That evening Sly returned to his home in the officer housing area within Fort Clayson’s gated community. Before his divorce, he shared a four-bedroom property with a two-car garage, a family room and private office. When Erica moved out, taking the children, staying in the family-oriented tree-lined street felt… wrong.

  Many of the military base’s seventeen thousand workers chose to live nearer town, but Sly liked his new quiet house in its serene, well-maintained neighborhood, moments away from the base’s shopping and dining options. When his children came to stay, as they had in July when Erica was busy, the pair shared the second bedroom. The kids complained the new house was too small, but Sly told himself he didn’t need a big home solely for the holidays. If he needed to meet anyone formally there were conference rooms for all that.

  In truth, his time in the new place coincided with long hours at work. He was hardly ever at home. When once he’d hosted game nights around a table dominated by Erica’s friends, nowadays he rarely entertained guests. The impetus behind Project Peacock was a college friend’s work on ‘biological computing gel’, or biogel for short. Biogel was a synthetic material that was immuno-neutral like living tissue but transported electrical input like nerves. The tech components of Peacock’s implanted sensors were sheathed in biogel to combat rejection, and the first gel-wrapped biochip prototypes had restored Sly’s sight.

  As it was dry, and late, he decided against driving to the fencing club in Colorado Springs. Instead, he changed into running gear, ignoring the Fall chill to run his route around the base. Twenty-odd minutes later he showered in the ensuite bathroom he didn’t share and dressed in well-worn clothes from a half-empty fitted wardrobe, before descending to the small kitchen. He liked the functional appliances and sleek countertops, though given his hurried eating habits they often went unused. The substantial refrigerator carried fresh fruit and breakfast necessities plus a solitary half-empty bottle of wine on the top-shelf rack.

  Sly unscrewed the bottle and filled a tall, chilled glass, then crossed to the adjacent living room, a room designed with simplicity, style and someone else’s taste. He sat in the dying winter light and sipped.

  “Gus, shuffle.”

  An anthem from his twenties started from the internet-enabled speakers in the corners of the room. No player was in sight, but the space filled with nostalgic grunge as he slowly drank the glass nearly dry.

  “...entertain us...”

  A young, cocky, dark-haired Sly Harris leered out of a framed photo on the mantlepiece, kneeling, shirt off, his buddies behind. He had a tan and three- or four-days beard growth and nice pecs.

  Hi, kid. What the hell happened to you?

  Erica’s voice echoed in his mind, and he shivered.

  What happened to you, Sly? You’re no fun. I’ve tried, but I can’t live like this.

  He finished the glass in a single swallow as the song ended.

  He revisited the fridge and retrieved yesterday’s store-bought lasagne. He ate the second half directly from the microwave dish, tucked the used vessels and utensils into the slim, ultramodern, rarely full dishwasher, then poured a second, careful measure of wine.

  Sly moved to the office space, pulled out a laptop and logged in, checking for work emails. Nothing that wouldn’t be better answered over morning coffee, but before he logged off he checked through the morning’s new orders for the third time.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  The format was the same as any other electronic order – issuing authority and budget number, reference, security classification, mission, logistics and command hierarchy – but two things pulled at his attention.

  Firstly, the issuing authority hadn’t been one he’d seen before. Strange – with his funding coming from the big budgets it was rare to see a new code. A quick search discovered it was joint military and CIA. He sat back, let the thought marinate.

  That explains why the command hierarchy section gives Jarvis the same footing as Fox. Jarvis is paying for the privilege.

  By now Sly knew Jarvis was a golden boy at the Agency. Over the last two years the relatively junior intelligence officer had gained the hard-won trust of several high-grade informants, some with extensive networks of their own. According to the reports both they and his bosses thought Jarvis a saint.

  Is Jarvis General Fox’s poodle, or is Jarvis holding the leash?

  The second nagging anomaly sat in the ‘Execution’ section, which contained specific instructions on carrying out the mission. The segment was too short but contained an odd provision. He read it in full, slowly adding his own emphasis.

  “Unit is to collect ALL personal, Charlton University or government property in possession of the researchers named above. A FULL search will be undertaken. Books, papers, physical storage devices of ANY kind are to be considered confidential, collected, boxed and prepared for transit. Items…”

  That provision struck him as odd.

  Why ‘books and papers’? It’s unlikely anything valuable would be taken to a small research base in Antarctica on paper. No mention of laptops, mobile phones, or the plethora of electronic devices. Why emphasize ‘books’ unless one was known to be missing? Were they really going to Antarctica for a missing Moleskine?

  Sly found no hint of answers in a read through the orders. He tapped his finger in indecision, then made the call. He set his dogs – dog – looking for answers.

  “Gus? I have two things I want you to do.”

  ‘...’

  A prompt appeared on the left side of his vision, produced by Clarity’s vision processor. Confirmation enough that the AI assistant was listening.

  “First, Gus, I want you to independently evaluate the footage we were shown. Find copies of the original footage before it was edited. Look for all the usual signs that an AI was involved in the production. Identify anything out of place.”

  ‘Okay, Colonel. I understand.’

  “Second, run a link-analysis on Major General Fox, and Maxwell Jarvis of the CIA, and their tier-one personal associates, plus Peck, Allen, Chopra, and Thorpe. Oh, also add the official stakeholders of Area 71, again to tier-one.”

  A ‘link-analysis’ was a network diagram, connecting entities, dates, places, suspects and associates. Conceptually the result resembled the whiteboards, pictures and pins popular on cop shows. Except Gus never used red string.

  ‘Tier one’ indicated personal connections only, not the connections of associates. Sly didn’t have forever and each tier would add exponentially longer time to complete.

  ‘Discretion?’ read Gus’s question on the ticker.

  “Full,” said Sly, then hesitated, second-guessing the decision for a second. ‘Full discretion’ gave Gus permission to go ‘the full McKinnon’, meaning, if the inquiry headed that way, the AI would hack the Pentagon.

  He gave a mental shrug.

  Eleventh Commandment. ‘Thou shalt not get caught’.

  ‘Confirmation?’

  “What I tell you three times is true,” said Sly. “Go do it, go do it, go do it.”

  Then he logged off and shut down.

  After watching a film, the fifth in an absurdly violent series from a favorite franchise, he retired to bed. He read two chapters of a book that had belonged to his ex-wife before he tired of the banality of a plot to which he couldn’t relate. He closed the paperback and lay in the darkness of the room until oblivion found him. When he finally slept, he ran an oppressive lightless dungeon, hearing distant screams.

  As usual, Serenity haunted his dreams.