17.1 BA: Manilla folders
Eyeshot stands in her hotel room, typing on her pad with a small phone on the corner of the desk. She’s pushed the bunk to the far wall, brought the desk to the middle.
“Got the call yet?” comments June, who’s sitting childishly on the bunk.
“No call,” says Eyeshot.
For being the main Head, June Everolt does an awfully little amount of work. He’s more like a toddler than anything, perusing the hallways with that stick behind his back and grin on his face. He has a troubling volume of Will, a century’s worth of experience saving the world. The other captains, including herself, must respect that enough to rarely bother him about it.
“Have you checked on Mills lately?” says June.
“Mills is handling the other assignees. I don’t wish to interrupt.”
“She’s a little radio silent isn’t she?”
“Priorities, maybe.”
“Meh. She’s not my cup of tea.”
Eyeshot finalises a status report on her pad, with a final sign off and a press of her finger she sends it up to headquarters. She turns on her chair to face the old man.
“And what do you propose I do about that, Everolt?”
“Well I think we ought to check on her is one thing. Peek ‘round the corner see what she’s up to.”
“I don’t imagine anyone objecting to that why don’t you do it?”
June laughs. “That’s not what Dr. Hopkins advised I’m afraid!”
Eyeshot proceeds to the next report.
“Insurmountable abstinence! Yes. The key to victory. The Crusader Detox! That’s what I like to call it sometimes. There’s a few loopholes but for the most part I’m following it to a T.”
“This is the therapy thing,” says Eyeshot, trying to decipher the blabber.
“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.”
Why would I knock anything?
“Pay her a visit will ya please?”
“Later, OK? I’m busy.”
“Well don’t take too long. I’m gettin’ this feeling in my bones. Withdrawal symptoms.” The captain hugs his arms.
Eyeshot’s listening but if she were being honest, the words are hardly getting through her head. That phone on the corner of the desk is taking up all of her attention. The call about the Senate vote. It could come any day now.
She takes the phone and shoves it in an empty holster compartment, just so she doesn’t have to keep looking at it.
Footsteps down the hallway. Eyeshot looks through the wall to see Victor Stendahl walking to the office. Then she hears the woody shut of a door. Captain June is no longer on the bunk. He’s hiding in the wardrobe with an excited look on his face.
“What is it?” she hisses.
He withdraws his Resonance, saying nothing.
Stupid man.
“Enter,” says Eyeshot, after the Sky leader knocks.
“Good morning, Captain Eyeshot,” says Victor.
“Morning Stendahl. Good sleep?”
“Much better,” he says smiling. “Busy this morning?”
Tall. Mannered. The zipper of his VR jacket is pulled to the top of his sternum, hoodie tucked behind the collar, and his face is clean-shaven. Good. When she read through some of the assignee profiles prior to departure, the applicant stood out. Military background, who graduated from a humble academy. His physical aptitude results were adequate, and observing him in person, she has yet to be disappointed. “Yes, busy.”
“Riel is just down the hallway,” he says.
“Tardy, as always. I’m not sure how she made it to graduation on that time zone. I have never been late ever in my life.”
“No I think Mrs Briggich has just stopped her is all.”
Eyeshot glances past the left hallway. The cafeteria chef is talking to Riel by the steps.
It was this big round sack tied at the top. Bunch of—
Russets. I saw it on the bus.
The bus? How’re we gonna get on the bus? I don’t have the keys.
I’ll ask Captain Leichman in ten minutes, Mrs Briggich. I’m in a rush.
But there’s more than one bag, remember? One’s got russets, one’s got a bunch of cans. We don’t want the cans.
I understood.
That lady needs a foam roller. Eyeshot withdraws her pad. “Still.”
The door opens.
Larosa steps in swift and silent, the curtains by the bunk fluttering from the breeze. “I'm sorry for making you wait, Captain Eyeshot.” Her eyes are down.
“Morning Riel,” says Victor.
Eyeshot rises from the desk, where there are two thick manilla folders centred by the edge of the wood.
“Everything you need regarding your respective missions are here. I say everything. I don’t have time to spell it out for you.”
Stendahl approaches the folder labelled “Sky,” and flips through maps, summary reports and profile thumbnails before stacking it in his arm. Riel steps up to her pile too, she takes it in one scoop.
“You’re in charge of your own resource management. If you require something, speak to one of the Captains.”
“Yes Captain Eyeshot,” they answer.
“And from now until the completion of these missions you are permitted to skip your leader briefings.”
“Yes Captain Eyeshot.”
“Conscientious and swift, that is my advice to you.”
She waves them off, sitting back on her chair. She still has a lot of documentation to complete, and she only has the morning to finish them all. Stendahl leaves first, though the Ocean leader lingers.
“Captain?” the girl says. She knew there would be questions.
“OK, what?”
Maeven asks, “Why do you think Will Block happens?”
This is not the kind of question she was anticipating. Why is she asking about that? Does she have it? Is that why her assignee profile was so lacking as to the particulars of her Will?
Will Block is not an uncommon phenomenon. Every User has had a taste of it at some point in their lives. A terrible feeling, no less. It can happen after life events, it usually happens at least once during puberty. But at this age…
Did she not graduate a year ago?
“Will follows the troughs of your mental livelihood, OK?” answers the captain, before she spends too long thinking about it.
Riel takes it in in silence. A few seconds, and she turns to exit.
“Good morning, Captain June.”
The girl mentions it like an afterthought before walking away from them. Eyeshot can feel her eye twitch. She glances back at the wardrobe: he’s still hiding. And his Will is not just sheathed, she thought, but suppressed.
So then how did…?
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17.2 BA: Maeven's rundown
Over the following two days Maeven’s schedule is freed in order to focus on planning for the upcoming mission. Since the documents she collected from the captain’s room are confidential, and Ocean and Sand are the only ones who can know about the campaign for now, she’s hid in the pantry of the hotel kitchen, and she can hear the clanking of Holly sliding trays into the oven just outside.
Other than helping in the kitchen each day, Maeven hasn’t wasted a second. With the glide of her hand she fans the papers out on the tile. Maps, profiles, intelligence. Sketchy is sitting ready beside her lap.
It’s important that she gets the message out clearly and effectively. Terrible things can come from miscommunication, or a lack of defined purpose, when it comes to a campaign such as this.
The door opens. She doesn’t take her eye off the papers.
“Mornin’” says Gunner, fully uniformed. The rest of Ocean Company files in behind him. He pauses for a moment. “You look like a closet goblin.”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
She doesn’t acknowledge the comment but on the inside, she can see the image in her head. Her bed hair, the way her pillow and emptied food trays are shoved between her back and the wall.
Forrest steps in last. He’s holding the coffee she asked for. She squeezes her hands towards it.
“The kitchen pantry, Maeven? Really?” Ina remarks. Sand Company squeezes in next, careful not to knock the steel storage shelves and send kitchenware toppling over their heads. It’s not the most ideal place to hold a meeting. If Callum laid down sideways on the floor, he wouldn’t fit with his arms stretched out.
“Sorry, it’s a classified mission.”
The two companies shift around. Callum claims a spot next to the door by jousting his field chair open and sitting on it, bumping audibly into Gunner’s knee. “That thing is stupid,” Gunner retorts.
Eventually, the assignees settle with either standing or sitting with their knees tucked. For some reason Ina decides to sit right next to Sketchy, behind the documents, facing the crowd as if they had been spending the last 30 hours planning this together.
Once the shuffling quietens, Maeven opens her mouth.
“Our enemy is an underground firearm trade,” Ina blurts. “The Black Ammunition. Self-labelled.”
That was supposed to be her line. Ina must have squeezed the information out of one of the captains.
Win, sitting with his knees up and back against the left shelf, says “You gonna let Maeven explain?”
“She was taking too long.”
Maeven is quick to seize the following silence. “The Black Ammunition also supplies weapons to whoever is involved in our campaign. To put it another way, the people that assignees 501 to 1000 are presumably fighting right now, we’re indirectly intervening them.” She can feel the room shift when she says that, as she intermits to signal Sketchy. “And it's a good time to. They know that UL Marines are currently operating just north, and that the VR is touring their country. They’re anxious. I’m thinking that’s going to bleed into their reactions.”
Hunter’s minion takes the map and lifts it up to show the assignees. It’s a satellite view of a city they don’t recognise, of miniature, red-brown structures.
“A major—” Maeven stops herself. “My name’s Maeven by the way,” she tells Sand Company, then glances at Callum to see an approving thumb shoot out of his hand.
“We know,” says Assignee Fourteen.
“Hi Maeven!” says Eleven.
“A major component of their operations takes place in this city, Al Suit. There they have storefronts set up in a market district called ‘Black Lane.’” Sketchy circles a 500-metre strip of narrow road with the stroke of a red texter.
“Their artillery is more destructive than what the police are allowed to use, so they seem to thrive quite ostentatiously.” She fans a trio of profiles in her hand. “The Ammunition is run by three men. Babda, who deals with the money, Rich, who does distribution, and Nuwei, the guy running it all. We’re going after Babda. He’s a Will User reported to currently reside in Black Lane. Our overall objective is to burn a hole in their operations, by securing Babda and eliminating all Black Ammunition involvement in Al Suit.”
She sets the profiles down and sips her coffee.
“How many people is that?” asks assignee Twelve, the blue-haired girl that zips her VR jacket all the way up the collar. Her Will is gentle and flows like thick water.
“To seize all members of the BA, could be upwards of a thousand,” she answers. She notices Gunner and Callum retracting slightly at the fact, taking that in.
“So we infiltrate the strip,” Ina tells them.
Maeven shakes her head. “There’s a problem with doing that. See?” She points to the map. “Black Lane is columned between civilian living quarters. They also use some of the apartment rooms to hold their stock. If we storm in, that means two things, one that they have a vantage point, and two that it puts us in ROS territory.”
“ROS?” questions Forrest.
“Rules of Service.”
Sand’s leader scoffs. “Rules of Service is just a VR formality. Nobody pays attention to them.”
“Not when Captain Eyeshot’s here,” says Maeven.
Fourteen says, “Yeah. She’s the only one that follows the shave mandate, remember? No other captain gives a shit. Jackson gets yelled at everyday because of his 5 o’clock.” He laughs, and it gives his eyes a devilish look.
“That’s not a problem for you anyway, is it Patrick?” says Ina.
“Of course not. I’m not disgusting.”
Then Maeven is momentarily distracted by Assignee Eleven, mistaking movement for a raised hand. The User is bouncing like there’s music playing. Her Will fizzes like soda.
Ina jumps in again. “So why don’t we—”
“I already figured it out.” Maeven halts her sip of coffee to say it. She’s put far too much thought into this to be countered by Sand’s leader, having the eye bags to prove it. She unzips the backpack beside her and digs her arm into it.
“So I had a look the other day, at the Black Lane. Al Suit is only 50 kilometres away,” she says. “Barter, negotiation and haggling seem to be the culture of trade. So then I thought, where does culture come from in an organised operation?”
“It trickles down from who’s on top,” answers Callum.
“Right. So I thought Babda might want to participate in a barter of his own.” She lifts a thick sheet of paper from her bag, the one that Hunter left in her suitcase, that she discovered all the way back when Peacemaker was still docked on Port North. “I have a Will Contract.”
Whispers ensue across Sand Company.
“Where did you get that?” says Ina.
She thinks about her answer. “Family gift.”
“—Hang on a minute,” says Patrick, his hand gesturing a stop. “You don’t just pull that thing out like whatever.”
“Yes, Will Contracts are very expensive,” says Twelve.
“What’s a Will Contract?” says Win.
“What the hell is a Will Contract?” says Gunner. “We’re not all Super Lawyers.”
He and Callum snicker quietly.
She flips the contract over, revealing a shiny golden pattern that spans the back of the paper. Intricate, feathery lines, perfectly symmetrical on all corners. “They’re agreements enforced by the power of Will. It takes a special User to make them. And this insignia? That’s where the Will is embedded.”
“What kind of agreement?” says Callum. That’s when she flips the page back around and says, “It’s blank.”
“We can propose anything we want,” says Maeven. “Babda won’t miss the opportunity because Will Contracts are hard to come around. There’s supposed to be something called an Enforcer attached to it. He’ll probably use it for the benefit of The Ammunition, or—I don’t know, whatever he wants.”
“What’s the condition?” says Ina.
“A battle. To surrender or death. That way no civilians get involved. If we win, all activity in Al Suit must cease and all current members within must surrender to the police.”
“You’re sure that we can win something like that?” asks Callum.
“I’m certain.”
“Why just Al Suit? Why not all of The Black Ammunition?”
“To be honest, Win, I don’t know if the Contract is that good.”
There is a silence. No disagreements, at least.
The Contract really was a family gift, from a Willed customer of her parent’s clinic. Living near one of the best Academies in the world, it wasn’t uncommon to have formidable Users stop by the area. Mum and Dad didn’t know what it was, Hunter obviously didn’t know what to do with it. That’s how it ended up in Maeven’s hands, and she doesn’t know how it works any more than the assignees currently do.
How do Enforcers even work? She pondered just hours ago. Are they some minion tied to the Contract? Is it a role you’re supposed to delegate?
Even if it doesn’t work, if it catches Babda’s interest enough to get him isolated in some room, that could be enough. Otherwise, I’m better off trying to sell it.
Looking over at Ina’s company, Maeven proceeds, “Sand, I’d like to know your Concepts if you don’t mind.”
Sand looks amongst each other. After a few seconds, Assignee Eleven, the one that doesn’t stop moving, shoots her hand up.
“Me first! So my name is Hara. I’m really fast, and I’m really good at dodging.” She giggles. Her hair is short, dyed brown-orange with choppy bangs over her forehead. “The more attacks I dodge, the stronger I get, and when I hit you it’s like BABLAM!”
“Define dodge?” says Maeven.
Hara taps her chin. “Mmm. If you’re hitting me like this.” She throws a jab. “And you’re thinking ‘I’m gonna hit Hara,’ but I dodge it, I get a point.”
Ina translates this in her ear. “If the opponent attacks with the intention to hit Hara directly and it misses. Patrick, you go next.”
“I specialise in Transformation. I can mimic people,” he says.
“Only if they’re women,” Ina mutters to her. She reads a hint of disappointment.
“Nice to meet you, Maeven Riel. I am Rain. I heal people with my breath,” says Assignee Twelve. Her voice is soft and motherly.
“Adi?” says Ina.
Adi is Assignee Thirteen. “Intuitive,” she says. “I can sense where a person has been in the last two days.”
Maeven wasn’t expecting that. “Can you sense Will Signatures?”
“I can,” says Adi.
Ina’s the strongest, Hara is probably our second-best bet. The rest of Sand are useful, but not so much in combat against Babda.
Maeven asks the Sand Optimist, “Hara, do you mind showing me right now?”
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17.3 BA: Hara Yoo
The assignees gather at the dining hall: an open, musty room filled with Persian carpets and round tables cloaked in lightly stained cloth. Opposite the kitchen and past the tables, there’s a black stage set between plastic speakers and disco balls. An open tub of miscellaneous party decorations is spilling by the wall. The rest of the assignees gather there to watch.
Maeven and Hara face each other in the open space just in front of it, standing a few metres apart.
“What’s the maximum number of dodges you can take before it makes no difference?” Maeven asks.
Bouncing from one foot to the other, Hara shrugs. “Mm…like a hundred. And if you hit me, it resets to zero.”
“Okay,” she says, raising her forearms. “Let’s—”
Hara launches a fist at her gut. “That’s with zero,” she says.
“Okay,” Maeven utters drily, clutching her stomach. She hadn’t readied her Will yet. “We’ll go for thirty.”
The Optimist nods.
Thirty dodges. We’ll see how much stronger she gets at that point.
Maeven begins with a predictable combination of jabs, straights and hooks, and Hara sways away from them with a smile on her face. Maeven throws a sidekick. Hara jumps away with a swift back handspring.
She’s agile, acrobatic. Maeven’s slightly taller than her, but it seems she has no problem with her longer reach. Maeven advances again, this time infusing Will into her fists. She picks up the pace, focusing on her dominant hand to bait her to a side. Hara practically dances away.
Fifteen. Maeven breaks her established pattern by crouching to a side and launching her arm for a body shot. Hara’s eyes shift mindfully towards her, she is already leaning into the attack.
Suddenly, Hara grabs onto Maeven’s forearm. As Maeven punches, it forces a gap in between and Hara moves with it, elbows locked and feet sliding back on the carpet.
Maeven, arm now outstretched, blinks at her opponent. That’s new.
Hara giggles and lets go.
She kicks again, high at her face this time. Hara ducks. When Maeven’s foot comes back down, she twists on it and kicks with her other leg, then crouches to the ground to try and catch Hara with a ground sweep. Hara hopscotches away from all of them, like a stubborn fly that refuses to be swatted.
Nineteen. Maeven goes for a low kick to the calf, then a higher one to the side. She jabs and hooks again, increasing the speed.
This’ll be thirty, she counts as she makes one final left hook. Hara backs out of it, then flees to the walls of the hall.
“Hara, we’re done!” Maeven calls, dropping her hands. But Hara doesn’t want to stop. She jumps from wall to wall, up and under the tables. Fine. Maeven plays for a little longer, adding to the dodge bank, and careful not to break anything.
“What are they up to now?” asks Callum.
“Forty-something?” guesses Rain.
“They’re at fifty-three,” says Forrest, eyeing the battle intensely.
They hit a minute. Maeven makes the mental call that Hara has accumulated enough. It’s time to force the stoppage.
She picks up two dining tables by the legs and lets the tablecloths fold on the floor, eyes following the assignee as she dashes in circles around the walls. There’s a burst of wind every time the Optimist passes. She is fast, Maeven admits, connecting the tables together to form the tip of a triangle. She takes a moment to observe the movement. With a quick push, she closes the triangle with the wall. Hara is caught in the middle.
The Optimiser halts in between. Laughing breathily she pushes at the table blocking her way, but calms down before thinking to jump.
“I didn’t reset it did I?” says Maeven, removing the barricade.
“Nope. You weren’t trying to hit me and trapping me doesn’t count.” She bounces with excitement. “You’re fun!”
“Well, you’re welcome. You’re at sixty-three.” Maeven resets the tablecloths how she found it, then distributes her Will for Optimisation. Centring the energy around her abdomen, she positions herself a couple steps away from Hara.
“Go for it,” says Maeven.
“Wait a minute you want me to hit you?” says Hara.
“That was the point, Hara.”
“Can’t I hit a tree or something?”
Maeven just waves the idea away then juts a finger at her abdomen.
“Well,” says Hara. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you!”
Will lights Hara’s fist. It expands to a glowing ball the size of her head and pushes a current through the dining hall. As Maeven attunes to the output, she heightens her Optimisation.
“Uh—Maeven,” says Gunner.
“I don’t know about this,” says Callum.
Hara launches the attack. Her fist digs into Maeven’s gut. She can feel the air escape her lungs, then a blooming pain. Her Optimisation isn’t as seasoned as it used to be at the academy, she can tell.
It’s an attack whose pain lingers like a strong aftertaste. That digs deep into the organs and throbs with each heartbeat from behind the muscle. Sixty-percent. Okay. I think that will do.
Gunner winces in second-hand agony. “Say something, Riel,” says Rain, sounding worried.
Maeven straightens slowly, hands on her hips with her eyes downturned in consideration.
Hara looks at her fist. “Hm. I don’t think you were thinking about hitting me very hard.”
“I don’t think so too. We can factor that in.”
The rest of the room is quiet.
“OK,” says Maeven, turning away from the two companies. “Done for now. We leave tomorrow.”
For seconds, Ocean and Sand trade silent looks, as Riel rushes back to the kitchen pantry to clean up her things.