Chapter 163. The Most Expensive Personal Assistant

The platoon’s training session today followed a lighter program, with no grueling strength circuits or pull-up bar drills. I put the guys through a series of exercises on the training grounds focused exclusively on coordination and dynamic agility. The moment the final whistle blew, the entire platoon collapsed onto the grass. The guys lazily rubbed their warmed-up muscles, chatted about nothing in particular, and even smiled. As far as I could remember, this was the first time my trainees had not looked like fish flopping on dry land, desperately gasping for air after one of my sessions. For a moment, I even felt a faint, irrational pang of guilt, as though I had been slacking off as an instructor, but my biochemistry promptly stamped out those foolish reflexes. My mind remained cool and pragmatic.

I had scheduled this recovery day for my men for two strictly rational reasons. First, contrary to Hollywood's fitness clichés, grinding recruits down every day until they developed bloody blisters and threw up would not turn them into exemplary soldiers. Excessive strain wore the body down. People were machines in their own way, and every machine had its breaking point. That was why my training methodology never treated the entire platoon as a single unit. I tailored the workload to each individual. If one soldier could do ten pull-ups while another could manage only five at his absolute limit, screaming at the second man until I lost my voice might force him to push past that limit on adrenaline, but it would also leave him with a torn tendon. A net loss in combat effectiveness. A car driven forty miles a day on smooth asphalt would get every last bit of mileage out of its expected service life. Push that same car to cover three hundred miles a day over rocky, unpaved terrain, however, and it would be a heap of junk within a couple of months. Today, the guys had simply gotten their engines running so the pistons wouldn't rust.

The second reason, apart from managing my men's physical wear and tear, was a simple lack of time. Without my superfast Buell Hammerhead 1190, I could no longer hit three hundred miles per hour and zip between government facilities in an instant. I had to optimize my logistics ruthlessly. As a result, training ended an hour ahead of the revised schedule. Interestingly, the women's platoon, under the supervision of their own instructors, had spent exactly as much time completing a full training cycle as my men had spent on their light session. Something to think about.

The taxi I'd booked through the app was already waiting at the security gate, right on schedule. I wore an impeccably pressed dress uniform, hoping the formal appearance might soften Selina Langstrom's prickly disposition. A sports bag rested on my shoulder as usual. Inside was the tactical thermal cooler I'd purchased yesterday, packed with mint ice cream. I was fully prepared for my shift.

Traffic in Washington was even lighter than I'd expected. The morning congestion had cleared, and I arrived at the Corps' engineering center ten minutes before the official start of my shift.

In the lobby, I presented the armed security officer with an electronic directive from the department, complete with a unique QR code. After a minute of verification at the terminal and a crisp click from the security system, I was issued a permanent magnetic access card, a pristine white lab coat, and a work tablet. A system notification was already glowing on the touchscreen: REPORT TO THE DEPARTMENT HEAD'S OFFICE IMMEDIATELY. A map of the internal corridors was included. The engineers had everything running like clockwork, with every last detail accounted for.

“I'd advise you to hurry, Lieutenant Ross,” the security officer said as he handed over my equipment. “Ms. Langstrom doesn't take kindly to being kept waiting.”

I gave him a polite nod. I already knew all about Selina's particular temperament. Fortunately, I still had a few minutes to spare. I strode through the sterile corridors, checking the glowing map on my tablet as I went. Opening the connecting security doors required swiping my card against the sensors. The local security system enforced access restrictions with an iron fist. I still had to find out where I stood in the hierarchy, but I reached the administrative section without delay.

I stepped into her office at precisely 10:59.

“Not bad, Ross. But for a man with your... talents, you're cutting it a little close,” came a lazy, silky female voice with a dangerous edge.

Selina had barely changed in the month since we'd last met in person. She still looked as though she'd mistaken a classified military laboratory for a Milan fashion runway. Impossibly high heels, a pencil skirt that accentuated the flawless lines of her hips, a silk blouse dusted with barely visible rhinestones, an elegant pendant resting against her slender neck, and a collection of bracelets adorning her wrist. Over all that femininity, she'd casually thrown on a white lab coat. Predatory style and a cold intellect. That combination described Selina Langstrom to perfection.

Her workspace reflected its owner perfectly. An open laptop sat on the polished desk among an assortment of elegant porcelain cat figurines representing different breeds. Complex three-dimensional schematics of microprocessor circuit boards shimmered on the display. The air carried a subtle blend of expensive chocolate truffles and the sharp, sterile scent of isopropyl alcohol used to clean the equipment's optics.

“Hey, Selina.” I settled into the chair opposite her desk, my expression impassive, and carefully set my bag on the floor. “Let's skip all the barbed remarks you've been saving for my arrival and get straight to my job responsibilities.”

“Oh, no, darling. You're not getting off that easily.” She gracefully tucked a loose strand of blond hair behind her ear, a faint smile playing on her lips. It was the look of a predator eyeing a cornered mouse it intended to toy with before lunch. “You didn't seriously think you could just keep avoiding your direct supervisor, did you? That'd be extremely unprofessional, Lieutenant. Slackers don't last long around here.”

Her smile grew openly provocative, its dangerous undertones becoming impossible to miss. My analytical processor registered a surge of irritation and immediately isolated it. During our time together, I'd studied her psychological profile in exhaustive detail. Selina Langstrom belonged to that rare breed of people who took almost physiological pleasure in delivering poisonous barbs and slowly, spoonful by spoonful, eating away at someone else's sanity. Just as ordinary people got a kick out of Sunday football or watching zombie movies with a bucket of popcorn, Selina got a pure dopamine hit from demonstrating her intellectual superiority at every possible opportunity. I understood the mechanics, but I had no intention of indulging her. My morning hope of avoiding this kind of mental sparring had been a naive miscalculation.

“I’m here and ready for a constructive conversation.” I calmly folded my arms across my chest and settled back in my chair.

“Sorry, darling, but that’s not going to happen.” Selina sighed, looking disappointed as she delicately adjusted the arm of her glasses. “A constructive conversation requires at least two people capable of rational thought. Surely you don’t expect me to talk to myself? Although I suppose that would make for a fascinating intellectual exercise.”

She fixed me with a predatory, unblinking stare, scrutinizing my face for the slightest reaction: anger, hurt, or an attempt to defend myself. My expression remained as impassive as a stone statue.

“I warned you, Ross. I told you in no uncertain terms to choose my engineering department. It’s safe here, and the air smells of rosin. But you had to go chasing after everything at once, just like the typical grunt you are. So, how are you enjoying P-SWAT? Sleeping well in that glorified barracks full of Neanderthals? Think you’ll live long enough to see our kids start school, or will you get yourself killed in the first Portal you enter, taking a faceful of alien plasma?”

“Half a million dollars,” I said evenly.

“What?” She blinked, momentarily losing her superior air. “Are you trying to bribe me, Lieutenant? And where the hell are you getting that kind of money? Give me a break.”

“That’s my current net income. Five hundred thousand dollars a month.” I presented the facts methodically, like an auditor reviewing a set of accounts, watching her airtight logic begin to fall apart. “Right now, I earn more than anyone else in the Corps, General Crowley included. Do you still think I got the short end of the stick, Selina?”

“A dead man won’t have much use for a checkbook,” she retorted, quickly regaining her composure and folding her arms beneath her chest, pulling the lab coat taut across her shoulders. “And where the hell is all that money coming from, anyway? I’ve never heard of infantry grunts getting paid enough to fund a small city.”

“I’m not infantry. I’m officially assigned to every major department in the Corps at the same time,” I explained calmly, noting a second deep crack in her previously unshakable confidence. “That legal precedent gives me access to resources, servers, and classified databases across departments that would otherwise remain isolated from one another. I used a terminal at the Administrative Center to calculate my pay coefficient. And the Federal Bureau archives also let me discover, for instance, that you have a younger sister in Boston.”

“That’s private information, Ross!” For the first time, her voice took on the sharp, venomous edge of a tigress whose territory had been invaded.

“I know,” I replied without batting an eye. “And one last thing, just so we can put this to rest: I didn’t choose P-SWAT as either my primary or secondary assignment. The Corps’ allocation algorithm independently determined that my cognitive abilities were best suited to bringing order to that chaos. So if you have a problem with my line of work, take it up with the people who designed the operating system. In other words, yourself.”

Selina fell silent. For several seconds, she studied me as though she were seeing me for the first time. Then something resembling reluctant respect flickered in her blue eyes.

“You came prepared,” she said, leaning forward and resting her elbows on the desk. “Come on, Ross. Be honest. Did you spend all night rehearsing that speech in front of the mirror in your barracks?”

“Of course.” The corners of my mouth lifted in the faintest, driest smile. “Every meeting with you is as stressful and unpredictable as entering a Portal. I have to come prepared for anything.”

“Pfft... If you’re so smart and perceptive, you could’ve figured out that you should bring your queen something to go with her tea.” She rolled her eyes and leaned back in her chair. “Some tactical genius you are.”

Instead of answering, I slowly unzipped my sports bag, deliberately prolonging the rustle of the fabric to pique her curiosity. Under her intrigued gaze, I pulled a matte white package from the brand-new tactical lunchbox and carefully set it on the polished wooden desk, right in front of the porcelain Siamese cat.

“Strawberry gelato?” Selina examined the premium Italian branding like a bomb technician inspecting a suspicious package, ran a finger over the lightly frosted plastic, and sighed with satisfaction. “All right. You're forgiven. For today, anyway, Ross.”

My masculine pride tried to make itself heard for a split second, demanding that I point out I hadn't done anything wrong and had no need for her forgiveness. Cold pragmatism quickly smothered that foolish emotional impulse. Arguing with Selina would only trigger another endless round of razor-sharp banter, and I had neither the time nor the inclination for it. Unlike her, I didn't get any pleasure out of these exchanges.

“I'm officially on duty at the Engineering Center now.” I glanced at her monitor as Selina carefully peeled back the edge of the packaging. “What are my assignments?”

“Tom, let's be realistic. You're only scheduled to work here three hours a week. Even the flies spend more time in this building than you do.” She snorted, popped the first bite of gelato into her mouth, and immediately returned to her keyboard. “But since the automated system has assigned me such an indispensable and expensive specialist, I've found the perfect job for you. Effective immediately, you're my personal assistant. You'll earn every penny. Check your tablet.”

I picked up the work tablet from the desk and activated the screen. An imposing list of tasks filled the display, packed tightly together. I scanned the entries one by one: precision calibration of the quantum oscillators at Test Station Three; a line-by-line audit of the compiled code for the exoskeleton prototype; identification and repair of a concealed microdefect in the lower-level power grid. The list ended with two truly remarkable assignments: arranging a hot lunch for the department head and giving Ms. Langstrom a personalized neck and shoulder massage to relieve her stress.

I looked up from the screen and stared at the little devil. Selina was typing away in her code editor with exaggerated diligence, doing her best to look busy, but the corners of her mouth kept twitching with a smug, triumphant grin.

Everything was perfectly clear. I had three hours of nonstop work ahead of me, without even a second to catch my breath. I'd have to push my hyperfocus mode to its absolute limit, driving my neurons at full capacity, and I'd pay for it once again with a vicious, searing migraine.

Still, I'd accepted the price. For unrestricted access to cutting-edge extraterrestrial technology, classified databases, and an additional fifty thousand dollars, I was willing to put up with a few temporary inconveniences on the job.