Verdun, and Ida Vros

The jump marker on his wrist pulsed once, a sharp green flash against the gray stone of the abbey’s ruined courtyard. Fifty-seven hours, forty-eight minutes. Caspian adjusted the strap of his pack, the weight of the folded card in his pocket a constant pressure.

Ida Vros stood at the edge of the courtyard, her back to him, scanning the tree line. She was seventeen, same as him, but the way she held herself—shoulders square, hands loose at her sides—made her seem older. Not trained, exactly. Principled. The kind of person who had already decided what she was willing to break for, and what she wasn’t.

Caspian stepped forward. “The relay’s east?”

Ida didn’t turn. “Kilometer and a half. Compact’s got it tucked into a supply depot near the crossroads. They’re running a cipher stream through it—Bureau’s been trying to crack it for weeks.”

“And we’re just observing?”

Now she glanced at him, one eyebrow lifting. “You sound disappointed.”

“Curious,” Caspian said. “The Bureau doesn’t usually send analysts to watch things they can’t decode.”

Ida’s smirk was fleeting. “Maybe they think you’ll see something the rest of us missed.”

Caspian let that sit. He had, in fact, already seen something the Bureau hadn’t: the routing code on the folded card in his pocket, the one that didn’t match any department in the organizational charts he’d memorized. But Ida didn’t know that, and he wasn’t about to tell her.

She turned to face him, her expression assessing. “You’re the one who found the terminal in the university cluster.”

It wasn’t a question. Caspian kept his face neutral. “How do you know that?”

“Because the Compact’s been looking for you since Ypres.” She tilted her head. “Or did you think they wouldn’t notice a Bureau analyst who wasn’t in the system three weeks ago?”

Caspian’s fingers stilled near his pocket. The card was still there. The question was whether Ida already knew about it.

“You’re Compact,” he said.

Ida’s laugh was dry. “I’m a lot of things. Compact’s just the one the Bureau cares about.”

She turned back toward the tree line, her posture relaxing slightly. “We’ve got four hours before the next patrol. If you want to see the relay, now’s the time.”

Caspian hesitated. The mission brief had been clear: observe, don’t engage. But the brief hadn’t mentioned Ida Vros, and it certainly hadn’t mentioned the Compact knowing his name.

He stepped forward. “Lead the way.”

---

The forest was quieter than Ypres. No distant artillery, no shouted orders—just the sound of their boots on damp earth and the occasional rustle of small animals in the underbrush. Ida moved with the same precision as Rumo—no wasted motion, no hesitation. She didn’t look back to check if he was following.

Caspian kept pace, his eyes scanning the trees. The Bureau’s intel had said the Verdun perimeter was stable, but "stable" in 1915 meant something different than it did in 2023. The ground was littered with the detritus of war: rusted cans, broken rifles, the occasional boot still laced with bone. He stepped over a shell casing, its edges jagged with age.

Ida stopped abruptly. “There.”

Through the trees, Caspian could see the supply depot—a low, squat building with a corrugated metal roof, its walls reinforced with sandbags. A single guard stood at the entrance, his rifle slung over his shoulder. He looked bored.

“That’s it?” Caspian asked.

Ida nodded. “Relay’s inside. They’re running a cipher stream through it—Bureau’s been trying to intercept it for weeks.”

Caspian studied the depot. The guard was the only visible security. No patrols, no additional sentries. “That seems light.”

“It’s not about security,” Ida said. “It’s about speed. They’re moving the relay every forty-eight hours. This one’s already been here too long.”

Caspian pulled the mission brief from his pack, unfolding it. The Bureau’s intel had said the same thing—Compact was rotating relays to avoid interception. But the brief hadn’t mentioned how they were choosing the rotation points.

He looked at Ida. “You’ve been here before.”

She didn’t deny it. “Three times in the last month. Bureau keeps sending analysts to watch, but none of them last more than a jump.”

Caspian folded the brief, tucking it back into his pack. “And you’re still here.”

Ida’s expression didn’t change. “I’m not Bureau.”

“But you’re not trying to stop me, either.”

She turned to face him fully, her gaze steady. “I’m not here to help you. But I’m not here to kill you, either.”

Caspian considered that. Ida was Compact, or at least Compact-adjacent. But she wasn’t acting like an enemy. She was acting like someone who had already calculated the cost of engagement and decided it wasn’t worth it.

“What do you want?” he asked.

Ida’s smirk returned, sharper this time. “To not die in a trench. Same as you.”

She turned back toward the depot, her voice dropping. “The relay’s inside. If you want to see it, now’s the time.”

Caspian hesitated. The mission brief had been clear: observe, don’t engage. But the brief hadn’t accounted for Ida Vros, and it certainly hadn’t accounted for the folded card burning a hole in his pocket.

He stepped forward. “Let’s go.”

---

The guard at the depot entrance didn’t look up as they approached. Ida walked with the same unhurried confidence, her hands visible, her posture relaxed. Caspian mirrored her, keeping his own hands loose at his sides.

“Evening,” Ida said, her voice casual.

The guard grunted. “You’re late.”

Ida shrugged. “Traffic.”

The guard’s eyes flicked to Caspian, then back to Ida. “Who’s this?”

“New guy,” Ida said. “Bureau sent him to watch.”

The guard’s expression darkened. “You brought a Bureau analyst to the relay?”

Ida didn’t flinch. “He’s not here to interfere. Just to observe.”

The guard studied Caspian for a long moment, then stepped aside. “Fine. But if he touches anything, I shoot him.”

Ida smirked. “Noted.”

She stepped past the guard, Caspian following. The interior of the depot was dim, the air thick with the scent of oil and metal. Crates were stacked along the walls, their labels faded but still legible: Munitions. Rations. Medical.

The relay was in the center of the room—a bulky, boxy device, its surface covered in dials and switches. A single operator sat at a small desk beside it, his fingers moving over the keys with practiced ease. He didn’t look up as they entered.

Ida stopped a few feet away, her arms crossed. “You’re late on the rotation.”

The operator didn’t pause. “Supply chain issues.”

Ida’s smirk deepened. “You’re going to get us all killed.”

The operator finally looked up, his expression unreadable. “Not my problem.”

Caspian studied the relay. The cipher stream was visible on a small screen beside the operator—a series of numbers and letters scrolling too fast to read. The Bureau had been trying to crack it for weeks, according to Ida. But the folded card in his pocket suggested the Bureau already had the key. They just didn’t know it yet.

He stepped forward, his voice low. “How often do you rotate the cipher?”

The operator glanced at Ida, then back at Caspian. “Every forty-eight hours. Why?”

Caspian didn’t answer. He was too busy watching the screen. The cipher stream wasn’t random. It had a pattern—a rhythm to the way the numbers and letters repeated. He’d seen something like it before, in the routing codes from the Bureau’s orientation sheet and the folded card.

Ida stepped beside him, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You recognize it.”

It wasn’t a question. Caspian didn’t look at her. “Maybe.”

The operator’s fingers paused over the keys. “You’re Bureau.”

Caspian ignored him. He was too busy tracing the pattern on the screen, his mind working through the possibilities. The cipher stream was a routing code. Not for the Compact. For the Bureau.

The same committee that had authorized the mission in Verdun.

Ida’s voice was sharp. “Caspian.”

He looked up. The operator was standing now, his hand resting on the pistol at his hip. Ida’s expression was unreadable, but her posture had shifted—tense, ready.

Caspian exhaled. “We should go.”

Ida didn’t argue. She turned toward the exit, Caspian following. The guard at the door watched them leave, his hand resting on his rifle.

Outside, the forest was darker than before. The sun had dipped below the tree line, casting long shadows across the ground. Ida didn’t speak until they were well clear of the depot.

“You recognized the cipher,” she said.

Caspian didn’t answer immediately. He was still working through the implications. The relay wasn’t just transmitting Compact messages. It was transmitting Bureau routing codes. The same codes that had authorized the mission in Verdun.

Ida stopped, turning to face him. “Talk to me, Caspian.”

He met her gaze. “The cipher’s not Compact. It’s Bureau.”

Ida’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in her eyes. “You’re sure.”

Caspian nodded. “The pattern matches the routing codes I’ve seen. The committee’s codes.”

Ida was silent for a long moment. Then she turned, resuming her path through the trees. “We need to move. The patrol’s due back in twenty minutes.”

Caspian followed. “You knew.”

Ida didn’t look back. “I suspected.”

“And you didn’t tell the Bureau.”

Now she glanced at him, her expression unreadable. “The Bureau already knows.”

Caspian’s fingers brushed the folded card in his pocket. The Bureau knew about the committee. They just didn’t know Caspian knew.

Ida stopped abruptly. “We’re here.”

Caspian looked up. They were back at the abbey, its ruined walls looming in the fading light. The jump marker on his wrist pulsed once—fifty-seven hours, fifty-nine minutes.

Ida turned to face him. “You’re not just an analyst.”

Caspian didn’t react. “No.”

“You’re the one they’re trying to kill.”

He met her gaze. “Yes.”

Ida studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “Good.”

Caspian blinked. “Good?”

Ida’s smirk was fleeting. “Means you’ve got skin in the game.”

She turned, moving toward the abbey’s entrance. Caspian followed, his mind racing. Ida wasn’t Bureau. She wasn’t even fully Compact. She was something else—something that operated in the gaps between both organizations.

And she knew more than she was letting on.

---

Back inside the abbey, Ida moved to the table in the center of the room, the map still spread across its surface. She traced a finger along the route to the relay, her expression thoughtful.

“You’re not here to observe,” she said.

Caspian didn’t answer. He was too busy watching her. Ida wasn’t just Compact. She was a variable—one that the Bureau hadn’t accounted for, and one that the Compact hadn’t fully controlled.

She looked up. “You’re here to find out who authorized the mission in Verdun.”

Caspian kept his face neutral. “Maybe.”

Ida’s smirk deepened. “Don’t lie to me, Caspian. I’m the only one in this room who isn’t trying to kill you.”

He hesitated, then pulled the folded card from his pocket. He unfolded it carefully, setting it on the map beside the relay’s location. The routing code was still legible, the ink faded but clear.

Ida studied it. “Where’d you get this?”

“Ypres,” Caspian said. “Operative Strek gave it to me before he died.”

Ida’s expression didn’t change, but her fingers tightened on the edge of the map. “Strek was Bureau.”

Caspian nodded. “He was.”

Ida was silent for a long moment. Then she looked up, her gaze steady. “The committee’s real.”

Caspian nodded. “I know.”

Ida exhaled, her posture relaxing slightly. “Good. Means I’m not crazy.”

She turned back to the map, her voice dropping. “The committee’s been running operations through the Compact for months. Not all of them. Just the ones that need plausible deniability.”

Caspian studied the map. The relay’s location was marked in red, the same as before. But now he saw it differently. The relay wasn’t just a Compact communication node. It was a Bureau asset. One that the committee was using to transmit its own messages.

“Why are you telling me this?” he asked.

Ida didn’t look up. “Because you’re the only one who can do something about it.”

Caspian hesitated. “And if I don’t?”

Ida’s smirk was sharp. “Then you die. Same as Strek.”

She turned, moving toward the abbey’s exit. “Fifty-seven hours, Caspian. Use them wisely.”

---

The next morning, Caspian woke to the sound of distant artillery. He sat up, rubbing his eyes. The abbey was quiet, the air thick with the scent of damp stone. Ida was already awake, sitting at the table with the map spread out before her.

“Morning,” she said, not looking up.

Caspian stood, stretching. “How long was I out?”

“Six hours.” Ida glanced at him. “You talk in your sleep.”

Caspian ignored that. He moved to the table, studying the map. The relay’s location was still marked in red, but now there were additional marks—routes, patrol paths, supply lines.

“You’ve been busy,” he said.

Ida nodded. “The Compact’s moving the relay tonight. If we want to see where it goes, we need to be in position by sundown.”

Caspian studied the map. The new relay location was marked in blue—a church on the outskirts of Verdun, its steeple still standing despite the shelling.

“Why the church?” he asked.

Ida’s smirk was quick. “Because no one bombs churches. Not even the Germans.”

Caspian considered that. The Bureau’s intel hadn’t mentioned the church. Neither had the mission brief. But Ida knew.

He looked at her. “You’re not just observing.”

Ida didn’t deny it. “I’m making sure the relay gets where it’s supposed to go.”

Caspian’s fingers brushed his pocket. The folded card was still there, its edges frayed, its ink faded. The routing code on it matched the cipher stream from the relay. The committee was using the Compact’s infrastructure to transmit its own messages.

And Ida was helping them.

He met her gaze. “You’re working for the committee.”

Ida’s expression didn’t change. “I’m working for myself.”

Caspian studied her. Ida wasn’t Bureau. She wasn’t even fully Compact. She was something else—something that operated in the gaps between both organizations.

And she was helping the committee.

He exhaled. “What do you want, Ida?”

Ida’s smirk deepened. “Same as you. To not die.”

She turned back to the map, her voice dropping. “The relay’s moving at sundown. If you want to see where it goes, be ready.”

---

The church was older than the war. Its stone walls were pockmarked with bullet holes, its stained-glass windows shattered, but its steeple still stood, a jagged silhouette against the setting sun. Caspian and Ida crouched in the ruins of a nearby building, the jump marker on his wrist pulsing steadily—fifty-six hours, fifty minutes.

Ida adjusted the binoculars, her voice low. “They’re here.”

Through the binoculars, Caspian could see the Compact operatives—three of them, moving with the same precision as Ida. They carried the relay between them, its bulky shape unmistakable even in the fading light.

“They’re not Bureau,” Caspian said.

Ida shook her head. “They’re Compact. But the relay’s Bureau.”

Caspian lowered the binoculars. “You’re sure.”

Ida’s smirk was sharp. “I’ve seen it before.”

She turned, moving toward the church’s entrance. Caspian followed, his boots crunching on broken glass. The church’s interior was dim, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and old incense. The relay was already set up in the center of the room, its dials glowing faintly in the dark.

Ida moved to the relay, her fingers tracing the cipher stream on the screen. “Same pattern as before.”

Caspian studied the screen. The cipher stream was still scrolling, the numbers and letters repeating in the same rhythm as the routing codes. The committee’s codes.

He pulled the folded card from his pocket, unfolding it carefully. The routing code on the card matched the cipher stream.

Ida glanced at him. “You’re not just an analyst.”

Caspian didn’t answer. He was too busy watching the screen. The cipher stream wasn’t just a message. It was a command. One that the committee had authorized.

And one that the Compact was executing.

Ida’s voice was low. “They’re moving it again at dawn.”

Caspian looked up. “Where?”

Ida’s smirk deepened. “Somewhere you won’t like.”

She turned, moving toward the church’s exit. Caspian followed, his mind racing. The relay wasn’t just a communication node. It was a weapon. One that the committee was using to transmit its own orders through the Compact’s infrastructure.

And Ida was helping them.

He stopped at the church’s entrance, his gaze steady. “Why are you telling me this?”

Ida didn’t turn. “Because you’re the only one who can stop it.”

Caspian hesitated. “And if I don’t?”

Ida’s smirk was sharp. “Then you die. Same as Strek.”

She stepped into the fading light, her silhouette sharp against the horizon. “Fifty-six hours, Caspian. Use them wisely.”

Caspian watched her go, his fingers tightening around the folded card. The committee was using the Compact to transmit its own orders. And the Compact was helping them.

He had fifty-six hours.

And he wasn’t planning on wasting them.

---

Back at the abbey, Caspian sat at the table, the map spread out before him. The new relay location was marked in blue—the same farmhouse where Operative Strek had died.

Ida was already there, her expression unreadable. “You’re late.”

Caspian didn’t react. “I’m on time.”

Ida smirked. “Early is on time. On time is late.”

Caspian ignored her. He pulled the folded card from his pocket, setting it on the map beside the farmhouse’s location. The routing code was still legible, the ink faded but clear.

Ida studied it. “Strek’s card.”

Caspian nodded. “The committee’s code.”

Ida’s expression didn’t change. “You’re sure.”

Caspian met her gaze. “I’m sure.”

Ida exhaled, her posture relaxing slightly. “Good. Means I’m not crazy.”

She turned back to the map, her voice dropping. “The relay’s moving at dawn. If we want to intercept it, we need to be in position by midnight.”

Caspian studied the map. The farmhouse was marked in red, the same as the relay’s previous locations. But now he saw the pattern—the way the committee’s routing codes matched the cipher stream, the way the Compact’s operations overlapped with the Bureau’s.

He looked at Ida. “You’re not just observing.”

Ida’s smirk deepened. “I’m making sure the relay gets where it’s supposed to go.”

Caspian’s fingers brushed the card. “And if it doesn’t?”

Ida’s expression didn’t change. “Then the committee kills us both.”

She turned, moving toward the abbey’s exit. “Midnight, Caspian. Don’t be late.”