Free Crystal Conquest by Doug J. Cooper

operational perspective.
He no longer needed teams for research and analysis, reconnaissance and surveillance,
logistics and resourcing, and similar mission support services. Criss
provides me whatever I need, pretty much as soon as I ask.
    And similar to his DSA life, he still had a partner for
backup and collaboration. But now that individual was Criss, a sentient AI
crystal housed in an underground bunker.
    So far, having a partner who lacked a corporeal presence hadn’t
presented any disadvantages during an assignment. Quite the opposite; society
used image projection for routine interactions, and Criss was masterful at
impersonating a family member, trusted confidant, or business associate of a
target. People will respond to most any request if asked by the right person.
    On occasion Sid’s outfit had a job that required someone to
remove something from a particular location, or perhaps have an item placed there.
Most of these were outsourced to contractors experienced enough never to ask questions.
    And there were the sensitive tasks that were best not
delegated. A classic example was the need to look someone in the eye when
closing a deal with a friendly handshake, while at the same time using the
other hand to give an intimidating grip on the shoulder. Sid was the only
option in the partnership for these assignments. I don’t mind . I’m
good at it.
    As he fastened his duffel, he reassured himself that there
was one unique attribute he brought to the business, and that was the gift of insight.
It was an instinctual attribute; there was no magic.
    The DSA had recruited him years earlier in part because of
his uncanny ability to find pathways to success in the midst of rapidly devolving
chaos. They tasked him as an agent-improviser and helped him hone the improbable
skill. Over time he proved himself often enough that Criss now asked him to
lead in particularly challenging situations.
    He sat down to put on his shoes. “It’s time to meet the
men.” Smiling at Cheryl, he teased her. “You may want to fix your clothes.”
    * * *
    Cheryl followed Sid on a short jaunt
down the hall. They took a left followed by a quick right, and stepped inside a
billet that looked like a cookie-cutter duplicate of Sid and Cheryl’s own quarters,
down to the same panoramic view pics on the wall.
    Three men stood together and, as Sid greeted them, he introduced
each one to Cheryl.
    Cheryl saw similar qualities in all three. Like Sid, they
were tall, lean, and fit. They all conveyed a palpable air of confidence that
left no doubt they could handle themselves in most any situation. And like Sid,
they all projected a disarmingly modest persona.
    “This is Hop Cassidy,” said Sid, shaking hands with one. In
his early forties, Hop was the oldest of the group. “He’ll be taking Geitz’s
place in the defense array command center. He’s embedded here as a lieutenant,
but two years ago he was a major in Fleet’s strategic tech center.” Hop met
Cheryl’s eyes as Sid continued. “He’s fluent in the jargon, understands the
technology, and should mesh well with Grace in running the center.”
    “Hello, Hop,” said Cheryl, shaking his hand and smiling. She
knew Sid preferred that members of his outfit use pseudonyms during a mission.
It was a common practice during his time with the DSA, and she suspected that
carrying on the tradition was, for him, a rare display of nostalgia.
    “This is Jefe Diablo,” said Sid, shaking the next fellow’s
hand. “Jefe’s replacing that tech sergeant who attacked us in the canteen.”
    Jefe had started shaking hands with Cheryl and stopped to flash
a quizzical look at Sid. It was clear the attack was news to him. His eyebrows
scrunched slightly, and Cheryl imagined this information driving a fresh
assessment of how he might approach the mission.
    Cheryl turned to Dent as Sid introduced him. Though too
polite to ask, she concluded this was a nickname rather than a pseudonym. He
had a crease in