PART III: THE SITES

  Five separate conversations died simultaneously as the door to the SITE quarters swung open.

  The building that housed them—set apart from the regular barracks, reinforced walls thick enough to contain a Second Evolution meltdown—had been called many things by the recruits. The Watchtower. The Shadow Box. The Panopticon. None of them knew its true purpose: housing the wolves among the sheep.

  Remington and Steele stood framed in the doorway, winter light casting long shadows behind them. Five enhanced operators—each embedded in a different training cell—regarded the intruders with the careful neutrality of predators assessing other predators.

  Major Adelaide Beaumont uncrossed, then recrossed her legs on the couch, one finger still tracing invisible patterns on the armrest. Major Michelle Holland remained by the window, shoulders squared and chin slightly elevated. Lewis, Takahashi, and Prager froze in various postures of false relaxation, their eyes calculating distances and angles.

  “Afternoon,” Steele said, the word clipped. “Mind if we join your little coffee klatch?”

  “Please.” Beaumont gestured to the empty chairs. “We were just discussing yesterday’s... situation.”

  "Again?" Steele's voice carried a hint of exhaustion. "Thought we covered everything in that five-hour debrief yesterday."

  "Some points bear repeating," Remington said.

  Holland didn’t turn from the window. “You mean my assessment of Cimarron.”

  “I mean your killing a recruit and putting another in medical.” Remington planted her feet shoulder-width apart, arms folded across her chest.

  “I followed protocols.” Holland’s reflection in the glass remained expressionless. “Cimarron’s control was insufficient. Lawthorn demonstrated emotional instability under stress.”

  “So you crushed his skull?”

  “I neutralized a threat.” Holland finally pivoted away from the window, the scar tissue on her neck catching the light. “He moved to attack a superior officer.”

  Steele lowered himself into a chair that protested under his weight. “Washington’s implementing new assessment guidelines. No more testing to failure.”

  Holland’s nostrils flared slightly. “That defeats the purpose of the program.”

  “The purpose is to train enhanced soldiers,” Beaumont interjected, her voice carrying a hint of melody. “Not eliminate them before they can serve.”

  “Weak links break under pressure.” Holland’s thumb tapped against her thigh. “Better to identify them now than in the field.”

  “There’s a difference between identifying weaknesses and creating casualties,” Takahashi said from his corner.

  Steele produced paper clips from his pocket, arranging them in a neat row. “Washington wants status reports on all your embedded cells. Particular focus on evolution markers.”

  “Papa Cell has three showing pre-evolution signs,” Beaumont said. “Lawthorn most prominently, followed by Ramírez and Nowak.”

  “Romeo Cell lost its most promising candidate.” Holland kept her tone steady, but a muscle in her jaw pulsed. “The rest are progressing adequately.”

  “Juliet Cell has Carter approaching threshold,” Lewis added. “But his control is inconsistent.”

  “Kilo’s stable,” Holland continued. “No standouts, no risks.”

  Remington expelled air through her nose. “Convenient assessment from their embedded SITE.”

  “I report what I observe.” Holland’s gaze could have frozen water. “Personal feelings don’t enter into it.”

  “Speaking of observation,” Steele connected two paper clips with practiced fingers, “command’s concerned about unusual activity near the 100th meridian. Anything from your cells about it?”

  “Nowak mentioned unusual seismic patterns during breakfast,” Beaumont said. “She was a geologist before joining. Said something about harmonic frequencies that shouldn’t exist naturally.”

  “Carter’s been jumpy about it too,” Lewis added. “Claims his liquid metal form reacts to something coming from that direction.”

  “Interesting.” Steele twisted a paper clip into a spiral. “Keep an ear out. Command’s twitchy about coastal security.”

  Holland abandoned her window post to stand directly across from Remington. “Is Lawthorn being removed from the program?”

  “Why? Afraid he might wake up and have something to say about your methods?” Remington’s accent roughened the edges of her words.

  “Concerned about unit cohesion. His ability to appropriate powers makes him unpredictable. Combined with poor emotional control...”

  “He stays,” Steele interrupted. “Washington’s orders. Same with Ramírez.”

  “That’s a mistake.” Holland’s left hand curled into a loose fist. “His power spike during the Cimarron incident registered at near-evolution levels. Unchecked growth is dangerous.”

  “So is crushing skulls, but here we are.” Remington’s weight shifted to the balls of her feet. “New protocols, Holland. Assessment continues, but with restraint. No more casualties.”

  “Understood.” Holland’s voice could have chipped ice. “Though I maintain my assessment. Some recruits present more risk than value.”

  “Noted.” Steele gathered his paper clip creation. “Daily reports on all pre-evolution candidates. Flag any concerning behavior, but no independent action. Clear?”

  The SITEs nodded, though Holland’s chin dipped a beat later than the others.

  “Beaumont, walk with us.” Remington jerked her head toward the door. “Need your input on Papa Cell’s training adjustments.”

  Outside, the trio traversed the parade ground, late afternoon shadows stretching like grasping fingers across the asphalt.

  “Holland’s not backing down,” Beaumont said once they were out of earshot.

  “Notice that?” Steele’s tone was bone-dry. “Wonder what gave it away.”

  “She believes she’s right,” Beaumont continued. “Second Evolution changes perspective. The power gap between her and First Evolution recruits is... significant.”

  “So is the gap between following orders and killing recruits.” Remington’s pace quickened. “What’s your read on Lawthorn and Ramírez?”

  “Powerful. Dedicated. Unconventional.” Beaumont’s footfalls made no sound on the gravel. “Ramírez channels his abilities instinctively. Lawthorn’s more analytical, but his emotions run deep. Together, they’re formidable.”

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  “Evolution candidates?”

  “Both, eventually. Lawthorn’s closer, but his path is complicated by his appropriated abilities. They don’t integrate naturally.”

  Steele nodded. “Keep them focused on training. And keep Holland away from them until the dust settles.”

  “She’s right about one thing,” Beaumont said quietly. “Unchecked evolution is dangerous. I’ve seen what happens when someone breaks through without proper preparation.”

  “So what’s your recommendation?” Remington asked.

  “Push them, but systematically. Build the foundation before adding power. Too many recruits focus on raw ability without mastering basics.”

  “Like Cimarron.” Steele’s voice flattened.

  “Yes. She wanted to run before she could walk.” Beaumont glanced at the fading sunlight. “This program needs both approaches – Holland’s discipline and your nurturing. Neither works alone.”

  As they approached the training complex, Remington veered towards a stocky sergeant with a November Cell patch. “Sanders, what’s the status on Recruit Perry? Ready to go?”

  “Yes, Staff Sergeant. He’s on standby as ordered. Full recovery from yesterday’s training incident.”

  Remington nodded. “Good. Keep him there until further notice.”

  Sanders saluted and moved off toward the barracks.

  “Just keep your people alive,” Remington said, turning back to Beaumont. “We’ll worry about making them soldiers.”

  “That’s the challenge, isn’t it?” Beaumont’s lips curved slightly. “Turning gods into soldiers.”

  “They’re not gods.” Steele’s jaw clenched. “They’re kids with abilities they don’t understand. Our job is to make sure they live long enough to learn.”

  “Anything else we have to cover?” Remington scanned the gathered SITEs.

  Lewis cleared his throat. “Actually, Contreras from Oscar Cell was asking for you, Sergeant Steele. Said she needs to speak with her cell commander about something important.”

  Steele stiffened, gum-chewing halting mid-cycle. “Contreras Sabah-what’s-her-name? The heat generator?”

  “Sabah-teeny,” Lewis mangled. “Yeah, her.”

  “Does she know you’re a SITE?”

  Lewis shook his head. “No, sir. Overheard her telling Carter she needed to bring something to your attention. Seemed nervous about it.”

  “I’ll find her after the memorial tomorrow.” Steele’s expression darkened. “Keep your distance. Last thing we need is another recruit realizing they’re being watched.”

  The three parted ways, each heading to their respective duties. The training would continue tomorrow, with or without Lawthorn. The development of these recruits couldn’t wait – not with whatever was happening along the 100th meridian, not with Project Blackout accelerating, not with other nations pursuing their own enhancement programs.

  Evolution, like war, waited for no one.

  PART IV: CELL COMMANDER

  Steele checked his watch: 1915. Fifteen minutes left of office hours.

  His desk creaked as he leaned back in his chair. The converted dorm room at the entrance of the hall served as his makeshift office, with one of the bunk beds removed to make space for his desk. A heavy piece with a dark walnut top, black metal frame, and two drawers on the right side. It wasn’t much, but it gave him a place to manage his cell away from recruit eyes. Three stacks of personnel files covered the metal surface: green tabs for promising recruits, yellow for those making standard progress, red for problem cases.

  The yellow pile was largest, as it should be. Red contained just two files, both for recruits struggling with basic discipline rather than ability control. The green pile had grown this week, though Steele wondered how many would stay there following the previous day’s breakdown.

  He pulled the medical report that had been distributed to all Cell Commanders, opened it, and scanned the details about Lawthorn’s condition.

  A knock at the door interrupted his reading.

  “Enter.”

  Vicky stepped into the office, standing at rigid attention. Her drill and ceremony had improved—at least she no longer looked like she was being electrocuted during formation—but she still held herself too stiffly.

  “Sir, Recruit Contreras reports as ordered.”

  “At ease before you sprain something.” Steele popped his gum. “You have a request?”

  Vicky relaxed marginally, her shoulders dropping perhaps half an inch.

  “Permission to visit Recruit Lawthorn in medical, sir.”

  “Why?”

  “I—” Her hands twitched at her sides. “We trained together before USEC. He helped me with—control my abilities when they first manifested.”

  Steele studied her, noting the faint shimmer of warmth around her hands. The temperature in the small office rose a few degrees.

  “You were there when it happened.”

  “Yes, sir. I saw everything.”

  “And you want to what—hold his hand? Tell him everything will be okay? This isn’t summer camp, Contreras.”

  “No, sir.” The heat around her fingers intensified, though her face remained carefully neutral. “I believe I can help with his recovery. Our abilities are... complementary.”

  Steele closed Lawthorn’s file and returned it to the green stack. The action bought him time to think. The kid had taken a hell of a hit. Based on the medical reports, he’d start regaining consciousness tonight. Having a familiar face might help his recovery—or it might trigger another emotional outburst.

  “His current status classifies him as Isolated Medical Recovery. No visitors.”

  Vicky’s eyes dropped to the floor, the thermal glow encircling her palms subsiding.

  “However.” Steele extracted a paper clip from his drawer and began unfolding it. “Dr. Prakash did recommend gradual stimulus reintroduction once he stabilizes. You have TTSS tomorrow at 0830?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll arrange for you to be excused for thirty minutes. Report to medical at 0900. You’ll have fifteen minutes with him, supervised by medical staff.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Don’t thank me, Contreras. This isn’t a favor.” Steele straightened the paper clip into a line. “Medical believes familiar connections may accelerate neural recovery. This is part of his treatment protocol, not social hour.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “And Contreras?”

  “Sir?”

  “If he shows any signs of agitation, or if his abilities start to manifest, you leave immediately. Clear?”

  “Crystal clear, sir.”

  “Dismissed.”

  Vicky turned to go, then hesitated at the door.

  “Sir, permission to speak freely?”

  Steele’s eyes narrowed. “Granted.”

  “Lance didn’t deserve what happened. He was just trying to help.”

  “No one deserves what happened, recruit. But attacking a recruit—”

  “He wasn’t attacking.” The words came out fast, almost desperate. “He was trying to stop her. There’s a difference.”

  “Not from where she was standing.”

  “And Briella? Did she deserve it too?” The temperature spiked again, enough that Steele could see heat waves distorting the air around her.

  “Control yourself, recruit.”

  Vicky’s hands curled into fists, her knuckles turning white. The papers on Steele’s desk began to curl at the edges, yellowing from the invisible heat. A framed photo cracked with a sharp pop, and the metal pen holder started to glow a dull red.

  “I said—” Steele stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. “Contreras, stop!” He spat his gum across the desk, the wad flying between them.

  Vicky took a deep breath, the heat gradually subsiding.

  “What Major Holland did wasn’t an assessment. It was...” She struggled for the word. “It was cruel.”

  Steele considered his next words carefully. The kid wasn’t wrong. But acknowledging that undermined the chain of command, something he couldn’t afford with all the eyes on them.

  “The Enhanced Corps is developing protocols for a threat we barely understand. Mistakes will be made. Lives will be lost.” Steele picked up his gum from where it had landed on a folder, examined it for a moment, then tossed it into the trash. “Your job is to learn, adapt, and survive. Leave the command decisions to those appointed to make them.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “0900 tomorrow. Don’t be late.”

  “Will that be all, sir?”

  “Dismissed.”

  Steele watched her leave, the door closing with precisely controlled force. She was angry but contained it—good sign. Maybe Oscar Cell had more green files than he’d thought.

  He pulled Vicky’s file from the yellow stack, opened it, and made a brief note about her emotional control under stress. Then, after a moment’s consideration, he transferred it to the green pile.

  Lights would be out in eight minutes. He should finish reviewing the files, prepare for tomorrow’s schedule, coordinate with medical about Vicky’s visit. Instead, he found himself staring at Lawthorn’s file again.

  The kid had power—too much, if Holland’s assessment was accurate. The question wasn’t whether he’d reach Second Evolution, but when. And whether he’d survive it when he did.

  Steele closed the file and checked his watch again: 1923.

  Lights out.