It contained a single line of text: Secure Frequency: 144.92. Encrypted Channel Alpha. Waiting for signal.
It was a trap, of course. Or at least, a trace. As soon as I connected to that frequency, they would try to triangulate my position.
"Let's see who's listening," I said.
I began to type. I set up a signal bounce. I routed my connection through servers in Beijing, Moscow, Caracas and finally, a Vought subsidiary in London. If they tried to trace me, they'd end up knocking on Stan Edgar's front door.
I activated the connection. The screen shifted to a secure chat interface. It was blank.
I launched a counter trace.
While the connection was being established, I sent a packet of hunter killer code down the line. It rode the frequency back to the source. It bypassed their VPNs, chewed through their firewalls and located the terminal at the other end.
I hijacked their local webcam.
A new window popped up on my monitor. The image was grainy but clear enough.
It was a small room. Three people were sitting around a table, staring at a laptop.
I recognized them instantly.
Grace Mallory. Looking older, tired, but with eyes like flint.
Susan Raynor. The Deputy Director, looking nervous.
General Higgins. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs.
I turned up the gain on their microphone.
"...signal is live," Raynor was saying. "It's bouncing all over the globe. We can't pin it down."
"I told you, Grace, these are retired military boys," Higgins said, leaning forward and tapping the table for emphasis. "I recognize the tactical spread and the suppression patterns... it's ingrained. These are old warhorses who went off the reservation because they're sick of Vought's circus."
"Patriots or not, they have the data we need," Mallory replied, her voice like sandpaper.
I sent an encrypted ping to Red One.
Order: Infiltrate Situation Room B. Langley. Extract context from Higgins.
Red One responded instantly. Stationed at a Spencer black site on the edge of the city, he shrank his mass until he was a mere speck, barely the size of a gnat. He began a series of ten kilometer jumps. NYC to Virginia was a long stretch, but with Teleportation (Tier 2), he crossed the distance in a strobe light flicker, bypassing every radar and sensor between Manhattan and the Potomac.
He slipped through the reinforced ventilation grates of the CIA headquarters and into the Situation Room. From a perch atop a high intensity lamp, Red One activated Telepathy (Tier 3). He reached into General Higgins' mind, bypassing the man's natural mental discipline and flaying the specific memories of the 4:15 AM meeting at the White House.
He saw it all: the grainy photos of my handiwork, Mallory's "American doctrine" theory and the General's own misplaced pride in his "retired boys."
Red One withdrew, jumping back to the city before the General even felt the phantom itch of a mental intrusion.
A moment later, my terminal pinged. A comprehensive text dump of the extracted memories appeared on my screen, detailing every word spoken in the Oval Office proxy meeting.
I scanned the file, a grin spreading across my face as I realized exactly how they had characterized me.
"Fine," I murmured in the silence of my office, my fingers finally hitting the keys. "If they want to believe I'm an old warhorse leading a phantom platoon, I'll play the role."
I turned to the chat interface.
I typed:
> SIGNAL RECEIVED.
"They're here," she whispered.
Mallory took the keyboard. She typed slowly.
> IDENTIFY.
I typed back instantly.
> IRRELEVANT. STATE YOUR PURPOSE.
Mallory typed again.
> WE HAVE A COMMON ENEMY. VOUGHT.
> ENEMIES ARE COMMON. OBJECTIVES DIFFER.
"He's feeling us out," Mallory said.
> WE DO NOT SEEK TO IMPEDE YOUR OPERATIONS. WE SEEK TO COOPERATE.
I paused.
> WE DO NOT TAKE ORDERS.
Mallory read the line and nodded.
> WE NEED EVIDENCE OF VOUGHT'S ILLEGAL OPERATIONS. THE MILITARY BILL PASSES IN 48 HOURS. WE NEED PROOF TO STOP IT.
I considered this. Giving it to them would cripple Vought's legislative push.
> WHAT IS THE PRICE?
I smiled.
> INTELLIGENCE.
> CLARIFY.
> WE REQUIRE THE LOCATIONS OF UNSANCTIONED GATHERINGS. CRIMINAL SUPES. AND OFF BOOK HOLDING FACILITIES.
"Give it to him," Higgins said. "If he takes out the trash, Vought weakens. And if we get that data, we win."
Mallory typed.
> WE CAN PROVIDE A LIST. HIGH VALUE TARGETS. CONFIRMED CRIMINAL ACTIVITY PROTECTED BY VOUGHT NDA.
> SEND IT.
A file transfer window appeared. Vought_Watchlist_Classified.pdf.
I accepted the file. It downloaded instantly. I opened it on a side screen.
Dozens of names. Locations. Safe houses. Underground fight clubs. And drug dens run by Supes. It was a treasure map of XP.
[Boss, look at this!] the System cheered. [It's a menu! We've got Mesmer's old poker buddies, we've got a fight ring in the Bronx, we've got a Supe brothel in Jersey. It's an all you can eat buffet!]
"Focus," I replied.
I uploaded a single file in return. Enough to prove Vought was manufacturing super terrorists.
> DATA UPLOADED.
Mallory watched the download bar fill up. "We got it," she breathed.
> ONE FINAL THING.
I typed.
> DO NOT ATTEMPT TO TRACK THIS SIGNAL AGAIN. IF YOU DO, THE PARTNERSHIP ENDS.
> UNDERSTOOD, COMMANDER.
Commander.
I laughed out loud.
I severed the connection. I wiped the sandbox, erasing the logs of the chat.
I swiveled my chair around to look at the list of targets Mallory had sent.
"Well," I said, stretching my arms over my head. "It looks like the Red Unit has a busy schedule ahead of them."
[And we get to be the heroes of the Republic while we do it,] the System added. [God bless America.]
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