Episode 3 - Fantastically Relaxing Vacation
Along with the order to stay put, my request for return had been denied. I was a little pissed off, but what could I do? I was on the payroll funded by taxes. I understood, but honestly, my pride was bruised. Everyone else was off enjoying themselves, and here I was, stuck working.
Whether he sensed my inner gripe or not, Clevins just rattled off what he had to say.
"They've been jamming all communications within a 5km radius of the lab since a few days ago. Access is locked down tight, and no outside contact is possible. So for now, we can set aside any worries about leaks."
Translation: industrial spies were locked out. With the shutters down and electronic warfare in play, no info on Camilla Lowell's health or abilities would slip out.
"The issue is that her security will be thin during the exams. We'll pull some people and assign them as guards, so don't worry about it."
Camilla Lowell's safety was somewhat secured too. I wasn't from the sciences, so I had no clue how these exams worked, which made me uneasy. But with Clevins handling any major issues, I felt a bit relieved. Things were getting taken care of so smoothly that suddenly it seemed like I had nothing to do.
His words about taking it easy popped into my head. Was he sending me here precisely because a real vacation would mean something went wrong? With that nagging doubt, I asked him outright.
"So, am I really just supposed to be her conversation partner?"
"What nonsense is this all of a sudden? Did that nerve agent fry your brain?"
Basically, cut the bullshit.
"Didn't you tell me to be her conversation partner?"
"Were you planning to go on dates in the lab? You think it's okay for someone on the payroll to slack off on duty?"
Clevins clicked his tongue in disapproval. Man, I was seriously itching for discharge.
"Keep an eye on their investigation over there, and if needed, throw in a few pointers."
"So, you're saying I should assist with the investigation."
"Industrial spies and informants aren't all that different. You'd know more about it than any desk jockey, right?"
Fair point. Clevins seemed to want me lending my experience to the probe. I'd thought he meant for me to actually relax, but nope—ambushed.
"Whatever. If the Hero gets bored, chatting her up is fine. Just don't overdo the fun."
"Got it."
"Now go get to work."
The call ended. Just then, dawn began breaking over the mountains, chasing away the darkness. I stared at that sun for a good while before turning away.
"...Gonna have to turn on overtime mode."
Another late night confirmed.
I dragged my weary body down to the lab. Submitted my ID, got patted down, then boarded the tram headed for HQ under staff guidance. Some kind of maglev train powered by mana—I wasn't a science guy, so no idea how it worked. Anyway, after dozing for about two minutes, the arrival announcement chimed.
I got off, swiped my access pass at the entrance, asked the staff to fetch someone, and headed into the conference room. After waiting about five minutes...
"Sorry we're late."
In strode a suit and a soldier. The lab's internal affairs lead and the intel agency's dispatched team chief.
"Good to see you. Twice in two hours."
"Captain? Didn't you say you were heading back?"
"Haha..."
It was awkward admitting I'd been shot down and sent back, so I just grinned sheepishly and offered them seats.
"Nothing major—higher-ups ordered me to cooperate with the investigation."
"What kind of cooperation, exactly...?"
"Pointers, advice. Nothing complicated like me taking charge."
Their expressions turned a shade subtle at the news of an outsider sticking his spoon in the pot. The probe had barely started—why need advice now? They were swamped as it was. I got it. Field guys' woes were all the same.
But orders were orders from above, so like it or not, we all had to play ball. No point in power plays over jurisdiction among folks who knew the score, so we conceded what we could and dove in.
"The Hero's exams are tomorrow—no, day after. Actually, tomorrow. You all know, right?"
"Yes."
"Good. Higher-ups say they've handled leaks and security headaches, so we'll focus on nabbing the industrial spy."
"Sounds good. Where do we start?"
With the ground rules set, talk flowed smoothly. The internal affairs lead spoke first.
"We're investigating all research staff, so proper exams might be iffy."
"Exams use equipment, right? Any issues?"
"We can run them, but analyzing data falls to the researchers..."
Got it—like having CT or MRI gear but no doc to read the scans. With everyone locked in basements for the spy hunt, who could they trust with exams? None of us were researchers, so we tabled that for later.
"Probing for spies right now is a heavy lift. As you know, espionage cases eat time and manpower. Even combining internal affairs and dispatch, we're barely over fifty heads."
Manpower shortage. I jotted the team chief's point on my notepad and nodded.
"Requesting more bodies?"
"Yes. But most of intel's tied up in collection and analysis—extra manpower's unlikely."
Why bring up collection and analysis? I must've looked puzzled, because the chief clarified.
"Too much intel flooding in over the past month..."
Clevins had lobbed smoke grenades, flung open cabinets, and swung wrenches everywhere. Naturally, the continent went haywire—power structures shifting, national projects derailing. All prior intel turned to trash.
What do agencies do then? Hell if I knew the details, but agents were pulling all-nighters for sure. Think Kim Jong-il's death: military and cops on high alert, Blue House flipping from birthday bash to chaos, intel folks scrambling for phones. Similar vibe.
Clevins's mess, but because of me, so I felt a twinge of guilt for the agents. Anyway, no reinforcements coming.
"How many researchers here?"
"917 total."
"So, just over a hundred of us chasing 900."
I read the room: situation was fucked. Cold War-era South Korea purged 839 from their defense lab during the fifth republic—nothing weird by this near-Cold War standard.
"Even rough math says one per eighteen..."
"Plus hunting leaked docs and raiding dorms."
"Damn."
A sigh escaped someone, and the room fell silent. Early days, already chaos. Team too small for the lab's size. This way, exams or no, we'd accomplish jack.
"Fuck..."
The curse slipped through my fingers as I buried my face. Sounded like a guy who'd bet his life on the last hand and lost. I felt their pitying stares.
"Captain, have you not slept in days...?"
"Two months, four hours a day."
Five? Four? Who knew. I'd pulled all-nighters plenty. I massaged my temples, trying to regain my rhythm.
"Hero arriving tomorrow confirmed?"
"Ten a.m."
Clock read 07:38. A hair over 24 hours left. Perfect. Start now, wrap by arrival.
"Folks, we're early in, already chaotic, and the scope's too damn broad—that's the problem."
"Yeah, not even a week in."
One cop per nine suspects. Keep this up, someone'd drop dead from overwork.
I tapped the desk, tongue rolling.
"Not a capability issue—scale and scope."
"Right."
"So shrink the damn scope."
Two pairs of quizzical eyes turned my way.
"Got a solid plan. Wanna hear it?"
*
My plan was simple: prune. Too many targets? Slash suspects hard.
"Possible...?"
"Just hear me out."
I stabbed the notepad with the room's pen, ignoring internal affairs' doubt.
"Over 900 on the list, right? 917? Whatever—too many for us."
I wrote 917. Gears turning, I pulled what I knew.
"Let's cherry-pick the key players."
"Key how?"
"Affairs lead, lab hierarchy? Researcher ranks."
"Ranks... senior, lead, senior staff, junior. That's the gist."
Senior. Lead. Senior staff. Junior. I added classified.
Time to spill.
"You all know my outfit, right?"
"...Guessing."
"Spot on. Dealt with labs like this plenty."
No one here clueless about overseas ops. Security fine—they knew loose lips meant vanishing. Clevins'd send NDAs if I called.
"Industrial spies, informants—six of one, half dozen the other. Point is intel extraction. Classified or research data, same diff. First thing we check for recruitment: intel access."
Wrote Intel Access.
"Can they reach what I want? That's it. Plus a few more keys."
Added Motivation.
"Next: motivation."
Dispatch chief caught on.
"Recruitment motives."
"Yep."
Recruitment Motives.
"Judged by money, ideology, religion, ego, revenge, background, environment, ambition—etc."
Standard modern agency playbook. MICE/RC, or custom guides. Sick family needs cash. Craves group validation. Weird ideology. grudge. Kinky secret. Post-access eval, analysts flag these; case officers approach for recruitment. Informants suck intel via straws; handlers (intel officers, controllers) manage. Use 'em up or tail shows? Terminate.
"All ties to needs. Confirm access, peg needs, then recruit."
"How?"
"Build rapport, persuade. Or squeeze weaknesses, threaten family."
Chief nodded stoically; affairs blanched. Not my circus.
"Anyway, know these factors, spot the sucker."
Who has classified access? Who’s motive bait? Nail those, slash suspects. Lab rat ain't swiping crown jewels.
Dropped the pen.
Chief eyed me sharply.
"What do we do?"
"Got personnel files, personal cards?"
Lab staff intel: state secrets. Agencies access anytime.
"Find researchers with key access. Probe them first."
"...Personal tastes might not be listed."
"Juniors/seniors lack clearance anyway. Trim 'em, background digs'll cough something."
"Roger. Sort by clearance first."
"Thanks."
I stood, shredded the notepad, pocketed shreds.
"Let's work."
*
"...Using intel access and profiles—solid call."
"Proceed this way?"
"Their call. Not our circus now—greenlight most anything."
Clevins sounded weary.
"Proceeding under your approval."
"Yeah. 25 hours to Hero arrival."
08:46 now. One day till Camilla Lowell. No underground signal—mana or whatever—so outside for report. Strolling path, comms on, Clevins dropped a curveball.
"Watching you work is fascinating."
"Pardon?"
"Not long on the job, yet you know so much. Family in intel?"
Past life: grandpa and dad were. Dad tight-lipped; grandpa's tales from agency investigations shaped me.
"No relatives in intel."
"Hmm. Studious type, then."
Miss 'em sometimes—nose tingles. Rubbed it with my hand.
"You handled the headaches, so I'll snag the spy with the team."
"Cocky. No torture, you're golden."
"Thanks."
"Wrap up, dinner's on you."
Chatted miscellany, ended call. Pleasant sun on walkway, soft warmth through leaves. I turned toward the lab.
Time to greet Camilla Lowell.