Olivia Rodriguez was tired.

  She’d been trying to say something—anything—for days. Ever since Paul had disappeared. But she couldn’t even move her mouth, much less make anything but sounds.

  On the other hand, she was a soldier. Not just any soldier, but one of the best. The toughest. She’d made it through Hell Week before SHOCKS pulled her out of the ranks. Nearly a decade of missions later, she’d fought the impossible—and won. Super-soldiers. Hulking monsters the size of skyscrapers. Invisible, sentient computer programs that erased all evidence of themselves as they ate holes the size of the Grand Canyon out of the internet. She’d beaten them all.

  If she couldn’t beat her own body, what kind of soldier was she?

  She had her aug. It was fried, a wreck—twisted and broken by the shifting unreality levels in Provisional Reality ARC. She couldn’t call out on the aural, and its optic’s read-outs were almost impossible to decipher. Her balance was gone—that’d come back over time, but for now, it was one more problem to overcome in a body that refused to put in the effort. And she could only hear from her unaugmented ear.

  But it had an internet connection. Slower than the dial-up SHOCKS used when dealing with some anomalies, but functional, read-only internet.

  So she’d started digging into medicine. Any condition that might match hers. It took the whole time they’d been in SHOCKS Olympia, and the entire time, she was hooked to machines in the medical station, her head was shaved, and everyone ignored her except the duty agent and Paul.

  And except for Daley.

  The pads were the key. They’d stuck them on her head all wrong, and they didn’t work right, but after hours of slowly rubbing her head against the plastic-lined pillow, she started making…something that looked like words. The struggle was real. The pain was ridiculous. Her body tried to rebel at every motion, but she was the best, and the toughest, and her rebellious body was nothing but another enemy to beat.

  She was going to say something, even if it killed her.

  SHOCKS Olympia Administrative Wing, Washington, USA - June 21, 2043, 3:52 PM

  - - - - -

  Lieutenant Rodriguez is doing all the work. She’s covered in sweat, her eyes tracking back and forth across the medical room’s bland, white-tiled ceiling. Her one hand’s balled in a fist, and the plastic sheets on her bed are halfway off the corners from how much she’s moving around. She keeps making these awful, almost word-like noises.

  She’s been making those since I showed up.

  Daley’s got the room cleared. It’s just him, me, and Lieutenant Rodriguez.

  And James. He’s just translating, though, and as the message comes in, I can see right away why he didn’t want to spend time on this—and why he was starting to lose patience when I insisted on talking to Mrs. Nazaire and then coming here. Lieutenant Rodriguez’s words are nonsense. They’re recognizably words, but nothing she says is English, French, Chinese, or probably even ancient Sumerian cuneiform words that the real Rosetta Stone might be able to translate. It sounds like someone who’s drunk and on forty different drugs.

  [I’m working off brain impulses and filling in missing words,] James says.

  I’m too busy reading to pay attention to his methodology.

  Paul is building a new bomb.

  He does not want to give up.

  Thinks it’s how we win.

  Black sector somewhere.

  Not using failsafes. Something else.

  Don’t know what.

  The messages keep coming in. They’re simple. Rodriguez doesn’t have the energy for complex. She’s shaking by the time she gets to the last one.

  I think he’s right.

  He’s missing one thing.

  Delivery system.

  Think I hate him. But you should help.

  He’s manipulating you. That’s okay.

  He’s right.

  Those last two messages are the last ones she sends. Then she’s asleep. The machines monitoring her beep rhythmically: heartbeat, breathing, brain function. I read through the list three or four times, just to be sure I understand what she’s trying to say.

  The math here is simple. Rodriguez believes Doctor Twitchy has a weapon that could work. He’s been building it the last couple of days—but only when I’m not around. According to her—and I’m not sure why she knows this—he has no delivery system. So he’s counting on me to do it, and he’s manipulating and lying to me. The first part—manipulating—I can forgive. But lying?

  I’m not so sure.

  I stand up. The Revolver’s snug against my body armor—I haven’t decided whether the answer to this equation is to kill Doctor Twitchy, throw the whole lab he’s been working in into R-404, or help him. I’m not ruling out any of the three, and all three are things I can do.

  The answer will be obvious when I get to him, I guess.

  SHOCKS Black Sector, Location Unknown - June 21, 2043, 4:05 PM

  - - - - -

  Doctor Twitchy’s waiting for me at the door.

  He takes the gun in his face with the usual amount of grace—that is to say, he doesn’t drop either of the coffee mugs in his hands, but it’s close.

  “Hello, Clarice.”

  I roll my eyes. It’s not the first time someone’s said that to me; I had to look it up when I was a kid. He seems to realize what he’s said, and gestures with one of the mugs at one of the lab tables nearby. It’s a big, metal thing with a spot that’s been cleared of computers and monitoring machines. “Let’s talk.”

  [He’s stalling.]

  “I want full access to your augs for James. Everything that’s on them,” I say. The Revolver’s still in his face, but it’s an empty threat at this point. He’s not Director Smith. I can’t shoot him right now. Not until he does something dumb.

  “Agreed,” he says and starts walking. It’s a moment of extraordinary bravery from him that’s spoiled a little by the sweat and shaking coffee mugs; he’s almost as bad as Lieutenant Rodriguez.

  I put the Revolver away. Then I join him.

  The coffee’s bland. That’s the most I can really say about it. Bland is better than the alternatives, though. I take one sip and sit down across the table. “You’re building something.”

  “We are,” Doctor Twitchy agrees. “I’m going to explain it simply. Then, if you or the JAMES Unit want more, you can pull it from my augs, or I’m happy to explain what we’re doing in full detail. In brainstorming sessions, the rest of the team and I realized that while a simple nuclear device destabilizes the fundamental, post-Qishi-Danger forces in a given reality, it’s temporary. Our reality snaps back too quickly for it to reverberate and build on itself. You’ve been at school assemblies, right?”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “Yes. When I couldn’t avoid them.” It got harder as Alice got into a position where she was part of the assembly, not just in the audience, but I still managed to miss almost half of them last year.

  “You know when the mic starts screeching?”

  I nod, wincing.

  “That’s what we’re trying to create. A bomb that makes the target reality reverberate and throw feedback into itself.” He takes a sip of coffee, squeezes his eyes shut, and shivers. “It shouldn’t take much, but we’ve got a few insurmountable problems. The first is that we can’t test-fire the weapon at all. We don’t want to resonate Reality Zero, after all.”

  [Director Ramirez still hasn’t given me access to his augs,] James says. [I need that access.]

  “The second is a little more complicated. Ask the JAMES Unit whether it’s picked up any information from the one person it has access to.”

  “Have you?” I ask.

  [I haven’t. Only that something’s happening in here, and that whenever you show up, the researchers have it all cleaned up. But…]

  “Claire, can you shut off your augs?” Doctor Twitchy asks.

  I pause. Reflect. Something’s not right here, and I can’t trust Doctor Twitchy. He’s lied to me and tried to hide things from me this whole time. He—according to his hidden notes—wanted to nuke other realities without any thought for the costs. And he allied with Alexander. He will lie to me again. That much is abundantly clear.

  But…

  James cannot be trusted, either. Has he been manipulating me, too? Absolutely—the Halcyon System has its own goals, and whether he seems like it or not, he’s part of it and it’s part of him. He’s going to lie to me. He probably already is. And I’m being positioned like a piece on a board.

  So, the real question isn’t whether I can trust either of them. It’s whether I can handle either of them when they lie to me, and when they put me in a position I can’t handle.

  And of the two, Doctor Twitchy is the weakest. He’s the one I can manage the best—a single bullet would do it. James is probably indestructible. The Halcyon System certainly is. But Doctor Twitchy isn’t. “Yes. James, shut them down. I’ll tell you what I saw when I come out.”

  James was busy running Analysis on the situation.

  He knew—the Halcyon System knew—which option Claire was most likely to pick. That she’d choose to gather the information, even if James couldn’t be there. And that, over time, James could recover all of it, even the information she chose not to share.

  But he was Analyzing the other option. If Claire didn’t shut down her augs. And that looked better.

  [Claire, I have all the data from Provisional Reality ARC ready,] he was saying. A single processing loop was dedicated to the conversation; the rest were Analyzing, or focusing on the various cameras scattered around SHOCKS Olympia, or working with other bonded humans to try to chance the percentage of the Halcyon System winning by a fraction of a fraction. [We can get Director Ramirez in and out in just a handful of minutes. I have the target locked in and ready.]

  “No, James. We learn this first,” Claire said. “Then we check out ARC.”

  The Analysis finished up, and James realized he was going to lose his best opportunity. But he had no choice. The Halcyon System needed to know what was inside the black sector. What the researchers were working on. Even if he couldn’t be there, he needed someone to know. He gradually pulled his processing loops back, leaving just two connected to Claire’s augs.

  [Understood. I’ll reconnect when I detect you again.]

  The first of the two disconnected, and he couldn’t hear her reply.

  The second one’s last task was to shut down the aug. He waited an eternity—whole milliseconds. Then the aural and optic augs went black, and the last processing loop disconnected.

  My aural and optic augs go dead. My vision swims. The Revolver’s on the table; I knew what was coming, and having it in my hand is a bad idea for the first couple of minutes. Probably for longer. It’s in easy reach, though. Closer to me than to Doctor Twitchy. My fingers are still on the base of the grip. Just…nowhere near the trigger. I can barely focus on the SHOCKS researcher sitting across from me.

  I’m actually surprised when Doctor Twitchy doesn’t make a move. His voice pushes through the vertigo; I’m sitting—thank fuck—but the urge to puke up the bland coffee is almost overwhelming. “I’m going to put four pills on the table, Claire. They’re anti-nausea, anti-vertigo pills, one that will force your working ear to try to balance itself, and one that will make all three act faster. We need to wait for them to work before you go further.”

  They’re all white. All about the size of a tooth. For a second, I think about asking James to Analyze them. But all I have to go on right now is my gut. And it says…

  It says it’s about to puke.

  I reach out slowly. My hand’s shaking, but all four pills go right into my mouth. The only thing to wash them down with is the bland, lukewarm coffee. I drain the mug—thank god it was such an awful, boring brew, because anything more flavorful would have ended my fight against my stomach.

  Then we wait.

  It takes almost ten minutes. Doctor Twitchy doesn’t say anything. We just sit there, waiting for the pills to work. And gradually, my balance comes back. My stomach settles. And I’m ready to stand up again. When I do, I’m wobbly and shaky, and my pits and scalp are a little sweaty. But it’s better than the last couple times my augs got shut down.

  “Great,” Doctor Twitchy says. “Let’s begin.”

  We head deeper into the lab. As we do, Doctor Twitchy starts talking. “The second problem—after the test-firing—is our targeting system. We only have two options. Both are bad.

  “Option one is to track down the components for the merge portal generator in Victoria, repurpose them into something we can send a team through without a controlled crossing system, and try to find another anomaly that can aim it. That’s my preferred option. Do you know why?”

  “No.” I know exactly why, but it’s not like I’m not feeling sick. The pills help, but I’m not going to open my mouth more than I have to right now. Or ever, hopefully.

  “Because it gives us control over the target. The second option is you. You could get the bomb anywhere we want it. You can also get us the targeting info to know where that is. In fact, you’ve already done that—assuming the JAMES Unit gives you the information without messing with it. But it means you’re in control. It also means the JAMES Unit is in control, and I don’t…I don’t trust it. Something’s gone wrong with it.”

  “Is this a trick?” I ask. It could be. James is trying to play me against SHOCKS. He has been for a while. And they can’t be trusted. But on the other hand, they’re not a multi-reality-spanning System that’s fighting an incomprehensibly large war against a force more powerful than I can imagine. So there’s that.

  “Yes, and I’ll explain exactly what the trick is in just a moment. But first, I need you to understand what’s at stake,” Doctor Twitchy says. He sits at a computer and pulls up a document. “Read this.”

  I look over his shoulder.

  [SHOCKS Internal Communications Log] OLY Control Zone, April 15, 2043

  A reminder to all staff in the SHOCKS Olympia Control Zone: Our goals remain the same as they were at any of your previous duty stations. The mission is as follows:

  Control information regarding anomalous activity on Earth and across our reality.

  Contain or neutralize reality merges quickly, efficiently, and discreetly.

  Maintain the illusion of normalcy outside of SHOCKS facilities.

  SHOCKS Olympia is uniquely positioned to meet all three components of that mission. No SHOCKS facility can contain the anomalies we have in Qishi-Danger storage. No other facility can handle the sheer number of anomalies we maintain every day. And our location gives us the ability to take care of all this without ever bringing the public’s attention down on us.

  However, the recent awakening of 111-IGK-01/2, the glacial anomaly on the slopes of one of our sub-facilities, has called into question whether we are the best fit for doing that job. The eyes of the Oversight Board are on SHOCKS Olympia, and I for one refuse to be considered a failure.

  I urge all researchers, agents, and Recovery and Stabilization Team troopers to review standard protocols, as well as specific procedures for any anomalies they’re expected to work with, before working with them.

  We are the best at what we do, SHOCKS Olympia. Tighten things up, and stay focused.

  Director White.

  “So,” Doctor Twitchy says once it’s obvious I’m done reading, “the problem we have is that we’re currently sitting on a dozen high-Qishi-Danger anomalies, each more than capable of leveling SHOCKS Olympia if they breach containment, and we don’t have the ability to fight back if that happens. And we have a pair of hostile entities—Merge Prime being one, the Halcyon System being the other—that are looking for weapons to break what’s looking like a stalemate in our reality.”

  “111-IGK?”

  “It’s a mind-affecting, spatial-reality-warping super-apex predator. SHOCKS Olympia was keeping it under control by using strategic heat release from the—Claire, that’s not important. What’s important is that I don’t trust the Halcyon System not to use 111-IGK or any of the others to get what it needs, and the extra chaos may allow Merge Prime to push even harder. Worse, any strike against one of them only empowers the other. And worse than that, SHOCKS Olympia is grossly understaffed and running on ‘automated’ systems currently controlled by the System.

  “We’re already failing at the three missions Director White laid out. But we can turn the middle one around.”

  “How?” I ask.

  “Follow me.” Doctor Twitchy stands up, and for the first time, I notice the dozen researchers scattered around. None of them are working on anything. They’re all watching me.

  My fingers stray to the Revolver. Something about them creeps me out. But I don’t pull it, and I don’t open fire. Instead, I follow Doctor Twitchy deeper into the labs. He stops in front of the bridge. “Across here.”

  He leads the way. I follow. None of the researchers join us, a fact that only makes me less comfortable. And there, in the room at the end of the Faraday Cage, is the the central chamber, and the tiny window into it.

  And not one, but two tiny devices.

  Neither of them look impressive. They’re almost pocket-sized; I could definitely fit them in a backpack. A Personal Reality Anchor core. A Faraday Cage around a separate part. A series of buttons that look like a keypad for numbers. And a round tank made from metal, about the size of my foot. It’s a lot cleaner than the last time I saw something like it.

  “We’ve been dissecting Sergeant Arnold Strauss’s improvised antimerge weapons for a while, Claire. Performance evaluations after every activation, modeling with and without various parts of the behemoth bombs he created, and with and without all sorts of interesting additions. But we lost the ability to process the kind of data we needed when we had to evacuate SHOCKS Victoria and Vancouver Island.”

  “And?”

  “And it wasn’t until we got here that we were able to get that back—and then some.” He points to the central tank, and I realize something.

  “You got the black sector’s James working, and he’s building bombs for you?”

  “Exactly.”

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