Tales from the Inbox: A Spacer’s Ruination

2950-02-15 – Tales from the Inbox: A Spacer’s Ruination 

Looks like we didn’t get a story into the feed system before ingest time this week. That probably means our embed team aboard Saint- Lô has not been near a hypercast relay for at least eight days. 
 
This is an expected consequence of wartime maneuvers and operations, and as such your Cosmic Background Embed Team has prepared a number of interesting accounts to publish in advance should the vagaries of war cause a lapse in communication with the greater interstellar datasphere. 

Most likely, last week’s entry warned that this might be the case; if not, Duncan or Nojus will give an account of what’s been happening on the battle front in weeks to come. 

The names used in this account are all pseudonymous (for reasons you will shortly discover), and the events described took place many months ago. 

Ramiro W. slumped against the bulkhead near the airlock, letting the data slate in his hands fall to the pitted deck plating. He had been pacing the length of his tiny ship for hours, trying to come up with a way of escaping the fate he and his ship had fallen into. Even if he drained his savings, went as far into debt as his credit line would allow, and sold every unnecessary item aboard, he still couldn’t pay what it would cost to get Jen Daley spaceworthy again. 

Selling off his poor vessel to the shipbreakers would earn Ramiro enough money to get home and get his feet under him, but he hated the idea of returning to Madurai in defeat. He’d left that world five years prior, hoping never to see the planet of his birth ever again. The Galactic West small-colony cargo circuit had for a time proved lucrative enough to keep his little ship running and even to turn a small profit, but as more and more independent outfits moved in from the war-torn Coreward Frontier, Ramiro had found himself struggling to stay competitive.  

For a while, he’d simply reduced his profits, and then operated on a break-even basis in order to keep his routes. After all, he’d reasoned, the war couldn’t go on forever, and the ships and spacers displaced by the conflict would leave again when it was over. His profits from prior years had given him a comfortable buffer of savings in case something went catastrophically wrong. 

Something had indeed gone wrong. Jen Daley’s ancient, reliable fusion reactor had begun to fail on the return trip from remote Holst’s Run, finally scramming for the last time just after the final jump into the outer Philadelphia system. Limping into port on only the power provided by the auxiliary solar panel arrays, he’d been forced to pay out to replace the old, destroyed machinery after four different starship mechanics had failed to wake the fusion plant. His savings had covered the new reactor core, but only barely. 

Three runs later, Jen Daley’s heat sequestration systems had gone out, threatening alternately to boil and then freeze Ramio as the ship approached and then withdrew from the stars which gave life to Galactic West’s many habitable planets. 

He’d put up with the discomfort without repairing the system for nearly a month before finally giving in and having it worked on. For one glorious week everything aboard Jen Daley had seemed to be in perfect working order, and then everything had gone to Hell. 

Most likely, the heat sequestration had been broken by an electrical fault in the main power system routing power from the ship’s brand-new, high-performance core transformers through critical sensor components. Ramiro only knew this now, since the same fault had eventually recurred, this time subjecting the star drive to the electrical might of a miniature artificial sun. The folder nodes along the sides of the bow had melted, and droplets of molten metal had flowed down inside their housings, connecting things in unholy and unplanned ways until the whole hull was part of one gigantic high-voltage circuit, ruining every sensor, thruster, gyro, antenna, and other small outward-facing apparatus aboard. 

Fortunately for Ramiro, this time the fault happened when he was only a few hundred kilometers out the grand Amadei Philadelphia transfer station. Unfortunately for him, repairing his ship this time would cost nearly double what he could manage to pay, and no repair team on the station would allow an independent spacer to pay in installments. 

Sighing, Ramiro stooped to pick up the data slate, undamaged by its collision with the deck. He had been offered one alternative to consigning his ship to the breakers, but it was an alternative he couldn’t possibly accept. Better to return to Madurai for another decade of credit-pinching than to sell his soul and future to her. 

Ramiro he keyed open the airlock and headed into the station to find a shipbreaker’s representative. A moment later his comm pinged. Scowling, he shoved the earpiece into his ear. “Answer.” 

“Ramie, don’t do it. You know I can help you.” 

“No, Liv, you can’t.” He didn’t bother wondering how she knew what he’d decided – perhaps it was as simple as having a camera watching his ship’s airlock. “I’d rather go back to the dirt than fly on your terms.” 

“I find that hard to believe.” Livia Farran’s silky voice carried a note of mock concern. Ramiro and Galactic West’s most innovative con artist had plenty of run-ins over the years, most of them unfriendly. “You’d rather keep flying, even if it means compromising a little bit.” 

“A little bit?” Ramiro’s hands balled into fists. “I won’t help you swindle colonists.”  

“Any more colonists, you mean. You’ve already done it once.” 

Ramiro winced. He’d taken on Livia Farran as a passenger early on in his career as an independent spacer thinking her a mining expert and only learned her credentials and results were a total sham after she’d been paid nearly a million credits by three hardscrabble colonies to give them the locations of nonexistent formations of rare minerals. 

“Anyway, Ramie, I’m on to something new. Something I think won't bruise your precious scruples very much at all. No more stealing sweets from the babies.” 

Ramiro sighed. Could it hurt to listen? “You have sixty seconds, then you’re blocked again.” He’d comms-blocked Liv more times than he could count, but she had more official identities and datasphere footprints than he could easily find. Even if he did it again, all she’d need to do was use one he hadn’t seen before. 

“Well, I was thinking. You know who’s got a lot of money these days and who won’t go crying to the authorities if they’re idiots who get that money stolen? The Ladeonists.” 

Ramiro stopped in the middle of the corridor, traffic pushing past him on both sides. “You’re insane. Authorities? They’d send a kill team.” 

“Probably not, especially if we did it in a way that would make them look too much like idiots. Hey, look at it this way, you’d be doing your part in the war effort. You know those guys are getting money from the other side.” 

Ramiro’s shoulders slumped. He wanted very much to tell Liv off, to continue on his way to the shipbreakers’ office, but he couldn’t do it. Swindling Ladeonists was bad news, but he had very little issue with the idea morally. “Anyone going along with you has got to have a death wish.” 

“So you’re in, then.” Liv’s smile was audible through the comms circuit. “I’ll wire you just enough to get that rusty tub fixed up. I’ll be along in a few days, then we can talk details.” 

Ramiro sighed. “I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?” 

“Oh, certainly. But I promise we’re only going to steal from people who totally have it coming.” 

Ramiro cut the channel. He knew just how little to trust Livia Farran’s promises, but he knew he had to take that chance. 

 

Details

Tales from the Service: The Ambush in the Tunnels

2950-02-08 – Tales from the Service: The Ambush in the Tunnels

I never did get a chance to interview any of the prisoners on Hallman. I was recalled to Saint-Lô not long after last week’s entry hit the ingest network, and by the time you see this item, Fifth Fleet will be out of Berkant. With the speed we’re going, something has gone very wrong somewhere, and while there’s no official news as to what’s happening, the shipboard whisper network seems convinced we’re going to Håkøya. 

Two days ago, I would have thought Håkøya the last place the fleet would need to go, but with the disruption of the hypercast relay network in the inner Nye Norge region now entering its third day (I am writing this on the sixth), it’s only reasonable to blame such an infrastructure collapse on enemy action. 

As I have been aboard ship and far from the local hypercast relay, I haven’t been able to comb through the usual inbox backlog properly since we started out for Hallman. This week, we will conclude the underground encounter described to me by Corporal Rosenfeld. If we’re actually bound for Håkøya, it’s possible we’ll be far from any relays until after next week’s Tales from the Inbox is scheduled – if that’s the case, the system will use one of the backlog entries we’ve prepared for just that purpose. 

Boz Rosenfeld stepped back from the threshold and crept back to his three compatriots. He dared not send them a radio message, lest even the encrypted signal be detected by their foes beyond. “Looks like about a dozen of them. The cavern is about ten meters across and maybe twenty-five deep.” He was almost whispering, even though the volume of his voice was wholly controlled by his light suit helmet, and that was operating at the lowest speaker setting. “Two crew-served weapons with interlocking fields of fire, but they’re focusing on a couple of passages off to the left.” 

“Our friend Nate knows how to party.” Feng secured his carbine and began to unfold the precision rifle he usually kept slung behind his back. The large-bore, chemical-propellant weapon was far less than the ideal weapon for clearing Hallman’s winding caverns, but the Marine had insisted on bringing it along anyway. 

Boz pointed to the weapon. "You’ll knock out the heavy guns. Forget the gunners." The heavy projectiles of the rifle should be able to wreck the fine inner workings of any Incarnation crew-served weapon beyond any hope of repair. “But MacGowan, you’re going to start this show. Make them keep their heads down as long as you can. While their heads are down, that’s when Feng takes out those guns.” 

“Sure thing, Corporal.” MacGowan hefted his heavy automatic railgun, replete with cooling system and bulky hopper filled with ferroceramic slugs. He’d mostly recovered from his recent near-death experience, but even if his aim was shakier than an Annuska junkie, he’d be spewing enough ordinance to fill most of the cavern. 

“What about me?” Moralez, facing away from his compatriots as he watched the tunnel along which they’d come, still managed to participate in the whispered conversation. 

“You’re with me.” Boz unclipped a pair of thermobaric grenades from his webbing and handed them to MacGowan as he spoke. According to the techs topside, these weapons would have a decent kill radius and a minimal chance of collapsing the caverns. “They’re being led by an officer of some kind. We’re going to bag him, alive if possible. Could be it’s the ring-leader of this whole left-behind rabble.” 

“Alive? What if it’s one of those Immortals?” 

Boz chuckled. “Then we’re the damned unluckiest Marines on the Frontier, Moralez. But he’s probably just whoever Nate brass liked the least when they left.” 

The other nodded uncertainly, his helmet hiding what Boz was almost certain was a worried frown. After a few seconds, Moralez similarly handed off his grenades, then secured his carbine to the back of his suit. 

Boz pointed behind himself and waved MacGowan onward. “Give us about a minute to get into position, then start whenever you think it’ll cause the most confusion. Once we’re clear of the cavern, break off and home on the spike beacon. We’ll meet you there.” 

While MacGownan and Feng crept forward, Boz drew his suit-linked sidearm, a hefty bolt thrower. The flashy, crackling ionized plasma thrown by this weapon would dazzle and confuse the Nate soldiers’ infrared optics, but the weapon could also do plenty of damage to the implants all Nate soldiers carried. Before the war, Marines had almost always carried cartridge-pistol sidearms, but after Margaux, the chemical-propellant weapons had been replaced in most units by the previously poorly-regarded “lightning bug.” Boz still wasn’t sure about the bolt thrower in general, but he doubted any other weapon would have the morale impact of a series of blue-white lightning bolts cracking through the damp cavern air. 

Drawing his own bolt thrower, Moralez followed Boz back along the cavern to an intersection, then down a parallel passage to another opening into the large cavern. This one, which Boz had seen from his previous surveying, entered the larger space almost at floor level, with a pair of chunky stalagmites partially concealing its entrance. Nate had of course posted sentries to watch the many tunnel mouths along their flank, but three sentries had about a dozen openings to watch, and couldn’t possibly focus on all of them at once. They could rotate their heavy weapons and assorted troops to face a rearward threat in seconds, but to do so, they needed to know one was coming. 

As Moralez crept forward to the stalagmites to see what was ahead, MacGowan’s heavy railgun tore the air with its rattling report, and a spray of sparks and dislodged rock splinters cut across the floor and far wall. Leaping forward and slapping Moralez on the shoulder, Boz braced his arm on the pillar of stone, lined up the reticle in his helmet on one of the sentries, and squeezed the trigger. His helmet dimmed to protect his eyes and infrared optics from the brief lightning-flash as the weapon traced an ionized path through the air and discharged an arc of high voltage into the man, and when the dimming subsided, the sentry was lying on the ground in a heap.  

Another flash lit the scene as Moralez fired on another sentry at almost exactly the same time as the deeper crack of Feng’s precision rifle announced the demise of one of the crew-served weapons. 

Watching men scatter for cover, Boz sighted in on a soldier peeking out from behind the cover of a fallen stalactite and fired again. Though the bolt didn’t connect to its target, the flash sent the man careening backwards, his electronics probably scrambled. 

“There.” Moralez, no longer bothering with radio silence, bracketed a figure on Boz’s heads-up display. Though taking cover, the figure seemed to be shouting orders and waving at the crew of the remaining heavy weapon to spin it around to face the Marines. Like any good leader, the officer was as close to the front line as possible without actually getting in the way of his disorganized infantrymen, and he had found effective cover in an instant. 

"Put a shot over his head.” Boz crouched down, preparing to sprint into the confusion. “That should scramble his radio for a few seconds. Then cover me.” 

“Corporal, you’re a damned lunatic sometimes.” Moralez ducked to avoid hot rock splinters as a few of the enemy returned fire with their laser carbines, then popped up to fire a shot back. “At least wait for-” 

The precision rifle thundered once more, and Boz watched sparks erupt into the face of the gunner on the second crew-served weapon. “That was my cue, Moralez.” 

The Marine turned and fired a crackling bolt in the direction of the group’s leader, and Boz dove out of cover, following the brilliant energy blast’s path. As always with Nate laser weapons, he had no idea how many were firing at him – the weapons had no visible or audible indication of the passage of their microsecond-long coherent light beams, except when whatever they hit suddenly superheated and died. 

Since Boz hadn’t died by the time he reached the opposite side of the officer’s chosen cover, he preferred, in order to spare his nerves, to think nobody had noticed him in time to take a shot. Before any of the enemy could correct that oversight, he hurdled over the outcropping and landed atop the dazed officer. 

Though the Incarnation officer was fast enough to bat aside Boz’s armored fist with his laser carbine, the two went down in a heap. Kicking aside the laser rifle, Boz drove his suit-reinforced elbow into the figure’s midsection, then hefted him into an over-the-shoulder carry before leaping back over the outcrop. Even in Hallman’s zero-point-six gravities, a twinge in his back told him that he’d be feeling that maneuver later, but if it secured the officer alive for Naval Intelligence to interrogate, it would all be worth it. 

Seeing Boz emerge with his prize in tow, MacGowan seemed to shift his fire, until everything to Boz’s right erupted in sparks and rock splinters. Sticking as close to this hailstorm of death as he dared, Boz hurried to rejoin Moralez. 

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Tales from the Service: Victorious over the Bureau

2950-01-25 - Tales from the Service: Victorious over the Bureau 

The post-Incarnation-departure situation here at Berkant has provoked quite a bit of datasphere curiosity. Admiral Zahariev’s staff has not issued a major media release since their announcement of the Incarnation fleet’s withdrawal, leaving most observers to speculate wildly as to what “Nate” was actually doing here. 

While I cannot offer any answers, the Admiral’s people have allowed me to spend a few days on the surface of Hallman in recent weeks, following in the footsteps of the ground troops and the investigative teams who have been picking their way through the remains of the Incarnation base there. 

Despite all the fears of the local Marine commanders, the extensive planet-side installations on Hallman were all but deserted when the Marines arrived. The only personnel still here were a few hundred construction technicians and a few dozen guards, and these few retreated into a local cave network as soon as the Marines landed in force. Only a few of these have been killed or captured since, but they have caused little trouble to Confederated troops. 

The facility itself was definitely intended to be a fortress, though it remains incomplete. According to the Naval Intelligence analysts I’ve spoken with who have analyzed its layout, it was probably intended to house enough surface-launch missile batteries to repel all but the heaviest fleet assaults, but none of the equipment or personnel meant to occupy the bunkers, magazines, revetments, and watchtowers of these battery sites arrived by the time of the Incarnation withdrawal. 

All of these answers to the question of what the groundside facility is do not however explain what the Incarnation was doing here. They couldn’t have expected to complete, staff, and equip a fortress like this even in twice the time they were in-system, and it seems quite unlike them to start an undertaking of this magnitude with no real hope of having the time to complete it. My analyst contacts have indicated that this might indicate dissension in the previously monolithic Incarnation military institution, where one faction kicked off the Berkant expedition and another sabotaged its next stages (whatever they might have been) by starving it of necessary supplies or ships. 

Most likely, the leader of the construction unit stranded here could shed more light on the situation, but this officer (the equivalent of a captain) is still hiding in the caverns below the facility with the rest of his personnel. Only a few stragglers from this group have been captured or killed so far. 

I am trying to get an interview with one of the captives taken here, but in the meantime, here is the final snippet I culled from the account of the Bureau of Counter-Intelligence agent who bears the pseudonym Duana. 

Once the prisoner had been loaded into the rear cabin of one of the Bureau’s unmarked prisoner-transport aircars, Duana dismissed the guards, preferring to do the ignominious deed herself. That such a determined malefactor as K.B. Cole was going to go free still didn’t sit well with her, but the Director’s word was law to anyone who wanted to keep their job as a Bureau field agent. 

The cameras in the rear compartment showed Cole struggling to remove the black bag over his head as Duana got into the pilot’s seat. If the big man was disappointed by the simple grey and black polymer of the padded bench and cabin walls, he didn’t show it; he merely stretched out as far as his confines and restraints would allow. 

Duana requested takeoff clearance from the annex flight control system, then flicked on the intercom. “Don’t get too comfortable back there, Mr. Cole. We’ll be in motion shortly.” 

The man opened his eyes, and Duana couldn’t help but shiver as those cold orbs locked onto the camera lens. “It’s not your fault, you know.” 

“What’s that?” Duana saw the indicator on the board go green, so she twisted the controls to lift the aircar off its landing pad. After waiting a moment for the landing gear to retract, she brought the nose up and locked it on an intercept course for the nearest arterial airway. 

“That all our talks didn’t go where you wanted them to.” Cole tried to look out one of the windows, but the opaque material prevented all but the most diffuse light from entering. “You really are quite persuasive, though perhaps not as frightening as you would like to believe.” 

Duana scowled; she shouldn’t have cared about the miscreant’s opinion, but for some reason, she found that she did. “Our mistake was trying to treat you like the rest. I should have just sent you back to Kahler.” 

At the mention of the prison colony where he’d spent several years, Cole’s muscles tensed, and his calm demeanor darkened. “Perhaps you should have. It would have been better for your professional reputation, hmm?” 

Duana briefly wondered what clue had led the man to this accurate assessment, glad Cole couldn’t see her. “You know how hindsight is. Maybe next time.” 

Cole smiled. “There will not be a next time. Of that, I am quite certain.” 

Duana wondered if his certainty stemmed from his desire to avoid doing anything worthy of Bureau attention in the future, or from his desire to avoid being caught the next time. Either way, she somehow doubted that the BCI file on K.B. Cole would be shut for long when she left him standing by the side of the street in the evening gloom. 

The aircar merged into the main traffic airway, and Duana left its controls on automatic while she scanned the city map for a good place to leave her departing prisoner. In the end, she settled on leaving him exactly where she’d found him. The club that her team had pulled Cole from had long since repaired its damaged wall and resumed normal operations, and perhaps leaving Cole near such a convenient source of harmless dissipations, she could delay the hatching of his next scheme. 

“It has been quite the interesting stay, you know.” Cole broke the lengthening silence. “I really think all the time alone with my thoughts between our talks has done me good.” 

Duana didn’t know what to make of this observation, but did know that Cole and other high-intellect Ladeonists loved to plant seeds of doubt and suspicion, hoping that these would keep slower-thinking opponents busy. “Well, I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.” Duana pulled the aircar out of the airway and took it down toward the smoky haze covering the city’s seedy southern sprawl. 

Cole chuckled. “By the way, where are you going to drop me?” 

“Right where we found you. We’re not a taxi service, after all.”  

“You’re not going to drop me in the river or some inconvenient place?” 

Technically, Duana could have done just that – and she had done in the past for lesser captives being released – but she had decided it wasn’t worth the risk of irritating a man like Cole. “That sounds like a waste of both of our time.” 

“Thank you.” 

As the aircar weaved between the buildings, descending toward street level, Cole sat up straight and tried to stretch his shoulders as much as possible within the limits set by his restraints. Duana’s hand hovered over the restraint release control until she felt the landing gear begin to deploy, then she pressed it. 

As the cuffs fell from Cole’s wrists and ankles, Duana keyed the intercom again. “Exit on the right, Mr. Cole. And do stay out of trouble.” 

“I hope to do so, Miss.” 

The aircar touched down with a bump, and Cole reached for the door controls, only to find the door swinging up and out of his way of its own accord.  

As soon as he’d clambered out, Duana pulled the aircar back into the air, ignoring the piqued whine of the alarm as the car closed the door once more. A quick glance at the rear camera showed Cole standing on the street, watching her departure until the sooty haze swallowed him up. Duana hoped that was the last she or any BCI operative ever saw of K.B. Cole, but she doubted that her agency would be quite so lucky. 

 

Details

Tales from the Service: Cut Loose from the Bureau

2950-01-18 – Tales from the Service: Cut Loose from the Bureau

“This is ridiculous.” Duana tossed the doc-pad back onto the desk. “He pulled thirty segments of military secrets, and nearly sold them to Nate. Now you’re going to just let him go free?” 

The Director shook his head. “Mr. Cole is no longer a threat to Confederated security. We can take to a magistrate, especially after your, err... preferred methods to bring him in scared away several potential witnesses.” 

Duana scowled. “What we did at that nest of degenerates was send a message.” 

“Indeed. And that message came at the cost of convicting Cole, since he’s not willing to incriminate himself or roll over on his Incarnation contact. We may only hope that it was worth it.” 

Duana, recognized the rebuke, blanked her face and nodded sharply, though inside she bristled. He wasn’t the one risking his life walking into scum-warrens looking for the worst elements of society’s dark underbelly, the kind so corrupted of body and mind that they would side with the Incarnation’s grim, technologically-enforced conformity. The Director sat in his office high in the Bureau’s local headquarters, seeing to his teams’ logistics and administration needs that, while important, promised far less peril. If he had ever been a field operative, it had been decades ago, long before the Incarnation’s cybernetically-enhanced super-spies and their legion of Ladeonist lackeys had come onto the scene. 

“At least give me another few days with him. I can make him talk.” 

“You have had him prisoner for eight local days. That’s one longer than we are allowed to hold anyone by law already. Cut him loose. Send someone to follow him and make sure he stays out of trouble for a few days if you absolutely must.” 

Duana opened her mouth to protest that the first of those “days” was the thirty-seven minutes between time of capture and local midnight, but shut it again without saying anything. Local law, and thus the Director, did not care about these details. That Cole had refused to cooperate under a whole week’s interrogation was embarrassing enough, especially since Duana had a reputation for breaking or doubling most of her prisoners in forty-eight hours or less, and Cole’s resilience was already beginning to eat away at her undisputed top-operative spot in the Bureau’s local pecking order. 

At last, Duana gritted her teeth and nodded again, picking back up the doc-pad. “Understood. I’ll put him back on the street.” 

With a wave, the Director dismissed Duana. As she left his office, she glared at the primly-suited men in the anteroom who would probably be the boss’s next appointment. They had the look of political messengers, not anti-espionage operatives, and she could only conclude that they were from the planetary administration, bearing yet another spurious complaint about the Bureau. Perhaps, she grimly mused, they’d have more complaints if the Bureau were to simply pack up and leave the world to the saboteurs, insurgents, Ladeonist terror cells, and psychotic opportunists that her “message” at the nightclub had reached. 

At the cell block, Duana’s glare stifled the good-humored grin of the duty officer. The duration and lack of success of her interrogation of K.B. Cole had long since become a whispered joke among the guards, and normally she would not have minded the banter. Now, though, having to admit defeat, she was in no mood for humor. 

“Get me some restraints and call me an aircar.” Duana handed the Director’s doc-pad to the duty officer. “We’re cutting Cole loose.” 

“Loose? Isn’t he dangerous?” The man picked up the device and flicked through its text briefly. 

“Extremely. But he’s becoming a waste of Bureau resources.” This was easier to say than that she’d failed to break him for so long that he was becoming a legal and political liability. “He’s a true believer, but at least he’s smart enough to lie low for a while before trying anything again.” 

The officer tossed Duana a case containing hand and foot restraints, then put a hand to his earpiece to summon an aircar from the annex’s motor pool. Duana didn’t bother to wait; she flagged down two of the other guards and marched into the cell block to Cole’s cell. After making sure the guards had weapons drawn, she killed the gravitic shear-barrier and walked inside. 

“Is that you again, Miss?” Cole’s voice was calm, though a bit muffled from the sack covering his head. He was allowed to remove it only three times per day, and never when Duana or the other field agents were present, but that never seemed to disorient or distress him. “You’re wearing different shoes.” 

Duana scowled; she hadn’t bothered to change into the interrogation heels that clicked so resoundingly against the metal plating floor in the cell block. “Wouldn’t want to get those dirty, would I?” 

“There’s no dirt in here unless you brought it, love.” Cole rolled his shoulders. “Where are we going?” 

The burly man’s perceptiveness had long since ceased to surprise Duana. “For a ride. If you’re a good boy, you might not even get out until the end.” She opened the case and approached Cole’s sturdy metal chair, verifying that all his existing restraints were still intact before getting within arm’s reach. 

“Haven’t I always been a model guest?” The note of triumph in the man’s voice told Duana he suspected he was going to be released. Undoubtedly, he’d detected in her tone some of the defeat she felt. 

Duana flicked the restraint cuffs onto Cole’s wrists and ankles, where they automatically tightened. Though not physically linked by a chain or cable, the restraints would prevent him from moving his hands or feet more than thirty centimeters apart or moving any of his limbs quickly enough to land a blow. Still, she stepped back and drew her stun-wand before disengaging his chair restraints; Cole outweighed her by almost three to one, and she didn’t want to give him any openings. 

As the cuffs bolted to the chair clicked open, Cole stood slowly, flexing his limbs and rolling his still-bagged head from side to side. “You know, I’m going to miss this place a little bit.” He took one hesitant step, hobbled by the restraints. “But really, I’m going to miss our little talks.” 

Duana stepped backwards into the doorway, where the two guards she’d left there flanked her. “Is that so.” 

Cole, following Duana’s voice, walked slowly forward. Though she couldn’t see his face, she was certain he was smiling. “Maybe you don’t know it now, but so will you.” 

 

Nojus here. As the dust here at Berkant continues to settle, this week we continue to provide passages from the account sent to us by Naval Intelligence about the activities of its subsidiary agency. Despite us warning our contacts that the audience reaction to these entries has been mixed at best (in terms of positive reactions to the described activities of the Bureau), they have urged us to keep publishing selections from the extensive documents they’ve given us. 

Duncan and I have discussed why Naval Intelligence would push us to keep publishing stories that paint Bureau operatives as gung-ho and barely constrained by legal niceties, if at all. We don’t have any good theories, except perhaps that this is, just like Duana’s raid, a way to send a message to a certain crowd. If that’s the case, then whatever that message is, it’s probably not a friendly one. 

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