The Valkyrie Project

Our hero splashes to shore, safe, but with no memory of how he got there, let alone where he might be. He is allowed to lie gasping on a bed of gritty sand for a few moments, before something else happens, taking the action to another location, and another level at the same time.

Ana often wished she could be the protagonist in the scenario that began so many short-form dramas. Instead, here she was with her tongue down the throat of a Texan diplomat, her hand snaked around his neck, poised to deliver a fast-acting sleep inducer. She knew exactly where she was and how she
’d got there. She was no safe harbor for illusions.

Sure,
life would be grand if she were seducing the puffed-up, drawling midget-man for his money. In fact, she suspected that he suspected that the money was her true motivation. Yes, indeed. Life would be a blissful approximation of normal if things were that simple.

Ana lowered the sagging body to the thick pile of the carpet on the floor. She located the safe in a matter of seconds, pulled her cryptocycle from a garter strap, and set it to work aligning charged particles. In another matter of seconds, the door of the safe swung open.

Inside, several varieties of precious metals were stacked in columns of pressed bars. They glinted in the light, but Ana wasn't here to steal anything quite so heavy. Instead she slid a slender arm over the top, found a keypad, tapped in a few numbers, and extracted a small square piece of manufactured material. She tucked the chip into a pocket laser-stitched into the fabric holding her bosom – what there was of it – in place. Her eyes rested for a moment on the stacks of hardened ores which represented a lifetime of wealth – at least for someone with her simple needs. Probably not enough for her to hide for a lifetime though, and certainly not enough to make it worth living with that kind of fear. She had no way of knowing how much of it was real anyway.
Harbor no illusions. Predict only the future you can affect.

Ana had turned to make her escape when Mr. Hutchison started gurgling white foam. She dropped to a knee beside him and grabbed his wrist. His pulse was weak. Still unconscious, the diplomat coughed, and
the white mess coming from his mouth turned pink as more blood was added to the mixture spilling down his face.

Mr. Hutchison had been given a neurotoxin that had reacted with what she'd injected into him.
Either it was a security measure or someone had known she was coming. She didn't have time to think about it. The security cameras would only be off for another two minutes and thirty-nine seconds.
Never plan for a contingency, and you'll never have one.

Fishing the diplomat's comm from his pocket, she thumbed the button to trigger a security alert, and ran for the door.

"It would appear that someone knew we were coming."

Ana had been praying the entire trip back that she wouldn't hear those words.

"From what we scraped from the Texan hospital records, the neurotoxin was one specifically designed to react with argoron. Clearly this was done by someone with detailed knowledge of our operational methods."

"A mole?" The words stung everyone in the room like a slap across the cheek. Ana knew she was the only who'd say it.

Malcolm tried to soften the blow. "Someone might have figured out our target. A valuable piece of intel like the Surgeon List is not something only we are aware of. It's possible that whoever it was didn't have a way to get past security, so they let us do the work of getting it for them."

"So now they have to get past Agency security? Sounds quite molish to me."

"It's also possible that whoever it was got in before we did and planted a fake List and set up Hutchison."

"It's also possible that someone didn't care about the List, but thought it was worth injecting Hutchison if the cameras might come back on and catch me there with a dead diplomat."

"Yes, that is also a possibility."

"Have we analyzed the chip yet to see if the information is valid?" Ana was trying to contain her frustration, but sometimes the speed with which the Agency conducted its business rivaled that of a ship run dry on fuel.

"Yes, Ana." Malcolm was also trying to contain his frustration. His, however, was a response to her insubordinate attitude. "Aerin has completed his preliminary testing and the data on the chip appears to be valid. We won't be able to say for certain, of course, until we take action based on the contents. Which brings me to the next point of business."
He turned from Ana to Freya, and he was not the only one in the room who breathed a sigh of relief.

"Freya, you'll be running the mission to verify an item on the
List." There were more words. A mission briefing. Ana tuned it out. The assignments for the next round of missions had already been decided, so it wasn't as though her concern for her own well-being had cost her a juicy run.

The wheels on her train of thought continued to spin. She could only hope that whoever had known they were coming for the Surgeon List was targeting the Agency as a whole. There had been times before when the vendetta was personal. She pushed away the cold table scraps of memories and refocused on Malcolm's words.

"It is also possible that someone now has their own copy of the Surgeon List. There are over six hundred names on the list. They already sprang one trap, and if they are planning further action, having that list will only make it easier for them."

Thank you, Captain Obvious.
Ana had stopped wondering why—when everyone at the Valkyrie Project was supposed to be among the brightest in the world—everything had to be spelled out in such mind-numbing detail.

Everyone else stood and filed out. Ana followed suit.

Malcolm, the last one out, put a hand on her shoulder. Ana turned, knowing it was time for another talk—lecture—before she even got all the way around.

"Ana," he began, "I appreciate your talent for delivering on missions, whether gathering information or protecting potential Agency assets." Good start to a criticism sandwich. "But I know I've asked before that you
—and everyone else—refrain from providing conjecture unless solicited." Hmm, not quite as filling as other more meaty criticisms she'd swallowed before. "You know you're back on the bench for now, but it's not a disciplinary matter, that's simply our rotation. I know you know that, but I just wanted to reassure you."
Because you have a hot temper and might take things the wrong way if it wasn't made brain-stabbingly clear.

"I know, Malcolm. I know."

He nodded, and headed for his office.

Leaving Ana by herself. On the bench.

If Freya could verify the information on the Surgeon List, she'd be off the bench faster than she could come up with a new worst-case scenario. Right now though, she was getting close to falling asleep where she stood.

Ana took the D-level train back to her tiny apartment in the middle of a building so packed with tiny apartments it sometimes felt as though it were going to swallow her up as soon as she'd stepped off the train.

It wasn’t that s
he lived there and took the train because the Agency didn't pay her well. She was compensated handsomely. The money was nice, but it wasn't the only thing keeping her there. It was also her brother. Or rather, the fact that she didn't know where her brother was.

Her brother was also the reason she lived in what amounted to only slightly more than a storage shed and rode public transportation to her well-paying, death-defying job. When she found him, she wanted to have enough money to ensure that neither of them would have to work for anyone but themselves again. She wanted to be able to protect him.

Her nine years at the Agency had punished her body enough to feel like two careers’ worth of work. She was ready to get out. She wasn't sure if the attitude she copped with Malcolm—and most of the other higher-ups—made them suspect she was done with it. Maybe they just figured she'd grown callous over the years. She'd seen seven Valkyries die in the line of duty and there had been fifteen more killed off before she joined as number twenty-four. So it wasn't like she didn't have a reason to be a little hard.

Ana had finished off a long nap and had made her way to her favorite local watering hole, Murph's Tavern, which was not as much a tavern as a double-wide strip joint which had stopped serving flesh after changing to an owner who preferred cheap domestic alcohol. She was in the process of trying to decide what to drink next when the call came through on her comm.

In a matter of minutes, Ana was back at Agency headquarters
where Malcolm met her in the foyer just past the secure entrance.

He handed her a key fob
, saying, "No need for a formal briefing on this one. We had a detainee transport go down over the Static Keys. The last known location and details on the pilot and passengers are on the chip there. It's not related to the Surgeon List—Freya is still working on that. There's a ship prepped for you in the hangar. Just remember, comm traffic from the Agency is limited through the Keys."

Ana wasn't sure if Malcolm was playing a little fast and loose to appease her or if there was really a necessity for the en route briefing she would receive from the documents on the small chip she had slipped into her pocket.

"What were they doing flying over the Keys?"

"Unlisted transports from down south often fly up over the Keys. It wouldn't surprise me, though, if the crash was planned for the Keys because of the communications issues. Doesn't matter though. You go get 'em, and maybe when you get back we'll have some work to do for the Surgeon List."

Ana smiled. She was the squeaky wheel, but Malcolm was getting good at shutting her up with just the right amount of greasy promises.

"Thanks," was all she had to say, before heading to the hangar.

"Take the field, Ana. Show them who lives."

A plume of black smoke rose from the island like an exclamation point, identifying the location of the downed craft. Easy enough for Ana to find an LZ near the site and zip down out of the sky.

The ship was a burned
-out hull that had skidded to a stop on the beach just short of a copse of trees. Ana drew her gun and closed in, scanning for life—or death. The body count rose by one when she looked through a window, blackened around the edges, to see a charred husk inside. The comm set hung like twigs around the face of what had to have been the agent in charge of the transport.

Ana circled the ship and saw no one else inside. Two sets of footprints straggled from the door on the opposite side, shuffling away from the small forest down the beach. No blood trail visible, but it looked like someone was limping. An injured target would be easier to catch, but
—Ana checked the mission clock—they still had an hour head start. Ana holstered her weapon and started running alongside the footsteps, keeping them on her right so she was further from the tree line and a surprise attack.

The water lapped at the shore, daring to reach for her feet every few seconds as it rolled in and out. Ana stayed close, playing with the tide like a teasing lover, because the sand was packed where it was wet
: easier to run on than the dry, ragged dunes her counterparts had scuffled through. In the distance birds communicated through drawn-out caws.

After only a minute, Ana spotted a dark blob ahead in the sand, vaguely reminiscent of a collap
sed human. She accelerated slightly, drawing her gun again as she approached. Ana readied herself for a surprise attack, but none came.

The black
-clad body was face down in the soft sand. The sand was absorbing blood from the right leg, soaking it up like a two-meter-deep sponge and making it hard to tell how much blood loss had occurred. From the side of the body, only one set of footsteps continued on. Clearly a decision had been made that escaping was more important than retaining a hostage.

Still, Ana approached with caution, prepared for an ambush, scanning the forest line for potential threats. The only sounds were water and wildlife.

She gave the body a nudge with her foot. The torso rose and fell. The head was turned to the side just enough to allow air in and out.

Ana pushed a tentative foot under the hipbone nearest the water, then rolled the body
onto its back. Sand spat up from under the right leg as the body fell to the ground with a soft thump. The source of the gritty spray was a shard of plastic, or maybe metal, jutting at an angle from just off center of the front of the leg. Clearly that was the source of the blood.

The
man continued to pull air in through a slight part in the lips, but the man's eyes stayed closed. He must surely have been in a lot of pain before passing out, but his face showed no sign of it. He could have been a tourist sunbathing on the peaceful sandy beach were it not for the flight suit and bloody shard jutting from his leg. His lapel was adorned with a pilot's insignia, but spoke of only one commendation. His face was free of wrinkles, and his close-cropped hair had no signs of gray. It added up to a lack of experience that indicated a surprise attack by his former captive. The other passenger was probably equally new to the job. Not a wise pairing by whoever arranged the transport.

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