But that was not her job. She turned her attention back to the more pressing issue of how the Partial army could attack. The buildings, as she’d noted, were flimsy, but the walls around the perimeter were sturdy enough, and beyond that the city was filled with low buildings and narrow streets, a death trap for the oncoming Partials if the Chinese thought to fill them with snipers and anti-vehicle rockets. Obviously the Partials would predict this and simply shell the buildings to rubble first, and obviously the Chinese would predict this and not put any snipers in them at all, and on and on in an endless game of feint and counterfeint. Advance scouts elsewhere in the city would quietly relay each army’s intentions to the other, helping them to anticipate the flow of battle, but only the Partials had a spy as deeply embedded as Heron. She had to find a way to tip the scales.
The factory buildings were arranged in a circle around a central courtyard, in the middle of which General Bao had placed five artillery cannons, firing in an ongoing, irregular pattern on the Partial half of the city and continuously resupplied by the machinery in Building 4. The top of Building 2 held General Wu’s contribution, the much more defense-minded antiaircraft cannons. There were four of them, and Heron had marked each one with a simple tap on her mapping program. Unlike the artillery below, the antiair guns used smart rounds capable of identifying a target and correcting course midflight; they couldn’t turn corners or follow a dodging target the way homing missiles could, but at mid- and long range they were devastating. The Partials couldn’t stage a proper assault without an air strike, but they couldn’t land a proper air strike anywhere in the city thanks to this emplacement, and they couldn’t destroy the emplacement itself because the factory was too valuable. It was a puzzle with one obvious solution, and Heron wasn’t remotely surprised when her handler spelled it out.
“We need you to destroy the antiair guns,” he said. She was alone in a broom closet, the door locked and the scrambler pumped to full. At this level it made even her secure connection to NADI sound scratchy. “Your map of the complex is superb, and our battle plans are ready; everything’s in place, and the only loose end is the cannons. I need them gone, and I need them gone by twenty-three hundred hours tonight. Confirm.”
“What are my orders with the generals?” asked Heron.
“I don’t remember opening this call to conversation,” said the voice. “I asked you to confirm your orders.”
“Obviously you’re planning an assault,” Heron pressed. “Taking out the antiair means you’re softening up the counterattack, so I assume you’re assaulting soon, probably tonight at twenty-three hundred. What do you want me to do with the generals? Am I letting them escape again?”
“Please, by all means, go ahead and capture them.” Heron listened intently to his voice, trying to discern every bit of meaning behind his words. He seemed . . . off, somehow. She couldn’t put her finger on it.
“You want me to capture them?”
“Absolutely. Why else are you in there?”
“To map the complex and destroy the antiair guns,” said Heron.
“And to capture the generals,” said the voice. “Honestly, Heron, do I have to tell you every little thing?”
You always have before, she thought, but kept that to herself. There was something very fishy about the way he was talking—not just the inconsistent personality, but his entire inflection. All she’d ever known of her handler was his voice, but it was her job to observe and analyze. She was built for it. And this communication didn’t fit his overall pattern. She checked her phone again, ensuring that the line was secure and that it was connected to the proper NADI signal. It seemed to be. What was wrong?
“Are you there, Heron?”
“I’m here.”
“Your orders are to disable the antiair guns, through whatever means you consider necessary. Once the invasion begins, you are to capture the generals and hold them until relieved by Partial commanders on site. Confirm.”
“Confirm,” said Heron. He’d changed his story, but he acted as if this was the same plan he’d stated at the beginning of the call. Were the guns truly a more important target than the generals? They might very well be, if they could make or break the success of the enemy counterattack. Her handler broke the connection, and Heron turned off her scrambler. Her watch said 2148. She didn’t have long before 2300, and whatever NADI’s true plans might be, the guns had to come down.
PARAGEN BIOSYNTH GROWTH AND TRAINING FACILITY, UNDISCLOSED LOCATION
January 31, 2059
“Your accuracy is improving,” said Latimer. He was her private instructor in firearms and infiltration, running her through trial after trial, race after race, a kind of shadow biathlon: running and shooting without ever being seen. Heron knew that her accuracy was more than just “improving”—it was better than his now. Accuracy was the least of her accomplishments. She could cross the entire course, ten square miles of rugged northern forest, without once being tagged by the guard drones or autoturrets, and she hadn’t failed an assassination in ten straight days. His praise was rare, and she was grateful when she got it, but to mention only her “accuracy,” and with the faint praise that it was “improving,” was practically an insult.
“Thank you,” said Heron. “You’re too kind.”
“It’s time to start you on a new course,” said Latimer, gesturing for her to follow him. She was still calming down from the last time trial, her breathing and heart rate slowly decelerating, but she kept her recovery internal, showing no signs of weakness as she followed him across the room. He gestured to a chair, and as she sat he waved at a holovid projector, waking it up with a swipe. A single title icon appeared in the center of the room—she was never allowed to see more than was strictly necessary—and he grabbed it. The holovid blinked, and suddenly the room was filled with people, frozen in place: men and women, many of them in uniform. It was not a uniform she recognized. The women in the room looked like Heron—the same black hair, the same unique eye shape, the same basic bone structure and skin. The men, on reflection, were similar as well. Heron had only ever seen that look on herself and the other espionage girls and made the immediate assumption that this was a room full of Theta-model Partials, but she discarded the idea almost immediately. The people were too varied in age and height to be Partials; it was more likely that these were humans, from the group the Thetas had been designed to look like. “They’re Chinese,” she said. “That’s the Chinese military uniform, which means . . .” She scanned the room, analyzing their positions and attitudes, and finally pointed at a short, balding man. “He’s the leader, and the man beside him is his second in command, and the three behind him are bodyguards. Is this who we’re fighting?”
Latimer cocked his head. “I hadn’t realized you’d seen the vid already.”
“I haven’t,” said Heron. “It just seems obvious.”
“‘Obvious,’” Latimer repeated, a slight smile on his face. “How much do you know about the Isolation War?”