The drone’s designation was Wasp-14, but its handler, a gaunt man named Kael, called it “Peaseblossom.” He was sentimental that way, a flaw the military-psych evaluators had flagged three times. He’d argued, successfully, that a spot of poetry helped him fly the machine better. The brass, needing every pilot, had let it slide.
“Target down. Package secured,” Kael reported, his voice trembling only slightly. “Pack, form on Cicada. Bug out.” targeting pack
Kael positioned Peaseblossom on a support beam twenty meters from the target. The angle was perfect. A clean shot through the gap in the coat, just below the armpit, into the heart. The railgun charged with a subsonic whine that only Peaseblossom’s own sensors could hear. The targeting reticle bloomed in Kael’s vision, a blood-red ring. The Archivist coughed, a wet, ragged sound. He was old, maybe sick. It didn’t matter. The drone’s designation was Wasp-14, but its handler,
“Targeting pack, new directive. Do not eliminate. Capture. The Archivist has a dead man’s switch. The schematics are rigged to self-destruct if his heart stops. We need him alive. Repeat, alive . Disable and extract.” “Target down
