Quoted By:
A murmur spreads through the tent. Aides and officers shift with muted excitement, gesturing to points on the holotank as the map widens out. Overlays of radio corridors and relay chains glow faintly on the map, revealing a patchwork of communication hubs spread along the coastline.
Most are dead, greyed out with a visible <span class="mu-s">OFLINE</span>.
More blink uncertainly, flickering with a pale <span class="mu-s">UNKNOWN</span>.
The number of functional TerraComm Towers on the Eastern Seaboard could be counted on a single hand:
Ashburn, Virginia.
<span class="mu-i">Data center of the world. Likely heavily shrouded against EMP-like attacks.</span>
Atlanta, Georgia.
Birmingham, Alabama.
<span class="mu-i">Further inland. Least likely to be damaged from flooding.</span>
“Three nodes.” The colonel’s lips are pressed thin as his eye tracks the map. “For all the good it does. Nothing north of Boston survived, and Ashburn’s too close to D.C. for my liking.”
Harper snorts. “You’re welcome.”
You catch the looks thrown you way. Not suspicion as much as calculation. It seems that you’ve gone from a liability in a plugsuit to a potential asset.
Estevez raises his voice, calling for attention as he begins to issue his orders. “Kiki, start passive monitoring on the Ashburn frequencies. See if you can’t sniff out whether or not the JCS in D.C. are piggybacking off of it or whether or not General Harlowe is as well. Irons, pass the override codes to our salvage teams in Newport News. They should be able to crack into any TCAF stockpiles that have working electronic locks. Tell them to also track any TerraComm signals and mark coordinates if they’re hostile. Nyugen and Ziller may just get their tactical artillery strikes.”
“Yes, sir!”
The staffers within the tent are galvanized into action. The structure seems to tilt as they set to work with a renewed purpose. The soldiers of the 111th move with trained, practiced motions that turn emotions into equipment lists and personnel allocations.
But the colonel hasn’t forgotten you. As his underlings rush to carry out his orders, he remains the eye of an energetic storm. He regards you with a new, <span class="mu-i">considering</span> look. Then, he fishes out a notepad, scribbling something onto it before tearing it off and handing it to you.
“Service should be rewarded,” he says gruffly. “Present this to the quartermaster for your payment. If you wish for more work, you’ll not be left wanting. The 111th could use a netrunner of your caliber. There’s mountains of junk data awaiting reconstruction, and not enough techs to go around. Perhaps you’ll dig up something on Project Butterfly.”
“Or she could stay as a civilian,” Harper cuts in with a drawl that doesn’t hide his exasperation. “Good God, man. You’re pivoting so hard that I’m getting second-hand whiplash.”
(cont.)
