The Aleph Extraction

by Dan Moren

  “OK, OK,” said the man. “I give!”

  Addy’s blows paused, wary of some sort of gambit or trick, but the man had put his hands up.

  “I suppose this’ll teach me not to come up on someone unaware,” he said. “Duly noted.” He cleared his throat. “Can I get up now?”

  Disengaging, Addy rocked back on her heels, letting the man dust himself off and slowly rise to his feet. He brushed off his gray military-style coat and his trousers, sending the brown dirt off in great clouds. Raising a fist he coughed into it. “Sorry about that.”

  Addy blinked, standing up and crossing her arms. The fire in her belly was still there, but it had been banked to embers. Then again, that was about as low as it ever got. “What do you want?”

  “Well, Specialist Sayers, I came to have a chat with you. It was, uh, supposed to be less physical, admittedly.”

  Her eyes flicked up and down a second time. No rank insignia. No unit patch. Nothing identifying at all, for that matter. But his bearing and his skills, well, those were military, no question.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Ah,” he said, looking uncomfortable for a moment – an odd expression for someone who a minute ago had been holding his own in combat. “You put me in a bit of an awkward position with that question, so I’m afraid I’m going to be rude and answer it with another question: How would you like a job?”

  It would have been frankly less surprising if the man had taken another swing at her. Her jaw dropped slightly.

  How much tequila had she had?

  “A job?” she echoed. “Doing what?”

  “Oh, this and that. Something that makes use of those skills that you so ably demonstrated a moment ago.”

  Covert ops. This guy’s covert ops. The skills, the lack of insignia, the fact that he even had any idea who she was, it all added up. But the Commonwealth had a number of intelligence agencies and secret special operations divisions.

  “What are you, CID?”

  He laughed. “I probably shouldn’t confirm or deny – that’s the company line. But no, I’m not CID. Or NICOM. Or MIG either. Whew. We do love our acronyms, don’t we?”

  Naval Intelligence Command and the Marine Intelligence Group, the other two major Commonwealth military intelligence outfits and, if Addy was being honest, the only other ones that she knew. That made this seriously off-the-books stuff. She swallowed. “OK, so I know who you’re not. How about you give me something to work with?”

  “Well, I did offer you a job.”

  She snorted. “Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.”

  “I’m Slavic, actually, but close enough.”

  The temperature had dropped slightly as they talked, especially as the sweat of her second fight of the evening started to cool on her skin, and she rubbed her arms against the pimpled gooseflesh. “Why me?”

  “The usual reasons. Your qualifications are impressive: graduated top of your class from sniper school, trained in stealth and infiltration, and all of your instructors have remarked that you’re quick to pick up new skills – and master them.”

  “When you put it that way, yeah, I’m a hell of a catch. So why should I go work for you?”

  “Well, there’s the matter of your temper. Your general insubordination. The seventeen reprimands in your official file.”

  Heat rose in Addy’s cheeks at each additional bullet point, and her teeth ground against each other. This is some stupid joke. Mathis and the others, they brought this guy along to humiliate me. I’m not going to stand here and take–

  “And, of course,” the man concluded, his gray eyes meeting hers, “the fact that you just washed out of the Commonwealth military’s most prestigious special operations program. But I’ve read your jacket, specialist. All of it. And I still think you’re the right person for this job.”

  Addy bared her teeth in a parody of a smile. “Even with all those black marks?”

  “Because of them. If I’m being honest, what I need is someone who can think like a criminal.”

  “And I was a criminal.” Addy’s chest tightened. She’d had the word hurled at her plenty of times, a convenient excuse to bounce her from orphanage to foster home and back again.

  “Dabbling in shoplifting and petty theft I can understand. But moving up to fraud and larceny before you turned seventeen shows ambition. Most kids that age are playing soccer or binging vids.”

  “It’s an easy label to slap on someone from a position of privilege. I was just trying to survive.”

  “Well, survive you did. And that says something about your grit and your determination, both of which happen to be qualities that I value.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Addy, shaking her head. “You could have any soldier in that bar. Why me?”

  The man let out a long breath, his eyes going up to the sky, fading into night. “I knew John Boyland. A little. Not well.”

  Addy’s breath caught in her chest. Boyland. Of course. “I don’t need any pity job.”

  “This isn’t about pity. He was convinced you had potential – the last thing he would have wanted was to see it squandered.” He smiled. “But ultimately, it’s up to you. We raise ship tomorrow at 0800. Crenshaw Airfield, Hangar 3. I hope you’ll be there.”

  With that, the man tipped her an informal salute, then turned and walked away into the night, leaving Addy alone with the summer breeze ruffling through her hair.

  Boyland. Still trying to help her from beyond the grave. The one person who’d never given up on her, no matter how many times she’d let him down. He’d always believed she could do better, could make it on the straight and narrow. “Too trusting” wasn’t how Addy would have described most of the cops she’d known, but Boyland, well, he had been a special case.

  A burst of laughter escaped the bar’s screen door, rippling out through the night, and she heard her classmates – former classmates – carrying on and the sound of glasses clinking together. Warmth and camaraderie emanated from the bar, but it faded out mere feet from the door. There was nothing inviting about it; just another group of people who wouldn’t ask her in.

  Her hands clenched again. That was just fine by her. She’d made it this far on her own, and she sure as hell didn’t need any of them. She turned on her heel and stalked away from the bar, heading back towards the School’s campus and her room.

  Besides, she had to pack.

  CHAPTER 4

  Hangar 3 was an unremarkable building: a big, white, squat box that looked like it needed a fresh coat of paint.

  The guards had waved Addy in after she’d presented her military ID – she might have washed out of the School, but she hadn’t been officially decommissioned yet. Nobody else seemed to give her a second glance, even though she was wandering around in her civvies. She carried her olive green duffle over one shoulder, packed with all of her belongings. It wasn’t particularly heavy.

  She’d left Song a note, thanking her for everything, along with her remaining scrip to settle last night’s bar tab. And the weekend before that. Honestly, she probably owed Song for more than that, but she wasn’t going to be able to cover it all.

  The rest of her class wasn’t in evidence as she’d packed up, so she’d skipped the formal goodbyes and caught the shuttle bus to Crenshaw.

  Out of the frying pan and into the napalm. Part of her wasn’t convinced last night’s recruitment pitch hadn’t been a tequila-fueled delusion, but she supposed she’d find out soon enough.

  The cavernous hanger did contain a ship, but it was smaller than she’d expected. An older patrol model, its hull pockmarked and pitted and the heat shield on its underbelly scorched and blackened. But as she looked closer, she realized that there were no signs of corrosion or other serious structural issues and no damage beyond the cosmetic. No name was stenciled on its bow, but there was a registration number in what looked like fresh paint.

  It’s in better shape than it looks.

  In the middle of the floor sat
a pair of chairs. Both were occupied. By the same person. He leaned back in one, eyes fastened on a tablet in front of him, while his boots – black and worn, but unmistakably military – were perched on the seat of the other. Unlike the footwear, the rest of his attire was decidedly civilian: a long-sleeve crew shirt and trousers.

  Raising a fist to her mouth, Addy gave her best attempt at a polite cough.

  Blue eyes flicked over the top of the tablet in her direction. “Uh. Hi.” He glanced around, the telltale look of a junior officer trying to find someone more authoritative to pawn off responsibility to. Seeing no one, he laid the pad down on his chest. “Can I help you?”

  “Yeah, I’m supposed to meet someone here.”

  The man craned his neck, taking in the hangar. “Is it me? I hope it’s not me, because I am totally unprepared for that.” The tablet slipped off his chest and clattered to the ground, and he swore under his breath.

  Addy forced down the heat rising in her chest. This was too elaborate to be a put-on, she reminded herself. Besides, Mathis wasn’t smart enough to pull it off. She cracked a smile at that.

  The man had replaced the tablet on the chair, where it slid out the gap between the back and the seat. Cursing again, he bent to pick it up, then evidently decided better and waved it off.

  “Anyway, uh, yeah,” he said, looking up at her again. “Who did you say you were looking for?”

  “I…uh…I don’t know his name. Older guy. Square jawed. A little shorter than you? Mostly brown hair but a little bit of gray here.” She tapped her temple.

  The man opened his mouth in an “ah”, then called back over his shoulder at the ship. “Boss? You got a visitor.” He looked back at her and smiled. It wasn’t a bad looking smile, as such things went.

  “He’s not big on sharing,” said the man, lowering his voice to conspiratorial levels. “Personally, I think he likes to look as though he knows everything.”

  Addy nodded as though she had any idea what the hell he was talking about. She was about to ask his name and, more importantly, what the hell unit this was, when a familiar voice came from the direction of the ship.

  “Oh good, you’re here.” The man from last night descended the ramp of the ship, one hand on the bulkhead. He ducked out of the ship, and crossed the hangar floor towards them.

  A woman trailed behind: high cheekbones, dirty blonde hair pulled back into a functional ponytail, a pale face highlighted by sharp blue eyes. Addy felt those on her, scanning her up and down and silently appraising – she’d seen it in many an officer over the years. She’s wondering just how far she can throw me. Like the two men, the woman was dressed in civilian gear with a slight military timbre: an open-collared blue shirt and casual charcoal gray trousers tucked into boots.

  “Glad to see you two have met,” said the man as he joined them. The woman hung back slightly, arms crossed. “There should be an open locker in one of the cabins for your bag,” he said, eyes alighting on Addy’s duffle. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “We’re on a bit of a schedule,” he glanced at his sleeve, “so we’ll be raising ship in about fifteen minutes.”

  The woman behind him coughed, politely. “Simon, I do believe you’ve neglected to make introductions.” Her voice was rich and deep, and had an accent that made Addy think of schoolmistresses and nuns. She smiled vaguely in Addy’s direction, though it was decidedly lacking in warmth.

  “Oh, right,” said the man. He nodded at Addy. “This is Specialist Adelaide Sayers. She’ll be joining us on a provisional basis.”

  Provisional? Addy’s hand tightened on her duffel bag. Another set of hoops to jump through. She should have figured that the job offer was too good to come without its own series of contingencies. Whatever. She didn’t need this.

  “Specialist Sayers,” the man had continued, “this is my executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Natalie Taylor.” He gestured to the woman, who gave a cool nod in Sayers’s direction, if anything frostier than the smile she’d offered a moment ago. Lieutenant Commander? That makes her Commonwealth Navy.

  “And I see you’ve already met our pilot, Lieutenant Elijah Brody.”

  “Eli,” said the blue-eyed man, extending a hand. “Welcome to the team.”

  After a brief hesitation, she shook it. His hand was warm, slightly calloused, but without the telltale marks of weapons or combat.

  “Good,” said the man. “That’s taken care of.”

  Addy drew her eyes away from the pilot, back to the man himself. “Except one. Who the hell are you?”

  The man had the good grace to look embarrassed. “Of course. My apologies. Major Simon Kovalic, at your service.”

  “And what exactly is this unit?”

  “I’m really falling down on the job here,” Kovalic muttered, more to himself than anyone else. He cleared his throat. “The Special Projects Team is a small covert direct-action unit. We report to the Commonwealth’s Strategic Intelligence Adviser, who in turn is responsible directly to the Commonwealth Executive. Our brief is to identify and intervene in matters of strategic importance, places where even a small adjustment can make a difference. Basically, we find a way to put our thumbs on the scale.”

  Special Projects Team? Strategic Intelligence Adviser? “Besides the Commonwealth Executive, I’ve never heard of a single thing you just mentioned,” said Addy.

  Kovalic grinned. “If you had, we wouldn’t be very good at our jobs.”

  “And this is it?” said Sayers, waving a hand at the hangar and the assembled personnel. “This is your team?”

  “No, of course not,” said Kovalic. “That’d be ridiculous.”

  “Of course,” said Addy. “Ridiculous.”

  “There’s one more.”

  In less distinguished company, Addy might have slapped a hand to her forehead, but as it was, she merely tried not to goggle. Were they having her on? Seemed like an awfully big area of responsibility for a four-person team – five-person, she corrected herself. What the hell have I gotten myself into?

  “We’re still waiting on Sergeant Tapper, but like I said, there are some open bunks onboard. Make yourself at home.”

  The blonde woman cleared her throat, and tilted her head towards Kovalic. “A word, major?”

  Kovalic’s smile froze, but he returned the nod. “Pardon me.” The two of them meandered away, towards an unoccupied corner of the hangar, speaking in tones too low for Addy to make out.

  “So,” said the pilot – Brody – leaning back in his chair again. “Where do you come to us from? No, wait, let me guess,” he spread his hands wide, as if painting a panorama, “the elite Advanced Warfare Group. Covert insertions? High-altitude jumps? Sneaking silently through jungle and desert alike?”

  Addy shook her head.

  “Hm,” said Brody, rubbing at his chin. His blue eyes sparkled. “Marine Special Operations, then. Fighting ship-to-ship against superior odds?”

  “Not so much.”

  His expression had turned crestfallen. “I’m usually really good at this game. CID’s Activities Division?”

  “Sorry.”

  “OK then,” he said, scratching his head. “I’m just going to pretend it’s some outfit so shadowy and elite that word of it has never reached my ears.”

  “Yeah, I think you just described you guys,” said Addy, glancing around. Granted, there were probably plenty of teams like this between the Commonwealth military and its intelligence agencies. She just wasn’t sure how she’d ended up on one of them.

  “I think I’ll go stow my gear,” she said, hoisting her duffle bag again. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Sure,” said Brody, reclaiming his tablet from its spot on the floor, and wiping it on his sleeve. “Just a word of advice?” He nodded at the ship. “Don’t touch any of Tapper’s stuff. He gets cranky.”

  “Uh. Got it.”

  “What the bloody hell were you thinking?”

  Kovalic glanced over his shoulder, but Sayers had gone aboard the ship,
and Brody was engrossed in his tablet again. “Permission to speak freely granted, commander.”

  Nat’s eyes flashed. “Oh, now you want to hide behind discipline and formality?”

  Raising his hands in surrender, Kovalic gave a slight nod of acquiescence. “Fair point. Look, there were a limited number of candidates to choose from.”

  “And she was the best of the lot?” Disbelief suffused every syllable.

  “She was… the most qualified,” Kovalic said, choosing his words with care.

  “On what scale?”

  “Look, what exactly is the problem?”

  “She’s young, Simon.”

  “So was Page.”

  Nat bit her lip. “Firstly, she is not Aaron Page. Secondly, look at what happened to him.”

  It seemed to Kovalic that her words echoed off the hangar walls, rebounding until they came back at him from every direction. Look at what happened to him. “She’s for real, Nat. I checked her out. Expert marksman, experience with–”

  “That’s not the point, Simon.”

  He threw up his hands in his exasperation. “Then what is?”

  “You keep doing this.” Her voice was flat, but Kovalic could hear the anger simmering beneath, and it cut his heart out from under him. “Making decisions without me. Practically going behind my back on this one.”

  “It is my team.” He knew the words were a mistake the second they were out of his mouth, but it was done. There was no taking it back.

  Her jaw snapped shut. “You’re right. I’m only the acting executive officer. But the point of an XO is that they’re part of the decisions made about the team. Like new personnel. You want to make a different choice, then fine. But when you’re working with someone, you need to include them in these decisions. You can’t pull bullshit moves like this and just expect everyone to be onboard.” She heaved a breath, her eyes darting away. “Just as well this is my last mission.”

  Something lodged in Kovalic’s throat. “Last mission? What are you talking about?”

  Her gaze still wouldn’t meet his. “A position opened up back at NICOM. Chief of staff to Admiral Chatterjee.”