Warner 24 #2
CCR was the highest rank possible in the old world of The Reestablishment, outranked only by the supreme commander.
A position as CCR granted not only authority over an entire sector but also elite status and exclusive privilege in a world otherwise decimated by poverty, hunger, and sickness.
It was a deal with the devil: a role that offered the pretense of protection in exchange for a lifetime commitment to evil.
It was a position many killed each other over.
A position I once killed for.
In another life, I was CCR of Sector 45. The title had been previously claimed by my father.
Nearly every other chief commander—just over three hundred in total—decamped to Ark Island upon the fall of The Reestablishment. The couple dozen or so who didn’t make it were either killed by the rebels or mysteriously assassinated by The Reestablishment.
Looking at him now, it’s hard to believe Hugo was once chief commander and regent of anything. But my memories of those dark days are intact.
I remember Hugo Wolff.
He once had a reputation for being brutal and unsparing. He was best known for his fiery speeches at our symposiums, articulating the importance of stealth surveillance. He believed in monitoring civilians as a means of control—and felt we were never doing enough.
Surveillance is security, he used to shout, bringing his fist down on the podium. Only criminals need privacy.
Hugo was a different man before the attempt on his life. Before the damage to his brain. There remain gaping holes in both his memory and his knowledge; but Hugo Wolff is the only other ex-CCR living on the mainland.
This fact alone is reason to keep him around.
I always believed Hugo to be a store of valuable memory, a lockbox to which we lacked a key. The Reestablishment had tried to kill Hugo right on the cusp of the revolution.
He must’ve seen something.
He must’ve known something.
I’ve waited ten years to see whether his story would find its resolution. Hugo has always been desperate to understand what delivered him to this point in his life; he can remember his family but can’t remember why they were forced apart.
When James brought home a girl named Rosabelle—a familiar, uncommon name—I thought I might’ve arrived at a long-awaited answer.
I cautiously cross-checked details with Hugo to confirm that she was, in fact, his long-lost daughter; and I’d hoped that reuniting them would not only motivate her to speak but also activate Hugo’s dormant memories.
Instead, the experiment proved a failure.
I still don’t understand why. Maybe because Hugo couldn’t provide Rosabelle with a cogent explanation for why he’d left them. Over and over, he only ever told her that he hadn’t meant to. Most people can’t make sense of Hugo. Most people don’t trust him.
But his oddities are not an act.
Hugo’s confusion continues to be sincere, despite his uncommon tics.
He doesn’t always finish his thoughts; when flustered, he’ll often wander off in the middle of a sentence into his own head.
Still, he’s been steadfast in his loyalty to The New Republic.
He is, perhaps, an unreliable, erratic resource with an unreliable past; but he’s not treacherous.
I tilt my head at Castle, silently asking him to trust me. He raises an eyebrow in response—just as there’s a sharp knock at my door.
Castle and Hugo glance from me to the source of the sound.
“Come in,” I say, pushing off the wall.
The door opens to the antechamber beyond my office, revealing the familiar man standing just inside it. Gabriel doesn’t enter, remaining just within the threshold. He ducks his shaved head deferentially.
“Apologies, sir,” he says. “We’re still experiencing complications with the comms at the moment; our teams are working to fix internal issues, and the system went briefly offline. I was wondering whether you received my most recent messages.”
I glance at the deadened screens at my desk, then reach for my pager, realizing only then that it hasn’t been plaguing me as often as usual. There are at least a dozen notifications unread but not immediately urgent; all from earlier.
No new messages.
I look up at Gabriel, experiencing a flash of concern. “No.”
Gabriel seems tense. I feel his apprehension rising. This issue appears to be bigger than anyone seems ready to admit.
“Are we sure this is a technical issue?” I ask him. “Has there been evidence of a continued cyberattack?”
Gabriel is about to respond when Castle holds up his pager, wearing his reading glasses again. “My comms are working. I just received a message from Kenji.”
Kenji.
Strange that I haven’t heard anything from him. “Where is he?”
“Overseeing a last-minute operation,” Castle says, scrolling through his messages. “He says they found evidence of a suspicious depot at the docks, and he wants to send James out with a team.” Castle looks up at me. “You gave James his job back?”
“No.”
“Interesting.” Castle stifles a smile.
I bristle. “What’s interesting?”
“How quickly did you give him his job back?” Castle’s smile widens. “You couldn’t wait to give him his job back, could you?”
“I didn’t give him his job back,” I insist, then hesitate. “Though at this point, I don’t see why I shouldn’t.”
“You don’t?” Castle says, his eyes bright with humor. “I thought you said he was incompetent.”
I bristle.
I know I’m being baited.
“James was taught and trained by the best,” I argue anyway.
“I personally designed his training simulations. His exercises are more comprehensive and far more rigorous than the standard practice. His incompetence arises from issues of excessive self-confidence, not functional execution. When his head isn’t overinflated by illusions of his own invincibility, he outperforms his peers in every category—”
“Right.” Castle cuts me off with a dry look. “Well. Good to know you can be impartial about his performance. In any case, I’m sure James is happy to have his job back.”
“I didn’t give him his job back,” I repeat, frustrated. “The subject was discussed but never resolved—”
“Wait.” Castle’s pager buzzes in his hand, and he holds up a finger to halt me. “Kenji is now asking about dinner.”
Another buzz.
Castle frowns as he reads. “And he’s demanding, rather rudely, that you answer his messages.”
“I’ve received no messages,” I snap, looking at Gabriel.
Gabriel shakes his head in apology, his nerves palpably sparking. “We’re working on it, sir.”
I feel a spike of alarm.
I realize I haven’t heard anything from my wife in a couple of hours, which is more than unusual.
Now I’m worried about Ella.
I scroll through my notifications again to see if I’ve missed anything. This is not the time to be losing contact with her.
“Are these delays localized to me?” I ask, returning my eyes to Gabriel. “Is this a personalized attack?”
“No, sir,” he says with quick conviction. “Random delays have occurred across all systems, and there’s no suspicious accounting for any of it. There seem to be occasional lags as the servers go on and offline, but in most cases everything appears to catch up—”
My pager buzzes suddenly.
Then relentlessly.
A deluge of incoming notifications activates the object like a frantic heart in my hand, pulsing fast against my palm.
Everyone turns to look at me.