The Silent Army

Second Chance. Sean had written that on his bathroom mirror, minutes before he disappeared.

“Who set you up?” I asked.

“Second Chance,” she said. “They work with vets. What’s the problem? You look like you just shit yourself.”

I ran a search on the organization. It was like Cal said; they were big on fund-raising for vets and charity work. They ran free clinics in some of the worst neighborhoods. They were also one of the biggest referrers for Posthumous Service recruits, funneling third-tier citizens to recruitment centers to get wired. Centers like Concrete Falls.

“What was your contact’s name again?” I asked.

“Leon Buckster. Seriously, what’s up?”

I shook my head.

“Probably nothing,” I said. “Keep an eye open for me though, would you?”

“Keep an eye open for what?”

“Anything to do with revivors.”

“Hell,” she said, “he was trying to get some hobo to wire up when I stepped off the fucking train. I figured he got a kickback or something. Does this have to do with a case?”

“Maybe,” I said. “Just keep an eye open. Have you found a job yet?”

“Still working on that.”

“Will you go back to the arena?”

Can’t.

She held up her left hand so I could see it. Even in the dim light, I could see the black veins standing out.

Sorry, I said. I didn’t know.

Ugly, huh?

I’ve seen worse. The hand’s not a bad match. Where’s the join?

She pulled the sleeve of her jacket up so I could see where the skin changed color. Inside there was a thin filter, a piece of revivor tech that handled the nerve and muscle interaction and kept the living side from attacking the necrotized one. A small circulator ran the revivor blood through the limb. It wasn’t a bad job.

How’s it working out for you?

She shrugged like it was no big deal, but I could see it was.

Do you get used to it?

Not really.

I did some digging. You made a name for yourself over there.

She shrugged again, like it was no big deal, but, honestly, it was. With no formal education, she’d gone from grunt status to full control over a squad of revivors in less than two years. In that short time, the bandits who ran the area learned to know her by a name they themselves had given her.

I’m impressed, I said.

Yeah?

Yes.

How impressed?

I wasn’t sure what she meant. When I didn’t answer, she gritted her teeth, then leaned forward and grabbed my lapel. She put her lips near my ear and I could smell the whiskey on her breath.

“I know the score,” she said. “A tour buys you a leg up, but that’s it. I’m done with the grind and I can’t fight anymore, but I didn’t lose my hand over there to come back and flip burgers.”

She sighed, breath hot on my neck, then leaned back and let go of my coat.

“Before I left, you told me I could be more than I was,” she said. “You said if I busted my ass, it could all be mine. You mean that?”

“I did.”

The reality was that if she hadn’t enlisted, Calliope would have ended up in jail, in a shelter, or on the street. The housing project where she was holed up got shut down while she was gone, and the police had forced everybody out. Some were arrested, and the rest slipped through the cracks. With no education, money, or assets, and sitting at tier three with no way to get any, she would have lost what little she had.

I told myself that when I looked at her hand.

“Well, here I am,” she said.

The military had changed her. She looked more in control and more focused. I thought I could help her. I owed her that much. In some ways, I owed her my life.

Ex-military, especially decorated ones, pulled a lot of weight. I have some contacts. What can you do?

I’m wired to run revivors—units or groups. I know weapons and intel extraction.

That wasn’t bad, actually. It would be easy, even after coming back, for someone like her to end up back where she started. It would be a waste.

How did you like soldiering?

Better than flipping burgers. I raised my eyebrows, and she changed her tone.

I liked it, she said.

There’s always private military. Stillwell Corps takes a lot of soldiers on after their tours. It’s good pay, access to the latest tech, and some great training.

She thought about that, and I could see the idea take root. She nodded.

That sounds okay, she said.

Let me put out some feelers.

She smiled and nodded again. She punched me in the arm. Thanks.

The smile went away and she looked at the floor. Her tongue poked through the gap where her tooth was missing.

Thanks for writing me over there too.

No problem.

You do that because you thought you had to?

At first.

The truth was, I did it because I didn’t think anyone else would. Any kind of contact from back home was a big deal over there. I kept the messages short, and wrote three times without hearing back. After that, I stopped. It was months later when, out of the blue, I got a message back from her. After that, it got to be a regular thing. I kept her up on things she asked about, and she told me stories about day-to-day downtime in the middle of a war zone, something I knew well. She never talked about combat or any of the bloodshed I knew she must have seen. I never asked.

Yeah, well, thanks.

I liked hearing from you. It took me back.

I’ll bet.

We going to stay friends?

We’ll see.

She smiled, eyelids drooping. She was drunk.

You worry about me?

I did, a little.

A call came in as she shook her glass at the bartender across the room.

Incoming call. It was headquarters. I held up one hand while I picked up.

Wachalowski here.

Agent, your victim, Holst, from the raid. She’s dead.

I thought she was stable.

She was. Someone assassinated her right there in the hospital.

What?

Your operative was the only one with her when it happened.

What are you saying? Zoe shot her?

I’m not saying anything. I’m just telling you what happened.