Marcos held the morning briefing to one side as he shuffled greenery on his plate of lephet thoke. He was seated at a table outside the office, wearing dark aviators against the afternoon glare, sweating profusely.

He spooned a mouthful of fermented foliage into his mouth, savoring the earthy tangy funk. The view from here wasn't much, but the local Burmese food hit all the right notes.

Marcos dropped his fork and returned to reading. He kept his scroll rate constant, careful of his gaze linger time; Blackmountain obsessed over metrics, especially those that quantified employee behavior.

It was all spelled out in the pages of boilerplate he'd impatiently swiped through when signing his contract. So despite the heat he preferred to work outside - sensor coverage was at least less complete.

Marcos wasn't actively engaged in espionage, but he wanted to keep his options open. Blackmountain wasn't the only post-national firm in the security game. The right information delivered at the right time could earn a hefty signing bonus at a competitor.

He still hadn't figured out what he'd do about the implant forced on him for the latest assignment - even four years later the eraser sized nub above his ear still itched. His salt and pepper buzzcut did little to hide the device, though on base that was an advantage; anyone could tell at a glance he was a commanding officer.

Words were rolling off the edge of his screen, he hurried to catch up. Yaba production was down, the Rohingya laborers being harassed again. Shot trackers picked up automatic rifle fire to the east. Probably insurgents or counterinsurgents training, though lately that line had blurred.

Marcos wondered why Blackmountain had taken a contract in a territory with so many loose guns and unresolved conflicts. He knew why he'd accepted his post though: it paid a small fortune in borderless crypto. After this tour he could retire to a sunny failed state in the Pacific where his corporate scrip was better than gold.

His shade lenses flashed yellow, accompanied by a ringing in his skull - an alert via bone conductance. Priority transmission incoming. Marcos put down the report. A gravelly voice stripped of emotion filled his head.

"ALL UNITS REPORT TO CENTRAL COMMAND IMMEDIATELY. REPLY YES TO ACKNOWLEDGE. MESSAGE REPEATS. ALL UNITS REPORT TO-"

Marcos subvocalized a 'yes' to shut the thing up. A strip along his jaw caught the muscle signals and relayed them to his implant. There it was synthesized into his own affectless voice, which was both transmitted and played back inside his skull.

The first time hearing his 'ghost voice' had been disturbing. The neural network was trained on his vocal patterns; the voice was undoubtedly his own. Yet it lacked humanity, and the slight delay was disconcerting. After a week it was tolerable, after a month it even felt normal. Lately his natural voice seemed the strange one; even his dreams were filled with the flat tones of ghost speech.

Priority alerts were rare. In his time on base Marcos received only three others. Two had been a drill. The third announced an airstrike that razed half the compound.

Staff rushed from every building, an ant-hive kicked. Marcos took a half-second to blank the briefing slate then jogged toward the nearest 'Wheel,' a monocycle used for zipping across the sprawling compound.

Marcos made it halfway there before his glasses lit up with warnings. Multiple mortar launches detected, coming from all sides. Shit, not a drill. These outer buildings were fortified against small arms, but shelling was another matter. Anyone who wanted to survive needed to get to Central, the steel dome in the middle of base with its vast underground bunker.

Marcos's squad was still in the barracks two buildings down. They were working night shift this week, so mostly asleep when the alarm went out.

"No time to form up. rally at Central. Go go go," Marcos commanded.

His combat overlay snapped on. Multiple circles tinted the ground red, blast radii for the mortars. Each was a gradient - a crimson center signaled certain death, a pale edge a mere 10% chance. The nearest strike targeted the Wheel pod Marcos was running toward, a ripple of pink lapped at his feet. A helpful flag showed the time until impact. 18 seconds.

Marcos did the math. He wasn't young, but with long legs and combat training he could still move fast. Three seconds to reach the Wheel pod, four to authenticate and undock. That left eleven seconds to drive away from the blast and whatever was coming out of the jungle. Doable.

He sprinted into the red kill zone. Behind him came the crackle of automatic weapon fire followed by a series of pneumatic pops - tube-launched drones scrambling to hunt the aggressors.

Marcos came full speed into the hub of the wheel pod, hooking the post to bleed momentum.

"Undock A3" he commanded, reading off the identifier for the nearest Wheel.

"CONFIRMED," came the response.

12 seconds.

Marcos jumped on the Wheel and leaned forward to accelerate. It screeched and bucked, dumping Marcos to the ground. He rolled with the fall and came up with only a few scrapes and bruises. The release mechanism was jammed, no time to fix it.

9 seconds.

"Undock A2" Marcos tried as he scrambled on to the next Wheel.

"DENIED. UNIT A3 ACTIVE. PLEASE RETURN TO DOCK FIRST."

5 seconds.

Panic crept in. A skull and crossbones icon blinked urgently in his peripheral vision. "Officer override. Undock A2"

"CONFIRMED"

3 seconds.

Marcos jammed his foot forward and the Wheel sprang away from the hub.