the opportunity to do the same with him. From his dark brown skin, he’s Zelenian too, even if he’s probably from the east coast, given the accent and kinky black hair. He has Landfall-style face tattoos, though. “That’s the first good news I got in ten years,” he says, before crawling back under the duvet. “Look, we’ll chat properly tomorrow. Let me sleep now.”
Kaelich gives me an apologetic smile and shrugs.
My heart rises a bit. Of course, a good agent shouldn’t care about nationality. But in this freezing, remote place, it’s good to meet someone from home - or almost so. Religious nut or not.
Beside this pleasant surprise, everything else doesn’t look promising.
The bunk room is shabby, to an extent they’d never have been tolerated at Intelligence School. Part of it is that the building is old and in need of repair - there are water spots in the ceiling, the bed frames look much older than me, and there are actual cracks in the wall.
But not all of it is the building’s fault. Clothes are strewn all over the floor, it smells like socks, and there’s even half-eaten food on the nightstands.
And while some personalization is accepted, they went way over the top. Sorivel’s bed, beside the ridiculous number of talismans, is surrounded with handwritten quotes from the Book of the Officers, and there’s a small altar in the room’s corner.
Someone even hung posters of scantily-clad models of various genders next to their bunk. Beside being vulgar, I had hoped I left that kind of juvenile attitude behind when I left basic training.
“You can take the one above mine, or any of the others,” Kaelich says, pointing to xir bed. Of course it’s the one with the posters, dispelling my thin hope it belonged to a previous tenant.
I try to keep a neutral expression, remembering my Officer School roommate, Alysia, who used to say shut up, grandma when I made reasonable complaints. But something must betray me, because Kaelich coughs and xir face reddens.
“Look, I just like, uh, artistic photography,” xe says.
“Liessss,” Sorivel says from the bunk, his voice drowsy. “Little Kael is a sinner, and a pig. Wait to see xem drunk.”
I can’t help but laugh. Perfect, I’m in a frozen star-forgotten city where no one expects me to do anything meaningful, the base is crumbling, and my teammates are middle-graders. I’m so looking forward to the next few years.
***
I take a quick shower to finally be rid of the cold and the snow. Like the rest of the base, the bathroom is old, moldy, and since we’re in fucking Karesia, the shower stalls give no privacy. Lady of Light, do these people have no shame? Fortunately, at this time of the night there’s no one around.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
I get back to our room, pick one of the empty beds, and climb into the upper bunk - the lower one is free, but I prefer the upper, a habit from all the pranks in basic training.
I’m exhausted and so incredibly annoyed. Everything grates me so much. How easily General Orner got me out of Intelligence School. How cold this place is, how much I hate the cold. How childish and unprofessional the Corporal is - and the fact I can’t even hate xem, because xe’s been objectively kind to me, and is willing to pull xir own weight and put in real effort. And I can’t even sink into quiet despair, because I can’t be the one who lets down the team.
And even if the room is warm and the sheets I take from a locker are clean - despite a faint mold smell - everything feels so unfamiliar. The noises from the Intelligence School campus are missing, even the bed creaks differently, and the wind howls outside the windows making such a noise like I’ve never heard in my life.
I close my eyes, ease my breathing, and focus on home. I’m finally drifting to sleep when a red Stemlink alert pops into my view.
That immediately gets my attention – I put up serious Do Not Disturb filters when I go to sleep. Only a high emergency level, or something from the Agency, should get a notification.
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SECURE COMMUNICATION REQUEST
ORIGIN: Agency for Thaumological Control, Intelligence Division
SIGNATURE: Agent Quicksilver
ACCEPT? Y\N
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Ok, this is very, very strange. A secure communication is usually pre-arranged, and agents are supposed to sign requests by name and rank – clearly not the case here.
I focus on the command line and subvocalize a message.
SYSTEM QUERY: CHECK CERTIFICATE
A split second later, I get my answer.
CERTIFICATE VALID. VERIFIED BY: AGENCY FOR THAUMOLOGICAL CONTROL.
Flat-out falsification is basically impossible, so someone is calling me from Intelligence – someone with the privileges to request a secure channel. General Orner? But why would he? He’s petty, but not to the point of calling just to gloat.
I look at accept and subvocalize yes.
Lines of text flash over my vision – a sequence of integrity and consistency checks. While it could well be just some old instructor coming to gloat at my fall, I feel a buzz of anticipation. Like Alysia used to say, I love the cloak and dagger shit.
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CHANNEL READY – TEXT ONLY
QUICKSILVER: Good evening, private Cerical. Are you in a convenient position to communicate without attracting attention?
CERICAL: Yes, I’m in bed. Who am I talking to?
QUICKSILVER: You can call me Quicksilver. Information security is an issue.
CERICAL: I can’t discuss anything substantial without knowledge and proof of my counterpart’s identity. That’s basic infosec.
QUICKSILVER: A true Intelligence officer, disgraced or not. But consider this: if I can open this channel, I must have access to ThauConInt network, at captain rank or higher. You’ll be able to cryptographically check, in the future, that I’m always the same person. How does my name matter?
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Oh, this is getting interesting.
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CERICAL: Lawful orders and communications must demonstrably follow the command chain. No substantive communication about Agency business can happen outside the official channels.
QUICKSILVER: That’s the Agency policy, yeah. How well did that work out for you?
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I pause for a moment. That’s painfully on point. But also looks more and more like bait to get me dishonorably discharged.
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CERICAL: My personal career issues aren’t relevant. I’m still a member of the Agency and won’t act against its regulations. Identify yourself, or I’ll terminate the conversation.
QUICKSILVER: Do you honestly think Intelligence works like that? What do they teach you kids, these days? Ever heard of informants?
CERICAL: Informants are external to the agency.
QUICKSILVER: Really? And here I thought you were a smart one. Do you think we trust the fucking ThauCon bulletin to know what’s going on inside our own house?
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I pause, my cheeks turning red. Well, of course Intelligence has informants inside the Agency, even if they don’t advertise that.
Of course, I always pictured myself only on the handler side of a handler-informant relationship.
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CERICAL: Let’s say I’m willing to listen, even if I’m not going to give you any kind of information yet. How do you know me, and what do you want from me?
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I have a pretty good idea about what they want – someone up there in Intelligence wants a mole, and they think I look the part. Which could be an amazing opportunity, and also a great way to end up charged with treason.
If I keep talking, there’s not much I can do to protect myself from the latter case – but I’ll have them spell their request outright, so if it is a ploy from the Colonel, he’ll be guilty of entrapment at least.
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QUICKSILVER: You wrote an interesting essay. And you’re in an interesting place.
CERICAL: As you surely know, the essay wasn’t well received.
QUICKSILVER: Not by General Orner, no. And Intelligence School is full of his cronies. Bureaucrats who care more about filing nice reports for the Assembly than they do about mending the sky.
They’ll waste our manpower and resources in pointless battles that keep politicians happy, and let the magical factions grow fat with power. They’ll waste our most talented recruits because they won’t kiss their ass and repeat their bullshit.
But we are different.
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I shiver. I’m getting confident this isn’t the Colonel, or one of his men – he’s not self-aware enough to insult himself this convincingly. This could be big.
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CERICAL: Who’s this we?
QUICKSILVER: Some members of the Agency, and Intelligence in particular, who think our approach is failing. That we need a new, bold strategy, to truly fight the magical organizations, as we once did. Even if it’s not what the old guard, and the public, want to hear. Judging from your essay, we think you may share our goal.
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I take a deep breath, and then compose the line I can already see quoted in my prosecution papers.
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CERICAL: And what do you want from me? I’m loyal to the Agency, whatever I think about its policies.
QUICKSILVER: We’d have no use for a traitor anyway. We need loyal agents. Just ones who can look beyond their day-do-day work, and help us win the war.
You surely know your career is in a bad patch. We can’t help you openly, yet. But a career in Intelligence is best started from the shadows.
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My heart quickens. Every word they say is so close to my own thoughts – which is exactly how you hook a target.
But if they were just lying to get me onboard, why not offer to get me back in Intelligence School? It’s what I’d like the most, and it would be an easy guess. Or do they know I’d think that and be suspicious and…
Guessing games are useless. You should never rely on outsmarting your counterpart.
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CERICAL: How do I know any part of what you say is true?
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A pause.
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QUICKSILVER: You’ll have to believe me, at first. But we can help each other along the way. We won’t ask you to do anything illegal. And we can use our resources and contacts to help you in your day-to-day duties, thus also proving that we’re really a part of the Agency. Without doing anything irregular or illegal, on either side.
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Nothing irregular, except the channel itself.
But this is how Intelligence works, after all. What use is a spy who isn’t willing to use covert channels?
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CERICAL: Hypothetically, what would you ask of me?
QUICKSILVER: Reports. Initially, reports about the condition of the base you’re in and its personnel.
CERICAL: If you work in Intelligence, that’s easily available information.
QUICKSILVER: So why would I ask for it? Show your work.
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I feel a flicker of annoyance – but half of it is directed at myself, for having asked a stupid question.
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CERICAL: You don’t trust the official data.
QUICKSILVER: That kind of data is always unreliable by the time it trickles up. There’s corruption in our Agency, and complacency. Local commanders paint a rosy picture, regional command is happy to believe them, inspectors pocket everyone’s money, politicians look at our paper strength and nod happily.
Works great for everyone. Until we need a quad-copter, or silver dust, or a suppressor, and it isn’t there. Or we plan a major operation, and half the personnel is missing, the other half untrained. And then they’ll blame misfortune, or the local commanders, and change nothing.
CERICAL: I’ve only just arrived here, but the base shows a… disturbing level of disrepair. And I was assigned to an unusually young, entirely inexperienced corporal. I assumed it was because of the unofficially punitive nature of this posting.
QUICKSILVER: The rot is more widespread than you think. Especially where Demonfalls are rare, and it’s easy to get by with minimal operational capabilities. But demons aren’t our only enemies, and we can’t afford gutting our provincial garrisons to feed the corruption machine.
The first thing we need is reliable data, directly from the site. We only ask you this – check the equipment, the facilities, the personnel, and report to us.
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I take a deep breath. This could be a trap. But… It's a really mild request. Even if it’s not through regular channels, producing an inventory report would hardly count as high treason.
And anyway, what else can I do? I do believe our Agency has grown apathetic and complacent. I can’t just let myself gather dust in a corner, if I have the tiniest chance to work toward making a real change.
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CERICAL: While I still have reservations about this channel, I don’t see how a preparedness report could possibly hurt the Agency. If you’re an enemy, with that level of network permits you have access to far more sensitive information anyway. I will work on it.
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