“—are designed to prevent a forced intrusion,” I said. “But we’re not going to force anything. The grendel AIs will be the ones to install the wyrm in their own servers. When they run my story, they’ll run our countermeasure.”
They looked at each other. The three soldiers who had been listening in the corner sat in motionless silence.
“How are you going to arrange that?” Ivy asked. “With Sterling dead.”
“Sterling was never the one to make it work. It was always supposed to be me. Corporal Dahl. OrbSyn journalist and part-time patsy. I wasn’t supposed to find out that our own counter-virus would be riding the back of one of my features. All I had to do was to write the story of our surrender.”
“The grendel authorities will broadcast it into their own territories,” Ivy said breathlessly. “They’ll send it themselves to mock our impotence.”
“A PSYOP,” I said.
The silence stretched into a long moment, and I remembered that first night on Holikot when I saw her standing alone at a table in the lounge. As though she could walk away from anyone and anything.
Ivy crossed her arms and stared at me. I thought I saw regret on her face, but by then I didn’t care.
Really. I didn’t care.
But I kept looking at her anyway.
“It won’t work,” Dogen said at last. “Will it?”
“One way to find out,” I suggested.
“No,” Ivy said. “It won’t work. Their AIs will spot the virus and remove it. Then they’ll send your story. And you’ll have given them more ammunition. You’ll have made the collapse of the edge even easier.”
“You have a better idea?”
She stared at me again for another long moment and then nodded slowly. The coldness in her eyes sent a shiver along my spine. “Yes. You’re going to tell them who you are. No more pretense. No more games. No more Captain Sterling. You’re going to get on an open channel and tell anyone and everyone that Sterling is dead.”
“My special ops team will blow the Strangler,” I said. “And we will never get another chance at this.”
“Your special ops team?” Ivy laughed. “You’re really buying into this officer act, aren’t you? Tell you what, Corporal. You admit who you are over an open channel, and I’ll let you walk back to your unit. We’ll even clear the area. See if your marines still want you to talk peace with the grendels.”
“What does it matter what they want? They don’t know any of this!” I strained against the quick-cuffs as adrenaline surged through my body. The thin cords cut into my flesh, drawing crescents of blood, and Dogen reached for the datapad.
Ivy snatched it away from him and ran her fingers across the surface.
To my surprise, I felt no pain; she must have been calling up some other function.
“What about Quelon?” I demanded as the light from the tripod intensified. “We’re within spitting distance of a planetary war. Do you not realize what’s going to happen here if we don’t act?”
She set the datapad on its edge towards me, and I saw myself reflected in its primitive surface. She was recording this, but zoomed in so that only my face and shoulders were visible.
I couldn’t look long. The high-intensity light made my head pound.
“Quelon?” She asked in a mocking tone. “You mean that terrible attack yesterday on an unsuspecting planet?”
How did she know? No one but Vermier and a handful of core officers in Camp Locke could have known what was on that thirty-second subnet recording. Was our intelligence service really so porous?
Ivy came around to my side again and leaned over to look me in the face. “Poor Raymin.” She brushed back a strand of hair from my forehead and bit her lower lip. “Brilliant but gullible. How do you know Quelon has really been attacked? How do you know all of those transmissions about the Alliance’s 3rd fleet and the grendel shock troops jumping planet-side didn’t originate with the Strangler? The grendels have a PSYOPS unit too, you know.”
Yes. Of course. If the Strangler could hack a PSYOPS officer’s comms unit, sever all communications on New Witlund, and render an entire Marine Corps base helpless in the span of a few milliseconds, what would be so hard about severing a subnet connection?
I didn’t know if her theory was true or not, but it didn’t matter. The question had done its work. She’d given me reason to doubt. Reason to doubt Sterling. Reason to doubt the grendels. Reason to doubt the AI and the friendly virus and even the stability of the Marine Corps. If we could be hacked so deeply that we didn’t know it, and didn’t think to even question it, how could we know anything?
She reached for the water bottle, touched it gently to my lips.
I drank gratefully and listened to the sound of my own heartbeat.
“It’s okay,” she said. “Take your time.”
I did.
I thought through everything that had happened over the last day and a half. Everything I believed, or thought I believed, and landed on a set of solid facts.
1. My name was Raymin Dahl, and
2. If I told people my name was Raymin Dahl, Sterling’s team would blow the Strangler, or try to, and we’d learn other solid facts about what was really going on, and
3. If we knew what was really going on, maybe we could do something about it, and
4. I was sick of lying, and
5. I wasn’t ready to die, and
6. Dogen had pulled his flash rifle from his shoulder and leveled it at my chest.
The datapad was still blinking red.
My head pounded.
My stomach did a little flip.
They would kill me afterwards, I knew. Ivy might even do it herself.
“I’m not who I say I am,” I began. “My name isn’t Ansell Sterling. And I’m not a captain—not even an officer. I’ve never been part of any Psychological Operations command. And the only military training I’ve ever had was grunt basic back on Kanzin.”
“What else?” Ivy prompted.
“The real Captain Sterling took a round through his right lung and choked on his own blood outside Seranik City. I stole his comms bracelet and his identity, on his orders, in order to carry out a clandestine, unofficial meeting with a representative from the Grand Alliance.”
“And what’s your real name?” Ivy asked.
“My real name is Corporal Raymin Dahl, Communication Specialist with the 82nd Transport-Ready Battalion, KCRI. I’m not a captain. I’m not in intelligence. And I’m not a marine.”
She bit her lower lip again, rocking a little on her heels, as if in sympathy. Her voice was quiet. “What are you, Raymin?”
“I’m a military journalist with OrbSyn. I write puff pieces to hide the fact we’re losing this war.”
“So you’re a reporter?”
“I’m a reporter. I lie for a living.”
There was another long pause.
Ivy stood and typed something on the datapad. Waited a moment longer. Nodded. “That’s it,” she said. “It’s gone out.”
“Open channel?” Dogen asked.
“Open channel,” Ivy said.
I expected a bullet.
Instead, Dogen lowered his rifle. “Thank you for your service.” He nodded at me and disappeared into the shadows as someone switched off the tripod light.
They were taking other exits. Of course they were. It would be foolish to go out the front when they knew the mountains, knew Seranik, knew the cartel. They were going to get away untouched and unfollowed by slinking off through the tunnel system and whatever exits lay hidden on the far side of the ridge.
Ivy piled my clothes on the table and took out a small pocket knife. She sliced the quick-cuff off of my right hand and set the knife on top of my clothing. I’d have to pull myself one-handed around the edge of the table to reach the knife, then cut the other restraints before I could leave. It would buy her and the rest of her team time to get away.
I didn’t care. It meant they weren’t going to ki
ll me.
But I guess I didn’t care much about that either. Not while she was still there in the room, staring at me.
She came to my side one last time and kissed me on the mouth.
I should have turned away, but I let her lips linger.
I’d say I don’t know why, but that would be a lie.
“Goodbye, Raymin,” she said.
I didn’t respond, even though she stood there long enough I could tell she wanted me to say something, to grant her absolution, but I didn’t do that either. That one is a mystery. Too much of a fool even then, I suppose.
Ever since yesterday morning I’d been second-guessing myself, second-guessing the connection I had to Sterling’s comms. It wasn’t real, I’d reasoned. Just some sort of mind game. A grendel trick to make me dependent.
But now, who was the real deceiver? The woman I’d loved—no, thought I’d loved—turned out to be some sort of operative for a dissident militia. She’d used me. Probably meant to use me all along.
But the AI had never claimed to be anything other than what she was. She’d chosen the name Ivy because the name was meaningful to me. It had been a promise. She could be what I needed. What I wanted.
She would be there.
I sat in the silence for a little while, then worked my way around to the knife and cut myself loose. I dressed and pushed open the door, half expecting a bullet from one of the friendlies. Pajari maybe, or Hopper. Maybe even Laclos.
But who was I kidding? They were all unfriendlies now.
The sun had dropped beyond the ridge, and the copper sky shimmered a rusty brown.
I stepped out, hands raised, moving slowly at first, then more quickly when I admitted to myself that they were all gone.
Raeburn had orders to blow the Strangler if things went sideways. And from his perspective things had definitely gone sideways. The original mission was blown. Vermier was probably throwing a royal tantrum. I’d be lucky to avoid summary execution.
I guess I had hoped that someone on the team would wonder if I was saying all that stuff under duress, that maybe none of it was true. But it’s not easy to fool special operators once they know what to look for.
Besides, Vermier was probably saying that she knew something was wrong with me all along. That she could spot a real marine at a hundred meters. That I was no marine.
The compound stood empty and silent, just as I had expected.
I stopped for a long drink at the fountain inside the gates, then trudged into the sled port. The red convertible was gone too.
Of course it was.
But that didn’t matter. Not now.
I dug my hands into the soil of the planter and sighed with relief as my fingers touched the cool metal of Sterling’s comms. I didn’t even bother to wipe the dirt off. Just shoved it around my wrist and pressed the two halves together.
She tickled the skin beneath my palm, and soothed it where the quick-cuff had cut me open. She strode into my mind with a dignified air like a queen coming to her throne.
[Hello, Ivy,] I said. [Did you hear the transmission?]
[I did. And I’m very sorry.] Her voice was soft. A mixture of contrition and empathy. [You received a message a few minutes ago from the Alliance emissary. Text only. Would you like to read it?]
[I’d rather you read it to me,] I said. [Please.]
[It says, “Corporal Dahl: I have reviewed your transmission sent via satcom. Our analysis of your words indicates that you were probably compelled to speak by external pressures, but that your admission is substantially factual. Under the circumstances, I will agree to meet with you to discuss a negotiated peace and the surrender of your edge colonies. That is to say, to avoid further loss of life, it seems worthwhile to hear the concessions your superiors authorized Sterling to make. Unfortunately, my security detail has advised me against using the original meeting place. If you want to make this work, and if indeed you have the authority to make this work, you will have to come to me. We can discuss this aboard my ship, the Takwin. Let me know within the hour if this arrangement is agreeable, and I will send an escort to ensure your safety. I understand you are probably alone and in need of rest. My men can be there in the morning. Your servant, His Gracious Excellence G.A. Hayan.”]
[That’s it?]
[That’s it.]
[I can turn over the colonies tomorrow?]
[Yes. It’s in the best interests of everyone.]
[All right. Send my reply. I’ll come to him.]
I turned towards the mansion door, now closed. I was exhausted, but my mind still raced. If Laclos were here I would have asked her for a sedative so that I could finally sleep. But I recognized the jittery nervousness in my hands, the haunting echoes of words lingering in the periphery of my mind. It would be hours before I calmed down enough to sleep.
[Now what?] I asked. Not because I really wondered, but because I wanted to hear Ivy’s voice again.
I missed her.
[You wanted to write a war story,] Ivy suggested.
And I realized if I did that, she would know everything. Because I was going to write all of it. The counter-virus; the presence of my ex-girlfriend; the likelihood that when dating Ivy I had given her, and thus the militia, clues about what was going on without even realizing it; the shame of my own failure—the whole story, just as it happened.
And I didn’t care.
[Will you read it?] I asked.
[If you let me,] Ivy said.
[I’d like that.]
PART THREE
SLAVE TO A QUANTUM MASTER
BY CPL RAYMIN DAHL
EMBEDDED WITH MADAR TEAM TWO
11
Control
I wasn’t supposed to enlist the way I did: last day of class, alcohol in my blood stream, bleeding from a gash on the top of my head. Dad wanted me in Fleet, and I had agreed. Technically, Command and Control is merit-based. But sons of decorated officers come pre-packaged in merit, and everyone knew if I signed for officer candidate school with Fleet, my ticket to the Office of Strategic Operations would be punched immediately and without question. STRATOP was a plumb launch point, and as near a guarantee of good fortune as any colonial can have.
But it wasn’t a future I wanted, and even though I’d agreed to sign on the dotted line as soon as I earned my degree, I’d also started drifting by the recruiting kiosk at the campus student union whenever my classes ended.
Sergeant Houts was big, friendly, and had a handshake like a hydraulic press. His uniform was immaculate, and though he might have gotten more sign-ups if he’d worn a prosthetic arm, he instead chose to pin the left sleeve to the shoulder in a neatly folded rectangle.
Somehow I’d talked the sergeant into giving me a preview of the Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Assessment on the morning of my last day of classes. I’d taken a couple of fake prep tests, but I wanted to see the real thing. I didn’t know if my father would pull strings to make my results fit STRATOP’s criteria, but I wouldn’t put it past him. And I wanted to know what I was actually good at.
Houts knew I wasn’t going to sign with him. He was a ground pounder, not a Fleet recruiter. He knew who my father was and probably understood better than I did the opportunities that connection afforded me. In fact, he told me I was stupid for talking to him, and anyone dumb enough to turn down a ticket to Fleet OCS was actually too stupid for the infantry.
But he sent the test to my comms anyway and witnessed my hour-long ritual completion via his own connection to AFNET.
That afternoon when classes were over I stopped by to talk about the results.
“Says you’re smarter than you look,” Houts said, his face twisted in exaggerated surprise. “High tendencies in predictive behavior, statistical analysis, communications, and contextual manipulation. Son, Fleet is gonna love you.”
“Thanks,” I said. Then, out of curiosity, I asked, “What if I don’t want to go to Fleet OCS?”
“Then you’re an idiot,” he sai
d. “And the test I gave you is wrong. Which would make me wrong. And that is statistically impossible.”
“I mean, where would the Corps, or even the reserves, place me if I didn’t sign with Fleet?”
He gave a shrug and looked left, scanning his grid for options. “Best match is with Public Information Command. Happens to be my bailiwick. Flow of information to and from the public.”
“So it’s marketing?”
“Something like that,” he said, his back stiffening. “Marketing in all its forms is part of PIC. But it’s bigger than that. It’s also the umbrella for military journalism, psychological warfare, strategic disinformation, and dozens of related specialties.”
“Sounds like propaganda.”
“Well, now that’s a harsh word. And one that’s been shaped by propaganda to make it sound sinister—so you won’t recognize it in its more benign forms. No, the PIC is more like a center for controlling the flow of stories around the republic. A way to circumvent the misinformation dumped on our colonies by the Grand Alliance. Public Information Command is the marrow that cranks out white blood cells to fight the enemy within.”
I had never seen myself as a propagandist, but three years of journalism classes hadn’t spoiled my taste for shaping narratives. Add to that the allure of a shadow world, the luster of fighting grendel misinformation with counterintelligence, and Public Information Command sounded like a perfect fit. Then again, that was the point of the ASVAA test. Its AI was supposed to find a perfect match.
Dad would never allow it, of course. I was of age, so he couldn’t legally stop me from enlisting in a different branch. But he could make my life miserable if I did. “Sounds intriguing. I wish I could, but—”
He shook his head, cutting me off. “Fleet needs intelligent people more than we do. Short supply in that branch.”
I laughed and held out my hand. “Thanks for letting me take the test, Sergeant.”
He gripped my hand in a way that told me he was holding back for my benefit. “No problem, son. You come out of OCS half the officer your father is, I’ll be proud to say I met you here.”
Operation Grendel Page 12