Interlude: Anne Drake

“Today, we are going to review certain basics,” explained Professor Palamar. “And then apply them to the methods of your unit, to see how they can be improved.”

Anne tried hard to concentrate on the class. She’d done the required reading, especially after last time. That didn’t stop her from being nervous.

Not about the class, but about after. All thanks to a simple message. 

Pick you up at five. Outside school. - Nick.

She still wasn’t certain if it was a date. 

Or just two friends hanging out. 

Which was it? 

The uncertainty is going to kill me, she thought.

“In most battles between humans, the first to fire is usually the first to win,” Palamar was saying. “Why is that?”

Cadet Ashton raised his hand. “First strike advantage, sir. The defender has to survive the attack in order to fight back.”

“And why is the defender’s survival in doubt, Ashton?”

Sergeant-Major Keaton spoke up. “Weapons are more powerful than armour, most of the time.”

“That is correct, Keaton. For the last three centuries, our weapons have been stronger than our defences. Bullets are stronger than most body armour, and even armour penetrating bullets are available. The era of the mounted knight in plate mail passed when guns became accurate enough to pierce armour. The only heavily armoured unit on a modern battlefield is the tank, and it, too, is vulnerable to more powerful weapons.” Palamar cast a gaze across the classroom. “Added to that, modern weapons are far more accurate than any of the past, thanks to computer-assisted aiming and other technological tools. Which means that if you are the first to fire, it is likely your target will be destroyed before they can fight back. Does that approach also hold up in combat against the aliens, Miss Drake?”

Anne jerked her attention back to the class. “Uh, sort of. A lot of aliens wear pretty strong body armour. The Lynxian Stealth Rover, for example, has a fifty-point damage reduction.”

Palamar raised an eyebrow. “Damage reduction?”

“I mean, it’s resistant to bullets and small arms fire. They basically bounce off it.”

“How does that impact your tactics?”

“Mostly we need to hit it with something stronger than bullets. Usually missiles or grenades work.”

“And is the Lynxian Stealth Rover the most dangerous enemy you face?”

“Of course not. There’s Grizzeloid Tanks, those are a lot tougher, and Carnotaurs of course.” 

“So, what is the primary defence of the Rover?”

“Mostly the fact that it’s invisible. We usually need motion tracking sensors to detect it, or it goes past a nanobot tripwire and I get to know.”

Palamar nodded. “Which brings us to one of my favourite vegetables, the humble onion. In Tactics, we call it the Survivability Onion.” 

Palamar clicked on the projector, and a slide with five concentric circles appeared. 

The first, outermost, circle had large, bold letters around it, saying “Don’t Be Seen.”

Within it, the second circle bore the words “Don’t be Targeted.”

The third circle read “Don’t Be Hit.”

The fourth, penultimate, circle, said “Don’t be Breached.”

And the fifth, innermost circle, was a glaring red dot with tiny black letters: “Don’t be Destroyed.”

The professor stood back for a minute, allowing the students to digest the message.

“The Survivability Onion,” Palamar said, “is fundamental to the design of weapons systems and tactics. It summarizes the core principles behind every piece of equipment you will ever use. Every weapon, every type of military unit, utilizes these principles to accomplish its mission of killing the enemy while surviving on their own. Memorize the onion, because no other vegetable will ever contribute as much to your health.” 

Palamar’s gaze fixated on Charlotte’s father. “Officer Eden? Which aspect of the onion does a modern jet fighter optimize?”

“Don’t be seen,” replied Eden. “Modern stealth aircraft opt for a low radar cross-section, which makes it difficult for other aircraft - or even ground-based radars - to lock on to them.”

“And does that work against the aliens?”

“Not as such. Alien scanners aren’t purely radar-based, so they have the ability to spot us regardless of cross-section.”

“So, what is your primary defense against the alien?”

“Speed and maneuverability. We focus on making it as difficult as possible for the enemy to target us with their beams.”

“And this is which layer of the onion?”

“‘Don’t be targeted’.”

“Precisely. You can’t hide from the Hierarchy spacecraft, so ‘don’t be seen’ is out of the question. However, you can make it very, very hard for them to target you. Mr. Ashton, if the Hierarchy spacecraft successfully targets a human fighter, what happens?”

Ashton hesitated. “The aircraft can try to break the lock?”

Palamar shot him a pitying gaze. “The Hierarchy beams travel at lightspeed, Mr. Ashton. You will not have time to dodge any more. That is why it is vital for any human aircraft to keep maneuvering, ensure that it does not come within the crosshairs of the enemy. On the opposite side - what happens if a human fighter aims at an alien craft?”

“We hit it with missiles?”

“We launch missiles at it, Mr. Ashton. However, missiles have a top speed. Anyone other than Officer Eden care to share what that is?”

There was some fumbling around the tables before the Navy man spoke up. “Mach Four, four-point-five at best.”

“And the Hierarchy ships are capable of what top speed?”

“Mach fifteen to twenty.”

“So, even if you fire a missile at a Hierarchy spacecraft, it can outrun the missile - if it knows it is coming. What part of the onion is this?”

“Don’t be hit,” Keaton responded. 

“And suppose, due to good luck or a good angle for the shot, the missile actually hits the alien craft. What happens then?”

“A single missile usually can’t take down an alien craft,” replied Eden. “It usually takes several missiles over time.”

“What happens when the first missile hits, everyone? Come now, surely you have seen videos of this.”

“Alien ships shrug off the first missile,” the cadet sitting next to Ashton replied. “They just fly past it with no effect.”

“That’s not true,” Anne found herself saying. 

Professor Palamar’s gaze swept to her. “Yes?”

“A Hierarchy Strikefighter has an active shield,” Anne explained. “The shield is strong enough to bounce off a single missile strike from anything short of a standard Hellfire-X missile. The first missile just knocks the shield down. You need to hit it with a second missile to actually damage the hull.”

“That’s not how it works,” the cadet said. “I’m Army Air Defence, and we’ve seen cases where a strikefighter was hit with multiple missiles, one after another, and it just kept going on and on.”

Anne thought for a second. “What type of missile, what warhead, and what time interval?”

“That’s classified.”

“But not that classified,” commented Palamar. “Consider, cadet, that everyone in this room has adequate security clearance for anything you wish to share.” 

“.... CAMM-ER missiles, second generation. Ten kilo warhead.”

<Nanocloud>: Hey, Andrew - what’s the damage done by a CAMM-ER missile? Ten kilo warhead.

<Belessar>: … ten kilos? Assuming a TNT warhead, 250,000 damage. Why?

<Nanocloud>: Homework. And the Hierarchy Strikefighter has what specs? Shield and armour points?

<Belessar>: … Two million HP, two hundred thousand shield, and a shield regen rate of 2,000 per second. This is homework?

<Nanocloud>: For Theory of Tactics. Thanks.

“Miss Drake?” Palamar asked.

“Sorry, Professor. So here’s what happens: the Hierarchy Strikefighter has a shield. The CAMM-ER is just about strong enough to knock down the shield, but not strong enough to do much damage beyond that. The first missile knocks down the shield. However, Strikefighter shields recharge in about a hundred seconds.” Anne paused to let that sink in. “So if you hit the Strikefighter with a CAMM-ER missile, all it has to do is retreat for about two minutes and it comes back with a fully charged shield. At which point you have to start all over again.”

“Bloody hell,” Eden muttered from behind her. “.... Sorry, folks.”

“To take down a Strikefighter with those missiles,” Anne continued, “you’ll need several hits in close succession. About seven or eight strikes, within less than a minute - preferably within ten seconds of each other.”

Professor Palamar nodded. “An excellent illustration of the fourth layer, Miss Drake. The shield layer prevents the Hierarchy Strikefighter from being breached, despite multiple hits. Would you not agree, Cadet Thatcher?”

“That’s not in any of our briefings,” the cadet protested.

“You can choose to rely only on what’s in the briefing,” Palamar said. “Many graveyards are filled with such soldiers. However, if one of my classmates were partnered to the person with the highest recorded number of Strikefighter kills, then I might consider their observations as more accurate than a …. Briefing.”

“Doesn’t the need to hit it multiple times also mean the fifth layer applies?” asked the Navy man. “I mean, it can take several hits and not be destroyed.”

“Very good observation, CPO Saddler. The Strikefighter thus applies the third layer - don’t be hit - the fourth layer, don’t be breached, and the fifth layer, don’t be destroyed, to ensure its battle-effectiveness. In short, the Hierarchy’s fighter is a combat unit that has very high survivability against human weapons.” 

The professor moved to the next slide, showing an image of a Challenger tank. “Let us consider that centrepiece of the battlefield, the mighty Main Battle Tank. Which part of the onion does this use?”

“Don’t be breached,” Sergeant-Major Keaton responded. “Tanks aren’t exactly easy to hide, and you can draw a bead on them from several miles out, but they’re tough bastards to break.”

“Infamously true, Sergeant-Major. A tank’s survivability is based around a strong fourth-layer defence. Once breached, however, a tank is relatively easy to kill. Beyond the tough frontal armour plates lie a whole host of vulnerable electronics and moving parts. In a sense, the mighty battle tank is a classic example of a unit with a single, specialist focus on one layer of the onion." The screen moved on, showing an infantryman concealed in shrubbery with a bazooka. “At the other extreme, we have your humble infantryman. Vulnerable to virtually everything on the battlefield. Can’t dodge bullets, usually can’t survive being hit by one. Once targeted, soon dead. His only defence is concealment - to not be seen. First layer.” The screen clicked forward, this time showing a submarine. “In the naval environment, the submarine survives on being unseen. Slower than a surface boat, more vulnerable due to the nature of its environment, and unlikely to survive a determined barrage of depth charges. Yet, the hunters of the deep are well feared. The expert in going unseen.” 

Another click, and the screen showed a Sarnak Trooper. “Alien version of infantry. Also good at staying unseen - they have achieved enough ambushes to prove that. But there is more to them than just being an alien version of our commandoes. They have the strength to shrug off bullets from our people, and recover rapidly from wounds. A classic example of both ‘Don’t be breached’ - in surviving bullet wounds - and ‘Don’t be destroyed’, in their recovery.” 

Another click, and the screen showed a Carnotaur, standing in the destroyed ruins of a dozen tanks.

“And then we have the kaiju,” Palamar said. “Or, as many have taken to calling it lately, the Carnotaur. What aspects of the survivability onion do these utilize?”

“Fourth and fifth layers,” Cadet Ashton said. “Difficult to hurt, even harder to kill.” 

Professor Palamar inclined his head slightly. “Miss Drake, what do you think?”

Anne swallowed. 

Carnotaurs… She thought back to Ehu-tu-Vettorak, and the others that Andrew had faced. 

Tough to hurt, definitely. Regen, that too. But… 

“They’re also fast,” she said. “And, um, difficult to hit.”

“Are they not forty feet tall, or more?” asked the professor. “Is marksmanship so poor that targets that size cannot be acquired?”

“The issue isn’t their size,” Anne replied. “It’s their speed. A Carnotaur in battle is never still. It’s always moving, always dodging… We tried artillery strikes on them, and they don’t stand still long enough. And then there was the one which ducked into a lake to avoid being caught up in a crossfire.

“Carnotaurs are hunters. On their homeworld they hunt equally large animals, so they’re pretty good at sneaking up on their prey. We’ve only ever fought them in cities and amidst environments where we have the advantage - but if we ever have to fight them in mountain country, it’s going to be a different fight.”

“How so?”

“A Carnotaur can climb a mountain way faster than the average human. They’re survivalists - they live their entire lives outdoors, and hunt for their food in packs. A city doesn’t offer them the proper type of cover, but mountain country might. Caves, crags, valleys and hills are exactly where they’d be most comfortable sneaking around and concealing themselves.”

“An interesting observation. You believe that speed enables them to avoid being hit?”

“I’ve seen it.”

“Similar to maneuverability, then.” Another click, and the next image loaded - a Grizzeloid Stealth Tank. “Here is yet another Hierarchy weapons system. What layers of the onion does it apply?”

“Fourth and fifth,” Cadet Ashton called out. “Difficult to breach, and difficult to kill once breached.”

“First layer, too,” Sergeant-Major Keaton pointed out. “Those things can turn invisible.”

“Three layers of the onion,” Palamar pointed out. “The more layers of the onion a system can utilize, and the better it can utilize them, the better its defences. Now, we come to the test.” He clicked a button.

The image on the screen was familiar. Very familiar.

The Wolf Armour stood tall amidst the ruins of Tanisport. Cracks ran across the surface, and the armour was still standing. 

This was a photo taken during Andrew’s ‘pit stop’, the short break he’d taken amidst the battle to try and patch the major systems. She could see him, decked in the nanofibre weave undersuit, trying to fix the motors on one of the greaves, with Jetstream in the background. After the Gurkha reinforcements had arrived.

“The Wolf Class Battle Armour,” Bohdan Palamar said quietly. “Once upon a time, giant mecha were considered something of a joke. Serious militaries laughed at the idea. Said they would be unstable on their feet, less effective than a tank, and easy targets for the enemy. Most inventors who built giant mecha have ended up in large graves. However, at Second Tanisport, the Wolf put all doubts to rest. I would venture, quite permanently. What layers of the onion does the Wolf utilize, Cadet Thatcher?”

“Er, fifth layer?” Thatcher sounded startled. “Don’t be destroyed?” 

“A valid answer. The Wolf-class had been in continuous combat for several hours at this point, and taken damage multiple times. However, the operator was able to patch the armour and get it back into reasonable fighting condition within a mere fifteen minutes. Any other layers, Cadet Ashton?”

“Don’t be breached?” asked Ashton. “The Wolf mech took a lot of enemy fire, and still kept going.”

“Miss Drake, would you agree?”

Anne pursed her lips. “It’s a bit… complicated. The Wolf is tough enough to handle small arms fire - and, well, a lot of medium grade weaponry as well - but it can’t survive, say, a direct tank shell.”

“How much can it take?” asked Ashton.

Anne shrugged. “About thirty times as much power as your standard bullet? Belessar built it to be grenade-proof. And small bomb proof. I think anything less than a mortar shell wouldn’t scratch it?”

“Could you reasonably hit the Wolf with a mortar?” asked Keaton. “Those are meant for fixed targets. And from what I’ve seen of that thing, it’s anything but fixed.”

“Andrew’s not going to stand still for a mortar,” Anne pointed out. “Or artillery shells.”

“Missiles?” asked Eden. “I haven’t seen the Hierarchy use them, but theoretically missiles could hit a mech.”

“Miss Drake?” the professor asked. “You can choose to keep the information secret.”

Anne shrugged. “The Wolf is toast, right now. I don’t see the point. Andrew has the ability to dodge missile fire - and bullet fire, and virtually any kind of projectile weapon.” 

“Another layer of the onion,” commented Ashton. “Don’t be hit.”

“Is that part of the design of the Wolf?” asked Eden. “Or is it an ultrahuman power?”

“A bit of both, actually,” Anne said. “It has a Surface Evasion Controller to help it dodge, but Andrew mostly uses his power. The Wolf is a lot more effective because it lets Andrew use his base abilities. His power treats it as a suit, and not a separate vehicle.”

“So… having a human-shaped mech means that you can use any ultrahuman power that’s linked with your human form,” Ashton said. “How did you figure that out?”

Anne shrugged. “It wasn’t any grand revelation. Andrew could use his powers with armour, then he got bigger armour and his powers just sort of accommodated it. He kept making bigger armour, and his powers… I guess they just stretched the definition of ‘armour’? Either way, it works, so we never asked too many questions about why.”

“Beg pardon, but that does not make sense,” Thatcher said. “It’s as if you’re suggesting you managed to fool your power. Which suggests that powers think.”

“Of course powers think. According to Andrew, his power tends to troll him.”

Thatcher’s eyes were wide with surprise. “‘Troll’ him? Are you taking the mickey?”

“As fascinating as this is,” Palamar said, “we seem to be getting off topic. Returning to the layers of the onion, which ones do we have?”

“Fifth, fourth, and third,” Sergeant-Major Keaton summarized. “Survives being severely damaged - don’t be killed. Avoids minor damage - don’t be breached. Avoids being hit by missiles and ranged weapons of various types - don’t be hit.”

“Also flight-capable and moves really fast, both on ground and in the air,” added Eden. “Which makes it a nightmare to target. Elongated and non-standard shape, as well, so you never know where exactly to target. Anne, does the Wolf have any heat sources? Jets and the like?”

Anne shook her head. “The flight suite is completely antigravity.”

“So, no heat sources for an IR missile to lock on to. And in flight, Belessar uses portals at various points, so he can exit at one place and appear somewhere completely different, messing up any type of physics-based tracking systems. The Wolf’s top speed’s been clocked at over three hundred kilometres per hour, and he maneuvers like a pro. Second layer, at par with most jet fighters. Don’t be targeted.”

“That’s four of the five layers of the onion,” Ashton said. “Now all that’s needed is for the suit to turn invisible.”

Anne grinned. “The Wolf Armour has an onboard stealth field generator. It can actually turn invisible, when it needs to.”

“.... Five out of five, then.”

“Indeed,” Palamar cracked a smile. “I brought up this specimen because it is one of the rare weapons systems that has shown its effectiveness in utilizing multiple layers of the onion, to fight and win. Although even I was not aware of its stealth capability. As you can see, it is possible to have a weapons system excel in multiple areas. Now consider - the more areas of the onion a weapons system is strong in, compared to its expected enemies, the more effective it is in combat, is it not?” 

There were nods all around the room. 

“There are two ways to embrace the onion. One is through basic design. A tank is a tank because it has heavy armour, meaning it must embrace layer four of the onion as part of its manufacture. But, can you hide a tank?”

“Not while moving,” said Ashton, “but you could cover it with camouflage while it’s parked.”

“There’s also the ADAPTIV system,” added Keaton. “It can make a tank look like a car under infrared.”

“Indeed. Why do we no longer use ADAPTIV?” 

“Because it only works under infrared? And it doesn’t fool Hierarchy sensors?”

“An excellent point. However, the idea of wrapping a tank in camouflage netting still makes sense. Additionally, consider that there are ultrahumans who can create illusions. What if you could make a tank look like something else?”

Keaton nodded. “So you’re saying we don’t have to be limited by equipment design. We can modify and improvise our gear to use other aspects of the onion.”

“In practice, most militaries already do so. Whether it is as basic as painting a tank green to blend with the background, or concealing launch sites for nuclear ICBMs, survivability is enhanced on by tactics and doctrines that embrace multiple layers of the onion. Which is why you must strategize about how to enhance your own survivability layers - and how to overcome those of the enemy. For homework, you are to reflect on your current weapons system, and explain how you will use each layer of the envelope to ensure your survivability in your next battle. You will present your ideas to the next class, and critique those of your fellow students. Class dismissed.”

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Back at Sandhurst Prep, Anne rushed to the locker room. 

Nicholas hadn’t mentioned where they would be going, but somehow she didn’t think a school uniform would fit in. Not if it was a date.

Was it?

She still wasn’t sure. The aggravating part was … she couldn’t ask anyone. 

Avra would have called it a date. So, for that matter, would Maria. Or Agni. 

Three women who would have been happy to chip in their views, close enough that she could confide in them. All three gone, now. 

She forced herself to break away from those thoughts. None of them would have wanted her thinking that way. 

There were others she could reach out to, of course - Daisy Cullen or Donna Bartoli - but she just wasn’t close enough to them to talk about this. The nearest thing she had to a friend in this school was Sally - and she’d made her opinions well known. 

Either way - date or no date - she wasn’t going to show up in a bright red school uniform for Nick’s dirty ice cream. 

That was what the dress was for. 

The nice thing about London was that no-one questioned a sixteen-year-old walking into a store and buying a dress. The lady at Harvey Nichols had been quite helpful in selecting a maxi skirt.

Or maybe it was the fact that she now had money. Two years ago, she wouldn’t have imagined spending eight hundred dollars on a single item of clothing.

According to the salesperson, the dress was a ‘courtney belted cloque maxi dress’, whatever that meant. She donned the garment, its midnight blue folds cascading over her body, and checked her image in the mirror.

It did not show her a teenager. 

The reflection that stared back at her looked … very grown up. Serious. Mature. Not a girl still in school; a woman who was ready to take on the world.

Maybe this was what it meant to grow up? Then again, she was going on a maybe-date. Well, maybe not a date. 

At the moment, she would have welcomed her pager going off. 

Traitorously, it stayed silent. Where were invading aliens when you really needed them? 

She took a deep breath. Focus. Stay cool. 

It’s probably not a date. Just the two of us hanging out and having fun. 

Right. 

The phone buzzed. Not, sadly, the SURGE pager, which would have pushed this problem down the road.

A message from Nick.

At the gate. You done with class?

She typed back. Coming.

Her bag and her uniform would have to go somewhere - she couldn’t very well lug it around, and unlike Andrew she didn’t have an extradimensional inventory. Locker, then. 

Taking a deep breath, she marched off towards the gate. 

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Nicholas was waiting in the autocar outside, wearing a windcheater and faded jeans. His eyebrows rose slightly as she sat next to him. “Wow. That looks fancy.”

“It’s just something I had lying around,” Anne temporized. “I figured school uniforms wouldn’t fit with … wherever we’re going?”

“Oh, you got that right,” Nick grinned. “Autocar navigation: set course for Mamason’s Ice Cream, Bagshot.”

“What’s Mamason’s?”

“Only the best ice cream in London. You’re going to love it.”

Mamason’s Ice Cream turned out to be a nice, cozy ice cream parlour. The sign above proudly proclaimed ‘Home of Authentic Filipino Ice Cream’. 

Nick found them a table and promptly pulled up the menu on the affixed tab. “Here. You can choose from a whole lot of flavours. I’d recommend the Ube or the Buko Pandan, they’re both amazing.”

“What are those?”

“They’re both tropical fruits from Asia. Mamasons is the only place that makes this stuff - you can’t get it anywhere else in London. Say, you ever been to the Philipines?”

“Uh, no? I’ve been to India for a bit, but didn’t get to see much.”

“Huh. I thought you’d have done a fair bit of travelling, what with the whole superhero thing.”

Anne snorted. “Mostly we just get to visit places right before the aliens land and try to blow them up. There’s not a lot of time for sightseeing.”

“Right, that makes sense. So, what do you like? It’s on me, so go wild.”

Anne skimmed through the menu, then picked what looked like the safest option. “I’ll try the mango float.” 

“Cool. One mango float and one ube-and-matcha, then. So how’ve your classes at the Academy been?”

“They’re interesting,” Anne shrugged. “The professors are… different, I guess, from our teachers at school.”

“I suppose they’d have to be. You’re studying with career officers, right?”

“Yeah, and I have Sally’s mom and Charlotte’s dad in my class. It’s a bit weird at times.”

Nick nodded. “It’s probably just as weird for them. I know Mum finds it odd to talk about you.”

“She does?”

“Kind of? She usually talks about my classmates as if they’re kids - which to her they are - but she talks about you as if you’re an adult. Then she remembers you’re in school with me and, well, she talks around that.”

“What does she say?”

“Nice things, mostly. Don’t worry about it.”

“Oh, come on. You can’t just hint and then leave me hanging.”

“Mostly, she keeps saying you’re really brave. She was pretty upset about the school shooting thing.” Nick hesitated. “It’s okay to talk about that?”

Anne shrugged. “It’s fine. I’ve seen worse. I saw worse the same day, and your mum was right there helping us through that.”

“Yeah… I saw some videos of Tanisport.” Nick shuddered. “That must have been really scary.”

“It was… but I guess I’ve grown used to it. I’d been in four alien defences up to then, plus overwatch for Belessar on a lot of gang raids? So I guess I’d sort of gotten used to the idea that people might be shooting at me.”

“Wow.” Nick’s tone was admiring. “Mum’s right, you are brave.”

“So’s your mum,” Anne replied. “She gets up in a helicopter where anyone can shoot at her. Me, I just stay safely tucked in amidst the command tent.” 

Nick paused awkwardly. “I suppose. It’s sort of …. Sometimes, I don’t know if I can live up to their standards.”

“... Their standards?”

“I went to visit Colonel Goldman’s grave.” Nick took a deep breath. “It was …. kind of hard. He was a hero, right?”

Anne nodded. “Definitely.”

“Do you ever… you know …. wish that you didn’t have your powers? That you didn’t have to be fighting all the time?” Nick gulped. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“You weren’t,” Anne temporized. What did Nick mean? “Why do you ask that? I mean, it’s a question, but …. I get the feeling there’s something more to what you’re asking?”

The boy took another deep breath. “It’s … not about you, actually. It’s just…. my mother’s a hero, she fights the aliens. My dad was a hero. I guess … I keep thinking, do I have to do the same thing?”

Ah.

This she understood.

“You remember when Miss Wilberforce asked me about going to fight the aliens?”

“Yeah, some parts. I kind of got distracted when you named Mum as one of your ‘best friends’.”

“.... I did that?”

“You did that. Something about them being like your family.”

“Fair point. Molly has always been pretty nice to me…. well, except for the one time, and she wasn’t entirely wrong.”

“I talked to Mum about that. It’s not your fault.”

“Thanks. Anyway, one thing we agree on - me, Andrew, my dad, everybody who fights - we are volunteers. We go because we want to. And maybe so others don’t have to. I mean, I love my Dad, but the last place I want him is in the middle of an active warzone. I guess the same applies for you and your mum? She fights so you don’t have to, and you can have a life away from all this.”

“It …. feels like I’m taking advantage of someone else’s sacrifices.”

Anne snorted. “I doubt your mum will think you’re taking advantage of her. I’m assuming she pays for your school and clothes and stuff?”

Nick chuckled. “Even the guitar lessons.” 

“So, she’s indirectly paying for this ice cream?” Anne teased.

“God, no. I have a part-time job babysitting.”

“... You babysit.”

“Hey, I paid for my new guitar with that money.”

“Sure,” Anne grinned. “Anyway, I shamelessly mooch off my dad for room, board, groceries, and other stuff. Am I taking advantage?”

“Well, obviously not.”

“So? If your mom’s doing her job, and keeping you safe in the process, how are you taking advantage?”

Nick smiled. “You’re very hard to argue with, you know?” 

“I absolutely am. You should go collect our ice creams.” 

“Huh.” Nick stared at the screen, which read ORDER READY - PLEASE COLLECT. “I’ll be right back.”

The mango float was far better than she’d expected. Nick seemed to enjoy the ube-and-matcha, which was a hypnotic mix of brown and green she’d never seen in confectionery before. 

“How did you find this place?” she asked.

“Mamason’s is pretty famous in these parts,” Nick replied. “They have about twenty locations across London, and they’ve been moving upcountry for the last few years. I guess they opened the Bagshot outlet when I was seven or eight?” 

“So you grew up in London?”

“In and around. Mum’s had a few transfers but she always manages to bounce back here. Most of us know each other since ages - Charlotte, Flavia and Reg were always around when I was a kid.”

“You must be good friends.”

“Yeah, we’ve been in each other’s places most of the time. They were the first ones I talked to about the whole test tube thing. It was a bit odd, growing up knowing - well, thinking - that I’d never find out who my dad was. I guess I got a bit obsessed about it?”

“Obsessed how?”

“Got the numbers of a whole lot of sperm banks and called them to see if they would talk about donors and recipients.”

Anne giggled. “That must have been weird.”

“In my defence, I was twelve. And did not know that stuff is confidential. Tried pretending to be a dissatisfied customer.” Nick bit his lip. “Don’t tell anyone this, but I even convinced Flavia to pretend to be the dissatisfied customer.”

“.... Did it work?”

“Obviously not. They wouldn’t entertain her, even when she did a damn good impersonation of my mum. In hindsight, we were extremely stupid.”

“In your defence, you were twelve. I guess I did plenty of stupid stuff when I was twelve….” Anne paused. “Although my mum died when I was eleven, so some of that might have been for other reasons.”

“Yeah. And my dad died before I ever met him.” Nick sighed. “I wish Mum had told me, that’s all. At least I wouldn’t have made a fool of myself calling sperm banks.”

“Family makes fools of us all, I guess. My grandmother was obsessed with finding her dad.”

“Your grandmother?”

“Her name was Sangeetha Quentin. Her dad was a guy from India who vanished, and she could never trace him out. Spent years trying to track him down, got into huge fights with her daughter - my mum - over it. Or at least that’s what my dad tells me.”

“Oh. I guess you understand, then.”

“A little. You can’t let it bother you. The past is past, it’s gone… there’s nothing you can do to change it.” Anne thought, momentarily, of her own mother. “And you can’t dwell on it, either.”

“It’s not that easy. I just learnt I’m half Jewish, you know?”

“And? I’m one-eighth Indian and one-sixteenth German on my mom’s side, one-eighth Jewish and one-sixteenth Vietnamese on my dad’s. I’ve never been to Jerusalem or Vietnam, and my only trip to India was on work. You don’t magically inherit your parent’s culture or attitudes with your DNA.”

“You’re one-eighth Jewish?” 

“From my dad’s grandma, who I never met. Look, why are you so hung up about the Jewish thing anyway?”

“I’m not, honestly? I’m more thinking about what my dad would want me to do….”

“What did your mom say about that?”

“.... She said he’d want me to just be myself and be happy.” 

“That makes total sense. Colonel Goldman wasn’t the type to harangue people. At least, he didn’t strike me as the type.”

“She said his nickname was ‘Snake’.”

“Yeah, it was. Isn’t hers Mongoose?”

“Yeah. Sounds like a match made in heaven.”

“Or in a bad romance novel.”

Nick snorted. “That possibility did cross my mind. So - would you be okay with telling me more about him?”

“I didn’t know him much,” Anne said. “But I’ll tell you whatever I did know.”

“Thanks, Anne. I appreciate it.”

As Nick dug into his ice cream, Anne thought for a moment. 

It was pretty obvious this wasn’t a date. And she’d totally misunderstood what dirty ice cream meant. 

But …. perhaps she’d wanted it to be one? 

Which meant she had to face the truth. Sally was right. 

She liked Nick. As in, not just as a friend. 

Unfortunately, she wasn’t entirely sure Nick liked her….

For a moment, she felt regret at her decision to not use her nanobots to monitor her friends. Although, in fairness, it was unlikely Nick would be confessing his hidden inner feelings for her to a mirror. 

Which put her in …. roughly the same situation as any girl who liked a guy, but didn’t know if he liked her back. 

So. 

She dipped her spoon into the mango float. What to do? 

Call Sally and ask for advice? 

No. 

She was Nanocloud. Hero of multiple battles. Three hundred and thirty-six on the Leaderboard. 

She was brave.

She would be brave. 

“Nick.”

“Huh? Sorry, I’m just… savouring the matcha.”

“Are you and Flavia a couple?”

Nick almost choked. “Gods, no! Please don’t even hint at that. She’ll make my life miserable.”

Anne grinned wickedly. “She impersonated a military officer for you. That sounds like more than a ‘just friends’ moment.”

“We were twelve. Also, she’ll commit all sorts of high crimes if it gets her more views.” 

“Including prank calling parents?”

“No, that requires adequate supplies of booze.”

“So, if not Flavia, then who?” Anne teased. 

“Why do people keep asking me stuff like that?” groaned Nick. “I don’t have a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend. Or a favourite furry companion.”

“Wait, someone asked you that?”

“In his defence, Reg had gotten into his dad’s stash of bourbon at the time…..”

“....I’m sensing a bit of a theme here. Don’t your parents keep the alcohol locked up?”

“Never underestimate the power of Reg or Flavia in a mood. Or Charlotte on a coffee binge.”

Anne smiled, taking another spoon of the mango float. “This is really good stuff.”

“You want seconds?”

“Maybe next time. I kind of like this place. Are there more like it?”

“More ice cream parlours?”

“More local secrets,” Anne smiled at Nick. “I haven’t seen much of London, you know? Places like this - they’re nice. I’m sure there’s more, right?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Nick said. “There’s the Teen Music Timeout, if you like that kind of thing? New bands and soloists doing a five-to-ten-minute riff on stage. And there’s the Street Art Showcase - mostly it’s watching artists do their bit before the coppers come along and catch them.”

“.... You run from the cops?”

“Eh, it’s more like a fine and community service for the artist, but we just watch and time them. Getting out before they show is part of the fun…. Also there’s the Crystal Maze tour - well, you can’t win prizes because you’re an ultra, but it’s fun too.”

“Sounds like London is a pretty happening place.”

“You want me to show you around?”

Anne beamed. “I’d love that. Maybe we can plan something on the weekend?”

“... Yeah, sure! I’ll pick you up from … your place?”

“Fry’s Lane. And if you’re bringing the autocar, I’ll pay for the tickets?” 

“That sounds… well, kind of fair. So, Saturday then?”

“Saturday. And thanks for the ice cream.”