"Operant... are you busy?"

"Operant... are you busy?"

A strange cadence, uneasy syllables stumbling over a sloshing beat.

"Melita."

"Yes. It's me."

She sounds quite drunk.

"You're drinking again."

"'Again'. You say it like I stopped."

"What's the matter?"

"I just wanted to make sure you're still there."

"Where else would I be?"

"I don't have any idea. That's why I had to make sure."

She looks out over Novessa -- bleary eyed, searching.

"I'm here."

"Good. That's very good to hear."

"What's going on, Mel?"

"Another operant was zeroed out in-theatre today."

'Another'...

"No one you'd know. HOPSCOTCH. Our old hand in Mircea, executed by monotheists." She swallows. "Whole network lost as well."

"Who was their controller?"

"Who do you suppose?"

A resonant thud. Heavy bottom glass on desktop.

"It must hurt."

"Yes."

"HOPSCOTCH will get their unmarked star at the Palace of Culture. Tonight, all the controllers will go out to the Hyacinth Bar and drink Vana Kohila until we can barely walk."

"And you'll just show up the next day..."

"Like nothing happened. Because that's our role. Who would answer your calls if we didn't?"

"Who messed up?"

"Too early to say. HOPSCOTCH hadn't checked in for 48 hours, so I called their magic box and a voice I'd never heard before answered."

"It was a woman. Older, absolutely nonchalant. Like a pensioner's, I thought. I said I must have misdialed, and do you want to know what she said?"

Of course you do.

"Maybe not."

"No, that's not what she said. What she said was..."

"'It's alright, dear. Nothing to get hung about'. Of course that's when I knew HOPSCOTCH was dead."

Feet swaying gently, a few feet above the ground. The laces of their left shoe have come untied.

. . . . .

"I'll remember her voice for a very long time."

"I'm sorry, Mel."

"Oh yes, we're all very sorry. It's a highly regrettable situation overall."

Alternative wording

"You already said that."

"Say something else. Brighten things up."

This took a very sad turn. It won't be easy to swing it back around.

Life sparkles in death's presence, magnificent and fragile. Draw her close.

Tell her what she means to you.

Even if you survive this assignment and live for her to give you a hundred more, you may never get another chance to bare your heart like this.

"You know, I only do all these tasks so that I can hear your voice."

"Don't talk shit, CASCADE."

"I mean it."

"I'm tired of pretending. There are dozens of other controllers, it would be the same with them."

An invitation rather than an accusation.

You hear her breath so clearly that you feel its phantom on your neck. As far away as ever, and somehow within reach.

"Do you know why they put us together?"

"Operants perform better in-theatre when they share a bond with their controller. So, yes -- the psychomancers recommended that we be paired."

So they recommended she be paired with HOPSCOTCH, too.

"You sound disappointed that they think I'm made for you."

"Or I, for you. To them, it wouldn't make a difference which way round it was. If there's a difference at all."

"Perform how?"

"Efficiency, subtlety, speed... other things, more difficult to quantify."

"Dedication to you?"

"Ha. A propensity to self-sacrifice is one, yes, but also a willingness to take great risks."

She makes a sound halfway between a laugh and a sigh.

"Must we talk about work?"

"Do you think about me when you're not working?"

"I'm always working, CASCADE."

Our faceless mistress with the wrought iron soul.

"So this is an act to get me to perform better."

"No, never. I don't even know what they measure, I wouldn't be able to fake this if I wanted to. So I guess it must be real."

Still an act, but neither of you have the script.

"Cool, just checking."

"Mhm."

She laughs softly into your ear.

"That's awkward, it's all an act on my end."

"I had no idea I was dealing with such a professional. This must be 'method espionage'."

"Do you think about me when you're not working?"

"Was it real with HOPSCOTCH, too?"

A long, hollow silence.

"That was cruel."

"Commanding field presence?"

"I would describe it as 'leadership capacity', but yes, the ability to get what you want from others. That goes a long way."

"I can be subtle if you want."

"Never once, in all our years of working together, have you shown any evidence that may be true. And no, I don't want. Not right now."

"By 'bond' you mean 'unrealised erotic thing'?"

"Your description."

One she can't co-sign.

"They say it has to be natural or it doesn't work. So I guess it must be real."

"If you don't want to pretend, then call me by my name."

You hear a sharp intake of breath.

Goosebumps rise on your neck.

It didn't seem like shock, but pleasure at the question, and then at the sound of your anticipation.

"Please."

"CASCADE..."

But for once it sounds like a prayer.

"I can't. I wouldn't be able to take it back."

She wants a lover. She wants you.

Wait for her.

"Keep talking. I want to hear your voice."

"You're getting too comfortable." Her smile, audible. "What would you like me to say?"

"Tell me what you look like."

"I have... brown eyes, a high arched nose. A pointed chin. A slight but constant frown... like I'm always considering a problem." She giggles. "I have blonde hair, cut to my jaw."

That's you.

"I'm also quite pale. So pale that the dark circles under my eyes quite suit me, like decorations rather than insomnia. But I'm probably a little flushed at the moment..."

"You're describing me, Mel."

"Am I? Maybe I was just getting us mixed up, you're so close now."

"What do you imagine when you think of me?"

"Just your voice, it's all I know."

"I bet you imagine all the things I won't say. That I were somebody else, somebody who said things like 'I miss you' or, 'I want this'."

You throb at her words. Your heart dances, your nipples ache.

"Be something, just for a moment."

"But then I wouldn't be me."

"It's getting late, Mel." (Hang up.)

"It is. Thank you for talking to me, I suppose tonight our roles were reversed."

The line deadens to a low, constant tone. It sounds like a lament.

"Why won't you say those things?"

"Because I'm not somebody else."

"How you feel, what it would be like to touch you."

"I don't feel like anything. I'm a ghost, an error. Even if you could hold yourself to me, wrap yourself in me, there'd be nothing."

"I don't, really."

"Oh..."

"I like how you never tell me exactly what I want to hear."

"Yes, the psychomancers said you would. So how could I start now, when you're so close?"

"Why would I start now, then? When you're so close."

"I hate how you never tell me exactly what I want to hear."

"No, you don't. You like it. That's why you keep picking up the phone. So why would I change that now, when you're so close?"

"Tell me your name."

"It's 'Melita' when you say it. Even though it's false, I can hear the intent of me on your lips. And that makes it true."

"Melita."

"Come on, don't do that."

She doesn't want you to stop.

"No, it doesn't. I want your name."

"Tell me that I'm a good operant."

Laughter, golden brown.

"You are reckless, undependable, disorderly..." A hiccup, more laughter. "You once told me you recruit assets based on 'feel'. You are terrible."

Adoration in every hit.

"You love me."

"Don't do that."

She means it.

Alternative wording

She means it this time.

"So why keep me around?"

"I have no idea. Maybe I find you amusing."

"I am awesome."

"You're an acquired taste. Like the sound of a mandolin, or like... I don't know... Vana Kohila."

Reminded of her loss, the liqueur tastes like honeyed grief on her tongue.

"Get some sleep, Mel." (Hang up.)

"I thought... yes, CASCADE. You're right. Thank you."

She's gone. Really, this time.

"Pretend it's the truth."

"You know how I feel about you."

"I never feel I've experienced something until I'm telling you about it afterwards."

Too close, too vulnerable. A heat-seeking missile of realness is on your tail, time for countermeasures.

"I like that we keep things professional."

"I don't think I can honestly say that, from my perspective. It's becoming a bit of a problem, at least for me."

An unmistakable sharpness to her voice now. The lights inside your cockpit are screaming red.

"It's not a problem for me."

"No. That's your gift in a way. You're unburdened by responsibility to others. Might be what makes you an effective operant."

"It also makes you absolutely miserable to work with."

"You're just drunk."

"As though you've got a leg to wobble on."

"What is going on with you?"

"You've got no idea, of course. Whatever goes on inside other people doesn't even occur to you."

Range to target: 400 metres, 300, 250...

"That's not fair."

"Utterly absorbed in some martyrised nonsense about 'forgiveness', like you're the only spy to ever lose her network."

A white flash fills the cockpit. The G-forces grab hold of your face and slam it against the control panel.

"Sure, you might complete your tasks. But somehow you think doing your job is a license to behave however you please."

The throttle opens. Stand back.

ABSOLUTE HUMILIATION ON THE WORLD-STAGE.

"Okay, okay! Maybe it's a little fair."

"Thank you. Thank you for your acknowledgement."

Acid contempt. It melts right through your defences.

"In one sense I underestimated you: I didn't think you'd actually manage to put a squad together. I hope the stars look kindly on them. The Weeping Eye will not."

In the skies above the Noscorrentes Sea, a single-seat fighter with Superbloc livery tumbles out of control, end over end, trailing a corkscrew of smoke, until it smashes against the bright mirror of the sea.

"Curtain down. No encore. Have a nice evening, operant."

Alternative wording

"Curtain down. No encore. Have a strange evening, operant."

Alternative wording

"Curtain down. No encore. Have a professional evening, operant."

With that, the call comes to an end. You settle back into bed and hope for restful sleep.

"Is it any wonder you haven't managed to cobble a squad together? I hope the stars look kindly on you. The Weeping Eye will not."

"Mel..."

"I'm not done."

Let her finish.

"Barely completing the tasks assigned to you and then acting as though you've earned a fucking parade."

"Loads of incomplete tasks on your plate because you run around all day doing fuck knows what and acting like it's all 'cool'."

"So completely taken with some inane nonsense about shadow-lattices and augmentoids that you can't see the real conspiracies unfolding right in front of your face."

"You're too busy tending to your 'hardcore' persona. I have news for you: Nothing is going to sprout from that garden but black weeds."

"You're too busy stoking your philosophical pretensions. Going on about stuff that nobody understands, thinking it makes you above everything."

"Fuck this." (Hang up.)

You slam the headset onto the receiver and your head onto your pillow.

Say nothing.

. . . . .

It can't be more than a few seconds, but from your perspective an eon passes. Whole civilisations rise and dissolve into the mists of oblivion before she speaks again.

Utterly excruciating, the way these seconds pass.

"You're not the first operant I've had this... issue with. I guess that says at least as much about me as it does you."

"You would love for that to be the reason, wouldn't you?"

"What do you want, a card?"

"I don't know, operant. I don't know what I want from you any longer." She sighs. "I doubt it's a fucking card, however."

"Look, I'm sorry."

"No you're not. 'Sorry' is just the script you perform when you've hurt someone. It's not a feeling you're actually capable of inhabiting."

"What do you want to do about it, Mel?"

"Stop calling me that. 'Mel'. So familiar, when you don't know me at all. You probably think it's my actual name, don't you?"

"Our dynamic is very strange."

"'Strange', is it? And what makes it strange, to you."

An unmistakable sharpness to her voice now. The lights inside your cockpit are screaming red.

"Come on, you know..."

"No, I don't. Please elaborate."

"I thought..."

"Whatever you thought was an error, and it's time for the destruction of that error."

"You sound upset, Mel."

"Forget it, poor choice of words."

"I disagree. I think it was a very interesting choice."

"I don't have anything to say."

"Probably you're right. I don't know what I was expecting..."

"God, my head's going to hurt tomorrow."

Her voice sounds distant, like she's already putting down the receiver.

The line goes dead.

"I don't think there is anything else to say."

"Maybe the voice was HOPSCOTCH, faking their own death to get out."

"Don't..."

"Don't be like that right now. Just talk to me, say something to brighten things up."

"What do you want from me?"

"Stay human. Don't become an unmarked star. What else is there to say?"

Say nothing, let her have a moment.

"Don't just sit there while I discompose myself. Say something."

"What was it?"

"Just asking."

"Yes, everyone's been asking. Questions for days, but it all adds up the same." Her voice is slightly unsteady.

"I'm sorry."

"Oh yes, we're all very sorry. It's a highly regrettable situation overall." Her voice is slightly unsteady.

"One of yours."

"Yes."

"I'm going back to bed. Goodnight."

"Hold on, CASCADE..."

"What?"

Hang up.

The line goes quiet. You close your eyes.

Say nothing.

"That's not funny. Say something."

"I don't have time for this. Goodnight."

"It's the middle of the night."

"Ah, it is. Well."