A Secret Meeting Within Hadrian Systems' External Affairs Division

“Fuck,” I mutter to myself as I make my way through the deeply unpleasant halls of External Affairs. Hadrian Systems is known for a lot of things, but our aesthetic isn’t really one of them. I rush through the halls, garnering only a few looks. Rushing is commonplace here. After all, people are always either busy or want to seem busy. Especially since the raids have been ever growing. Most people who know me probably assume I’m just trying to look busy. Because our project was a top secret project. Just me and the bossman. I don’t even think he told his bosses. Not yet. Not if it didn’t work. I turn into the maintenance hallway, then pass through the wall’s escape hatch into the boss’s personal bathroom. Pressing my ear to the bathroom door, to make sure no one else is there. Someone is. Bossman’s in a meeting.

“... almost time to push west,” Margo Campbell finishes her pitch. Why she insists on overt action like a fucking Service douche is beyond me.

The boss sighs. “Not yet though,” he says, his heavy baritone echoing clearly through the door, “We need time to assess the situation more thoroughly.” There is a pause, then he adds, “Anything else?”

“Not right now,” Margo admits, “But-”

She’s cut off. “Head to R and D, make sure the new Stealth Systems are ready for install on at least one full advance squadron. If we’re making a push, we need that lack of lag between jump and cloak.”

“Fine, but this isn’t over. I know you’re not my biggest fan, but you and I both know we need those goddamned systems and I’m not about to let your personal bullshit get in the way of the company’s bottom line,” Margo says angrily before storming out.

I wait for the door to latch closed before barging in. “Fucking shit balls,” I burst as I enter.

Nigel Kinsley sighs, already standing by the door to his office, ready to lock it. He knew I’d be coming in the back way. The man stood around five foot eleven, six feet tall, and was not small by any metric. “You just here to curse, or do you have anything productive to say?” he asked, looking down on me.

“Both. Fuck,” I reply only half jokingly.

He shakes his head and sighs. “Listen, Mike,” he says, “You need to calm down and tell me what the hell has you so in arrears, or else I can’t do jack.”

He didn’t know already. Meaning he’s got the maintenance door to his bathroom silent alarmed. Or he was trying to get a break from his underlings. “We’re fucking blown.”

“Shit, really?”

I shake my head. “It went down in fucking flames. You didn’t realize there’d be a goddamned monster there?”

Mister Kinsley looks concerned and takes a deep breath. “Okay, the hit failed. But are we blown?” He puts his emphasis on the we.

“How the hell should I know? I can’t read goddamned minds. But considering their all alive, proba-fucking-ly.” When Mister Kinsley gets scared, he gets calculating. When I get scared I get angry. Fortunately, he won’t hold this against me. Too much. As long as I don’t fuck up again.

“I know this isn’t going the way we hoped,” Nigel admitted, “But this isn’t all bad. We can take advantage, assuming they don’t know it was us. What, exactly, did you see? Did they see?”

I take a deep breath myself, trying to calm down. He’s right, every situation can be turned to our advantage. All it takes is targeted operations and utter secrecy. “Operatives were in place. Freeport clothes, Marauder gear. The rocket failed. Shootout failed. All but three died. Myself, Rick, and Polly. Alex and Kev continued talking, likely maintaining negotiations, during the shootout. No operatives talked. No recording on the cams. No bodies taken. Station sanitized and evacuated prior to any return.” Then, I get an idea and let a smirk come onto my face. “That’s it.”

“Yes?” Nigel asks, confused. He’d been following, nodding. He knew that meant they shouldn’t trace things back to Hadrian instantly.

“Freeporters carrying Marauder weapons, with a monster and that old fuck, Alex Li?” I say, allowing Nigel to feel smart putting the pieces together.

“Insurgence. Their minds would go straight there.”

“Especially if the increased Marauder pressure on our asses isn’t just about Hadrian,” I add. Then, after the boss nods, I continue. “Now the kiddies from Lux probably wouldn’t assume it quickly, but if a big ass scary guy and dude who seems to have his shit together both say it is, over, say, continued negotiations mid shootout, when they head back the first thing they’d do is look into that idea.”

“And increased Marauder presence followed by targeted strikes on peace talks was how the last Insurgence War started,” Nigel finished my thought. There’re a lot of reasons he’s the bossman, but one of them is he can see the big picture as well as, or better than, all the rest of us assholes. “The increased pressure will be a nice first indicator, but they’ll look for another attack before going hogwild on the theory.”

I nod. “And, what do you know, doesn’t Eliza have a meet with that Astro lady coming up soon? In Freeport Space?”

“Neither we nor Astro have a monster, we aren’t getting out of there scot-free. And as much as this is important to pull off Eliza is more vital. She’s the only one of you idiots that knows how to peacefully communicate, and I ain’t about to risk my ass in peace talks again. I got promoted specifically so I can keep my ass right here at home.”

I nod. He’s right. Eliza Clark, our lead diplomat, may be a bit of an ass to me, but she’s really good at talking to the other companies and their asshole diplomats. Someone needs to die or the Insurgence isn’t a threat. The fake insurgence. We can’t have only someone from Astro dying, or it looks like we’re behind it. We need someone who’s high enough up the totem pole that their death is beyond suspicion, but who’s death isn’t too longterm crippling. “Alistair, from InSec?” I muse aloud.

“I could pull some strings, get his team put on security detail,” Nigel replies, understanding my idea. Alistair Bellamy is practically old school royalty, in the sense he’s been here forever, everyone says he’s important, but he doesn’t actually do much of anything. The company would go into a mourning war over his death, but we’d probably become stronger for it.

“You good with Miss Clark getting some superficially severe but ultimately survivable injuries,” I say, not intoning it as a question because it really wasn’t one. If we’re doing this right, there can’t be any suspicion falling on us, which means lots of casualties, even if they aren’t all fatal.

“Make sure you get whichever pencil pusher they send to the meeting. If Alistair’s dead and we want a wounded Eliza getting out of there alive without drawing suspicion, the Astro security guard being alive to heroically save her is our best bet.” Nigel’s point is sound. Makes things a little harder, but still doable. Means I probably will have the rocket mostly aimed towards the Hadrian side of the table. Also means we need a sniper to take the pencil pusher out. Which means bringing Hannah along.

“Can do. Will need to add Hannah back to my team. Also need plenty more shitty footpads that you’re good with dying,” I reply.

“That is one resource we’ve still got in spades. You lost four of your own last time, along with Hannah, you want to pull anyone new?” he asks.

I smile. “Wouldn’t you like to know, boss,” I reply. It was really only three, but Oliver wanted to be retired, so I let him. Mostly. He’s in a prison of his choice, some farm world supplying grain for Hadrian, living under a fake identity being watched by one of my eyes in our skies. As long as he stays there, and keeps under the radar, we’re both happy. But one of the many perks of my job, and the reason I’m never angling for any sort of promotion, is not having to tell my bosses jack about shit.

“Go, get your team ready. I’ll pull some strings, get things sorted.” His voice is still too even. He’s worried. I begin to head back towards the bathroom door. Only after I open it does he add, “And Mister Nash?”

Going formal on me is never a good sign. I stop, holding the door open with one hand. I look back at him silently.

“Don’t fuck this up for me,” he orders, his voice flat and his face stern.

I nod solemnly before leaving his office through his bathroom maintenance closet once more. To someone who didn’t know Nigel, that might have sounded like some kind of joke. It wasn’t. It was a serious repetition of Nigel Kinsley’s number one rule. He was a careerist at heart. He cared more about keeping his job, and furthering his career, than just about anything else. It’s why his last two marriages both ended in divorce after just two years each. And it’s why he’s basically a rubber stamp for my sorts’ operations and Eliza’s people’s missions, but not for Margo and her ilk’s campaigns. Eliza’s people do diplomatic missions, which are peaceful, low risk, and good image laundering for him and the company. Make him look good, get External Affairs more funding. My people do quiet black ops ops, which hurt our enemies without incriminating us, meaning while high risk for us, it’s low risk for him and the company. When it works he tells his bosses about it and gets a raise, and more funding. When it doesn’t work, it gets lost in the shuffle and he forgets to report it. Margo and her people make waves with their pseudo-military campaigns. Vital for certain sorts of activities, but boots on the ground is a risky proposition and can’t just be denied. So Nigel tends to run and rerun risk assessments until either his bosses order him or the risk to his job is minimal.

We got a normal amount of planning time for this one. First, I have to check in on the team. Make sure they’re good to move, done mourning their lost friends. Then I need to break Hannah out of prison. Can’t be tied to us, so I’ll need some impeccable fucking disguises. No electronic masking, we’ve actually gotten good at that. So when promoting, I need a prosthetics guy. I’m sure one of the academies’ soon-to-be graduates that fit my program’s profile can do it. Which means I need to pull new kids before breaking Hannah out. Okay. Only skill we lost entirely was EWar. Both of our experts got killed, tracked down by the monster. Which means of the six newbies I’ll pull out, at least one makeup artist, and at least one EWar specialist. Should be easy enough. We also lost our redundancy in explosive expertise, so ideally a pair of EWars, and one explosive expert. I rush back through our halls, out of the official corporate building, and into the small warehouse around the corner. Rick and Polly are there, waiting for me. As are my beautiful files. All paper, hand written and ready to be destroyed at a moment’s notice. “So,” Polly asks first, “Are we fired?”

“Nope,” I reply, walking over to the filing cabinet labeled Potentials and pulling out the closest large folder of academy records.

Rick nods, realizing what’s happening. “Another job so soon?” he asks.

“Yep,” I reply. This class isn’t what I hoped for. Really, doesn’t have a full six worthy potentials. Next year has a better stock, but we need it now.

Polly cocks her head. “What is it now?”

Maybe four will be enough to pull this off, along with Hannah’s readdition. “Repeat performance. Hopefully less of us die this time.”

“This year doesn’t have the best replacements,” Polly insists, “Any way we can delay?”

“No,” I reply. They’re both going to hate this. Taking a moment to breathe, I add, “So we’re going to break Hannah back out.”

“Fuck you,” they both say, practically in unison. Rick adds, “You do know she’s definitely going to try to kill you again.”

“Probably not,” I reply. When they don’t look convinced by my very convincing one word response, I add, “If everything goes to plan, she’ll get to kill Alistair Bellamy.”