09-11-2355 | 06:41
HARBOR HQ - Approach, Autolane.
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Autopilot holds the craft in a clean corridor, blue guidance chevrons sliding under the nose like a treadmill. Rain needles the canopy and makes the city below hazy: stormglass arcs, stackable gardens, a tram ghosts along a light rail with no driver in sight. Dax Mercer keeps both hands off the yoke and a holo open above his knee. Eight faces float in pale blue. They are the squad: Pike flashing that lopsided grin, Tamsin squinting severely because she always hates photos, Rook caught mid-blink, and Hanu doing aggressive rabbit ears behind him because Hanu is a cheerful menace. The holo asks if he wants to archive the file. He knows he should close it. He doesn't.
HARBOR HQ grows in the viewport, a wedge of glass and steel with seams so straight they look spiteful, helipads set like coins along the roofline. It is the kind of building a city constructs when it wants to appear calm and expensive. The sight tightens Dax's jaw. He does this dance with agencies that love optics more than results. The flavor is always bitter.
His sleeve buzzes. Incoming. He flicks to accept.
"Mercer," Commander Petra Vass's gravel voice crackles. The holo brings up her square face, one brow cut short by an old scar. "You plan on landing hot, or are you going to breathe like a person?"
"I'm in one piece, Commander," Dax replies. "But I can't say I'm thrilled to be back under a big logo."
"You're not under it," she corrects, her voice cutting. "You're utilizing it. HARBOR needs your hands. You want clean ops and reliable budget? This is where you steal it. The lone wolf routine ends today. It's done."
"I was never a lone wolf," he counters. "I just have a problem with people who prioritized paperwork over breathing."
"Save the dramatics," Vass says, dryly. "Here's your objective brief: lead your team, ensure civilian lives, and stop trying to carry the planet solo. When they start briefing you on 'asset coordination,' don't chew on the table. Smile, nod, and execute your plan. Understood?"
"I'm understood," Dax confirms.
"Good. And Mercer." Her voice softens, a sound as rare as rain in the desert. "You don't get points for bleeding. Use the tools. Use the people. Bring yourself home too."
The call drops. Autopilot chirps. "Final approach to HARBOR HQ. Confirm docking."
"Confirm," Dax says. He kills the squadron holo. Eight faces blink out. His chest goes quiet and loud at the same time.
The craft slides under a rib of glass, thrusters feather, and settles onto Pad C-9. A guide beam paints a line to the airlock. Dax pops the canopy, breathes damp air that smells like clean water and battery ozone, shoulders his bag and the long case, and walks.
09-11-2355 | 06:59
HARBOR HQ - Arrivals Bay.
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White light. Quiet wheels. A weapons arch hums as Dax steps through, sniffing the vector-damp "Spindle" underlayer in his sleeves, pinging the carbine tag in his case, sampling trace explosives on his boots just to be rude. It flashes green.
"Mercer, Dax," the arch's polite voice says. "K-6 assignment. Cleared."
A junior officer with a meticulously careful haircut and the earnest, highly theatrical posture of someone performing the role of authority falls in beside him.
"Lieutenant Mercer? I'm Officer Lian, and my primary function is your official welcome wagon for today. It is truly thrilling to see you here! We simply must get you set up for the glamour that awaits. Place your palm here, and let's download your fate." He presses a slate the size of a paperback to Dax's hand. The tablet vibrates, takes his print and micro-ECG, and wakes.
Dax pulls his hand back immediately. "Before the final sync, Officer, I have a procedural question," he says. "Can you confirm if the system's 'destiny' protocol accounts for residual psychic energy from previous assignments, or is it strictly reliant on clean, unburdened biometrics? My previous ID chip was quite the trauma queen."
Lian stiffens, a muscle twitching near his eye. "Lieutenant, it is... it's digital, sir. Strictly digital. Very little... psychic overflow is anticipated. Excellent resilience, frankly." He gestures dramatically at the device. "Behold, your K-6 Command Tablet! It's chic, a masterpiece of minimal data flow. Mission queue on the left, unit vitals top right. And logistics, the true heroes of any operation, live down on the bottom, quietly serving the silhouette."
"I see," Dax notes, studying the screen with a slight tilt of his head. "What is the specific quantifiable benefit of 'serving the silhouette'? Does HARBOR grant a quarterly bonus to data points that maintain a low-profile aesthetic in the reporting, or is that strictly a morale designation?"
Lian visibly sweats, managing a strained, practiced chuckle that sounds suspiciously high-pitched. "It's... it's just a phrase, Lieutenant! A delightful metaphor for efficiency! We simply adore our metaphors. It's all about optics here, you see." He quickly continues, "But the climax of this orientation is the security. Your sidearm and carbine are keyed to your print and your exo. Anyone else who tries to fire them simply gets a very expensive, very dull paperweight. Can you even imagine the social failure of being disarmed by a simple lack of biometric data?" Lian waits, holding his breathless, dramatic smile.
Dax stares at his own wrist, adjusting the cuff. He asks, "In the event of bio-lock failure under extreme ambient heat, is the 'utter social failure' officially logged as a Class-A or Class-B incident? I need to know if this specific shame requires a mandatory two-week counseling session or merely a strongly-worded memo."
Lian's smile completely dissolves, his eyes darting around the pristine hallway as if looking for a distraction. He coughs violently, forcing himself to move. "Right. Moving on! A vital note on doctrine, Lieutenant, while we ascend to glory: you will frequently hear the term 'asset coordination' regarding our Conductors. This is Official Documentation Language."
"And what is the official motivation behind that specific lexicon?" Dax asks, his tone entirely flat and investigative. "Is 'Official Documentation Language' a term of art used to avoid specific liability in field reports, or does it strictly relate to optimizing budgeting categories?"
Lian manages a quick recovery, throwing his hands up in mock exasperation, clearly eager to move past the policy discussion. "Oh, Lieutenant, it's all about the paperwork! HARBOR really loves its clean nouns. We must ensure the paperwork is as immaculate as our uniforms, wouldn't you agree?"
"I agree that accurate paperwork has its uses," Dax says.
The doors open onto a mezzanine. To the right, a training dome simulates a slow storm: mist hangs in strata, light rain falls, micro-gusts are pushed around by invisible hands. A slim man moves at the center with three drones orbiting him like patient dogs. Five-five, maybe. Compact build. Pretty in a way that reads sharp, not soft. Wavy hair with tapered sides and platinum tips catches the dome light. Matte graphite field shell, fingerless gloves. He gestures and a column of water tightens into a helix, holds, then ripples out. His stance is exact without looking rehearsed. Not a showboat. A specialist.
Dax's eyes stall there longer than he means them to. Noted. He moves on.
Director Nova Han waits at the end of the mezzanine with two aides and a view of the bay like a backdrop. She wears a storm-blue suit with graphite seam piping, her hair cut clean enough to draw blood, and a face that runs on math. She steps forward with a hand already extended.
"Lieutenant Mercer," Han says. "Nova Han. Welcome to HARBOR."
"Director," Dax says, taking the shake. Her grip is dry and deliberate.
"This is Dr. Ilyas Morrell," Han continues.
Morrell looks like someone tailored his thoughts: sixties, elegant, silver at the temples, pale green eyes that miss nothing, a charcoal micro-weave suit with an acoustic lapel pin too subtle to be an accident. He offers a small, warm smile that would read paternal if Dax had fewer years with men like him.
"Lieutenant," Morrell says smoothly. "It's good to have you. Your work in urban rescue is exemplary. The Kestrel unit will benefit from your command."
"Appreciated," Dax says.
Han nods toward the tablet in his hand. "K-6 is yours. You set tactics in the field. You will also maintain stability of Conductor Ryn Kestra during deployments."
The phrase clicks in his ear like a bad gear. Maintain stability of. Dax feels his jaw tighten and lets it. "Let me be very clear. My job is to lead the field and bring everyone home. If you want a leash-holder, hire a leash-holder. If you want results, I'll give you results. I don't babysit, and I don't call people assets."
Morrell's smile doesn't move. "Language aside, stability is pragmatic. Our Conductor's physiology includes volatile windows under stress. Proper anchoring keeps him from damaging himself or others. Your judgment in those windows is the difference between order and noise."
"In the field," Dax says, "I'll use judgment. Your procedures can live on the tablet."
Han doesn't blink. "That's why you're here. Outcomes, not speeches. Civilians first. Stability is part of the outcome."
"Civilians first," Dax repeats, because on that point they aren't going to fight.
"Logistics," Han says, already pivoting. "On-site quarters, key is in your slate. Your emergency no nncontact is listed as Iris Mercer."
"My aunt," Dax says. "She'll visit whether you like it or not."
"She's already cleared," Han says, which is either efficient or unnerving. "Roster is loaded. You have Sera Quin on recon and micro-drones, Bishop Hale on containment, Irie Rao as bio-syn medic, Kaito Drumm on signals and systems. Two reserve slots open for your selection by week's end."
Dax skims the names. Vital signs stream under each, green across the board. "Live drills at oh-eight-hundred," he says. "Mixed conditions. No press on the mezzanine."
"Granted," Han says.
Morrell glances down toward the training dome. Inside, the slim man steps, and the water column breaks and reforms like it's listening for permission. His eyes flash pale for a heartbeat, white like a camera catching an LED at the wrong frame, then drift back to ordinary.
"Conductor Kestra has trained since childhood," Morrell says, almost idly. "He is very skilled when properly anchored."
"Anchored to what," Dax asks.
"Routine," Morrell says. "Breath, count, a dampener ring keyed to a specific cadence. You'll be briefed."
"Brief me," Dax says.
"In due course," Morrell replies, still pleasant. "For now, meet your people."
Han's comm vibrates. She glances down and reads without changes to her face. "Small spill at Port Helix Biophysics," she says. "Unit B-4 is closer. You'll shadow on holo for doctrine. K-6 goes hot only on my command until you finish onboarding."
Dax nods once. He hates shadowing. Watching other people do his job feels like wearing someone else's boots. "Copy."
They move off the mezzanine. As they pass the dome, the slim man, platinum hair damp from mist, pale eyes clear, looks up and catches Dax's gaze through the glass. It's brief. No challenge. No smile. A simple clocking of an unknown tall commander with a field gait. He reaches down and tightens the strap on his glove with a quick, practiced pull. Precise. Controlled.
"Asset coordination," Morrell says, like it's a harmless phrase. "You will keep him steady."
"I'll keep the team alive," Dax says.
"Then we agree," Han says, opening the door into a sunken briefing pit. Screens float, muted. A city map idles in low-contrast gray. "Results, Lieutenant. That's why you're here."
He steps down, sets the long case by the chair, and lets the tablet sync to the room. K-6 populates as a blue tile. Four vitals glow steady. He starts sketching the eight o'clock drill: stairwell extraction under simulated grid loss, cage deployment under mixed humidity, a medical handoff at speed. He writes with a stylus because his hands learn plans better that way. Out in the dome, water folds itself away at a gesture, mist settling like a breath. Dax watches the motion for one beat longer than he should, then digs in. Work first. Everything else later.
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