Having made sure all my things were packed and everything was ready for the vacation, I left the hangar and returned to my apartment. The elevator smoothly took me up to my floor, and I headed to my study, passing through the living room and trying not to wake Hunter, who was sleeping on the pull-out sofa. His massive frame, even in sleep, looked as if he was ready to jump up and spring into action at any moment. Hunter is my old school friend; we grew up in the same neighborhood, played basketball on a cracked court, and shared dreams about the future. But after school, our paths diverged. I went off to MIT to immerse myself in science and algorithms, while Hunter, who always loved fights and often stood up for me against school bullies, enrolled in West Point, choosing a military career. Since then, we had rarely seen each other, and I often learned about his life from news feeds: a hero of conflicts, the pride of the armed forces, a man whose name was mentioned with respect.
But several years ago, everything changed. During a combat mission somewhere in the Middle East, Hunter was covering his squad, which had walked into an ambush. A grenade explosion left him severely wounded and bleeding out. But the guys he was covering managed to get out and return with help, which saved his life but not his career. The medical board declared him unfit for active service, and everyone thought that was the end of his military career. Fortunately, our country values such people. Some time later, he was taken into the Intelligence Directorate, and our already rare conversations ceased completely. So, when a few weeks ago my communicator vibrated and I heard his voice, it was truly very unexpected.
"Hey, Ork," Hunter began without preamble, as if we'd seen each other yesterday. "Heard you recently bought a house in Alaska?"
I wasn't surprised he knew about my purchase. Working in intelligence, Hunter could probably find out what I'd had for breakfast if he wanted to. Six months ago, a colleague from the base offered me an old house in Alaska that he'd inherited from his parents. After years without a break, immersed in work on Alice, the idea of having my own house in the wilderness captivated me. Often, working evenings in my stuffy city apartment, I imagined taking a rifle and going hunting in the virgin forests or sitting by a campfire on a lakeshore, far from servers and lab screens. But, as usual, I never managed to get there due to work.
"Good to hear from you, Hunter," I replied, trying to hide my surprise. "Yeah, there's a house, but it's old and needs repairs. But I haven't had time for it yet, plenty of work."
"That's perfect," he said with the same directness. "I've got a bit of leave. Let's go, sort out the repairs, and relax while we're at it."
The guess that there was more behind this call came immediately. Hunter wasn't the type to just call to chat about repairs. But I didn't ask any questions—knowing him, he wouldn't say anything anyway, or he would bring it up himself when he deemed it necessary. We quickly agreed that he would come to me in a couple of weeks, and hung up. Taking leave turned out to be incredibly easy. I had worked non-stop for the last few years, and the "Sigma-7" leadership had hinted more than once that I should take a break.
While waiting for Hunter's arrival, my life flowed on as usual. I continued working on Alice, testing her algorithms for military systems. But my thoughts increasingly returned to the world beyond the base walls. In the 20...s, it was on the edge. For decades, stable borders had begun crumbling like houses of cards. Conflicts that once smoldered somewhere in the East were now creeping toward the West, drawing even Europe into them. Countries, as if gone mad, were redrawing maps with weapons. Tension grew with each passing day, and although the threat of nuclear war, which had been so talked about in recent years, still seemed unlikely—everyone understood its consequences—the number of countries with a nuclear arsenal was increasing every year. This heightened the risk that someone, losing control, would press the button.
In the USA, however, calm prevailed. People trusted the missile defense shield that had been promised to protect us from any threat. Life went on as usual: drones delivered packages, planes droned over cities, and the military developed new missiles, tanks, and drones, leaving the nuclear arsenal untouched. But even I, working deep underground on the base, felt that this lull was just a pause before the storm. My developments, especially Alice, were part of preparations for something bigger, though no one said it out loud.
While waiting for Hunter, I decided to fly to Seattle to visit my mother's grave. It was a strange, almost impulsive decision. I hadn't been to the cemetery in many years, but something inside pushed me. Buying flowers on the way and carefully placing them on the stone with her name, I stood for a long time looking at the faded photograph. Memories flooded in instantly: her smile, her voice, her faith in me. I didn't say a word, just stood there, feeling time compress. That same day, returning on a flight back to my city, I immersed myself in work until Hunter arrived.