Cyphira Quinn. Lunday, Pisces 11, 2354 AA. 3:52 AM. New Atlantic Union, New Amsterdam (Cyphira’s Apartment).
“I’m glad it’s you.”
It was the incessant refrain that kept Cyphira from falling asleep each night, and the same words always found her shortly she woke. The first two weeks after the operation weren’t too bad. She thought about Ashomi, and her cryptic farewell in passing. And she had a couple nightmares about Cruz. Seeing his bisected body, everything beneath his torso hideously compacted by his own spell. But the dead goddess’s words swelled in her mind with each passing day:
“I’m glad it’s you.”
Cyphira paced her high rise, nursing a glass of brandy and watching the airship traffic drift through the city. Looking at the clock, she realized her insomnia had set a new personal best. It’s been three days since I’ve slept.
Morgan had assigned her a month of paid leave after she returned from Wind River, calling it a bonus for her promotion to full Special Agent. Cyphira thought about taking a trip to some tropical paradise, forgetting who she was for a few weeks and assuming whatever identity that pleased her. But the notion never grew beyond idle planning.
Just two nights after they got back, she invited Kuro out for drinks and threw herself at him in the same outfit she had worn for their Visser operation. She came on so strong that she almost scared him off—he was a shy boy at heart—but he was just as lonely as she was, and they shared the desperate, passionate sex of two people who had survived something awful together. She even lingered for breakfast the following morning.
He was smart enough to avoid asking questions like “what does this mean,” “where do we go from here,” and other obvious intimations at a relationship, even though she could tell that he was curious. Hopeful, even. Two days later, he sent her a text. Just a simple “hey,” harmless and reasonable. It took her two more days to send a reply. Even then she avoided mentioning their liaison, keeping the conversation so light it was effectively meaningless.
I don’t want to be alone forever. But I don’t want to be with anybody until I figure myself out.
In the second week following the operation, Cyphira got her hair done, saw her doctor and dentist, went grocery shopping, and tried to catch up on books and shows she had been meaning to get to. It all felt a little silly. Like she was cosplaying a normal adult and calling it real life.
She attended Chastain’s funeral that weekend, along with Kuro, Shonoa, and Howell. It was a very traditional, somber occasion hosted by a family who seemed to barely know anything about the deceased. Cyphira inquired about arrangements for Cruz, but nobody knew anything. CIC agents largely died as they lived—anonymously.
In the middle of the third week, she started imagining Ashomi every time she tried to sleep. She could feel the childlike frame of the goddess in her grip, the faint flash of resistance as the knife slashed her throat, and her cryptic words:
“I’m glad it’s you.”
Cyphira began to wonder whether the phrase was an actual curse—literal magic—or an enigma calculated to drive her insane. She started researching god-slayers in the CIC’s extensive archives, seeing if there was anything about the ‘stain’ on her wyrd that Ashomi had mentioned. There was a great deal of conjecture and theory based on how to potentially, theoretically, kill deities, but nothing about what would befall the person who pulled the trigger.
When night fell, she would waste hours lying in bed, trying to turn off her mind and rest. But sleep was fleeting and fitful. She saw Cruz. She saw Viser. She saw everybody she had ever watched die, stemming all the way back to her first kill, Allouis Arnault. And when she had exhausted that well of guilt, she began to imagine all the people she would be killing in the future.
Forsythe was right. It was an intrusive thought, one she refused to believe, but the words nagged at her almost as persistently as Ashomi’s curse. He got out. He hasn’t been caught yet. Or has he? Would Morgan even tell me if he was apprehended, or are we just going to pretend my teacher never existed?
She wished she had someone to talk to. But due to the confidential nature of their lives, the closest thing a CIC agent could get to counseling was a voluntary psych evaluation. And right now, I’m not sure I would pass.
Cyphira poured herself another glass and took a second dose of painkillers. Her eyes were twitchy, and her head ached each time her heart beat. She laid down on her couch, still looking out the wall-length windows.
“I’m glad it’s you.”
“Why?” Cyphira asked. “Why me?”
Because she thinks I’m strong enough to deal with it? Because she wants me to suffer? Because she knew I would make it quick? The questions doubled and redoubled until her mind finally gave out.
— 6:13 AM —
Cyphira’s symphone woke her in the pre-dawn darkness of her living room. Her head still ached, but in a different way than when she had passed out. It was the blanket pain of a hangover rather than the feverish drumbeat that had beat her into submission. She snatched her phone off the table, slapped her cheeks and then answered:
“This is Quinn.”
“Turn on the news.”
It was Morgan. Cyphira’s heart sank. Fuck. I can’t think of a worse way to wake up.
She put down her phone and hunted for the remote and then turned on her television. She had it tuned to an entertainment network, which was still playing a movie rather than some sort of emergency broadcast. Guess it can’t be that bad.
But when she reached the Erician News Network, her heart stopped.
The screen was dominated by an aerial view of the Hare’s devastated compound in Wind River, and the news ticker at the bottom of the screen read: Amagiate Genocide? Destroyed Compound Discovered in Wind River.
“Shit,” Cyphira hissed.
She stared at the scene—somehow starker and more squalid in the day—and remembered falling toward the compound in the darkness. Then she remembered Thunder Stag, Cruz, Ashomi—all of it. The moment felt like passing through the Veil at its thickest. Slow. Cold. Unpleasant. She unmuted the symvision:
“—the scene seems to corroborate information ENN received from an anonymous source about a clandestine operation that occurred early in Aquarius. The sender, writing under the pseudonym ‘Cardinal,’ included—”
Cardinal was Forsythe’s callsign.
That motherfucker.
“When did they go live?” Cyphira demanded, outraged.
There was an ever-expanding fractal web of other questions Cyphira wanted to ask, but certain things were not discussed over the phone, even on the CICs intranet. Morgan’s curt-but-ever-professional composure was cracking with anger, her voice tight and sharp:
“I’m too busy to have this conversation over a symphone. Get to the office.”
—|—
Cyphira skipped her regular morning routine and pulled on a clean uniform, fastening her jacket as she walked out of her apartment. As she strode down the hall, she clenched her fists, furrowed her brow, and muttered a foul litany of profanity under breath. She didn’t notice the neighbor who tried to say good morning, or the maid who froze with fear as she passed.
How dare. The fucking audacity. You saw it coming, you sanctimonious son of a bitch, and you did nothing. You let this happen, and now you’re pointing the finger at us? At me? Go straight to hell. Shit, I’ll send you there myself. I’ve killed a god motherfucker. Your fucking dragon-heart ain’t shi—
“Cyphira?” a familiar voice asked.
Cyphira started back to the present. Howell had stepped into the elevator and she hadn’t even noticed. Nice job, ‘senior agent.’ You’re so far up your own ass you failed to notice a friend. All two hundred eighty pounds of him.
“Hey Howell,” she chuckled sheepishly. “If you were a snake…”
He grunted a stunted sort of laugh—acknowledging the humor, but favoring his injured ribs.
“No kiddin’.”
Cyphira felt embarrassed.
“Look, I’m pissed too, for what it’s worth. I mean, I was pissed before and now I’m…” He shook his head, unsure of what to say. “I know he meant a lot to you.”
“I was wrong.” Cyphira said. “Whatever I thought he meant to me… Whatever I thought I meant to him? I was wrong.”
The elevator stopped again, and a pair of women with amagiate diplomatic licenses filed in before Howell could respond. They rode the rest of the way down listening to some truly dry office gossip, and resumed their conversation outdoors on their way to HQ.
“Some people crack,” Howell said.
Cyphira scoffed.
“I’m serious,” he said. “How else do you explain this? How else do you go from stone cold killer to Mr. Holier-Than-Thou?”
Cyphira scoffed.
“What are you talking about? Forsythe was always Mr. Holier-Than=Thou. Which is strange, seeing how he’s a strident anti-religious zealot. But he always had this air of superiority to him.”
Cyphira could hear his voice in her head. That is because I am superior to most people. False modesty is the mark of a weak man.
“I guess you’re right,” Howell conceded. “But you also know what I mean, right? Something upstairs blew out, crumpled up, or just… broke.”
Cyphira chewed on the statement for a moment. He didn’t seem unstable when we talked. He seemed… rested. At peace. More relaxed than I had ever seen him before. Did he crack after defecting? Did going straight for a month break him? No, this seems too calculated for insanity.
“I don’t think he cracked,” Cyphira said. “But maybe I don’t understand the term as well as I thought I did.”
Howell nodded.
“Most people think it means inhibitor cuffs and rubber padded rooms for the rest of their lives. Or spree murder, or something equally awful and… definitive. But cracking is like being quirked. Does everybody different. Some people get by with meds. Some talk to echoes or fae. Some swear under their breath like a maniac, which is why I was worried you were cracked in the elevator.”
She double checked to make sure his right ribs were the injured side, then drove her knuckles into his left side. He yelped and chuckled:
“I should’ve taken a picture.”
“Morgan would flay me.”
To say nothing of Forsythe. The automatic realization made Cyphira stumble. He was always going on about how I showed too much emotion. How it made me “easy to manipulate.” So what does that mean now? Was he giving me good advice, or will I put up a tough front until I commit career suicide and betray my allies?
They walked into the lobby of the CIC headquarters. There was already a line at security, despite the early hour. Cyphira recognized a few faces from field operations—no Kuro yet—a couple counter-intelligence nerds—and, judging by the name badges and licenses—what appeared to be the entire media relations team. Can’t wait to see how we spin this one.
Security was extremely thorough, consisting of selective metal detectors, urdo-analyzers, and renewable wards designed to sense ill-intent. The last one struck Cyphira as bullshit—either security theater, or an excuse for the higher ups to disappear potential defectors and double agents.
Pity they didn’t work on Forsythe.
“You want to get coffee?” Howell asked, after they were through security.
Cyphira shook her head. Her stomach was already roiling with bile. She needed food before she’d be able to stomach anything acidic, and she wouldn’t be able to enjoy a meal until she was done with Morgan.
“Suit yourself. Good luck.”
—|—
The elevators to Field Operations parted to a split floor, with executive offices on the top. Morgan stood waiting. For me specifically judging by that look. Morgan tilted her head backwards, toward her office. Cyphira took a deep breath.
Why does she want to talk to me alone? I assumed she would brief everyone and do follow ups as needed. This is bad. Does she think I have something to do with this?
“Sir, I just want to start by saying I had no idea he would do this.”
“Quinn,” Morgan began, but Cyphira gestured apologies and kept talking over her:
“When Forsythe left, he didn’t give any indication that he was going to expose us. But I should have asked about his plans. I should have—”
“Quinn!”
Cyphira flinched and stopped. Morgan looked bewildered, and then almost amused. She was not used to people talking over her. Much less newly-minted Special Agents. But Cyphira’s passion seemed to charm her slightly.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
Cyphira blinked. Anigale Morgan is asking me how I’m feeling? Has she cracked too?
“I’m pretty screwed up, sir.”
Morgan nodded approvingly.
“If you weren’t, I would be extremely concerned. I apologize for being curt over the phone. I was as surprised as you clearly are, it seems. And there are certain things that we absolutely cannot discuss remotely. Please. Sit.”
Cyphira obliged and slid into a chair in front of Morgan’s extremely large but immaculately organized desk.
“Now that I’ve had a moment to… digest, the headlines, I don’t think Forsythe is responsible.”
What? Morgan gestured for patience and continued:
“If he wanted to announce himself, why hide behind his call sign? If he wanted to save Ashomi and the Hare, why not go the media ahead of time?”
“But who else could it be? Who else had access to those files?”
“That’s what I want you to find out.”
Morgan swung one of the incanter monitors on her desk around, revealing a wall of text. At first Cyphira thought it was some kind of runic programming, but then she realized it was the record of an arcanet protocol address.
“Last Satday, somebody used Forsythe’s credentials to access the CIC database and downloaded a handful of files in his personal storage before Data Security noticed and severed the connection.”
“Wait, didn’t his credentials expire?” Cyphira asked.
Morgan’s right eyebrow seemed to twitch.
“According to Data Security, there was some kind of caching issue that allowed the server to accept the expired passwords. I do not understand what happened in precise terms yet, but somebody has some serious explaining to do.”
No shit.
Cyphira scanned the records, looking at the file transfer logs.
“He got a lot more than just Ashomi,” Cyphira said.
Cyphira recognized the file names. They were the sort of code phrases that Cyphira would never be able to forget. There was nothing about monster hunts, operations in the Faed, or criminal malefaction. Everything on the list was hand-picked to paint the blackest picture of the Amagium’s black ops imaginable. Missions that simply went sideways, like the Visser confrontation, didn’t make the cut.
“Shit.”
Morgan inclined her head.
“Have you noticed where the files were accessed?
Cyphira hadn’t. She had been too distracted by the greatest hits list of her life’s low points. She scanned to the head of the document, expecting something that would give them a promising lead. Instead, the session access address read “Arroyo Ath. Arc.”
Arroyo? Cyphira’s heart tumbled to a halt. Morgan continued:
“You see, I don’t think this is actually about Forsythe, Cyphira. I think it’s about you. Somebody on the inside is trying to lure you out.”
In the CIC, and many of the Amagium’s upper echelons, the word “inside” held a number of connotations. It could mean being a part of the Amagium. Part of the intelligence community. It could mean holding favor with a specific person. It could mean you had infiltrated the ranks of an enemy organization. It could mean a dozen other things as well, but they were always good. At its simplest, being “Inside” was a flat advantage. Being “Out” or “Outside” was much less nuanced. It always meant you were fucked.
He wants me to come looking for him. Forsythe… or whoever the hell this is. The address in question was definitely a taunt. “I know where you came from.” Which doesn’t actually seem like something he would stoop to.
But it also felt like the sort of situation he would use to test her. I hated it when he did that shit. I always drew the opposite conclusion of whatever he wanted and argued my case with every fiber of my being, whether I believed it or not. I turned his tedious preaching into a game. And he hated it when I did that shit.
Morgan spoke up:
“Now, I could forbid you from getting involved. I could withhold this information from you, wait for it to reach your ears anyway, but then you would go rogue, and that’s honestly a tedious line of thought. Let’s lean into our gifts instead.”
“Sir?”
“I want you to take the bait and get to the bottom of this. You will assume a new identity, infiltrate Cardinal’s circle, and find out who is playing this game.”
Cyphira turned to look at the screen again. “Raven Echo.” Where I learned what burning a mass grave smells like. “Madrid.” Which had nothing to do with Madrid, but ruined the city for me by association. “Mr. Venday.” My bit part in rigging a foreign election. It’s all a joke to them.
She looked back at Morgan and said:
“Bring it on.”
