On Monday mornings, I send out a story via email: ultra-brief tales of 1,000 words or more, usually in genres including horror, science fiction, and the supernatural. Those stories collectively are called Once Upon A Time. I’ve also published several ebooks and compendium volumes of those stories so far.

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Here's story 247, of 266 so far.

Influencers

The uniformed sergeant stood ramrod straight at the front of the room, surveying the eight seated soldiers in his audience with a steely glare. He didn’t smile, and he spoke dispassionately, in a tone that implied he’d delivered the same lecture a hundred times before.

“What you’re going to be learning about today is marital infidelity, low self esteem, and body dysmorphic disorder.”

Four of the members of the class were men, and four were women. None were over the age of thirty. They had all excelled in their various chosen branches of the armed forces, and each of them held a degree in one of the physical sciences. They had also been subject to a series of tests of both physical and mental health, and they possessed one additional and crucial qualification: they were all noticeably good-looking.

“We’ll skip the formal material on body language and flirtation, since I assume you’re all comfortable with those topics,” the sergeant said. It wasn’t a joke, and nobody laughed or even smiled.

The unit was notionally attached to the air force, but it was strictly a matter of convenience regarding the acquisition of certain materials and supplies without arousing undue suspicion. Its budget was independent, classified, and — notwithstanding an unprecedented initial expenditure for research and setup — surprisingly modest in military terms.

The current intake of recruits would only double the number of deployed personnel, and beyond the unit itself, fewer than a dozen people in total even knew of its existence.

The training was split into two parts, running concurrently. The first two hours of each morning were cultural lessons, and the remainder of the day was psychological operations, manipulation, and what the documentation quaintly referred to as courtship. The course was only three weeks long, and acceptance took place before recruits were even briefed on the nature of their work, much less given any training.

The early studies had built upon academic research conducted in the 2000s and 2010s regarding relationship dynamics, childhood trauma, self image, motivation, and the interplay of emotional health and career choice. A vague and subjective social science had been sharpened to reasonable tactical efficacy within a handful of years, and then it was simply a matter of technology catching up with the project’s vision. The unit was the result, and its only designation in any air force directory was Facilities Maintenance Planning. To be transferred there was seen as the most stern rebuke; a virtual career derailment. When the accordingly puzzled and angry recruits arrived, they were quickly disabused of that convenient misperception.

The sergeant’s series of brief topic-specific lectures lasted throughout the late morning and most of the afternoon, until 16:00 hours arrived and he drew to a close. The eight faces looking back at him were as attentive as they’d been when he walked into the room that morning, and perhaps even more so, because they knew what day it was.

“Your first live deployment will begin tomorrow morning at 05:00 in loading bay three,” the sergeant said, and this time some of the recruits exchanged looks with each other. He allowed the minor display of excitement to pass unremarked.

The compound had been a moderately-sized private hospital until the 1990s, when it had been sold to the military, had a brief life as a barracks, and then been allowed to fall into disrepair. It was reactivated quietly eight years ago, and deliberately retained its outward dilapidation despite state of the art security measures within. The loading bays were previously access points for laundry services, catering, and medical waste removal during the facility’s heyday, but today only bay three was operational. It contained a machine, or rather an interconnected cluster of machines which required a dedicated — and equally classified — direct supply line from the regional nuclear power station six miles away.

“Remember your training,” the sergeant continued, looking at each of the recruits in turn. “Your missions are vital to our national security. Above all, remember that our methods are those of influence, not action. We motivate and demotivate; strengthen or weaken relationships; implant ideas. Any direct action, however, will always result in the operative becoming untethered.”

A chill ran through the room. The worst possible mission outcome was covered on the second day of the course, after onboarding and orientation. An untethered operative couldn’t be retrieved from the field. Direct intervention had been proven to break the delicate synchronisation between the machine in loading bay three and the soldier in question. In the project’s developmental phases, they had lost four people that way; three men and one woman.

The woman and two of the men had returned to the base at the prearranged time in the evening of their day of deployment, obviously much worse for wear; their missions had been deliberately kept comparatively nearby to allow that possibility. The third man hadn’t returned. He’d been located only after his death of natural causes almost forty miles away, as recorded in the regional hospital records.

“When in doubt, walk away. Verify your status. Regroup and focus on subtler measures. Your first target will be the spouses of party leaders in the General Election, as discussed.”

Several of the recruits nodded. They’d all prepared for the mission extensively, reading all the available material during their evenings. There was no shortage of useful intelligence, of course, as would almost always be the case. The outcome was critical, and their commanders would know immediately whether they’d succeeded.

“You’ll have three months to get in place, make contact, and exert influence. In the case of Audrey, gentlemen, work on her husband making reparations with the trade unions. And for Denis, your task, ladies, will be to incite his wife to go even further in the opposite direction. In any event, consider your mission concluded on the day of the election, and return to base. We’ll reconvene tomorrow afternoon at 14:00. Dismissed.”

All eight recruits stood as one, saluted the sergeant, and filed out. They didn’t speak. There was nothing more to say.

The following morning at 04:50, they assembled once more, this time in loading bay three. The air tasted like copper, and felt overly dry despite the rainy weather. The machine droned languidly, and the unremarkable circular dais at its centre produced a pronounced hum. The sergeant stood nearby, and at a nod from a technician, he turned to face his recruits. They wore no uniforms now; their clothes were plain and even drab, and their pockets were entirely empty. Each of them wore an identical cheap-looking wristwatch.

“You’re all synchronised,” the sergeant said. “and you’ll want to keep it that way. Do your country proud. Good luck.”

The recruits stepped onto the dais. The humming sound intensified. The sergeant stood ten feet away beside a console. As the daylight broke through, the last image from the loading bay that the four men and four women saw was the large-format text displayed on the technician’s console.

Deployment: February 3rd, 1979.

JINX

KESTREL face a new and terrifying enemy: an all-seeing mastermind who already knows exactly who they are, and many of their deepest secrets. Nothing stays hidden forever, and the line between privacy and liberty is razor-thin…

Book 3 in the KESTREL action-thriller series.

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