by Dan Wells
But why had her handler insisted that the generals get there safely? The complex would be easier to take without them, for the Chinese would defend it now more vigorously than ever. She did not like being kept in the dark, no matter how much her handler patted her on the head and called her a good little Partial.
She reached a side corner of Building 3, where a door led out into the courtyard. She stepped outside and pulled out her phone, activating one of the hidden bits of software she’d installed on the Chinese army’s otherwise standard-issue device: a GPS mapper, which worked in real time to track her movements and relay them through the Chinese’s own satellite system to the NADI Task Force and the Partial troops. She walked back through the door, and the system began building a map of every step she took. With enough walking, and if she was thorough, it would construct a 3-D map of the entire complex. She glanced at her watch and estimated that she would have enough time to map about half of Building 3 before General Wu needed her for the next strategy meeting. Heron made sure the ribbons on her jacket were in their proper position, marking her as a member of the general’s staff. No one would bother her.
She cursed mildly, wishing she’d worn more comfortable shoes. She would be walking for hours.
The glamorous life of a spy.
PARAGEN BIOSYNTH GROWTH AND TRAINING FACILITY, UNDISCLOSED LOCATION
October 7, 2058
“Again!” called the instructor, and the girl stood up on thin, shaky legs. She might look nineteen, but she’d only been out of the vat for two weeks. “Go!” The other side of the room seemed so far away, but some of the other Partials were already moving toward it, and she refused to be left behind. She walked as quickly as she could, still stiff, keeping her eyes on the opposite row of chairs. She passed one boy, then another. A few rows down from her a boy was nearly running, too eager to win the race, and when he overreached and fell, he took his two neighbors with him. The girl ignored them, hobbling to the front of the pack and touching her chair first. She paused, turning slowly, savoring the victory before flopping down into the chair. Her muscles were still too atrophied to stand for long, but they were growing quickly. The instructor blew his whistle when the last Partial sat down; even ignoring the ones who’d fallen, she’d beaten the last-place racer by nearly five seconds.
“Heron wins again,” said the instructor, marking it on his clipboard. The name had been assigned to her, along with everything else she owned: two sets of clothes, one pair of shoes, three textbooks, and an elastic for her hair. The other females in this training pod had had their hair cut, but Heron’s was left long; this was, the instructors said, because the other girls were pilots and Heron was espionage, but Heron didn’t know yet what that meant. The basics, at least, she was clear on: When they completed their first month of classes—the Level One subjects like language and math and physical fitness—they would go their separate ways, beginning their first levels of specialized training. The boys were all infantry, and would be sent to something called combat training. The girls, all except Heron, were pilots, and as near as she could figure out, that meant they got to ride in carts instead of walk everywhere. That hardly seemed fair to Heron, but she suspected there was more to it than that: If they never had to walk, why were they learning to do it?
Heron still didn’t know what “espionage” was, but she did know that it gave her a class the others didn’t have to take; during afternoon PE she had a separate class, with other espionage girls from other training pods, in which they learned something called Chinese. Apparently there was more than one word for each thing, and the espionage girls were the only ones who got to know what the extra words were. That didn’t seem fair to Heron either, but it was unfair in her favor, and she wasn’t going to argue it. As far as she was concerned, the more she knew the better.
“And again!” shouted the instructor. “One more race and then we move to the ellipticals. On your feet, let’s move.” Heron was tired; they’d been walking for nearly an hour, in one form or another, and the prospect of moving to the elliptical machines for another hour after this was anything but a reward. She could feel the others thinking the same thing, their exhaustion nearly tangible through the link. She wished she could just stay sitting and let the other Partials walk.
And then it occurred to her that if she didn’t stand up, that’s exactly what would happen.
“Go!” shouted the instructor, and the line of Partials hobbled back toward the other side of the room. They had come out of the vats the same day as Heron, and after two weeks of exercise they still looked stupid—their legs were skin and bones, their muscles atrophied from months of disuse in the vats. The instructors told them they were doing well, that walking at all, even poorly, only two weeks after being born was impressive, but Heron wasn’t impressed. If she looked as horrible as the rest of them did, she was glad she wasn’t walking.
One of the other Partials, a soldier named Grant, saw her still sitting and paused in his race. The others made it about fifteen more feet before the instructor blew his whistle. “Stop!” he said. “Everybody stop. Heron, Grant, why aren’t you walking?”
Grant said nothing, looking down at the floor. Heron considered a moment, weighing the words carefully before answering—after all, she’d only been talking for two weeks as well, and her vocabulary was limited, her pronunciation unpracticed. “I don’t want to.” Her voice was still soft and lispy, her mouth unaccustomed to forming the sounds.
The instructor stopped, his eyes wide. “Excuse me?”
Heron examined the sentence again, certain that she’d said it right. Maybe he hadn’t understood her voice? She tried again, enunciating clearly. “I don’t want to.”
“Soldier, that’s not a choice you get to make.”
“I’m not a soldier,” she said. “I’m espionage.” It was one of the harder words she’d learned, and she was pleased with how well she’d pronounced it.
“You are all soldiers,” said the instructor, walking slowly toward her. “No matter what your role is on the battlefield, you are all soldiers, and you answer to me. I am your superior officer.” He stopped in front of her. “What do we do to a superior, Heron?”
She couldn’t read him on the link; she couldn’t read any of the instructors, only the Partials. The instructors were something called humans, and all Heron knew about them was that they were better at nearly everything—they could walk, they could run, they were stronger, they knew more, and most powerful of all, they could hide their emotions from the link. You never knew what they were thinking, or what they were going to do. The Partials in the room watched with fear, wondering what would happen, and Heron felt their fear through the link like a hammer. She answered carefully.
“We obey our superiors.”
“That is exactly right,” said the instructor. “You obey—it’s the very first thing you learned on the very first day you fell out of your vats. Not ‘obey your superior if you want to,’ but ‘obey your superior no matter what.’ You obey immediately, you obey completely, and when I tell you to stand up, you damn well stand up. Heron, stand up.”
She thought about staying in her chair, but he was right—he was her superior, and she had to obey. She rose to her feet.
“Very good,” said the instructor. “Now, I want you to demonstrate something for me. Grant, come over here.”
Grant hobbled toward them. The instructor addressed the class in a loud voice. “The link that connects you can also be used by your leaders; it enforces obedience, should a soldier ever be so horrible as to disobey again. Espionage models have a small bit of authority over soldier models, so we’re going to use Heron for this. Grant, I want you to put your finger on your nose, and keep it there no matter what Heron says, okay?”
Grant nodded. The instructor turned to Heron. “Tell him to move his finger.”
Heron looked at Grant. “Move your finger.”
He moved his finger.
The instructor laughed. “Come on,
Grant; I told you not to move it. Put it back and keep it there. Try really hard this time.”
Grant put his finger on his nose and stared at Heron, daring her to do her worst. She could feel his determination through the link, a giant wall ready to keep his finger motionless. She said it again. “Move your finger.”
The data went out through the link, creeping into his mind; his hand shook as his body tried to move his finger and hold it in place at the same time. His face turned red with the effort, and finally his hand came down.
The instructor smiled. “See how this works? You do what you’re told because you are designed to do it. You can’t help yourselves, so don’t bother trying. Now, Grant, tell Heron to touch her finger to her nose.”
Grant appeared confused but looked at Heron anyway. “Touch your finger to your nose.”
Heron waited for the power of the link, but nothing came; she felt the emotions behind his request, the desire with just a bit of confusion about what would happen, but she didn’t feel the force of command. She remembered what the instructor had said a moment earlier, about espionage models having some authority over soldiers. Apparently the soldier models had no authority over her, and she didn’t have to obey them. Instead of moving her hand, she spoke softly. “No.”
The instructor smiled again. “Very good. We obey our superiors, and a Theta model spy is superior to almost everyone in this room. Good job, Heron.” She smiled back, pleased that she had done so well and earned his praise. He spoke again. “The only person who outranks a Theta is a Delta, the generals of the Partial army. They are superior to all of you, and you will obey them explicitly. And who do you think the generals obey?”
The Partials didn’t answer. Heron racked her brain, trying to think of someone who would outrank a general, and then it hit her. She looked up. “A human.”
The instructor rested a hand on her shoulder. “That’s exactly right.” He turned to the class. “See how smart the Thetas are? You obey your generals, and your generals obey me. I am your superior in every way. Try it: Order me to do something.” There was a moment of hesitation, and then Grant told him to touch his nose. The instructor said no. Other Partials started telling him to do things—to stand on one leg, to close his eyes, to clap his hands—and every time he refused, smiling and laughing. Even Heron got into it, hoping her added authority might make a difference, but it didn’t. He ignored them completely. “Now stop,” he said, and the Partials fell silent. “Very good. I’m glad Heron brought this up today, because I want you to understand how this works—to see firsthand how the chain of command flows. The link binds you to your superiors, but humans are completely immune to it. We are your ultimate superiors. The smallest, weakest human being is still superior to every Partial in the world. Is that clear?”
Heron and the other Partials nodded, murmuring their agreement.
“Excellent,” said the instructor. “Now everyone get back in line; we’re going to run this again.” He blew a sharp note on his whistle and walked back to his position on the side of the gym. The Partials shuffled back into line. Heron was still tired and still didn’t want to line up again, but she did it anyway. She understood now.
He was her superior, and she would obey him.
ZUOQUAN CITY, SHANXI PROVINCE, CHINA
June 9, 2060
Heron spent nearly a week surveying the complex, mapping each building in turn, and what she found did not fill her with confidence. The five buildings of the complex were of relatively flimsy construction, which likely saved costs when they were built but which would be a significant liability when they became the site of a protracted urban battle. An infantry assault would be the only way to take the complex without harming the machinery inside; the Chinese would have trouble defending it, as there was little cover, but the Partials would have just as much trouble defending it from a counterattack. And there would definitely be a counterattack. The Partial army was physically superior, the perfect soldiers, but the Chinese defenders outnumbered them both in personnel and in weaponry. If the Partials managed to get in, they would be virtually surrounded by two enraged armies—armies that could swarm the complex within fifteen minutes when the order was given. And yet the NADI strategists had wanted it this way. Heron didn’t see the sense of it, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there. They had trained her to follow orders, so she would follow them . . . but they had also trained her to uncover secrets. Almost unbidden, her mind went to work on her superiors’ secrets. What did they want? How would this course of action allow them to get it? She knew she could figure it out with just a little more information.
But that was not her job. She turned her attention back to the more pressing issue of how the Partial army could attack. The buildings, as she’d noted, were flimsy, but the walls around the perimeter were sturdy enough, and beyond that the city was filled with low buildings and narrow streets, a death trap for the oncoming Partials if the Chinese thought to fill them with snipers and anti-vehicle rockets. Obviously the Partials would predict this and simply shell the buildings to rubble first, and obviously the Chinese would predict this and not put any snipers in them at all, and on and on in an endless game of feint and counterfeint. Advance scouts elsewhere in the city would quietly relay each army’s intentions to the other, helping them to anticipate the flow of battle, but only the Partials had a spy as deeply embedded as Heron. She had to find a way to tip the scales.
The factory buildings were arranged in a circle around a central courtyard, in the middle of which General Bao had placed five artillery cannons, firing in an ongoing, irregular pattern on the Partial half of the city and continuously resupplied by the machinery in Building 4. The top of Building 2 held General Wu’s contribution, the much more defense-minded antiaircraft cannons. There were four of them, and Heron had marked each one with a simple tap on her mapping program. Unlike the artillery below, the antiair guns used smart rounds capable of identifying a target and correcting course midflight; they couldn’t turn corners or follow a dodging target the way homing missiles could, but at mid- and long range they were devastating. The Partials couldn’t stage a proper assault without an air strike, but they couldn’t land a proper air strike anywhere in the city thanks to this emplacement, and they couldn’t destroy the emplacement itself because the factory was too valuable. It was a puzzle with one obvious solution, and Heron wasn’t remotely surprised when her handler spelled it out.
“We need you to destroy the antiair guns,” he said. She was alone in a broom closet, the door locked and the scrambler pumped to full. At this level it made even her secure connection to NADI sound scratchy. “Your map of the complex is superb, and our battle plans are ready; everything’s in place, and the only loose end is the cannons. I need them gone, and I need them gone by twenty-three hundred hours tonight. Confirm.”
“What are my orders with the generals?” asked Heron.
“I don’t remember opening this call to conversation,” said the voice. “I asked you to confirm your orders.”
“Obviously you’re planning an assault,” Heron pressed. “Taking out the antiair means you’re softening up the counterattack, so I assume you’re assaulting soon, probably tonight at twenty-three hundred. What do you want me to do with the generals? Am I letting them escape again?”
“Please, by all means, go ahead and capture them.” Heron listened intently to his voice, trying to discern every bit of meaning behind his words. He seemed . . . off, somehow. She couldn’t put her finger on it.
“You want me to capture them?”
“Absolutely. Why else are you in there?”
“To map the complex and destroy the antiair guns,” said Heron.
“And to capture the generals,” said the voice. “Honestly, Heron, do I have to tell you every little thing?”
You always have before, she thought, but kept that to herself. There was something very fishy about the way he was talking—not just the inconsistent personality, but his entire inflec
tion. All she’d ever known of her handler was his voice, but it was her job to observe and analyze. She was built for it. And this communication didn’t fit his overall pattern. She checked her phone again, ensuring that the line was secure and that it was connected to the proper NADI signal. It seemed to be. What was wrong?
“Are you there, Heron?”
“I’m here.”
“Your orders are to disable the antiair guns, through whatever means you consider necessary. Once the invasion begins, you are to capture the generals and hold them until relieved by Partial commanders on site. Confirm.”
“Confirm,” said Heron. He’d changed his story, but he acted as if this was the same plan he’d stated at the beginning of the call. Were the guns truly a more important target than the generals? They might very well be, if they could make or break the success of the enemy counterattack. Her handler broke the connection, and Heron turned off her scrambler. Her watch said 2148. She didn’t have long before 2300, and whatever NADI’s true plans might be, the guns had to come down.
