Chapter 158. The Bureau Knows Everything

The main window of the massive monitor displayed a restricted government application containing nearly three thousand personnel files on every officially registered Awakened in the United States. The side screen showed the information associated with my personal administrative token. My login and a complex hexadecimal password gave me virtually unlimited access. I could dig as deep as I wanted into other people's classified files, track their Portal deployment dates, and even leave special notes in their records for other agencies and the Corps' senior leadership.

The information in this database far surpassed the pathetic, bare-bones personnel records that individual departments maintained on their own people. For comparison, my personal account on the P-SWAT base contained barely more information than my Facebook profile. Here, personnel monitoring had been taken to an entirely different level.

Following my professional instinct as an auditor, I decided to check my own file first. I entered my full name into the search bar and immediately got a single result. No one else in the Corps shared my full name.

The screen flickered, bringing up the standard personnel file for Second Lieutenant Thomas Ross, complete with basic physical measurements and biographical details, including my birth year and registered address in Los Angeles. I had personally provided all this information, along with my initial photograph and a clinical description of my recorded superpower, when I underwent the mandatory evaluation at the military recruitment office. Some of those measurements were already outdated, as it happened. My actual height and muscle mass had increased noticeably following my recent evolution. Far more interesting were the final entries in the file, compiled by the Bureau's own analysts from their operational observations rather than anything I had told them.

Soldier's Psychological Profile:

Perfectionist: Sees every undertaking through to its ideal conclusion, regardless of complexity.

Natural leader: Possesses strong charisma and the ability to influence, organize, and lead disoriented groups.

Highly responsible: Carries out every assignment from higher headquarters meticulously, punctually, and without question.

Pragmatist: Approaches situations with absolute rationality and accepts reality, including all its associated risks.

Healthy lifestyle: No harmful habits or hormonal fluctuations.

Honestly, I disagreed with at least half of this self-congratulatory assessment. Deep down, I had never considered myself a strong-willed natural leader or some exceptionally driven individual. Without a shred of false modesty, I could admit that I was lazy, cynical, and sorely lacking in willpower by nature. Throughout my adult civilian life, I had abandoned practically every undertaking, project, or hobby without the slightest regret as soon as it stopped providing me with money, enjoyment, or comfort. Take my current situation, for example. I was spending my nights cooking for the entire P-SWAT barracks and calculating everyone's calorie requirements, all because of the abilities granted by [Special Command], my hyperfocus, and the artificial acceleration of my mental processes. Without those enhancements, I would've handed the whole cooking operation over to the duty personnel after the first sleepless night. Sure, the mess hall food would've been bland and nutritionally inadequate for building muscle, but at least I'd have had a legitimate excuse to sleep in.

Apparently, the Bureau analyst responsible for filling out this section had judged me entirely by the results of my actions without giving much thought to the cynical methods I actually used to achieve them.

My gaze drifted farther down the page. Under "Relatives and Close Associations," I found both my parents listed. Yes, both of them. The Corps' analysts had somehow dug up the complete records of my biological father from some long-forgotten archive, even though I'd never seen the man in my life. I opened his brief summary out of mild curiosity. There was nothing remarkable in his background. He was just an ordinary civilian. I closed the tab and immediately forgot about him again. One detail did catch my attention, though: a faint gray flag glowed beside his name.

Next, I opened my mother's profile. The Bureau had accumulated dozens of times more information about her, and the records were considerably more detailed. They included comprehensive medical reports on her recent cellular rejuvenation, along with a confidential note that she'd temporarily taken Stephanie into her home. A bright green flag glowed beside my mother's name.

I opened the FBA application's built-in reference guide and read the internal regulations governing its color-coded markers. The flags represented the analysts' assessment of an Awakened individual's emotional attachment to specific civilians and the degree to which those relationships could be exploited. A gray marker indicated that a legal or blood relationship existed but lacked any significant emotional bond or psychological dependency. That was entirely accurate. If my biological father dropped dead somewhere in Oregon tomorrow, I wouldn't give a damn. I wouldn't even consider wasting the time and money on a plane ticket to attend his funeral. A green marker, on the other hand, indicated an exceptionally strong personal attachment and a corresponding emotional vulnerability. When it came to my mother's safety, I would've moved mountains and rewritten the Corps' entire charter without a second thought.

As a former civilian, I found these markers in personnel files deeply disturbing. They were nothing less than operational pressure points, straight out of the cheap Cold War spy novels I'd devoured as a kid. If a field operative or a powerful Awakened started ignoring regulations, sabotaging Pentagon orders, or acting too independently, the agency could quietly put their "green" contacts under surveillance and then apply pressure until the employee returned to the proper side of the chain of command.

The very idea of being subjected to that kind of control was repugnant to me. At the same time, my pragmatic side understood that a government dealing with superhumans couldn't function any other way. If a powerful Awakened like Danny Kim suddenly decided to abandon his responsibilities for clearing dangerous Portals and spend his days getting drunk, the simplest, cheapest, and most effective way to make the fire god come to his senses and return to duty would be to visit his civilian wife and politely suggest that she have a little talk with her husband.

Apparently, the psychological profile in my file wasn't entirely wrong. I knew how to accept the rules of the game for what they were, without any rose-colored illusions.

My mood improved slightly when I noticed that, for some utterly absurd reason, the FBA analyst had also assigned a green flag to Stephanie's profile. Stephanie, the immature, loudmouthed neighbor who managed to irritate me to no end every time we exchanged a few words about everyday life. Apparently, the Bureau analyst who'd compiled this relationship map had made a superficial assessment of the available facts and reached the mistaken conclusion that, because I'd voluntarily given the girl my comfortable room and moved onto the base, she must mean a great deal to me. Fine by me. Let that gap in their intelligence remain in the system as a false vulnerability. An enemy's mistakes were always a strategic asset.

My gloom finally lifted, and my work mode kicked into high gear when I focused on the next line in the interface.

Overall Service Score: 100/100

A pop-up explained that every officer and enlisted soldier in the Corps had a dynamic rating in the system. Points were awarded for every verified action that benefited the organization. The qualifying contributions ranged from rescuing a wounded teammate under fire inside a Portal to taking the initiative to repaint a rusted fence behind the P-SWAT barracks. Naturally, different actions earned different numbers of points. But the fundamental rule was simple: once an officer's score reached 100, the system automatically initiated a guaranteed promotion without any bureaucratic delays.

In other words, after reviewing my current score, I realized that all I had to do was perform practically any minor, documented act of service within the Corps or wait for the next official military holiday, and the system would automatically issue my promotion orders.

A new silver star on my shoulder boards was always a nice boost to the ego, but it was also extremely useful for expanding the scope of my authority under military regulations.

I was gaining all kinds of tactical advantages just by carefully browsing the FBA application's built-in glossary. My inner accountant immediately spotted a critical flaw in my previous plans. Before joining P-SWAT, I had seriously considered earning a second degree as quickly as possible. Now I could see that doing so would have been a major strategic blunder. To maximize my personal Score, I needed to wait until my current achievements earned me the guaranteed promotion, get the new stars on my shoulder boards, let the system reset my score, and only then rack up another substantial batch of points by earning a college degree. Simple arithmetic.

At the very bottom of the interface was the exact date of my scheduled deployment to clear a Portal. I had a little over a week left to enjoy leisurely strolls around Washington. After that, I would be heading straight into the uncharted jungles of an alien world, as required by regulations.

That ominous entry did not appear in every personnel file. For a handful of exceptionally rare specialists, such as Engineer Selina, the field contained a permanent dash. The government valued their expertise far too much to risk wasting them on the front lines. When it came to combat deployments, however, my home base, P-SWAT, led the pack. According to the schedule, three male and three female enlisted personnel were sent into that otherworldly meat grinder every other day, without exception, weekends and holidays included.

Having finished my initial audit of my own file, I moved on to systematically examining the records of my new acquaintances. Sam was the first surprise. It turned out that the fanatical, bald hulk in a gi, who could spend hours quoting Bruce Lee and practicing spinning kicks on the parade ground, was officially married. My analytical mind could barely comprehend the almost superhuman patience and emotional stability a woman would need to share a home with him.

Even more astonishing was the file belonging to my former handler, Danny Kim. The twenty-three-year-old who was always zipping around on a skateboard with a slice of pizza between his teeth turned out to be a father of two. His older child was already well into elementary school. Danny had become a father at seventeen. Well, the rumor I'd heard at the training camp had been right. The Awakened matured at an astonishing rate.

Leon, predictably enough, was unmarried. His expanded relationship map did not list a single close personal connection, not even one marked with a faint gray flag. Yet the Corps' central command would never have approved someone for a position as critical as head of combat intelligence at P-EAR if the system had no direct leverage over him. According to a confidential analyst's note, Leon's only psychological anchor, the one thing he could not function without, was his own department. The base was his entire world. The attached assessment from the staff psychiatrist was blunt: if Colonel Stewart were forcibly discharged from the Corps or his unit were disbanded, he would very likely commit suicide.

He came from a long line of career military officers and had graduated from West Point, just like his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather. Beyond his duty to serve the government, Leon had absolutely nothing left in his life. That was his one and only vulnerability.

I skimmed through the files of the other officers I knew, but nothing else came close to being so shocking. Everything else fell within the range of fairly ordinary psychological quirks.

Finally, I moved on to the main event: the personnel database for everyone stationed with me at P-SWAT. Knowing the true strengths and weaknesses of your subordinates before heading into a combat zone was a basic responsibility of any competent commander.

Ted's file was a dismal reflection on the Corps. The staff responsible for compiling his psychological profile had not held back, labeling him immature, irresponsible, and utterly unserious. His overall Service Score was even worse. The kid had a pathetic single point to his name. And according to the activity logs, he'd earned it solely for participating in that experiment at the training camp, when the staff had tested the effectiveness of my diet and custom workout routine on him. Unless someone stepped in and turned things around, Ted would spend the rest of his life as an enlisted grunt earning minimum pay. Since he'd voluntarily appointed himself my personal adjutant, I had a responsibility to pull him out of that rut. Besides, the kid really was trying to improve himself.

Next, I worked my way through the files of our barracks' so-called elite. The results were entirely predictable. All five ringleaders behind the nightly drinking sessions had grown up in rough environments, and each had close relatives with serious criminal records. One of them had even served time in federal prison for drug trafficking. His Awakening had occurred spontaneously right there in his cell. After effortlessly melting the concrete walls of his isolation cell with concentrated acid, he'd made a daring escape that same day, only to be caught by an assault team two hours later and hauled off to another prison, one considerably more secure and operating under the name P-SWAT.

I saved Lieutenant Dillon's file for last. He had held the position of base quartermaster for a record six consecutive years. Immediately after he was wounded at the front and lost his right arm, the Corps' central computer had assigned him to the position for two pragmatic reasons. First, Awakened in the United States were not legally entitled to early retirement. Even those with partial disabilities were required to continue serving humanity until they were no longer fit for duty. Second, headquarters had calculated that having a combat veteran with service ribbons on the base would boost the patriotic spirit of young recruits. Dillon did, in fact, have several old medals and even a personal letter of commendation signed by General Crowley himself.

But the most interesting detail in his file was a tiny, blinking red numeral one in the upper-right corner of the interface. Not a single other Bureau record I'd examined had displayed anything like it. I clicked the icon, and my own report on the base commandant immediately appeared on the screen. Right behind it was a newly uploaded packet containing video footage of the incident in the officers' parking lot. The final line of the case assignment form read: Case officer: Captain D. Hawk.

A cold smile spread across my face. I hadn't even repaid Jimmy for covering up my hour-and-a-half lateness, and already the cold realities of life were forcing me to ask him for another rather delicate favor.