On the plane over she mulled. An excellent word, predictably Germanic. One could mull wine to elevate it. Her insights might benefit a journal of linguistics?
1997
OPLAN 90-042-V (U)
CLASSIFICATION: INTERNAL USE ONLY // NODISC
CONTRACTING AUTHORITY: Marshall, Carter, and Dark, Ltd.
OPERATIONS OFFICER: Sigrun Strand
DTG: 030100Z MAR 1997
SUBJECT: Suppression Operations — (Former) Romanian Socialist Republic
1. SITUATION.
a. Enemy Forces. Neo-Sarkite elements maintain distributed networks throughout the former Romanian Socialist Republic, with primary concentration in and around Bucharest metropolitan area. Black Lodge organisational cohesion has degraded following recent sub-Veil destabilisation events, creating exploitable vulnerabilities in their operational posture.
b. Friendly Forces. Mekhanite insurgent forces maintain limited capability but demonstrate high motivation and area familiarity. VALRAVN assets available for force multiplication and direct action missions.
2. MISSION. VALRAVN conducts counter-insurgency operations IOT disrupt and neutralise Neo-Sarkite forces and establish conditions favorable to pro-hemovore elements NLT 31 MAY 1997.
3. EXECUTION.
a. Concept of Operations. Four-phase operation prioritising elimination of hostile enhanced biological entities (EBEs) through combined arms approach integrating indigenous forces, specialised VALRAVN assets, and surgical direct action strikes.
b. Tasks.
- (1) Embed specialised liaison teams with Mekhanite insurgent forces to enhance combat effectiveness and intelligence collection.
- (2) Conduct search and destroy operations against confirmed Black Lodge force concentrations.
- (3) Execute reconnaissance-in-force operations to fix and identify Sarkite EBE assets.
- (4) Conduct direct action strikes to eliminate EBE targets
c. Coordinating Instructions. All EBE engagement operations require OPERATIONS OFFICER approval.
4. SERVICE SUPPORT. As required.
5. COMMAND AND SIGNAL. OPERATIONS OFFICER maintains OPCON throughout all phases.
She had counted (it was in her nature to count):
It had taken 47 simpering smiles, 6 hacked-together presentations, 8 dubiously worthwhile bribes, 3 hits of some new para-opiate, and 1 murder —
To earn, in the sweltering VALRAVN back office, this sepia envelope. Outside the snow piled most of the way to her waist. To ask for a lift back home? Normally such a display of dependency was contemptible, but now everyone at the Bergen branch knew that she was the bitch, so she might as well enjoy the benefits of the role. Soon be off to some Slavogradski slum to punch holes in meatfuckers. Not that she was obliged, but it was the done thing, she felt, to be on the killing-ground. From behind desks management fumbled half their operations, leaving things to halfwit halfbreeds. In the city she’d put her mind to work, that famous analytic streak they all knew to praise her for, and unwind whatever web lay waiting.
Still hard to believe she was there at last, six years of field duty in Oriental shitholes, ten more overlooked for her sex despite endless success, and then: this! PROJECT LEAD, after three failed bids. Goodbye to mildewed Norwegian climes (closest to our Allfather, she reminded herself hastily).
There were some trivialities to sort out, local superstitions to appease, but nothing she couldn’t handle. Before she left it’d be nice to be familiar. Just skim a few histories, nothing serious, learn the lay of the land. She was a polymath, already knew the broad strokes; Sarkics were devil-worshippers and enemies of the mechanists. More to the point— they had a thing about vampires? Some obscure religious prohibition. The parasites at Marshall took issue, of course.
But she had to stay humble, realistic. There’d be some real effort here, which she hadn’t marshalled since she first sunk behind that maple-mahogany desk.
Sigrun Strand — born Lucia Arienti, but daughter of Lombards who came down to Milan, she’d remind you — was coming up in the world.
INTERNAL MEMO // NODISC
FROM: Sigrun Strand
Departing for Bucharest on chartered craft. Mekhanites have a liaison ready. Requesting specialised units deploy covertly. Further contact from Bergen not advisable; Black Lodge listeners exceptional.
On the plane over she mulled. An excellent word, predictably Germanic. One could mull wine to elevate it. Her insights might benefit a journal of linguistics? But too late for that now, because outside the speckled window were the sparse lights of the Romanian capital. In her ears a faint ethereal crush heralded her descent. Like snow she fell to earth.
The terminal was a disappointment. Communists were at least supposed to value public works, but the thing was grey concrete, dingy and dense with warm bodies. While she waited for her luggage the contact appeared. She yelped, undignified, and made a note that the man could never speak to her superiors lest she be exposed. Once she owned a teddy-bear, a beaten old thing, worn through by the years, which was him: and how? His beard long and tangled, one hand clawed beneath his sleeve. He had been pulled out of a tomb.
Her mind whirred to life: snap-judgment. The man was dissolute, unfit for his duty. From the width of his pupils she detected the hints of a stimulant habit, and his repulsive physiognomy betrayed a slovenly attitude. She’d carefully earmarked half a hundred thousand pound sterling to motivate the local warlords. A classic bit of Sigrun foresight.
He guided her through streets black with evening. The fibres of asphalt wound tense to spring. They settled at was once a post-office, now the lair of ticktockmen, the ceiling half-caved and mold up all the seats, but it had a certain appeal. A last echo of cold war romance. This was their refuge, pale and shrinking from the light.
When they arrived he shucked his beard from its jaw, and revealed with a sweeping gesture an arm of copper gear and valve, gleaming and undeformed. In this light he seemed a more useful lieutenant by far. His manner was gruff but not so degenerate as she’d expected. Pleasing to remember that Nordics once ventured eastward, too. First he introduced himself, a dull Turkish name, Radu, and then explained in brief their situation; a litany of positions, numbers, equipment, etcetera. Tawdry details to file away. She was made for big-picture thinking, strategic sense, a mind like a steel trap.
With the next day came her backup.
INTERNAL MEMO // NODISC
FROM: Sigrun Strand
Mood among indigenes seems positive. Sarkics on retreat along all axes. EBE recently eliminated in city metro, albeit at great cost. Beginning recon tomorrow. Currently expect to outstrip mission parameters.
When someone was her enemy, she shot them in the head. Simple as could be. (She was very good at simple).
To her chagrin she could not shoot her subordinates. And perhaps it might not have been a great idea? But frankly this slackjaw was asking for it.
The unremarkable Kallio (first name flatly undisclosed) encroached relentlessly on her territory. With his great flat face — a Finn, grasping at Nordicism — and those fingers that twitched for want of a cigarette. Disgusting habit. No smoke in her command office. The place was run-down, of course, but she’d arranged some sprucing-up, fixed some of the furniture and so on. One had to have pride in their place, even if that place was a requisitioned postmaster’s desk. Imagine, on top of the fungal life crawling across the ceiling, enamelled tobacco-stains. The indignity —
“Ma’am?”
She jerked minutely and looked him straight in the eye. His expression remained fastidiously blank.
“Keep going, for Hel’s sake. No need to interrupt yourself every two minutes.”
He nodded brusquely and continued.
“The Deacon is right —”
He nodded to Radu, standing sullen beside him, the both of them before her desk, her with two arms stretched over a library of maps spreadeagled over the wood.
“— we cannot fight them in the tunnels. Their monsters can pick at us in the dark. This, hm, close-quarters? Is not advisable. We will have to draw them out. And first we will need to learn their locations.”
How it stung, to take instruction in that unaccented English, from her subordinate. But: Sigrun Strand was a competent commander, this was attested to by all of Bergen branch, and this meant she took good advice.
It did not mean she had to be gracious.
“Radu does not know me, so I forgive him if he explains things I would consider obvious. I do not know why you are taking the time to do the same.”
A tendon bulged out of Kallio’s neck.
“No. Miss Strand, it is just very important to be clear in these circumstances, and I do not think —”
“You have been a perfect communicator. Rest assured your ideas will be taken into advisement.”
The cyborg broke from his silence:
“Does not look like you appreciate full situation. Your soldiers have huge guns for killing people-eaters. But death-worshipping Sarkic fucks have things for getting behind you and cutting throats.”
Why should he not condescend to her? Her. Who let Kallio talk to her like a fellow. She stood straight, unsupported by her desk, and sauntered with precise carelessness over to the priest. A little smile, her teeth pearly.
“I understand that your people have been in conflict with these things for a considerable period, and you have developed…traditions around your combat. They have served you well, clearly. But only one of us has experience dealing with enhanced stealth capacities, only one of us leads troops trained to see the unseen, only one of us was hired specifically to do this. So perhaps consider that I have already had these thoughts.”
She stepped close, close enough to see the tartar calculus on his teeth, the wrinkles smeared across his face, looked minutely up into his eyes. Would he be trouble? Trouble would be relaxing. His brows tightened. Ideal.
Maybe she’d lose out on an accolade for disposing of him too eagerly? It’d be worth it, to be among organs again.
But then the threat flickered out and he stepped back, hands raised to placate.
“We are grateful you come, please do not think it is not the case. I only interrupt so we are careful.”
She stepped back and gave him a cool glance. Kallio’s gaze followed her unerringly. One to watch. To Radu, a nod.
“I understand how you feel. I wouldn’t want to risk my men under some personality hire. You’re in good hands with Valravn.”
She returned to her desk, and the maps of the tunnels carefully won by Mekhanite scouts, to discuss the precise details of their advance. But her mind was elsewhere, dreaming of bisecting sarkics along new planes. The work, begun at last.
INTERNAL MEMO // NODISC
FROM: Sigrun Strand
Course of action definitively identified. Mekhanite command structure seems restive. Confidence in VALRAVN efficacy compromised. Direct subordinate has a conservative temperament, uncomfortable with current operational tempo. Recommend post-operation assignment to lower-intensity contracts.
Ease was predictable; in a month she took them apart.
Protocol strictly forbade her from entering into the fray herself, and operational security remained regrettably tight around her location. Some had hoped for a chance to get her hands in some young thing. But little denials give way to great pleasures: this was the wisdom of VALRAVN. She saw their victory only a series of reports across her desk, verbal reports, occasionally a scratchy Polaroid. As a rule they did not take prisoners (there as nothing worth learning, at any rate). What befell the city came back to her as an echo. And like a spider she waited, impatient, for the final moment.
Marshall (well, a “Lucas Monaco”, officially, but that was besides the point) had been right to trust in Valravn. In her, if she was being honest. Fate — the Norns? — found the worthy. Among a dozen two-bit thugs he chose the steward of the true Asatru. For this he would be rewarded, and she—
She’d receive probably a promotion, be moved at least to Stockholm or Geneva, given to greater things than these piddly cleanups. Done with the bowing and scraping for third-rate auctionhouses, too. The next contract — a contract she might win — would be for the Pentagram, thank you very much.
Fell sleet, the streets grew slick, and her men smoked out a pair of Sarkics gone to ground in what was once a grand Securitae building.
(She did not see her men often. Nothing was permitted that risked her. But she did see the sleet, filtering through the sodden tiles above.)
Fell snow, and she seized a cache of excess materials; offal from a slaughterhouse kept undecayed over years, pupating into something worse. One baby strangled in the crib.
(What joy in efficiency? She didn’t value the knowledge of a job well done. The looks on their faces when she got back, the congratulations they’d have to give… there was a thing to keep her driven.)
Fell rain, in rivulets into the safehouse, her breath becoming a starburst when the heating failed, and the trap snapped shut. With the warrens beneath the city mapped, she was quite confident of the Nalkan staging-ground; their palace of play and perdition both. There they called up their monsters, there they hid, waiting for a future fire to swallow them. Soon it ended. But first, an interruption:
Radu returned to her in a black mood. He had not been seen since that first meeting, all her orders conveyed to him through the officer Kallio. But now that selfsame officer had him in tow. He fumed wordlessly:
“Listen. I understand you do this for cash-counting shits from London. We are not your priority. But this is too much. I will make my men your pawns but not your sacrifices.”
All good news is adulterated with bad. Of the dozen men she was entrusted with (this being the scale of an anomalous operation in a third-rate city such as this), four were dead. Of Radu’s catspaws, whose number he jealously guarded, she wasn’t sure. This kind of thing was for Kallio, and again he stood apathetic, though maybe there was a hint of amusement to him. She’d see that rotund skull splintered over a sewer-grate, damn it.
To pacify him she stood from her desk (it did get terribly dull in here, but she couldn’t be seen lounging on one of the derelict chairs, for fear of exactly this situation) and walked to him, raising a hand to his shoulder, which he petulantly shrugged away. His skin bloating and bloodying in the pale light. It was a slate-grey midmorning, but dry enough. She did tend to distract herself with these notes, didn’t she? Trying to drop the habit would be losing a precious part of herself, though.
“What? Do not just stand there and put fucking hands on me like you are my aunt. Say something! This is not a, a small family feud. Do you even know how many guys are dead in some hole? I cannot even get their bodies every time. The sewers are too full.”
Apologetics were never her strong suit. She looked consciously away, trying to project an embarrassment she did not feel.
“These things are hard for all of us. I —”
She turned, paced a moment towards the door. Kallio leaned lazily by the frame. One eyebrow raised? Even mockery was a relief from his indifference. She spoke:
“When I was in Laos, chasing asura, it was terrible. I will not say it was worse than this; your suffering is your own. I lost half my squad thrice over. It was like the ghost of the American adventure in Vietnam rose up to strangle me.”
Something in him was softening. That story never failed to elicit a little pity; imagine this poor doe-eyed thing, traipsing through the undergrowth, beset by beasts with many fangs. It was almost true, to boot.
“I will not tell you of sacrifice. But I will say that what you are dying for is a war that you and yours have been fighting all your lives. You know this. How long have these parasites been strangling your city?”
He was downcast. Ashamed, even, to have raised his voice to a lady. She hoped a stray round got him after she won. (But while she was stuck here, he was too useful. Her eternal dilemma: she hated her tools.)
“I am not— I do not disagree that we do the right thing. But I wish we did not bear the cost so heavily. The demiurge-worshippers have ground this city into the dirt, and now a third of my men are dead. We were supposed to improve, after Ceausescu. I cannot tell my soldiers when they look at me, ‘go to your deaths, and perhaps your children will enjoy a free city.’ They wish to build Mekhane themselves. It is not in our nature to leave our Work to later generations.”
Oh, thank the Allfather. She could have skirted around the number of the dead for longer, but it would have been personally humiliating not to know it. Now Radu could die without unfinished business. Where? Here:
A guffaw burst out of her, out of time, and Radu’s face darkened rapidly, but she spoke:
“I’m not mocking you. It’s just, what you said? How much longer?”
She gestured to the desk, to its maps. To its timetables, orders of battle, positions, dossiers, to the end of the game.
“Now.”
His eyes widened in transparent shock.
“We’re ready. Your suffering has won us everything we need. My men will bear the worst part of the fighting, this time—”
(she did not know that to be a lie)
“—and we will give you your victory.”
His eyes burned in the light.
INTERNAL MEMO // NODISC
FROM: Sigrun Strand
Preparing for culmination of campaign, aiming for destruction of EBE production. Note: subordinate actively concealing information wrt allied casualties. Cannot distinguish between subversion and stupidity, recommend interrogation+demotion. Local allies becoming restless, seem ready to break off relations. If operation succeeds, neo-Sarkite strength in Bucharest effectively broken; situation ripe for hemovores to regain dominance.
It does not matter if one refuses to engage with the world, for the world will surely engage with her. This fact was the bedrock of all that she knew. So for a moment she forgot what was outside the four walls entombing her, and revelled in memory.
She slumped against a wall, sat on an unadorned mattress. And lost herself in recollection: the thrill, the chase, valour and vainglory —
The door burst open. It was only Kallio, interrupting her repose. He gazed fixedly into the middle distance but now his hands opened and closed, like dying insects, as he paced back and forth in the corridor. His face was bloodlessly pale and wound tight. Maybe two of his squaddies were still one piece? It had been hard to keep track down there. Some of them would come up in pieces in the drains.
“We have to move. This city is fucking crawling with them. You saw how many —”
Still curled up: “You can leave, if you wish.”
She gestured outside, to the ruddying sky, clouds wispy and far.
“When they catch you, they’ll ease up on looking for me, I’m sure. Just be sure to make it away from the entrance.”
He blustered toward her, crouched and jammed one bloated finger toward her.
“You— You fucking —”
He sprang up and punched a wall as hard as he could, then recoiled with a yell of pain. The blood on his knuckles did not particularly stand out from the sanguine stains on his uniform. She did not snicker; what would be the point, at this juncture?
“Don’t fucking snark at me! You ignore everything I say, a month, and now you just mouth off, you stupid fucking bitch. They tore Sandberg in half! Headquarters will skin you for this.”
She sighed. Kallio’s apoplexy was interrupted, caught offguard.
“Probably not. Just get out of here and let me relax, please.”
She waved one hand in the general direction of the apartment corridor that led to the main living space-cum-dining room. Their secondary location, rendezvous for whoever still lived among their number. Not looking great, at the moment: just her and the Finn.
He seemed not to know how to respond, eyebrows raised, and then he found himself, face falling back into that spiteful mode.
“You are so fucking confident. Think that because blowing whoever at Bergen got you put here, they will just let this go? Always with you blondes— forget Headquarters, the Sarkites are still waiting! They will skin us both.”
A flare of old rage at his words, but it was lost in a sky of apathy. No point in berating him. She smirked instead.
“Are you telling me, Kallio, that you feel discriminated against?”
He sneered, face reddening. She looked up into his eyes, and placed a hand over her hand, lilting:
“Do you feel that your concerns as a representative of the Asiatic community aren’t being taken seriously enough? Should I call up Mandela?”
He looked away first. An easy victory.
“That’s not what I am saying. I— look, they found the safehouse, we should act as if compromised, stay on the move.”
This time she didn’t suppress her irritation.
“They followed you to the safehouse.”
“I was scared! I admit it, Miss Valkyrie, when something followed me crying in Sandberg’s voice I did not want to wait around.”
She looked down at her hands. Their symmetry was marred: two fingers were missing on the right. The eight remaining nails were flecked with viscera. It wasn’t hers. She chuckled.
“I forgive you.”
“…What?”
She shrugged.
“It was fun. And I think the mission is complete, even if Radu’s peasants did get ground up by it. The meatfuckers will be too busy trying to salvage their precious chrysalis material to chase after ghosts. The vampires can handle the rest if it’s so important to them. Still not clear what stake those limp-dick freaks have in this.”
Stakes. Ha. She giggled to herself. Kallio’s anger was subsiding, but he remained morose.
“Radu, man. What a guy. I thought for sure when we pulled out he would be sane. Do you think he made it?”
She stood, slow aching movements. Her sidearm rattled at her hip, half-empty. Her joints would sting for a month hence, she was sure. The price of pushing beyond her limits, driving palm through bone, clearing a path while behind her the Mekhanite’s glimmering metallic fire diminished to a point.
Focus.
“It was unwise of him.”
“Yes, but what balls! There could have been fifty of those things around the pump station and he just kept going. That is the kind of man I want to lead me.”
She limped through the bedroom doorframe, into the living room, and shot him a poisonous look. He seemed unimpressed. He followed. Veins pulsed on his bulbously shaven head.
“I appreciate the commentary, I really do. But I will thank you to keep your opinions to yourself. We need to work out an exit strategy.”
He grimaced.
“Things will cool soon. Maybe next weekend, we can leave cleanly? Or just go overland, we could do that today.”
“No— I mean, what to do about the natives. Getting out is free, now that they’ve lost the trail.”
Bafflement painted across his face, Kallio replied:
“Do you want to rescue them? Are you feeling sentimental? They made their bed, and they are bad asses, but I am not fighting those things for shit.”
“No,” she clarified, keeping her voice even, “I mean how do we retaliate?”
“Retaliate?”
“For what they did to us! That ambush was too perfect. Someone must have sold us. Can’t trust these rats, that’s what we know, even if Command pretends otherwise.”
They had reached the living room. She looked over at the front door, its solidity, disappointed despite herself. If it ruptured now she’d enjoy herself for a while. Distraction from the headache to come. Kallio still gormlessly staring, not putting it together. One more nudge?
“We’re lucky to have survived. But understand this, it wasn’t just good fortune.”
She placed one hand on his shoulder, face mock-sombre.
“It was your skill, and mine, that got us out of an adversarial situation in one piece, with the primary objective achieved. We didn’t manage the full suite, sure, but considering we went in unwarned? The bloodsuckers should be thankful!”
And now crept understanding across his face. He nodded hesitantly.
“Let Headquarters know, and let them suffer.”
A dark look crossed his face.
“But mention my name. When you get there, in the room, fucking say it.”
She splayed her hands in commiseration. Still the mastermind. Everything as planned.
“I wouldn’t dream of doing otherwise.”
INTERNAL MEMO // NODISC
FROM: Sigrun Strand
Position compromised by Mekhanite espionage on behalf of Sarkites. Force ambushed, two survivors. EBE spawning pit destroyed through extraordinary measures. Require immediate exfiltration.
In brief, looking into red eyes:
“We can hardly justify the full amount when you failed to achieve the full objective. There are Nalkans crawling all over the city; the hive’s been stirred up.”
She was been called in, at his request, to justify herself. Her superior sat while she stood, trying and failing to lounge while sweat beaded on his forehead. He frowned.
“The Valravn Corporation have been generally reliable. You’ve built up a healthy cachet with us, and it’s disappointing to see you draw it down so quickly. Have there been changes in management?”
Oh, like fuck was she going to let this shit splatter on Headquarters’ shoes. But she was too tense, too terse…
“The mission was overdetermined by local conditions. If you consult the debrief, it’s all in there.”
That was pretty limp. But it’d get the ball rolling. The man had a thing about fleshcrafters, right? That’s why she’d been sent out onto this learning opportunity to begin with. Maybe that’d win some points. He flipped one file open and scanned the pages patiently. After an eon he flicked a languid stare back to her.
“You say you were sold out to the Mekhanites?”
She swallowed. “Yes.”
“To the Sarkics?”
His tone was drier than the Sahara. Her heart thudded in her chest. She clenched her palms. She was allowed a break, surely? After that miserable failure, let him just leave it.
“That’s what happened.” she replied, moronic.
Two rows of teeth shone wetly as he smirked. Isn’t this what men felt in London during the frost fairs, ice creeping over the city, fogbanks rising like cliffs, a dead sun, russet things in the mist watching, waiting? This terror? A butterfly, pinned to a board by the wings, something alien smiling before it?
“That does strike me as highly irregular. It would signal a sea-change across all Eastern Europe. Your Valravn might have to redeploy around the continent.”
Her mouth was parched. What could she say that might sound clever?
“We’ve been realigning into the post-Soviet sphere regardless, sir— Mister Monaco.”
He snorted. Fuck him.
“No, I think ‘sir’ is right.”
He skimmed back over the figures laid out across his desk. Her back was beginning to ache. Did endurance fail her here? Surely her terror was not so profound. Bodies betrayed themselves so easily.
“Do tell me…”
He raised one sculpted eyebrow.
“…when you burned their brooding chamber, did they scream?”
Now though his face did not move a horrid joy seemed to possess it. She matched it with her own grin.
“Of course, sir. We could hear their squeals on the surface.”
“Hm.”
He rose, stretching, and walked to the window. Canary Wharf glittered by night.
“Our firms’ relationship is too precious a thing to lose over so petty an error. I cannot say I’m unhappy with the result.”
When he turned back to her, his skin seemed paler, paperlike, bones jutting like promontories into a gulf.
“My friends will be throwing a housewarming in Bucharest, soon enough. Cleaning out vermin, now that the nest is fumigated. This hasn’t been all a failure.”
A final shrug, nonchalant. How practiced he was!
“I think we can manage three-quarters.”
She almost sagged in relief. That was as good as could be asked for, in the circumstances. Against such superior foes, outplayed at every turn, delivered into the hands of the enemy, hadn’t she salvaged enough? Keep this in mind: that she won even when her superiors left her to betrayal. That was the truth she had to hold steady. Never compromise on it.
It was not the moment for laughter, but by Odin, God, whatever, she felt it roaring in her, ready to spill from her lips.
Sigrun Strand had come up in the world.
INTERNAL MEMO // NODISC
FROM: GENEVA HUMAN RESOURCES
Requesting transfer of Ms. Strand after exemplary performance in Bucharest contract. We expect her to be of use in cultivating MCD contacts. Her warfighting capacity is second to none, she liaises excellently with local auxiliaries, and she has shown herself to have an excellent head for strategy. We expect to have considerable use for her in central and southern European operations for the foreseeable future.
Noting censure of Jani Kallio for cowardice and insubordination. Rest assured this will not reflect on Ms. Strand’s reception with the Office.