1800

​

“Fox,” the radio crackled. “Team Kuznetsov checking in. No signs of the HVT. I don’t think this is working.”

 

Not working. It has been an hour since the beginning of the operation. Odd. The HVT was not behaving as was reported. Perhaps….

 

“Springfield.”

 

“Hmmm?” She hummed her reply, still smiling serenely as ever.

 

“The lure. The HVT always consumes it. Confirm?”

 

“It always eats the food I laid out for it,” Springfield replied calmly and confidently, despite the situation contradicting her assertion.

 

False eyes fell upon P7. She fidgeted, her head remained bowed, her ears drooped under her cowl. She fixed her eyes on the grease-stained bundle on the table.

 

“When have you last seen it?” 

 

She kept her silence. 

 

Springfield unfolded her arms and placed her palm on the cowled doll’s shoulder. She shuddered, looked up at the matriarch and received a nod. She spoke for the first time in ten minutes. Her reply was filled with trepidation. “I last saw it two days ago.”

 

The same day the first salvage expedition into Novum Sambir was launched, when the BTRs were recovered. 

 

“I see.”

 

False eyes gazed upon Springfield, who answered firmly, “Two days ago.”

 

“Two days ago,” the rest of the present staff, collaborators all, answered in concordance. 

 

Had they lied? Springfield’s resolute posture asserted otherwise.

 

Pressed the button, raised the radio towards the jaw. “Command to Team Kuznetsov. Lev, when have you last seen the HVT?” 

 

“Last night.”

 

Last night?

 

“Describe the encounter.” 

 

“Poked its head out, stared at me for about a minute. Ducked behind the tent the moment it heard Snow….Ow!”

 

The heart skipped. “Lev?”

 

“One moment! Ow! Quit it, woman! As I said, the HVT dipped the moment it heard Snow coming.”

 

Sigh exhaled. “I see.”

 

HVT evacuated the moment it sensed SVD’s approach. Perhaps….

 

“Command to Team Volkov. When have you last seen the HVT?”

 

The round of inquiries yielded similar responses: it had watched the human staff timidly, backed away when approached, closed when offered food, fled when it sensed a doll’s approach. It was last encountered eight hours ago.

 

Pattern discerned. 

 

“Command to all Teams. All dolls, vacate the AO. Humans, continue surveillance.”

 

Collective affirmations received. Lowered the radio, placed it on the table. P7 fidgeted once more. She calmed; the false eyes had turned away from her and fell upon Sudaev and Papasha. 

 

“You promised to keep P7 from mischief.”

 

Sudaev gazed defiantly at the false eyes. “Kommandir!” she started. “I believe bringing a wild animal into the base to nurse it back into health is not mischief; P7 did nothing wrong!”

​

P7’s hidden ears twitched. 

 

“P7 brought the beast into the base without my permission or knowledge,” the throat uttered. “If she truly believed this wasn’t ‘mischief’, she would have informed me of her intentions to adopt this creature. Had you shared her belief, you would have ensured I was informed of her intention.”

 

Sudaev opened her mouth, left it hanging, and then closed it again. She looked aside and pouted. 

 

“P7 offered Sestra half her food to keep her quiet!” Papasha yelped suddenly. 

 

Pin-drop silence. Like the uneasy stillness that followed a detonation.

 

The radio beeped. “Lev to Command. HVT entering the AO. It’s sniffing the air. I don’t think…wait… it’s closing in on the lure.”

 

“Command to Team Kuznetsov. Copy. Begin capture operation.”

 

The radio clacked against the table. Murmurs had resumed in the canteen; the radio had broken the spell. Papasha was suddenly quiet, beet-red; doubt settled upon her once more.

 

“Doll rations for another two meals, Papasha.”

 

Scraping under the dolls’ bench, Sudaev had shot onto her feet and slammed her palms onto the table. “What? Why?!” she demanded.

 

“Papasha has betrayed your and P7’s trust by outing the both of you. Do not betray each other again. You are a team.”

 

Sudaev ground her teeth and grumbled under her breath. She fell onto her seat with an indignant huff.

 

Sigh exhaled. “I will be lenient with her sentence, as she had spoken out in your defence. Doll rations for one more meal rather than two. Total, two meals being doll rations.”

 

Sudaev bit her lower lip, then resumed pouting. 

 

Clatters and crashes behind the kitchen, followed by a panicked yelp loud enough to overpower the shrill whistle of kettles, the bubbling of soup and the incessant ticking of timers. The radio beeped. “Lev to Command. The HVT has slipped past us! Cyka! Dimas! How did it get past you? It’s only got three legs! Team Bohdan! Move!”

 

“Team Bohdan copies. Intercepting.”

 

Mirthful giggle, barely contained. P7 fell silent immediately upon feeling the false eyes’ gaze. 

 

More crashes and clatters. Hellish yowls buffeted the vicinity. “Caught ’em!” the radio chattered. “Nice job, Mosin!”

 

…Mosin?

 

“Command to all Teams. I believe I ordered all dolls to vacate the AO.”

 

“Mosin to Command. We were waiting outside the AO.”

 

“...Copy. Bring the HVT in.” 

 

The radio fell silent. The infernal yowling still rang in the ears.

 

“Cetin,” Springfield said. “I believe this punishment is unnecessary. Can’t you let them off a few stern words and a slap on the wrist?”

 

“P7 broke protocol, and Sudaev betrayed my trust. I should have sentenced them to seven meals of doll rations by all rights. Eight in Sudaev’s case. In light of this ‘mischief’ being performed out of altruism, I am willing to reduce the sentence to one meal of doll rations for P7 and two meals for Sudaev and Papasha, for the stated reasons.”

 

Springfield’s gentle smile chilled, like mildew freezing at winter’s dawn. 

 

“My decision is final, Springfield.”

 

P7’s ears perked; the back flap had ruffled. 

 

“We’ll let Kommandir decide,” said Mosin from behind Lev, Dimas, Bohdan and Mikhail. Her statement was directed at the discontented SVD and FAL behind her. Springfield and the other dolls cleared away as the arrivals passed the counter and gathered around the table. Mosin laid the captured quarry gently. 

​

Three-legged fox. Tranquilised. Towels wound tightly around its snout and its hind legs. Its face was mutilated, missing the right ear and eye. Fur singed around the afflicted regions. Pattern of burns consistent with the impact and residue splash of Sangvis energy weapons.

 

“What were you both talking about back there?” P7 asked demandingly, seemingly forgetting her earlier guilt-wracked trepidation. She snuck furious glances at both SVD and FAL. 

 

“Nothing you need to know, kitten,” SVD replied dismissively. 

 

“You aren’t discussing turning the fox into smoked meat, right!?” Skorpion interjected, her tone accusing. 

 

SVD’s brow knitted. 

 

“And you aren’t thinking of turning the fox’s skin into a scarf, right!?”

 

“Of course not,” FAL scoffed. “It’s out of fashion.” Her gaze lingered at the sedated creature, perhaps for a little too long. She twirled her ponytail. “Though I must say, its colour complements my hair.” She flicked her hair over her shoulders. Fel sneezed; the ponytail had brushed against its snout.

 

P7 hissed fiercely at the two huntresses. 

 

Sigh exhaled. “P7,” the throat uttered. The aforementioned doll froze up. She then turned away from her two adversaries and bowed her head once more. 

 

“Mikhail, can the beast survive the wild?” 

 

The orderly shook his head. “With only three legs? Doubtful. It shouldn’t be able to pounce on rats or dig at burrows with only one foreleg.”

 

“It’s much lighter than it should be.” Mosin patted the slumbering creature’s shoulder. “It only managed to live as long as it did off scraps it found throughout the city.” She paused, studied the slumbering beast, then added. “Though it seemed to have gained a little more weight the past three days. Must be the result of Gospozha Springfield’s feeding efforts.” 

 

“See! I told you!” P7 cried aloud again. “I told you we should have fed it more meat instead of just innards!”

 

Springfield sighed. “It wouldn’t touch any of our synth-meat, P7. Not even after I minced it and mixed it in with the innards. I have tried.”

 

“And you little ones are ravenous,” SVD added. “Falling upon venison like starving dogs. Not even the Muscovite strays are this voracious. Not even table scraps left.” P7 flushed, incensed, having detected a hint of pride in the markswoman’s remark. She raised her arms, hands clenched in fists, ready to brandish them in a wailing tantrum. 

​

“Save the bickering and snide remarks for later, all of you. Kalina, how much would it cost to install the prosthetic leg onto the fox?”

 

“Assuming Sop II didn’t install the drivers….” She made a series of taps on her tablet, then turned it around. The display read…

 

“Transportation cost, prosthesis driver installation cost, surgery, housing, rehabilitation…”

 

“It all runs up to eight hundred thousand rubles,” Kalina concluded as she laid her tablet down. 

 

“You aren’t inflating the amount, are you, Kalin?” Lev inquired sardonically. The logistics officer replied offendedly. “I didn’t. Who do you think I am?”

 

“That’s exactly the problem! Last time I bought a swimsuit calendar from you, you marked it up by two hundred percent!”

 

“That was business! And you are the one being desperate! Don’t slander me!”

 

“I’m not the only one you squeezed, Kalin. Hey, Griga! Dimas!” He smacked the aforementioned guardsman, to his left, in his ribs. “Say something!”

 

Cleared the throat aloud. “From what source will we transact this amount?”

 

“Not from the base account, we won’t!” Makarov scowled. “We still need to pay our creditors!”

 

“I have an alternate proposal.” Springfield tapped a glass jar against the table. “Each of us will donate to the fox’s surgery fund.”

 

“I see.”

 

Fished out the wallet, unfolded it. Bank notes…fifty thousand rubles. Retrieved twenty thousand, slotted it into the jar. 

 

Still wearing her usual gentle smile, Springfield slid the jar towards Lev, who tucked in his notes and passed it to P7. The other occupants closed towards the table, cash in hand. The money pot passed from person to person around the table, circling the unconscious fox. 

​

​

​

2015

​

Running water ferried suds down the cast iron surface and into the basin below. The pipe groaned, the drum rattled and trembled. Turned the faucet, overturned and shook the pot, placed it on the counter by the drying rack, laid down the scrubber. Leaning against the preparation table, watchful Springfield suckled on her ration pack, her meadow-green eyes resolute in their gaze.

​

“You needn’t suffer their punishment.” 

 

She lowered her pack and answered, “I should. I was their accomplice.”

 

Solidarity with the divided. 

 

“I had hoped P7, Papasha and Sudaev would follow your example.”

 

“Papasha and Sudaev looked out for each other.”

 

“By betraying P7, left her to fend for herself.”

 

“In Papasha’s defence, P7 would have deserted them just as readily.”

 

Undid the apron, hung it on the rack. Gloves by the basin.

 

“She should have remained steadfast, regardless; be better than P7, not lower herself to her level. They were accomplices. As for P7…she should change her ways; the sooner, the better. Perhaps by remaining true to her, Papasha might help precipitate this change.”

 

Ration pack crumpled in her grip, grey trickle spilt from its tip. Yet, Springfield retained her gentle smile. “Give them time, Cetin. Their personality presets are those of children.”

 

“They are T-Dolls soon to be thrust into the Sangvis heartlands. They need to outgrow their presets quickly. Papasha and Sudaev, especially, seeing as they will depart for enemy territory tomorrow, with only fellow dolls to rely upon and a flare gun as their lifeline. If they, especially Papasha, could not be true with P7, would they be true with their assigned teams despite their possibly intolerable flaws?”

 

Her smile wavered slightly; it seemed a myriad of thoughts were passing through her neural cloud. She sighed. “Aren’t you catastrophising? There has been no sign of friction in your assigned covert teams. Not to mention Papasha stuck with Skorpion, Sturmgewehr and the rest when they were stranded in Subsector Four.” 

 

“Perhaps she only made an exception with P7, but better to catastrophise than to be unprepared for catastrophe.”

 

Springfield shook her head, then looked towards the tea leaf jars lined neatly on the serving counter by the whistling iron kettle. “Would you like some tea?” she offered, though her tone was closer to coercion.

 

Inhaled. Counted to three. Exhaled. “No.” Walked towards the refrigerator, yanked open its door. “Nivy awaits relief.” 

 

“He can be kept waiting,” Springfield said insistently; the whistling subsided. “Fleur had already delivered his dinner and is keeping him company.” Metal clinked against ceramic. “It would be rude to deny them their quality time. Besides….” 

 

Chill biting the true fingers as they grasped the wooden skewers.

 

“...meze should be served fresh.”

​

Sigh exhaled. Shut the door. Peppermint scent permeated the kitchen.

 

Only a single cup on the counter.

 

“Are you not going to drink?”

 

She shook her head again. “I’m still on my sentence,” she answered as she pushed the cup towards the false hand. 

 

Four and a half minutes before the tea is ready for drinking. Springfield kept wearing her gentle smile. “I agree with your decision to punish P7, Papasha and Sudaev. However, I question the manner of punishment.”

 

Flesh left the cold table’s surface. The arms folded. “The punishment is lenient, Springfield.”

 

Her smile became cold. “A lenient punishment for sheltering a distressed wild animal without permission would be a slap on the wrist and a stern warning.”

 

“They would learn nothing from these. Moreover, the matter of the fox only contributed minutely to my decision to punish them. I wanted them to stand in solidarity with each other.”

 

She inhaled sharply. “Your original intent was to punish them for breaking your trust.”

 

“Parameters frequently change, here and on the battlefield.” 

 

“Cetin.” Her tone harshened. “Right now, we are not on the battlefield. Harmless white lies and unsanctioned animal adoption shouldn’t be judged by the standards of military discipline.”

 

“If I were to punish them by that standard, every accomplice, be they human or doll, would receive identical punishment: doll rations for a week. You would be included in their number. Yet, I did not enact such punishment and limited the recipients to only P7, Sudaev and Papasha; they who are directly involved in this breach of trust. I believe this is enough leniency.” 

 

Springfield sighed. “Cetin. How were you punished when you were young?”

 

“Harshly.”

 

“How harshly?”

 

“Should we commit any mistakes, my ocak would be fortunate to end the day with minor scrapes and warm bellies.” 

 

Springfield sucked in her lips and exhaled. She glanced aside, undoubtedly seeking another angle of attack in this debate. The tea drenched the parched throat, bracing it for a response. Yet, there was only discontented silence where there should be a retort.

“Why is it so quiet here all of a sudden?” Nagant remarked upon entering the kitchen. Peppermint scent smothered by the burnt odour of shashlik; she and Skorpion and Dimas behind her were laden with trays of the freshly grilled meze.

​

​

​

2120

​

Nivy pressed his lips against the shot glass while transfixing his gaze on the false eyes. Though his sip was long, the clear beverage within the glass barely drained. His gaze was piercing, searching, seeking something within the false eyes’ gleam. Perhaps he sought that elusive clarity within the bafflement bubbling within the heart.

 

He set the glass down on the Tactical Map and spoke, “Is there anything confusing with how I was raised?”

 

“... Isn’t that too lenient?”

 

He cracked a grin and laughed aloud. “I suppose. Most kids my age don’t get off that easy. ‘Oh, if you take in another stray dog without my permission again, I’m going to bake you and the dog in the oven!’, ‘Oh, do that again, and I’ll drown you and the kitten!’.” He had flicked and twirled his skewers for emphasis.

 

“...Do Grecian parents truly execute their children for misbehaving?”

 

Nivy wore a boyish grin and shook his head. “They don’t mean it; it was meant to scare them straight. Make a loud noise, threaten them with a trip down the River Styx, and make them think they meant it. I never had to deal with that. Lucky me for having an American father. But enough about me. What about you? How were you raised as a child?”

​

“Standard military discipline.”

 

“Wake up at four a.m., wash up and dress up within five minutes?”

 

Shook the head. “No, that isn’t what I...” Held the tongue. Not a single spark of comprehension within Nivy’s curious eyes. Sigh exhaled, bit the skewer. “Nevermind.”

 

He grinned sardonically as he chewed on his shashlik. “Alright, let us stop comparing our childhood traumas.” He took one more gulp, then continued. “Words are circulating in the base that MDR was hacked this morning.”

 

Nodded the head. “You’ve heard?”

 

“From Ai. She discussed it with Cilka earlier today.”

 

“...Who told them?”

 

“They got it off Grifchan.” Nivy bit on his shashlik again, his expression that of shallow mulling. “Good as hearing from MDR herself, thinking about it.”

 

Inhaled. Exhaled. Embers coursed roughly through the windpipe. “I see. I will have to speak to her about OpSec violations.”

 

Another smirk upon his lips. He laid the skewer onto his tray. “Let her off, Cetin. She’s just blowing off steam. Besides, Grifchan is an internal BBS. Nothing from it will be leaked to the public.”

 

“Need I remind you that she was hacked?”

 

“The hacker will have to try harder to breach our tactical network and servers.” He downed a shot and smiled again. The false shoulder shuddered; he had slapped it while emitting a hearty laugh. “Don’t worry! Everything’s fine!”

 

Sigh exhaled. Fiery beverage scorched the throat; the glass clinked against the glossy obsidian surface. “Fine.”

 

Nivy emptied his glass. His smile had stiffened. “So, how is MDR, really?”

 

“Neither Cilka nor Ai elaborated on the incident?”

 

He scoffed as he refilled his glass. “They only had Grifchan to work with, and only the gullible would treat it as a reliable source. You know us fighting people.” He took another bite off his skewer. “We like to embellish. Tell tall tales. And knowing MDR’s reputation, the tale will be especially tall.”

 

Took another bite, washed down the synth-meat with vodka. “It happened during the job. David and MDR were surveying the server’s digital architecture to locate an entry point when David’s laptop turned black and displayed texts warning us off from proceeding with the hack. Told us the server’s rigged to wipe all data if it detects intrusion. Instructed us to eject the server block’s data drives and deliver them to a van.”

 

Nivy chewed his meze slowly, matching his pace with his contemplation. “The laptop was connected to both server and MDR?”

​

“MDR to laptop to server. The laptop would protect MDR from the server’s ICE, should she trigger it.”

 

Nivy swallowed another mouthful of shashlik. “MDR’s the access point, I take it?”

 

“Yes.” Downed another shot of vodka. “MDR and David attempted to trace the hacker but were disconnected when MDR came close to succeeding, or so she claimed. However, it appeared that the hack was already completed the moment the texts were displayed on the laptop screen. Malware of some description, I was told. David only found out almost two hours after the fact, mere minutes before we delivered the data drives to the drop-off point.”

 

Nivy cracked a brief grin. “Sounds like the hacker had goaded them. Anyway.” He frowned. “You mentioned a van. Hacker connected to the job?”

 

“It appeared to be so.” Downed another shot. “There was another incident yesterday. Malware embedded in the client’s email file. Deep within its code, David informed. Activated the moment Kalina read the email.”

 

Nivy frowned deeply, his expression a grim masque. “What’s the damage? Did it get into our server or Tactical Map? Circulated around the Zenner Network?”

 

Shook the head. “Isolated to Kalina’s laptop. David determined that the malware aimed to conceal the sender’s identity and….” Pursed the lips. Continued. “...as he puts it, ‘shred’ all data which would point him to whence it came.”

 

“Editing the email file’s base codes to have it perform additional functions? This is sophisticated. First time I heard of anyone doing something like this.” Nivy chewed his shashlik slowly, his eyes lowered. “This reminds me of some things I heard from up the grapevine. Some rumours.”

 

“You believe they are connected to this hacker?”

 

“Don’t know yet.” He shrugged. “I didn’t pay too much attention to hearsay. You know how us fighting types are. Embellishments. Tall tales. However, I did hear rumblings of anonymous informants, strange glitches in our surveillance feeds, listening posts picking up anomalies within Sangvis transmissions.” He paused momentarily, then continued, “And dolls returning from their missions with memory gaps.” He laid down his skewer. “This is just a hunch. No telling how much credence I can lend to these rumours or if they have anything to do with our hacker, but….” He glanced at the false eyes and broke into a grin. “Come on. Don’t wear that face.” 

 

He refilled both shot glasses on the table. 

 

“Drink and relax. We already have enough on our plates. Besides, the hacker hasn’t harmed us.”

 

“Yet.”

 

He sighed and nodded. “Yet.” 

​

​

​

2230

​

Quiet.

 

The premise vacated; Nivy returned to his company, Skorpion making her rounds, Makarov running Kalina’s errand.

 

All quiet. Only Kalina’s radio, tuned to static, for company.

 

The red had receded, sepia in its place. Surveillance feeds awash in black; S09 an abyssal expanse.

 

Stars that do not twinkle. Pharos and candlelights. Villages, towns. Civilisation.

 

The eyelids felt heavy.

 

White van awash in red.

 

White van awash in red.

​

The false eyes snapped open.

 

“... That’s everything I’ve heard.”

 

“In other words, the data in Safehouse Three are still on M4A1?”

 

A cold voice. A husky voice. Unfamiliar, foreign voices engaged in a conversation, so clear and so close as though they were held here, yet the Command Tent was vacant. 

 

“With that, all intelligence collected by Scarecrow, Executioner, and me has been uploaded.”

 

“How careless of them. Grifon doesn’t seem to realise just how valuable these data are. They simply have no clue about ‘Parapluie’ or ‘Relique’.”

 

The cold voice named the Ringleaders, referred to them as peers. The husky voice spoke of Grifon with undisguised derision. 

 

“I’m going back to my hunt.”

 

“Hunting again? How savagewhycan’tanyofmysubordinates...”

 

Clarity lost; the conversation had sped up, degenerated into unintelligible squeaks. It came from the laptop’s speakers; its screen was blank.

 

Save for the yellow text punctuated by a blinking box.

 

CONSIDER THIS A BONUS FOR A JOB WELL-EXECUTED.

​

The conversation stopped suddenly, followed by a stagnant silence, as though the air itself had held its breath. 

​

White van awash in red, S09 an abyssal expanse.

 

AUDIO FILE EXTRACTED FROM THE DATA DRIVES. I ADVISE LISTENING TO IT CAREFULLY.

 

The hacker had struck again. The trap once again proved ineffectual.

 

YOUR PAYMENT HAS BEEN REMITTED TO YOUR COMPANY ACCOUNT. GOOD LUCK WITH INTRUDER.

​

The screen winked on; the black melted into blue. Audio file paused in player software.

 

“Commander!”

 

Breath caught in the throat. XM8 at the threshold.

 

“Play chess with me!”

 

Inhaled. Counted to three. Exhaled.

 

“Where are your playmates?”

 

She brandished her folded chessboard over her head. “Bohdan ran! Skorpion said she’s busy! Sore losers! So play chess with me!”

 

Sigh exhaled. “I do not know chess.”

 

“Unacceptable!” XM8 exclaimed. She strode towards the Tactical Map and almost hurled her chess set onto its obsidian surface. 

 

“I won't accept this! I refuse! How can a commander who knows intricate manoeuvres not know chess?” She then spun around, stomped her heels and met the false eyes. “If this is a joke, it's not funny!” She flailed her arms, made mountains out of anthills. “Preposterous! Ridiculous! Unacceptable! Simply unacceptable! I will make a chess master out of you!”

 

Too many wilful dolls in this company.

 

Sigh exhaled. “Fetch David Keller. I have a task for him. I will partake in your chess game after he has completed his work here.”

 

XM8 lit up. “Really?” Her expression then darkened suddenly, like a floodlight caught between leviathan waves. Her eyes narrowed. “You promise? Skorpion said I have to make you promise.”

 

“I will keep my word.”

 

“Great!” she lit up again, then frowned and thrust her finger accusingly. “You promised, so don’t you run away like that sore loser! You promised!” she delivered her ultimatum with a severe frown.

 

“...I will not.”

 

She beamed as she ran out with enthusiastic vigour. The whites of her chessboard stuck out like lamplight pylons illuminating the night sea.

​

​

​

|Gulping sound, followed by clinking and sloshing|

 

I now understand why Bohdan ran, why XM8 had such difficulties securing a chess mate.

Five rounds of chess. Five checkmates within four turns. Five sets of harsh reprimands and insults. She shows no mercy to novices, demonstrates outright cruelty to seasoned players, I imagine.

 

She said she would return tomorrow. Fortune help me.

 

…

 

That charade of chess games was but a momentary distraction from the sensation of looming dread which hovered over me for the past three hours. Yesterday's spectre has returned. Once they were content to blend into the background and conceal themselves in the digital chaos that was Kalina's email client, today they decided to make their presence felt more utterly.

 

Like the phantoms that lurked just at the corner of the eye. Always there, yet not there.

 

…

 

Like Yellow Eyes.

 

…

 

The spectre's haunting has provided us…I do not know if I should call it a boon. Paid in full, with something else besides. Some clues on Persica's intent when she sent Team AR here. At least, I believe so. 

 

Safehouse Three. Scarecrow, Hunter and Executioner were here, under Intruder's orders, to recover its data, the same absconded by M4 from the safehouse. The hacker ensured I caught the terms 'Parapluie' and 'Relique'.

 

Too little to work with.

 

I have attempted to contact Persica regarding these terms. Thus far, I have been unsuccessful. I had used M4's satellite phone, per her instruction, yet I was greeted by a long buzz. Either the satellite had gone out of alignment, or Persica decided to answer only on collection day.

 

I will try again tomorrow. Or I may have to wait until the appointed day comes. I rather not wait that long. Just a day before the operation. Not enough time to reassess the situation and rework the battle plan then.

 

…

 

|Drinking sound|

 

The hacker has vexed David and MDR thrice thus far. Malware embedded deep within an email file's code yesterday, accessing David's laptop using MDR's router module as an access point and now, subverting the micro-drones. Used them to feed us a looping video and to access the Command Tent's server. 

 

It's an audio file today, but, as David warned, it could be a virus tomorrow.

 

Even as I speak, MDR lay slumped against the servers. Dormant, her consciousness having sunk into Level II. David had left to collect more coffee. He estimated that it may take all night to cleanse our network systems of any infections and to hunt and plug any vulnerabilities.

Then, another three days to fortify our network security.

 

…

 

If this hacker can make a mockery of it, what of Intruder? I hope we will be ready by then.