>>6309933>>6309956>>6309964>>6310034>>6310042>“Harper’s why I’m here. He said I could get paid, maybe find some answers to my past.” [Reserved] (+1 Phlegmatic)Estevez studies you for a long moment. His brow twitches at Harper’s rebuke, but he makes no further acknowledgement.
“…Harper has a habit of finding strays,” he says finally, his voice carefully measured. “And of vouching for them, even when others wouldn’t.” His gaze flicks towards the survivalist, then back to you. “Payment? That can be arranged. Answers to your past…no guarantee. Our unit’s already overworked as it is trying to keep the peace. Chasing after Commonwealth spook stories isn’t in our itinerary.”
The fingers of his organic arm drum against the surface of his artificial one. “As an evacuee, you’re guaranteed a bed, food and protection under the regiment. Nothing more, nothing less. Everyone pulls their weight in this camp.”
He lets the silence hang before adding, “Still…you’ve brought us something valuable. I can authorize a reward from the quartermaster and a provisional billet as a civilian auxiliary…not unlike Mister Park. That means better rations, priority medical access, and a place on the rolls should you want it. More than most get when they stumble through the gates.”
His tone hardens again. “Do not mistake that for charity.”
The staffers around him shift, suspicion tempered, but not erased. The word <span class="mu-i">liability</span> still lingers in the air, but it’s no longer aimed at you like a knife.
The colonel gestures to an aide by the holotank, a balding slip of a woman with a visible cranial augment. “If you would be so kind as to relinquish the codes and data to my netrunner.” A duo of soldiers linger nearby, weapons lowered but ready to aim at a moment’s notice. “No funny business.”
If you rolled your eyes any harder, they might have fallen out of your head.
The link opens. Both of you twitch as your implanted modems initiate the electronic handshake, then fall into place with a psychosomatic clink imperceptible to all others in the tent. You compile the codes and ciphers into a neat little package, and stream it carefully across the connection.
The aide stiffens as the packet arrives, her fingers twitching minutely as her cybernetics spike with activity. Lines of Commonwealth encryption spill into the holotank, cycling faster than normal eyes can track. For a long, taut moment, the tent is silent except for the scratch of pencil on paper, and the low hum of equipment.
Then, Estevez’s netrunner interjects, voice thin but steady. “Authentication…valid. Checksum matches. Full commsuite overrides, priority encryption/decryption protocols…God.” She swallows. “If anything on official TerraComm channels is still active, we’ll be able to hear it.”
(cont.)
