Twenty-Four
Camp Peary, Virginia
“Welcome to Traumstadt,” Deckard said.
As they stepped into the stadium-like building, Julian was immediately struck by a waft of cold. He blinked, first adjusting
his eyes to the rheumy half-light, and then blinked again in disbelief.
There were no fixtures of a stadium—no field, no rows of seats. Instead, what stretched out before them was . . . a town?
Evergreens wreathed in snow rose into the air, scattered among quaint-looking wooden buildings. Cobblestone streets formed
winding paths through the houses and trees. There was a sense of remoteness, amplified by the irregular elevation and the
mountain peaks scored against the distant horizon.
There was a fairy-tale quality, too. As Julian looked around, breathing in the (surely artificial) scent of alpine air, he
was further reminded of a scene from a storybook. A gingerbread village, dusted in powdered sugar and garnished in gumdrops.
The silver cuff on his wrist started to burn.
“Where are we?” It was Giselle who spoke, wonderment in her voice.
“This is the site of your training,” said Deckard. “We have constructed a replica of a fictitious town in East Germany. For
the next several weeks, this will be your home.”
Klaudia had stepped away from the group and was examining a wooden sign. “A Soviet-occupied East German town, it seems.”
The sign had TRAUMSTADT written on it, and below, an inscription in Russian. When the four of them glanced questioningly at her, Klaudia said, “It
translates to ‘the place of dreams.’ ”
“Correct,” Deckard said. “In this scenario, you have been dropped into Soviet territory. You must not only survive by remaining undercover but complete your mission without detection.”
“This is all the training we’re going to get?” Julian asked. He had been envisioning courses in speedboat handling and parachute
jumping.
“Divest yourself of your preconceived notions of espionage,” said Deckard, as if he had read Julian’s thoughts. “You won’t
be rescuing women tied to train tracks and sipping martinis. Clandestine officers are not supposed to be superheroes; they
are supposed to be gray men.” Deckard paused. “And I don’t mean extraterrestrials.”
Julian felt vaguely disappointed. He’d thought he would at least get to drive an Aston Martin.
Deckard led them up the cobblestone road to the town proper. Some buildings looked residential; others appeared to be small
businesses—a general store, a barbershop, a restaurant. Not being able to read either German or Russian, Julian wasn’t sure
about the others. But he did recognize the statue of Lenin in the town square, snow gathered along his marble shoulders like
a white-furred mantle.
“It’s like a movie set,” said Giselle.
“Or like a nuke town,” said Nadiya.
They continued down to what looked like a holiday market, hastily constructed stalls offering Christmas tree ornaments and
thick wedges of strudel in wax paper. Or at least—theoretically offering. What was most unsettling about Traumstadt was the
utter emptiness. There were no vendors manning the stalls, no market-goers milling around in a crowd. It looked as if all
the town’s inhabitants had, suddenly and inexplicably, been wiped from existence.
“It doesn’t seem like the mission will be that difficult,” mused Julian, “without enemies to evade or civilians to protect.”
“Don’t be so hasty” was all Deckard said.
He removed a small device from his pocket, vaguely resembling a cell phone, only sleeker.
He tapped the screen and, with a static hum, holograms glimmered to life all around them.
Julian shook out his fingers, wincing. The new silver cuff felt heavier than the gold one. More like a manacle.
The market was suddenly full of all the people who had been conspicuously absent before. They all looked so real, from the
ruddiness of their cheeks to the eager arcing of their voices, children gripping their parents’ hands and couples nuzzling
each other’s faces. There was even a radiating warmth from the crowd, the heat of so many closely pressed bodies.
Nadiya flinched. “They’re holograms,” she said. “Where are the projector machines?”
“I wouldn’t waste your time looking for projectors,” Deckard replied. “The technology here is a good deal more advanced than
what you’re accustomed to at Valeran.”
But it did remind Julian of Valeran—of one thing in particular. The finale of the Thymos tournament. The holograms on the stage had
seem so real, too, from Psycha’s fluttering lace gown to Marionette’s gleaming teeth. Here, too, there was no indication of
illusion from the holograms. No glitching at their edges. No translucent ripples.
“The holograms are programmed to behave as real people,” Deckard went on, “and any of them might be an enemy in disguise.”
True enough, the inhabitants of Traumstadt began to shoot them strange looks, as the five of them remained unmoving in the
crowd. Still in their Valeran uniforms, they were not dressed appropriately for the snow and the cold, which also felt convincingly
real. In only his thin blazer, Julian had begun to shiver.
“What’s our justification for being here, then?” Klaudia kept her voice low. Speaking English was sure to be a dead giveaway.
“That’s up to you,” said Deckard. “Part of a clandestine officer’s skills is to invent a cover story and then enact it. Whatever
happens, do not abandon the performance.”
“Let’s get out of the crowd,” Nadiya said uneasily. “We’re already attracting too much attention.”
“Why don’t we want to attract attention?” Giselle couldn’t help but ask.
“This is an undercover mission,” Nadiya replied. Her gaze remained on Giselle for only a moment before shifting to Deckard.
“Right? Innocuousness is what makes the perfect clandestine officer, doesn’t it? The little gray man.”
“Indeed.” Deckard’s eyes flickered. “I’ll show you to your lodgings.”
Deckard led them out of the marketplace and up another cobblestoned road. A large, sprawling building appeared over the crest
of the hill, with a wraparound deck and several stone chimneys, all wafting smoke. The windows were aglow. It looked like—
“A . . . ski lodge?” Giselle frowned.
Julian was admittedly surprised that she recognized one. There couldn’t be much of a tourism industry in the backwoods of
Appalachia.
“Precisely,” Deckard said. “A little direction for your cover story.”
They continued up the path toward the lodge. The building, like everything else, seemed more than a fabricated set. Had they
not entered through the stadium door, Julian would have believed Traumstadt was real.
The four of them stamped the snow off their shoes before Deckard opened the door and ushered them inside.
Within was a great room with an enormous stone fireplace, surrounded by rather lumpy-looking couches. The hearth was lit and
the crackling sound it emitted was undeniably pleasant. It was no resort in Aspen, but there was something charmingly rustic
about it. Twin staircases ringed the fireplace and led to a second-story mezzanine.
Deckard directed them up the stairs and paused in front of the first door. “The girls’ room,” he said. “Here are your keys.”
He distributed small brass keys to Klaudia, Nadiya, and Giselle.
“A bit regressive, isn’t it?” Julian asked. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Klaudia when he said it, but admittedly, his mind was on her. The idea of sleeping and dressing in such close proximity made his heart thump.
“I would call it prudent,” said Deckard, which made Julian wonder how much, exactly, had been entered into his Valeran file.
He was beginning to suspect that certain tabloid articles had been included. Nadiya gave him a reproachful look.
The room to the left was apparently his. Deckard handed Julian a brass key.
He turned the lock and pushed the door open, stepping into a filmy darkness. Julian searched for a light switch on the wall.
Before he could find it, a lamp flicked on, and the room was bathed in a soft yellow glow.
A figure stood before him, partially blocking the lamplight. Julian stumbled back.
“Who are you?” His voice was hoarse with shock.
The figure stepped forward. He was a boy around Julian’s age, with a slight, almost gaunt figure. He had sallow skin that
Julian imagined might be a light golden-brown under different circumstances, but as it was he looked deprived of sunlight.
The dark circles under his eyes added to the sense of fragility.
By far the boy’s most distinctive feature was his hair. It was a silvery white and hung in a glossy sheet to the hollow of
his throat. It gave him an ethereal, almost ghostly quality. For a moment, Julian considered whether the boy was a hologram,
too.
Then the boy took another step toward him, close enough that Julian could sense his solidity, and he was both relieved and
unnerved. The boy was flesh and blood.
Wordlessly, the boy stuck out his hand, and Julian caught the flash of a silver cuff around his wrist. The engraving on it
read CRISPIN.
After a moment’s hesitation, Julian offered his hand back.
“Who are you?” he repeated.
“I’m your companion,” the boy said. His voice was airy and rasping, as if these were the first words he’d spoken in some time.
“Nice to meet you . . . Julian.”
Immediately Julian withdrew his hand. “You work with Deckard?”
“For him.”
“Well, tell Deckard I don’t need a babysitter,” Julian said. “There’s not exactly much debauchery to get up to here.”
“I’m not a babysitter,” Crispin said quietly. “I’m here to help you.”
“Help me with what? Dressing and eating well-balanced meals?” Clearly Deckard’s opinion of him was even lower than Julian
had imagined.
“No. With the mission,” said Crispin. “I’m here in case you have any questions.”
“I have a lot of questions, actually,” Julian said icily.
At that moment, Deckard opened the door. “Once you’ve settled in, come downstairs,” he said. “I’ll finish the briefing.”
The process of settling in was sure to be quick, given that the four of them had been ripped away from their lives at Valeran without even the opportunity