Chapter Two Hundred and Seventy-Four: Transport Mission

The Traveler assigned to ship our first lot of octanitrocubane was a short, squat man, who had apparently not been informed of the nature of the cargo. “This calls for hazard pay,” he complained. “I wasn’t told this stuff could explode.”

“You’re getting the same rates as an alien defense mission,” Clegg explained to him patiently. “And nobody’s going to be shooting at you.”

The Traveler sulked. “It’ll take days to complete this.”

“Your rate’s supposed to cover that, Driver Seventy-Six. We already discussed this with your agency….”

I decided to leave Clegg to his negotiations and check on the convoy. With the Greyhound networked to the convoy channel, that didn’t take long. “Major Grenville, are the trucks secured?”

“All secured, Belessar,” the British Army officer assigned to the convoy’s security informed me. ““Truck 128 reported a mechanical fault, so we’ve shifted it to the second group, but the rest are ready to go.”

For those who have no idea how much fifty thousand tons of octanitrocubane comes to, consider this - the average chemical transport truck can hold roughly 30 tons of liquid. Which means that to ship all of the octanitrocubane we had on hand, so far, would take close to seventeen hundred truckloads.

That’s a lot of trucks, right? Too many to fit into the facilities at Farnborough. Not to mention that the trucks needed qualified drivers, who knew the destinations and had appropriate security clearance. Considering that a single truck carried enough explosives to bring down a city block, the latter was critically important. 

The Indians had supplied the trucks, and the drivers. Not out of generosity alone - the Aerovascar processing facilities were scattered across the northern parts of Mumbai, with the idea that an attack on a single facility should not paralyze the production process. There were a total of eight separate sites. 

However, we only had about four hundred trucks and drivers. Which meant that the shipment of fifty thousand tons - all of which were critical for Aerovascar production - would need four round-trips, in total. 

It wasn’t practical - or safe - to portal directly to each factory, either. The possibility of aliens carrying out pinpoint strikes against the factories - using teleportation - had been considered, so each factory was mostly underground and surrounded by a primitive shield. Or shields.

Whatever contusions in foldspace allowed portals to link two points separated by vast distances, shields interfered with them. This had the positive effect of preventing a Hierarchy saboteur from simply teleporting tons of high explosive into a factory and wrecking whatever stockpiles of Aerovascar ingredients it had stored. Unfortunately, ‘tons of high explosive’ was an apt description for octanitrocubane, which meant that direct teleportation was a no-go. 

Instead, we’d picked a major truckyard positioned in between the factories as a staging point. 

We would be making four, staggered trips. Each trip with a quarter or more of the supply, and with the trucks breaking up into groups of fifty and heading to the eight sites. The teams at the eight locations had been given the instructions for unloading the containers with octanitrocubane as quickly as possible, and turning the trucks around. After the first round of unloading, the trucks would return to the yard, where they’d be transported back - and the next round of octanitrocubane would be loaded. 

Again and again, until we got the stocks of octanitrocubane to where it could be of use. In short, distributed amongst the many processing plants which would produce the final doses of Aerovascar. 

It was a logistically complex operation that had the potential for tremendous chaos - even before you considered the possibility of an ambush. For a hidden Gellatoid cell in Mumbai, the best time for them to strike would be while we were moving thousands of tons of highly explosive ingredients. 

That was why I was kitted out in a Greyhound Armour, with a Mass Driver Rifle and HEPAR equipped. Enough to deal with a Gellatoid or Lynxian raid, even something like a Stealth Rover.

Not enough to deal with a Carnotaur, but if the Indian intelligence services had screwed the pooch so badly as to miss a sixty-foot kaiju, we were doomed anyway.

“All drivers have been issued their maps, and know where to go,” Major Grenville’s voice informed me over the radio. “Two IFVs and an APC with each contingent of fifty trucks, and our hosts will provide an escort once we reach.”

“What kind of escort?” I asked.

“Air and ground, is what I’ve been told. They’re taking this shipment seriously.”

I wondered for a moment if we were overreacting. Still - better to have and not need, than need and not have. 

“Traveler spinning up the portal,” Grenville announced. “All units confirmed in position. Make your readiness checks, people.”

The distinctive purplish-black dome of a Traveler portal began to enclose us.

I’d wondered, sometimes, why some portals - such as those used by Travelers - were domes, while others were flat planes. My portals, for example, acted more as doorways linking two points in space, while those of the Travelers transported a perfect sphere of material - including, in this case, me - between two points. 

The only thing I had been able to figure out was that the spherical Traveler portals were not range-limited, though they had a mass limit. Mine were severely constrained by distance - 1 MP per metre separation was a LOT - but so far, I’d not been able to find a mass limit. Or, if there was one, it was too high for me to hit it yet. 

Mass limits or not, Driver Seventy-Six showed no signs of strain as his portal shimmered open, revealing the skies above a new continent. Afternoon skies, thanks to the five-and-half-hour time limit. Which meant, of course, traffic. 

“Adding local teams into the convoy network,” Grenville announced. “Good day, Colonel Kakkar.”

“Good day, Major Grenville,” a new voice announced. “Good day, Mr. Belessar, Mr. Clegg. Escort formations have been assigned to each group. We’ll try to get you smooth roads and unobstructed traffic to your destinations. Then again, this is Mumbai, so expect a few things to go wrong.”

“Any potential threats, Colonel?”

“Nothing spotted so far, but we’ll be keeping our eyes open, of course.” 

What followed was an hour of smooth, boring efficiency, as groups of trucks peeled off and headed towards their destination, accompanied by our original IFV and APC component as well as a host of Indian Army trucks and armoured vehicles. Someone clever had added a fire engine for each convoy. Good thinking, since a single burning truck could explode within seconds and spark a chain reaction.

Fifteen hundred tons of octanitrocubane exploding would give the road - and anything within a half-kilometre of it - a rather abrupt facelift. 

“Belessar,” the voice of Colonel Kakkar came over the radio. “We’ve a break while the trucks are on their way. Care for a cuppa?”

“Thanks, Colonel, but perhaps later,” I replied. “This suit isn’t meant for stuff like tea.”

“Ah, that’s a pity. Biscuits, then?”

I blinked. “Did you offer me biscuits?”

“Yes, we have a fantastic tea biscuit called Parle-G. Or if your tastes are a bit more sweet, I think I have some Oreo cookies somewhere.”

Linguistic drift is a fantastic thing. “Colonel, um. For future reference, when you offer a snack to an American, please call them cookies. For us, ‘biscuits’ mean dog biscuits.”

The silence on the line was broken by Grenville’s laughter. “He’s got you there, Colonel.”

“.... dammit, I told them to send a diplomat,” groused Kakkar. “How the hell was I supposed to know? We serve biscuits - cookies, whatever - in the mess every damn day.” A pause. “Any chance I can persuade you to, er, forget that little slip?”

“Consider it forgotten, Colonel,” I chuckled. “I appreciate the gesture, but I’ve got my own food supply in here.”

“That’s damn good,” the Colonel replied. “Well, the convoys are on their way, and we’ve simply got to wait. Assuming the damn roads hold up, they should be back in three hours.”

“What’s our response plan for an ambush?”

“We have a roving gunship patrol, and a reserve battalion here at the truckyard. The processing plants are all within forty kilometres, and each has their own security to boot. By the way, is it true that the stuff in there is worth more than gold?”

“Absolutely,” I replied. “Octanitrocubane is hellishly difficult to make, unless you have superpowers like me.”

The Colonel chuckled. “That’s a damn shame. I hear it’s a hell of an upgrade on TNT.”

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The boring part of a transport mission is the waiting. 

Three uneventful hours later, the trucks had returned. Driver Seventy-Six wasted little time transporting us back to Farnborough, where our convoy lined up at the factory. 

Cranes operated at top speed, swapping out the existing tanker-containers for new ones, prefilled and kept ready for transit. 

Another three hours later, we were back at the Truckyard. Afternoon had given way to evening, dusk suffusing the skies. 

Once again, the trucks rolled out, heading for the processing plants in force.

And back, as the trucks returned emptied of their lifesaving explosives. 

Trip number three saw us reach the truckyard under the glow of floodlights. A fair concession, since at this point it was half past midnight local time. 

<Nanocloud>: How’s it going?

<Belessar>: Going on schedule. Third round of trucks on its way. One more to go, after this one.

<Nanocloud>: Yeah, but you’ve been in the suit for, what? Twelve hours now?

<Belessar>: Only a little bit tired. And I have air conditioning. 

<Nanocloud>: Remind me again, why are you guys doing this in one big bunch of trucks?

<Belessar>: Because we needed to keep our movement dates secret. So as to not tip off the Gellatoids. And the more trips we make, the greater the risk they’ll figure out exactly what we’re transporting - and try to raid the convoys.

<Nanocloud>: Which will result in them going up in flames?

<Belessar>: Each person requires three grams of Aerovascar, which means nine kilos of octanitrocubane. Every truck is thirty tons - or, thirty-three hundred lives.

<Nanocloud>: …. When you put it that way….

<Belessar>: There’s a reason I agreed to this approach, Anne. The factories are waiting for this to start making Precursor-16, which is the last - and most expensive - step in getting Aerovascar out. 

<Nanocloud>: Fine, just don’t wear yourself out. 

The trucks were on their way to their destinations, for the third time that day, and dealing with markedly less traffic due to the lateness of the hour. I was hoping this shipment went off uneventfully, too, so that we could return home soon and finish the last.

Which is, perhaps, why things started to go wrong exactly then. 

“This is Captain Dadlani with Convoy Three, road’s blocked here. Ordering the convoy to switch to alternate routing C2.”

“Kakkar here, describe how it’s blocked.” The Colonel’s voice came clearly over the convoy channel.

“Overbridge collapsed, blocking the road. No sign of foul play, there’s a crowd of people standing near the bridge.”

“... Police?”

“No, just ordinary folk… wait, they’re in suits?”

“Captain, prep for ambush!” barked Kakkar. “Air patrol?”

“.... Sir! We are under attack! …. Gunship down, both gunships down! Ordering the trucks to fall back!”

“Protect the trucks, Captain, reinforcements on the way!” Kakkar yelled. “Major Dravid. Reserve battalion to reinforce Convoy Three.”

The reserve battalion - several APCs accompanied by a pair of battle tanks - moved forward rapidly. “Colonel, can I help?”

“Was hoping you’d say that, Belessar. Can you keep up with our APCs?”

“I can save them some time. Give me Convoy Three’s exact location, and I’ll open a portal to them.”

“Sending you the grid coordinates now.”

Numbers flashed across my screen - a nice change from numbers flashing across my vision - with the location of the ambush. Nine kilometres, right.

“We’ll do this in two hops,” I said over the channel. “First hop, we cut off four-and-a-half kilometres between here and the target.” A portal opened in front of me even as I spoke. “Second hop takes us the rest of the way there.”

I walked through the portal, my MDR armed and ready, leaving it open for the soldiers to follow. As the unit filed through, I counted down the seconds till my MP topped off, and then opened a second portal. 

This one opened up onto a scene of gunfire. 

Bullets whizzed through the air, bouncing harmlessly off the Greyhound as I strode into the fray. 

…. Bullets from both sides. Perfect. 

“Captain Dadlani, this is Belessar. I am on-site, specifically the ten-foot grey robot you might see blundering around the road. Try to target the enemy, please.” I darted across the battlefield in the dark - never a great idea - trying to get a sense of who was who. 

“Unknown assailants shooting at us, sir!” 

“Any locations?”

“The trees west of the road! They took down our gunships with some sort of laser!”

Laser? 

There were a lot of types of laser. And, almost universally, the Hierarchy disdained their use for small arms, preferring plasma weapons instead. 

I swept my gaze - and scanners - across the scene. The trees to the side of the road showed - a rather lot of people rushing around?

Innocent bystanders, or attackers?

The moment of hesitation turned costly, as one of them opened fire. 

Bullets plinked off the Greyhound harmlessly. Thank goodness for one hundred damage negation. 

Against unarmoured, squishy humans, the MDR would be overkill, so I switched to the HEPAR and let loose a burst.

CONTROLLED HUMAN DEFEATED! +25 XP!

CONTROLLED HUMAN DEFEATED! +25 XP!

What? 

Dreading the response, I switched on Observe - and took a closer look at some of those milling about.

CONTROLLED HUMAN

LEVEL 4

HP: 100/100

A CIVILIAN MIND-CONTROLLED BY A HIDDEN MASTER. LIKELY UNDER A COMPULSION TO ATTACK THIS CONVOY.

“All units, the attackers seem to be under some sort of mind-control!” I yelled. 

“Goddammit,” Kakkar’s voice came over the comms. “Convoy, fall back. Use of force to defend remains authorized. Major Khan! Contact the local police and ask for rubber bullets.”

“Acknowledged, sir,” the voice of another officer came over the channel.

“Belessar, do you have anything non-lethal on that thing?” asked Grenville. 

I’d come loaded for bear - or Grizzeloid - so the Greyhound had very little by way of non-lethal ranged weaponry. 

“I’ll have to get up close and personal,” I replied. “Ask the troops to check their targets.” 

“Checking targets, aye.”

With those words, I raced forward. 

My first target was a middle-aged, fat man hefting what looked like a rocket launcher. He was lining up a shot at one of the trucks when the Greyhound filled his vision.

The Greyhound might be an impressive offensive weapons platform, but one thing about a ten-foot suit as opposed to a fighting vehicle….

It let me throw a decent punch.

My Stunning Blow slammed into the Controlled Human’s chest with the force of a mule. 

STUNNING BLOW! CONTROLLED HUMAN -64 HP. CONTROLLED HUMAN IS STUNNED, 150 SECONDS.

The man dropped the launcher, collapsing on the ground. 

No time to check, as the next bunch of enemies - or rather, mind-controlled drones - turned on me and started shooting. 

Dodge Bullets would have protected me, for the low, low cost of 100 AP per second - a cost that I couldn’t afford. A single Stunning Blow had drained 40 AP, and though I got it back in a second, this was going to be an AP-heavy fight. 

Instead, I let the Greyhound’s Damage Reduction do its job.

The bullets bounced off the fullersteel armour as if they were raindrops. Deformed, robbed of their momentum, they fell to the ground. 

Instead of dodging, I rapidly scanned the combatants - or victims. Sixteen - eighteen - twenty-three people with assault rifles, a couple of RPGs, and a crazed expression in their eyes, even as they charged at me. 

For reference, charging someone in powered armour is a ridiculously bad idea. 

The limits of their logic were demonstrated as the Greyhound rebuffed their attacks, giving me the time - and space - to inflict several more Stunning Blows in quick succession. Eleven of the Controlled Humans found themselves unconscious in seconds, as the Greyhound’s fullersteel fists met Allen Solly sweaters and Blackberry suits. 

The results weren’t clean or antiseptic, though. Sixty-four points of damage to a human body is a LOT of damage. I could see broken bones, blood, and shattered ribs in several places. “Colonel, I’ll need medics - some of the enemy can be taken alive.” And hopefully deprogrammed.

The remaining attackers had retreated, obviously not interested in hand-to-hand. Couldn’t blame them. Showing some degree of tactical sense, they’d split into two groups, half hunkering down behind a broken wall, and the others crouching behind trees.

Emphasis on the ‘some’. 

I hurled a Stun Grenade behind the wall. 

CONTROLLED HUMANS ARE STUNNED! DURATION: 4 MINUTES 30 SECONDS. 

The four survivors responded by opening fire, their bullets plinking harmlessly off the Greyhound’s armour. One, however, had a rocket launcher….

This time, I used Dodge Bullets. The projectile screamed off into the night, exploding harmlessly in the middle of nowhere. 

The survivors, as one, stopped shooting. Then, screaming like banshees, they charged.

I readied myself for another round of hand-to-hand.

Then, as the first attacker hurled himself at me….

He exploded. 

GRENADE BLAST! 440 DAMAGE TO ARMOUR!

Suicide bombers?

I darted backwards, opening fire with the HEPAR desperately. The shots slammed into the remaining three assailants, who - in spectacularly gruesome fashion - exploded. 

3x CONTROLLED HUMANS DEFEATED! +75 XP!

So, a lot of dead and stunned humans…. and potentially a laser somewhere in the dark. Which was turning bright, as the troops following me launched flares, illuminating the night. 

Didn’t help spot the enemy, though. It was as if the attackers had just struck and vanished, melting away in the dark…. 

BOOM!

The lead truck of the convoy screeched to a halt, its cab aflame. Fire roared across the body, the ceramic-and-steel covering of the container the only thing between it and thirty tons of octanitrocubane. 

If that went up, a good portion of the convoy would cease to exist.

Reflexively, I hurled a grenade at the truck.

CRYOGENIC GRENADE.

COMPRESSED LIQUID NITROGEN FLASH FREEZES THE IMMEDIATE AREA, COOLING OFF ANY FIRES. A USEFUL SUPPRESSANT.

DOES 50 COLD DAMAGE TO EVERYTHING IN AN AREA OF RADIUS 40 FEET. 

I’d built my first cryogenic grenades in the basement of our house in Tanisport, years ago. The flash-freeze effect was excellent for putting out fires - although the ice shrapnel would shred anyone in the blast radius.

It would have been a problem if the truckdriver hadn’t already been dead. 

The ice coated the surface of the container, damping the fires. One crisis averted. 

“Anyone see where that came from?” I barked on the radio. “I need a target, people?”

“Nothing on the rangefinders, sir!” Dadlani was yelling, a tinge of panic in his voice. “No contacts!”

“How can there be no contacts?” another voice barked. “Did anyone see where that bomb came from? Tracers, muzzle flash, anything?”

I fought down my growing frustration. A nanobot swarm would have seen something, but I didn’t have any nanobots handy after the teleport, and Anne was too far away to send me scouts. 

I felt blind. Or, maybe… fighting something invisible?

My vision raced across the battlefield, my thoughts racing with them.

Rangefinders were mundane equipment, simple AI-operated cameras that detected flashes from the firing of a weapon - plasma, laser or bullet - and pinpointed the target. An invisible shifter would still generate light and heat every time they fired a weapon. Even the Hierarchy couldn’t hide its weapons fire from rangefinders, although they made up for it with overwhelming first strikes. 

The reserves from the battalion had begun to spread out in the woods, searching for the assailant. Or assailants. In the half-dark, hunting an invisible Shifter, I didn’t fancy their chances. 

Except - an invisible Shifter’s weapons would have been visible to the rangefinders when they fired. You can’t hide a muzzle flash without some spectacular illusion powers - which didn’t fit the profile of a shifter.

It did fit the profile of an illusionist. 

Another truck exploded in flames. My second Cryogenic Grenade blanketed the surface in ice before the fire could spread. 

Where were they firing from? 

TEST OF PERCEPTION: PASSED. 

Sometimes, my power surprises me. As the letters scrolled past my interface, I could see a tiny object hurled through the air, the eerie light of the flares casting a small glow.

It was headed for one of the trucks in the centre. 

Without thinking, I dashed forward. The Greyhound darted to a stop between the grenade and the truck.

GRENADE BLAST! 1,400 FIRE DAMAGE! 

ARMOUR POINTS: 3,160 / 5,000.

The blast knocked me backwards, hard. Hard enough to slam into the side of the truck. Fortunately, the Greyhound’s 50% fire resistance had cut the incendiary effects by half. 

And I was fast enough, this time, to see the telltale sign of a teleportation portal wink out.

That was why we couldn’t spot the enemy - because they weren’t here. They were creating a short-range portal close to the trucks, and hurling grenades through. Another short-range portal would have allowed them to hit the choppers with a laser. 

They could be anywhere, as long as they had visual coverage of the site…. and enough juice to keep throwing things at us through portals.

I couldn’t help but suppress a sigh. I’d fired enough missiles through portals to know how hard it was to dodge them. Heck, weaponized portals were one of my main combat tools, ever since Singapore.

That the enemy was using my own techniques against me? Not a great sign. 

“.... Belessar, are you okay?” a voice was saying on the radio - Captain Dadlani. “Please respond!”

“Just a bit banged up,” I replied, even as the letters ARMOUR INTEGRITY: 63.2% flickered across my interface. “Blow up the overbridge. Punch the trucks through, get them moving.”

“... Yes, sir. Tank platoon, you heard the orders!”

One of the tanks fired. The high-explosive shell smashed into the overbridge structure, the blast sending rubble flying everywhere. 

Might have been overkill.

The trucks barreled forward in good order, racing past the bridge, even as the second tank took the lead. They weren’t taking chances with another ambush - good - but I still needed to pin down the attackers.

As expected, seeing their prey run convinced the enemy to speed up. A tiny portal opened above one of the trucks, an incendiary sailing through, perfectly timed to set yet another transport vehicle ablaze. 

Instead, it tumbled through the waiting portal I’d generated…

One side of which was right below the enemy portal. Waiting to receive a stray grenade.

The nice thing about portals is that they don’t necessarily have to lead somewhere far away. The exit of my portal opened only a few away from its entrance. 

Or, more specifically, it opened at an angle above the enemy portal.

Picture you’re a hostile Traveler, with the ability to create portals on demand. And not much else.

You could have performed quite a lot of smash-and-grabs. Instead, you decide to attack a heavily armed convoy carrying an ingredient for lifesaving drugs.

You create portals and hurl grenades through them. Most work, one doesn’t - it merely injures an enemy. 

There’s a saying that you should never do an enemy a small injury. If you must, make it large.

Anyway, being a supervillainous Traveler, you chuck a grenade through a portal, expecting to deliver quite the splash. 

Imagine your surprise when the grenade disappears into another portal. 

And then, because the other end of the new portal feeds into yours - you get your grenade back. It’s even tumbling.

You have less than a second to reevaluate your life choices before your own grenade explodes.

The portal winked out. 

MERCENARY LEVEL 8 DEFEATED! +50 XP.

…. And it seems the Traveler got away. Smart move, having a merc do the actual grenade-throwing. 

Which meant that there could be more grenades coming through, as soon as the villain lined up another mercenary. Considering that this one got blown up, it might take some time.

“Belessar!” Colonel Kakkar called over the command channel. “Tanks are leading the way and the trucks on the move! Do we have eyes on the enemy?”

“No eyes, Colonel. Enemy is a supervillain Traveler, using portals to chuck grenades.”

“.... Do we have a way to spot that?”

“Not easily, but the trucks need to keep moving.” I mentally reviewed the limitations of my own portals - if the Traveler’s powers functioned similar to that, then there might be a way. “Each end of a portal is fixed. You can hit a stationary target from one, but not a moving target.”

“So we keep the trucks moving, got it. What do you need to back-trace the enemy?”

“It’s a portal, Colonel. The enemy could be anywhere in the world. However - they need eyes on the spot, which means cameras. Or camera drones.”

“... Signals, scan for unidentified drones. Fast.”

“Scanned already, sir. Nothing of detectable size, not even birds.”

I galloped behind the racing trucks, my mind whirring through possibilities even as we left the ambush site behind. 

“Colonel, either we’re looking at drones the size of an insect, or they have a farcog on their side.”

“Damn it. Chances of more attacks?”

“Don’t know, Colonel. They have at least three ultras - a Master, a Traveller, and either an inventor or a cognitive - and mercenaries at par with regular troops.”

“Thanks. Please keep us posted if you figure anything else out.”

By now, the last of the trucks had cleared the ambush site, and were accelerating away at top speed. I took a moment to look around. 

No signs of any more portals, and Kakkar’s men were swarming the forest now, dragging out unconscious prisoners. Hopefully they’d talk when they woke up - but I had doubts.

A sufficiently powerful Master could implant commands in their victims, without revealing their identity. This new enemy was smart enough to not just maintain secret identities, but keep their entire organization secret. 

I hate smart enemies. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The rest of the convoys got to the factories unimpeded. 

Round four - the last shipment - started at the unearthly hour of six-thirty in the morning. Not so early for some, but for those of us who’d been on the clock since the first shipment? 

We were tired. We were drained. And we were only too aware that the unknown enemy could ambush us again.

That was why Kakkar had been reinforced, this time with a full brigade of fresh troops, and each convoy now had an armed escort of several tanks and APCs. Overhead, a half-dozen jets ran a Combat Air Patrol, ready to pounce on any enemy action. 

As for me, I was operating on hypercaffeine - which kept you awake for a LOT longer than normal caffeine - and only too aware that a 63.2% armour integrity wasn’t healthy. This Greyhound would need time in the shop to patch up the damage.

Fortunately, there were three others to back me up.

The four former Phoenixes had relished the possibility of getting some live-fire practice, so I’d had them come along. Donna, Kristina and Cassandra were in the suits, while Wanda was on standby as a backup pilot. That didn’t stop her from sporting a full loadout in nanofibre weave, HEPAR at the ready. 

Having them along was a comfort, except for one thing: they were too fresh-faced.

“This is seriously boring,” Kristina grumbled on the radio. “I figured we’d get to do some move-and-shoot, some ram-and-slam. Did those…..” here a high-pitched squeal cut Kristina off for a second, “.... just go back to sleep?”

“That’s the attacker’s privilege,” I replied. “What was that interruption on your radio, Kristina?”

“It’s nothing, Belessar,” Donna cut in. “Just a little gift we got her.”

Kristina snorted. “You mean prank.”

“Hey, you lost the bet.”

“Unfair. I want a <squeeee> rematch.”

I cut in. “You guys want to tell me what’s wrong with Kristina’s radio? Why it’s giving random bursts of static?”

“Um, that’s not the radio exactly. You know how the microphones pick up our voices, digitize them, and then it gets transmitted to the radio?”

“Sure.”

“Well, there’s something called a modulation filter you can fit in the microphone. If you’re yelling too loudly, it cuts down the volume.”

“Or boosts it if you’re whispering. I know.”

“It can also be used to chop off words. Kristina and I were doing an exercise with the rest of the Division last week, we were on the radio with a lot of folks. Pemberley told us to mind our language.”

“.... Say what?”

“Some of Kristina’s swearing was making the boys uncomfortable.”

“Hey!” Kristina sounded offended. “You were swearing too.”

“Yeah, but I cut back on it when the Commodore said to,” replied Donna. “Which was the whole point of the bet.”

“What did you bet?” I asked, fascinated.

“We recorded the number of times we swore while in the suits. Winner got a bottle of Moet et Chandon, 2054 vintage. Loser had to get a profanity filter installed in their suit mike.”

“It’s a <squee> annoyance,” grumbled Kristina. 

“Pemberley allowed this bet?” I muttered, bemused.

“Pemberley had the Division’s engineers rig up the filter.”

I chuckled. “Has it helped Kristina ‘mind’ her language?”

“It’s made her worse,” Donna replied. 

“You try being <squee> censored,” Kristina shot back. “Anyway, are the <squee> <squee> <squee> <squee> <squee> going to show up or what?”

“It is the defender’s duty to await the attacker’s convenience,” I quipped. “Which means we have no idea whether they’ll show at all. Only that if they do, we should be ready to greet them.”

“<Squee>-ing lunatics, all of you,” Kristina groused. 

It was close to noon when we got the word from Kakkar. “Convoy Eight has reached its destination and started unloading.”

“That’s a relief,” I sighed. “This round took longer than planned.”

“Mornings have traffic, what can one say? In any case, the dangerous phase is now past. We only need to monitor distribution.”

“And a single truck can carry fifty thousand doses of Aerovascar,” I mused. “You’ll ensure they get distributed right?”

“We have that in hand. This trip was the dangerous bit. Belessar - thank you for your support, once again.”

“Happy to be here, Colonel. Any word on the prisoners?”

“They’re in the tender hands of the Intelligence Bureau now, so I’ll save you the details.”

“They were mostly mind-controlled, Colonel. I’d like to speak to them if I can - get what information is possible.”

“That… would be beyond my paygrade. I’ll speak to Command and let you know.”