RONAN When you are this close to a Quantum Entangled Communicator, security is usually overwhelming. Layers on layers of it. I was genuinely surprised at how quickly I had been cleared to enter the portable building. The last time I worked anywhere near a QEC, CIA and FBI agents had questioned me for a full week. Sleep deprivation, repeated interviews, background checks that dredged up things I had almost forgotten about myself. Only after all that had they let me stand near the room, not even inside it. This time, I had been waved through with barely a pause. That alone should have worried me. I knew I would never be allowed to touch the machine itself. That was a given.More likely, they had decided it was safer to let me keep my contacts active so they could monitor exactly what I saw, heard, and learned. A controlled leak was still control. A staff member met me at the entrance and led me down a narrow hallway that smelled faintly of ozone and hot plastic. The lights buzzed overhead, casting a harsh white glow that made everything feel temporary, like it could be dismantled and hauled away at a moment’s notice. He stopped at a plain door and opened it. Inside was what looked like an oversized broom closet. “Go ahead,” he said, already stepping back. He waved me in without ceremony. I ducked inside and took in the cramped space, the single reinforced chair bolted to the floor, the blank screen mounted on the wall. “Good thing tight spaces don’t bother me,” I muttered as I sat down. The door shut behind me with a solid, final click.It locked. I swallowed and leaned back, forcing myself not to dwell on the sound. I remembered the burned out portable buildings I had passed on the way here. Twisted frames. Blackened walls. The sharp smell of smoke that never quite went away. I really hoped there wouldn’t be a fire right now. Minutes passed. Nothing happened. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. The hum of distant generators seeped through the walls. My leg bounced despite my efforts to stay calm. Time dragged, and my bladder began to ache, a dull reminder that I’d skipped a bathroom stop to make my appointment. Just as I was considering knocking on the door, or pounding on it, pride be damned, my user interface flickered to life. Code poured across my vision.I blinked. “This is different,” I said out loud. This had never happened inside a SCIF before. The code didn’t look like any standard Army diagnostic. It was deeper, more invasive. A live scan, combing through my contacts’ firmware, probing for tracking software, external taps, anything that didn’t belong. For a brief, unsettling second, I thought I saw a line referencing user verification. Then it vanished. The scrolling stopped, replaced by a single green line of text, stark against the dark background. “CDS Ashcroft, what is your current status?” I didn’t hesitate. I enabled the voice command on my contacts. “Confirm identity.” The response came instantly. “Code Phrase, Atlas.” The tension drained out of me all at once. My shoulders sagged, muscles loosening that I hadn’t realized were clenched.The tight knot in my chest, one I’d carried since the first drone attack, finally eased. I wasn’t alone. I hadn’t been the only one to make it out of The Fort. Whoever was on the other end worked directly out of the director’s office. Atlas was their current watchword. “I was injured,” I said. “Army medical staff treated me. I was attempting to identify key enemy leadership and disrupt their operations when my Army EWO team was killed.” There was a pause. Not a technical delay. A human one. “Are there other survivors from your division?” “I haven’t found any yet.” Another silence followed, heavier this time. When the reply came, it was clipped and decisive. “You are reassigned. Report to Latitude 35.671886, Longitude -82.595100, by 10:00 hours Sunday.”I frowned. For a moment, I wondered if this was some kind of test. A bad joke. I was being told to leave the relative safety of an entrenched Army unit and head alone into the American wilds. Robot killing machines were hunting me. So were paramilitary death squads with better funding than some countries. “Please be advised,” I said carefully, “enemy forces are actively targeting me with autonomous systems and human teams. I do not believe I can make that meeting.” I sent the message and immediately regretted my phrasing. Too cautious. Too reasonable. I wondered if I should have simply said I’d rather die than walk out there without serious support. “Your orders stand.” My eyes widened. Cold settled in my gut. Early retirement flickered through my mind again, tempting and impossible. If I quit now, the Army would have no reason to protect me. I would be alone either way.“Request additional assets for escort,” I said. If I was going to get shot at, I wanted people beside me who could shoot back. The reply came a moment later. “Denied. This is Need to Know information. No one else is to be informed without direct authorization from Atlas. Transportation has been arranged. Be advised. 10:00 hours is a hard deadline. Your contact will not wait. There will be no further communication after this.” I started composing an angry response, fingers flying, when another line of text appeared. “Code Word is Blackreach.” My contacts immediately dropped into safe mode. The interface flooded with shutdown code, then went dark. The screen on the wall powered down at the same time. The lock disengaged with a sharp click. The door opened. I stepped out into the hallway, blinking, and took a moment to breathe deeply. Before I could steady myself, the building shuddered. Dust fell from the ceiling panels. I slapped a hand against the wall to keep my balance. Shouting echoed outside. Gunfire followed. Closer than I liked. “Well,” I muttered, “that decides it. I’m too popular to stay here.” I headed toward the exit at a brisk walk. The staff member from the checkpoint was already moving toward me, a rifle slung over his shoulder, expression grim. “I’ve got orders to escort you to the motor pool, sir.” I eyed the weapon. “Got another one of those?” He snorted and looked me up and down. “Ever use a gun outside of a video game?” “I learn fast.” “And I like not getting shot in the ass by someone who doesn’t know what he’s doing. Stay behind me, sir.” He turned toward the exit, rifle up, body angled forward.He took his left hand off the grip, flicked his wrist, and re seated it in one smooth motion. The door slid open. He checked the space ahead, then snapped his gaze to both corners. The roar of explosions and sustained gunfire slammed into my ears. “Who’s brave enough to attack you people directly?” I asked, raising my voice over the chaos. The soldier smirked without humor. “Guardians of Christianity.” I grimaced. “Too bad for them.” “They’ve got more courage than sense,” he finished. “Who do you think they are?” I shook my head. “I’m losing track. Every week there’s a new name.” “The same paramilitaries we’ve been fighting,” he said. “They hacked the Glaive. Now no more talking. I can’t kick their backsides until I drop you off.” I nodded and fell in behind him.So that was the official name for the fighters who had hunted me earlier. I spat onto the concrete in disgust. Another banner. Another excuse for violence. Naked tribalism, wrapped in stolen faith, in a world already tearing itself apart. And now I was heading straight back into it.