The Director.
The Director of Project Freelancer wanted to talk to me.
I swallowed my little gasp of fear, though I was sure the Counselor had seen my brief spasm of shock.
"Very well, Director," the Counselor replied, gazing at me. "She will be over in a moment."
The Counselor shooed me from his office with a small smile as if nothing were wrong and I headed toward certain death.
Funnily enough, I made this trek every day. Each evening, I'd hand over my reports to the little box outside his office as if I were just delivering mail and escaped unnoticed.
As I approached his office (I was probably imagining it, but FILSS sounded particularly condescending as she passed me through the high-security levels), I thought frantically through my time at Project Freelancer. I had tried my best to stay in the shadows, but I had realized the Director was at least somewhat aware of me—that had occurred with his assigning me my own room near the Freelancers. He had wanted me to continue giving him his information, but that was all I knew.
I reached his doors and took a deep breath, composing myself. I was okay. I would be perfectly fine. This wasn't about to be an interrogation.
…
I wished I could lie to myself as well as I could to the Freelancers.
I had only stopped in front of the door for a few seconds before it slid open, revealing to me the Director's office. He sat at his desk, his back to me as he gazed at information on large monitors.
As I walked in, I encountered a spacious room and a large computer screen flashing with statistics and descriptions of the Freelancers. I recognized them as the reports I had been turning in to the Director since I had started working here. My mouth went dry but I mimicked what I had observed the Freelancers do every day since arriving here at the project—I stood stock-still, my hands behind my back, looking forward and not moving a muscle.
The Director ignored me for a moment, gazing at the files I had given him. Then, after I had bitten down on my lip in impatience so hard it started bleeding, he spoke.
"Agent Eleven."
"Yes, sir."
My voice sounded even enough, but, inside, I was panicking. I had no idea how to act toward the Director. Hale and I had never gone over this. We had assumed that the Director would never bother to speak to me himself; he had spent all that time conveying his directions to me through other staff members or written orders. Never did I even consider this situation occurring.
How should I act? I thought frantically. Should I be meek? Confident? Should I act like the stupid intern he thinks I am?
Dr. Church slowly swiveled around in his chair to face me, and his piercing gaze turned my stomach to ice. I only looked into my superior's eyes for a moment before dropping them submissively.
"Look behind me, Agent," he said to me slowly. He waited a moment as I lifted my gaze to scan my observations. They were flashing differently every few moments, maximizing the information of a different Freelancer with every change. He still watched me. "Tell me how your reports have been progressing."
I had no idea what kind of answer he wanted, but I needed to say something. "They are progressing well," I said automatically, thankfully not stuttering. "The Freelancers are improving and seem to now be integrating tolerably well with their armor enhancements."
"Yes. That is what your reports have shown me." He stopped a moment, and I had a horrible feeling he was trying to make me feel uncomfortable. I tried not to squirm with edginess at his long pause before speaking again. "We have been advancing the Freelancers at a high rate, and everything has been going well."
Oh yeah, really well, I thought. Utah's enhancement testing was a raging success.
"It is time to continue our progress," Dr. Church said. "But your involvement in the project is not currently satisfactory."
Okay. That was it. I was about to be ejected from Project Freelancer.
"You see, Agent," the Director continued. "The Chairman did not give you enough credit. Your reports to me have proven that you are no idiot."
I stared at the screen behind the Director, hardly able to wrap my head around this. I wasn't being let go. The Director was… approving me. Was that possible?
"However," the Director continued. "You have been aware of how our program has been developing. In the very near future, the Freelancers' missions will become even more… advanced. We may continue the simulation trooper missions, but I am anxious to continue the training with a more… 'hands-on' approach. That being said, I am not satisfied with you simply watching from the sidelines. For these new missions, many of your orders will come directly from me. Do you understand?"
Oh… shit. "Yes, sir."
"Good. I am aware that you have been filing reports for your CIA records, but you will soon come to understand just how I have been using them as well. For now, however, you have not delivered your observations for today. I require those immediately…" he paused. "And a few other files as well."
"Yes, sir?" I asked. What more could he possibly need?
"Along with your daily reports, for tonight, I want you to go through your observations of every single Freelancer under my command. Sort them all. Organize them. Make a list of every Freelancer's strengths and weaknesses, and compile all the information onto a single chart, easy for access and use."
"Yes, sir," I repeated obediently, my heart sinking. "By what time do you need this?"
"It must be in my hands by 0500 tomorrow," he said brusquely, and my heart sank. There went my evening of relaxed conversation with Georgia and Bama. "It is vital for Project Freelancer's next steps. Am I clear?"
"Yes, sir." I was really starting to sound repetitive, but I didn't dare say anything else to Dr. Church. I couldn't reveal to him my impending panic as I imagined just what Project Freelancer's "next steps" were.
The rankings.
"Very well," he finished, turning away from me and focusing his attention back to the enormous screens. "You are dismissed."
