Page 1 of Coldwire
1EIRALE
At ten minutes to midnight, the riot bots detonate around the block.
Our ropes tremble, each suspended harness bracing against the shock waves slithering up the skyscraper’s exterior, but we stay put patiently, twenty floors overhead. By the time the protesters run in our direction, the tear gas will have dispersed fully from the explosions, exactly as we outlined at the base. They won’t see us.
“Capture unit, get ready.”
Anti-NileCorp protests are a common sight along Button City’s main avenues. When they get too unwieldy, NileCorp rolls in their riot bots on behalf of the Atahuan government, always faster on the scene than local police. Button City has more NileCorp warehouses per square foot than anywhere in the world. There’s going to be something at the ready no matter what sort of trouble disrupts.
I test my line. The hold loosens enough for me to take two careful steps down the vertical glass before glancing over my shoulder, tracking the panicked figures running below. There’s faint yelling, maybe. Hard to tell. My suit helmet does its best to block out nonessential noise.
“Mint, keep eyes on surveillance.” My earpiece continues to feed through. “Eirale, proceed to ground floor.”
Tonight’s demonstration is made up of truckers. They cobbled together their signs when a new line of NileCorp’s autonomous semis put tens of thousands out of work, and then NileCorp’s data scraping smoothly deposited their plans onto our radar. There’s a process to shutting down a protest quickly, efficiently. Riot bots steer the dissidents all to one side of the road. Tear gas explodes from the canisters and takes out their vision for a few hours—or a few days, with the unrulier troublemakers who try to tackle the bots. Before long the street will clear, and their resistance symbols copied off the internet will be nothing more than soggy signs disintegrating in the sidewalk puddles. Usually, there’s no need for the corporate soldiers, the units like us, to get involved.
We’re reserved for high-level hire. Such as capturing anarchists.
“All right,” Teryn declares, satisfied with the coverage we have. “Let’s go.”
I unlatch my carabiner, let the rope run slack. My suit screams a warning that I’m going too fast, that I’m going to hit the concrete and I should consider rappelling properly. The screen before my eyes flares red, trying to calculate the damage upon impact.
I turn the line taut suddenly. My harness seizes tight; I jolt to a stop just before my boots touch the ground. I haven’t been a NileCorp contractor for long. They assigned me to the Button City base six months ago. While everyone else in my grade who went the route of NileCorp private forces was posted directly after our final exams and sent downcountry to run amok in the real world, I wasted three months recovering. Still, all those years of military school have prepared me to be fast, faster than the NileCorp-issued suit that tries to propose my next movements for me. The red fades. The suit’s screen clears when I detach my harness.
My quick exhale warms the inside of my helmet. A row of billboards synchronizes on the street level, changing from Eveline ads to a news segment. I barely catch President Sterling taking the podium, the crawling ticker at the bottom announcingRELATIONS SOUR FURTHER WITH MEDALUO—INCIDENT IN THE NORTH SEA,before the tear gas has clouded my vision, closing over the top of my head.
My suit switches on infrared capabilities.
I was eavesdropping earlier in the barracks when Teryn received the emergency briefing for this mission. She hadn’t stepped far enough into the hallway before answering the video call on her handheld. The trucker protest was forming along Seventh, three blocks away. The riot bots would intentionally push them toward us and then detonate, conveniently offering cover from the surveillance cameras pointed at the entrances of our target building. It would save NileCorp from having footage of its forces barging into civilian businesses: more fodder to sell to the tabloids, more ammunition for hit pieces on the governance of Atahua and the country’s reliance on private military contractors.
“Everyone else, get to your assigned entrances. He’s not getting away this time.”
Gravel crunches underfoot when I pivot. I circle the exterior of the skyscraper, the tall lobby unmoving on the other side of the thick glass. Infrared shows nothing in my way at the back entrance. By official registration, some hedge fund owns the building, abandoned by well-to-do businesses who continue to pay rent but no longer perform operations on-site. One security guard clocks in during the day, then another is bought off after-hours once the nightclubs and tattoo parlors and dog-fighting rings set up shop. That’s classic downcountry.
“I’m in place,” I say. My voice is hoarse. I haven’t spoken aloud since we left the base. Teryn turns any complaint into a motivation speech, and if I’m not in the mood for her usual spiel, I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut.
“Enter the stairwell,” Teryn instructs immediately. “Get closer to the nightclub.”
I push through the back entrance, surprised to find it isn’t locked. In the dark, my suit warns there’s movement to my right, but it’s only a tendril of tear gas slipping through with me before I shut the glass door and hurry into the main lobby. The space is open-concept: dilapidated pillars that hold up a white ceiling, the front desk a strip of metal lifted by steelbeams sprouting from the tiled floor. I make a cursory scan. Empty. I head toward the elevator hall.
“Ma’am.” Smith’s voice pipes through my earpiece, getting Teryn’s attention. Our unit is split down the middle among the six contractors. There’s Teryn, Mint, and me. New graduates. Fresh blood on the base, intent on doing a good job because our team leader, Wright, intimidates us. The other three don’t care about impressing him. They’re Nile Military Academy graduates who are a decade older, bored of the job and struggling to be granted a promotion that puts them in charge.
“Ma’am,” Smith prompts again. “The locks are broken on the second-level balconies.”
“What?” Teryn exclaims.
I push open the door to the stairwell. It’s quiet—and glaringly bright, doused in an intense violet from LED striplights running up all four corners. The infrared of my suit switches off automatically against the onslaught, but I still can’t see. I tap the back of my suit to open the helmet. The stairwell door shuts behind me.
“I’m moving up,” I report, drawing my firearm. “Nothing here—”
“Hey,” Mint interrupts into the comm line. “Our surveillance is scrambling.”
My steps pad up to the second floor quietly, the rest of my sentence forgotten. The nightclub is accessible from its main entrance along a skywalk, or from a side entrance leading into the building stairwell. Teryn and Mint have entered: Teryn as a field scout and Mint to keep watch using the cameras around her. Smith and Buchanan have eyes on the skywalk. Penrose stays on the platform jutting off the thirty-fifth floor, where we rappelled from, acting as a backup sniper. I’m the only one stationed here.
“From what?” Teryn demands.
“It’s signal interruption,” Mint replies. I come to a stop outside the nightclub, the faintest whisper of music thumping past the soundproof walls. At this I pause, my grip tightening on my firearm. The only entitythat could blockoursignal is… “Someone from federal must be on the scene.”
“Why?”
