Scorpion by Christian Cantrell (novel24 .txt) 📕

the most important resolution the United Nations has ever passed, and perhaps ever will pass: the denuclearization of the entire planet. And I don’t care what any pencil-neck bureaucrat says; supporting that mandate, in any capacity whatsoever, is an honor.”

There is even some verbal assent now.

“When the UN does an audit and finds that thirty-seven percent of the world’s enriched nuclear material is missing, you take that seriously. You assemble a task force of the finest officers and analysts and support staff on the planet, and you don’t disband it until enough time has passed that you know—absolutely know—that every single milligram of fissile material is no longer weapons-grade. That whoever bought it or stole it or otherwise came into possession of it and tried to figure out how to make a dirty bomb out of it has either been killed by Mossad, betrayed by their partners, or reduced to piles of protoplasm in some abandoned warehouse somewhere because they didn’t know how to handle it.”

Van keeps an eye on the guy in the back and some of her staff follow her gaze, turning in their seats. It is Alessandro Moretti. Technically, he’s her boss, but these days they function more or less as peers. Moretti’s been in and out of the office for over two years—mostly out—working on something highly classified that not even Van knows anything about, so she’s been covering for him. Two cups of coffee means he wants something.

“And that’s precisely what you did. You did exactly what the agency asked of you. What your country asked of you. What the world needed from you. And you did it willingly, thoroughly, and with grace.”

She watches her team for a moment as she tees up her next line.

“You did it perfectly, people. And you know what? I’d do it all over again. Every lead, every meeting, every report”—applause now—“every interview, every query, every simulation, every model, every dead end, and every single last algorithm. All of it!”

She waits for the applause to subside and notices that a few glistening eyes must be covertly attended to before hands are returned to laps.

“The world owes you its gratitude. Of course, that doesn’t mean you’re going to get it. That’s the nature of what we do. You all know that. You all know what you signed up for. There’s not much I can do about that, but I can express gratitude on behalf of the CIA. And most sincerely, I can express my gratitude. So, thank you. Thank you for showing up every single day. Thank you for not just doing your jobs, but for dedicating your careers and your lives to making the world a safer place. Thank you for sacrificing time with your families. Time you won’t get back. Time with your children.”

Van’s eyes do exactly what she explicitly wills them not to do: land squarely on Senior Analyst Quinn Mitchell. Instantly she regrets what she perceives as calling Quinn out in front of the entire team, but her top analyst gives her a sad, appreciative smile, which Van returns before moving on.

“You are all—every single one of you—my personal heroes.”

This one gets a standing ovation, and it is suddenly painfully obvious to Deputy Director Townes how she should have been doing this all along—how badly her team needed to hear that what they’ve been doing for the last five years matters. Van still finds it hard to believe that she has the power to instill purpose in others, and she is as afraid of that power today as she was the day she was first promoted to manager. That’s called humility, her mother used to tell her. That’s just Jesus whispering in your ear, keeping you on your toes. That’s a good thing, Sunshine. Don’t ever lose that.

When it’s clear that their boss still has more to say, one by one her team sits back down. Van silently vows that she will never let so much time pass again without telling the people around her how she feels, then moves on to the final phase.

“Some of you have already been reassigned, and some of you are still waiting to hear what’s next for you. Some of you will remain with me, and some of you will be blessed with a much kinder boss, and to them, I say congratulations.”

She gets the kind of laughter you hear toward the end of a eulogy when someone makes a tension-breaking joke.

“But wherever you go,” Van continues, “never forget that working with all of you has been the greatest honor of my career.”

There’s the final ovation. Van accepts it as long as she can—smiling, nodding, waving to individuals—until she starts feeling like an egomaniacal politician and takes refuge in packing up her laptop. The applause subsides, transitioning into murmurs and shuffles, but when she picks up her bag and turns, she finds that a queue has formed. A departing line, as it were. The women are ready to wrap her up in long, warm, rocking hugs, and the men awkwardly wait for Townes to initiate physical contact. Quinn Mitchell’s hug is especially affectionate. What Van feared could have been construed as crass or distasteful—the look she inadvertently gave Quinn at the mention of children—turned out to be exactly what her star analyst needed. Maybe, Van thinks, our refusal to acknowledge tragedy beyond the cursory is not so much decorum as it is a way to avoid our own discomfort. Maybe we end up prolonging others’ pain so that we can remain comfortable inside our own little bubbles. But when tragedy inevitably finds us, and when others treat us with the same perceived civility that we showed them, we too will feel unbearably alone.

Maybe Jesus has once again just whispered in Van’s ear.

—

Moretti kept a respectable distance during the ritual, but now that the last of Van’s team has dispersed, he closes in. He offers her his free hand—the one without the two caffeine grenades—as Townes descends the stairs at the