Date: 2025-07-15 07:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fiction; Science Fiction; Crime & Mystery
Description: The war between the Earth led Alliance and the Hama Empire rages across the galaxy. There are valiant skirmishes, dastardly acts of subterfuge and sabotage, daring rescues, sinister sneak attacks and a hundred other tales of heroism worth telling. Meanwhile, back on earth, the Alliance capital world has become a hotbed of espionage and intrigue as friendships and allegiances are strained and broken. Cason Maze has been tasked with protecting the defense against this new front. He’s on the trail of a league of villains purported to be a resurrected Crimson Menagerie, a cabal of powerful and pow
Publisher: Amazon Digital Services LLC - Kdp

THE CRIMSON GAMBIT

Shattered Alliance, Book 4

BENJAMIN WALLACE

Copyright © 2025 by Benjamin Wallace.

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Benjamin Wallace Books.

Preface

The galaxy is a mess.

The Earth-led Alliance failed before the battle of Shandor had even ended. Before the smoke had cleared and the blaster holes cooled, planets long considered friends deserted their allies. Some member states filed formal petitions to leave the Alliance. Others made public statements supporting the enemy in a show of solidarity, and some simply stopped answering Earth’s calls altogether.

What remained of the once-steadfast confederation of systems immediately declared war on the Hama in response to the empire’s surprise attack that destroyed the Earth Alliance Ship Peacebringer over the desert planet and rent the fabric of the Alliance.

The war erupted into a furious stalemate, with both sides scrambling to construct ships to augment their limited navies. Over the decades, the Alliance had grown complacent and drawn down its military forces. The Hama had come prepared for war, but had lost a considerable number of vessels in the asteroid ambush above Shandor.

While the struggle for naval supremacy raged in the shipyards, the greater conflict between the Hama empire and the Alliance forces spread across hundreds of worlds. Reports of acts of heroism and cruelty came in from all corners of known space. There were valiant skirmishes, dastardly acts of subterfuge and sabotage, daring rescues, sinister sneak attacks and a hundred other tales of heroism worth telling taking place across the galaxy.

Meanwhile, back on Earth…

1

The sun beat down with closed fists on the Plaza de Toros de Las Ventas, filling the storied stadium with light, baking the crowd and melting Cason Maze’s face off.

He couldn’t tell how bad it was, and he hoped it wasn’t noticeable, but he felt the prosthetics on his face beginning to soften and droop. Resisting the urge to poke at it, the agent kept his eyes on the crowd that filled the arena.

For more than a century, the plaza had remained largely unchanged. As modern-day Madrid grew up around the historic site, the lust for bullfighting was lost to the elegance of the new world and new technology. As mankind reached out to the stars and evolved not only their position in the galaxy, but also their sensibilities, even the locals’ love of the sport began to wane. Bullfighting was violent, abhorrent and once barbecue grill manufacturers were allowed sponsorship, even the spirit of the game was lost to commercialism. It wasn’t long before the sport was all but extinct, stumbling weakly like a wounded animal about a dusty old building.

Then two things happened.

First, a sudden wave of nostalgia swept the entire planet. It seemed the farther man flew from Earth and spread to the stars, the stronger he felt a connection to his home world and his history. Planet-wide, people dug their heels into their culture and heritage and breathed new life into old traditions. For many, that meant reviving forgotten holidays and making them bigger than ever.

In Brazil, Carnival grew to a monthlong celebration completely separated from Lent.

In Canada, Boxing Day became bigger than ever. The sales lasted well into the New Year, the discounts were larger and the government dedicated millions to a program to determine exactly what Boxing Day was really all about. The results were inconclusive and the holiday’s origins remained shrouded in myth and argued about at holiday gatherings. But the world did get some new desserts out of the effort; even if they were mostly tart-based.

In many parts of the world, they rallied around Arbor Day. It wasn’t long before people sought to break the world record for number of trees planted in a day. This led to a friendly competition between regions, which led to teams, which led to people dressing like squirrels and chipmunks, which led to the regretful Multi Regional Rodent Wars and a proliferation of furry conventions around the globe.

For Spain, it meant re-embracing the spectacle that was bullfighting. The tradition, the ceremony and the flair of the sport were taken to new heights of extravagance and celebrated with pride across the country and by the nation’s citizens in the stars.

The second thing that happened that led to the resurgence in bullfighting as a spectator sport was that the bulls learned to fight back.

Over the years, the sport’s popularity grew beyond the bounds of its traditions and found new fans across the galaxy. This was evident by the diversity of the crowd in the arena. Species from across the Alliance filled the seats and cheered. Along with pizza, bullfighting was viewed as one of the few things that were truly unique to Earth (mostly because of the outfits) and seeing a match at the storied Plaza de Toros de Las Ventas was a bucket list item for fans and tourists alike.

The myriad of attendees clapped their hands, slapped their tentacles, oscillated their breathing membranes and sang, “Ole, ole, ole, ole” as they waited for the match to begin.

Cason swept his gaze over the crowd, looking for hints of danger. Today, he was the predator lying in wait. But he wasn’t foolish enough to think the situation couldn’t change in an instant.

Trumpets signaled the start of the event and the crowd exploded in a wave of cheers and applause that continued as the matador stepped into the ring, dressed to kill in his traje de luces, the suit of lights.

From the top of his montera to the tips of his zapatillas, the man was covered with sequins, ruffles and a brilliant palette of colors so dazzling the sun’s rays could barely catch up. Despite the sport’s renaissance and modernization, the bullfighter’s traditional garb had changed very little. The only substantial addition was the incorporation of programmable LEDs.

The matador stepped to the center of the ring and bowed with a flair befitting his fanciful and ridiculous outfit.

The crowd responded with hisses and boos that resonated deep in the bones of the historic structure and spread throughout the stadium’s floor until it felt like the plaza itself was jeering the bullfighter.

The seat next to Cason was still empty and rattled with the vibration.

“Still no sign of him,” the voice in his ear said as if it was reading his thoughts.

He resisted the urge to respond and kept his gaze on the spectacle in front of him. Focusing was difficult. The sensation that his disguise was melting was not only getting worse, his face was starting to itch. His nose twitched, and he had the distinct feeling something crawled between his eyebrows. He couldn’t wait for this to be over.

The trumpets blared once more and the bull raced into the center of the ring. It leapt into the air and hung there for a cinematic moment before landing in a three-point stance and disappearing in a thick cloud of dust. When the dust settled, the bull emerged, fists up, ready to fight.

The crowd went wild. They clapped their hands, slapped their tentacles against exoskeletons and released bursts of pheromones in appreciation. Those that couldn’t shout because they didn’t have vocal cords or mouths, sent out telepathic waves of exuberance while others cheered the bull. This was what they had come to see. This was their champion.

The bell rang and before the matador could even raise the point of his estoc, the bull had closed the distance, wrapped its arms around the man and suplexed him through a folding table. The crowd sprang to their feet. The picadors raced into the arena to assist the matador; despite the fact they hadn’t been tagged in.

This action should have been a flagrant foul, but the matador’s manager, the Marvelous Miss Marilyn, was using what she had trademarked as her “tremendous assets” to distract the official in charge of the match. It was all a part of the sport, and the crowd loved it.

The picadors scored a few hits on the bull before the ref regained his focus and forced them out of the arena. The distraction had only been momentary, but it was enough for the matador to catch his breath, climb out of the table and get back into the match. The bullfight resumed at a slightly more subdued pace, and the people in the crowd sat back in their seats to watch the drama unfold.

Cason took his seat as well and found the vacant chair next to him had been filled during the excitement. The seller had arrived.

“They say the bulls used to lose a lot,” the man said. “I don’t know why anyone would want to watch that. This is much better.”

The minotaur had the matador in a headlock now and the bullfighter was reaching out for help from his picadors. The ref was wise to them now, and unless a legitimate tag was made, the picadors would have to stay back behind the boards.

“Times change,” Cason said while keeping his eye on the spectacle in the ring. The meeting was supposed to be discreet. The plan had been simple; get in, tranq the buyer, hide the body in a bathroom stall, take on his appearance, make the buy, get out and get this stupid disguise off his face. He liked the efficiency of the plan and was determined to stick to it. This was already more chitchat than he had hoped for.

The matador stopped reaching for help and drove a series of elbows into the bull’s groin.

The crowd felt every blow, and winced at the maneuver.

The bull released the hold on its opponent and stumbled around in pain while the matador scrambled across the arena and tagged in the picadors. They entered with a lot of gusto, but the bull grabbed them by their bows and started clearing them from the arena with brutal efficiency. Picadors were flying everywhere, to the delight of the crowd.

“Yeah, things are always changing.” The man leaned in slightly when he spoke, almost imperceptibly. But it was enough to prove to Cason the seller was an amateur. “Since things are changing, wouldn’t it be valuable to know the future?”

“That it would,” Cason agreed. The truth was, he already knew more than the seller knew. And, on top of that, there was nothing to know about to begin with. Earth and the Hama were both scrambling to build navies. The Hama had lost a considerable portion of their fleet over Shandor while Earth was still ramping up production to field a wartime navy. The information the seller possessed held the truth of the situation, Earth was struggling to keep pace with the Hama when it came to production.

But Cason and his agency had spent the past six months promoting another story and they couldn’t have the truth out there ruining it. They had already plugged the leak in their intelligence network. The man sitting next to him was the last drip.

“I’d love to be a fortune teller,” Cason said.

“Well, ain’t that funny?” The seller chuckled. “It’s going to cost you a fortune to become one.”

Cason felt his face slip. The prosthesis was definitely losing its battle with the Spanish sun. His brow itched, a mole drifted south, and in his mind’s eye, he looked like Dali painted a Picasso. He had to hurry this along before his face ended up in his lap. “I think that’s a fair price. Do you have it with you?”

“Hey, buddy! What’s the hurry?” The seller settled deeper into his seat and folded his hands across his chest. “These seats weren’t cheap. We should at least enjoy the match.”

Cason grunted to himself and leaned back in his chair. He risked putting a hand on his face. It was difficult to tell what the makeup looked like, but it felt loose. He gave it a firm press and tried to stick it back on his face.

The picadors had scrambled back into the arena and charged the bull with a coordinated attack that was seeing some success. Two of them held the creature’s arms, while the other two threw gut punches. The beating was taking its toll on the animal and the matador used the time to get a second wind. He stepped back into the ring, shouting instructions to the picadors as he climbed over the wooden boards.

The four men moved in response and pinned the bull against the wooden wall lining the arena. They held the beast in place, its arms restrained.

The matador produced his estoc with a dramatic flair, slicing the air and dueling an invisible opponent for extra effect.

The crowd booed, hissed and blew raspberries. This only spurred the matador on. He lived for their disapproval. That was his role in the match and he ate it up.

Though it had manhandled them with ease only minutes before, the minotaur struggled against the hands of the picadors and watched helplessly as its opponent continued to showboat with the blade.

“This is the good part!” The seller moved forward to the edge of his seat; his attention focused solely on the match.

Cason leaned farther back in his own chair in an attempt to hide from the sun and preserve his fake face for as long as possible.

The matador finished a flurry of moves involving his sword, his cape and his middle finger, and drank in the hatred of the crowd. Finally, he turned the point of the sword toward the helpless animal.

The minotaur shook its head frantically. With his arms pinned against the wall, it was all he could move.

The matador raised the tip of his sword and charged.

The crowd shouted their disapproval. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t a clean match. Why wasn’t the ref doing something? (The answer to that question was that the Marvelous Miss Marilyn had suffered a wardrobe malfunction, and the ref was trying to help with her dress.)

The matador raced across the arena and leapt into the air for the killing blow.

At the last moment, the bull raised its right leg and delivered a big boot to the matador’s face. The man hit the dirt hard, and the crowd leapt back to their feet.

Seeing their leader fall sent the picadors into disarray. The bull freed its hand and dealt with each of them in turn. The Marvelous Miss Marilyn, her dress repaired, tried sneaking up behind the bull with a chair, but was struck by a flying picador and taken out of the match before she could intervene. In a matter of moments, the beast and the man stood alone in the arena. The minotaur turned its attention to the matador who was beginning to beg. The bull dragged its foot along the arena floor, driving up a cloud of dust as it prepared to charge.

The crowd lost its mind.

Cason lost his nose. The prosthetic dropped into his lap with a hot, wet thump.

The seller faced Cason and slapped him on the shoulder. The grin on his face was one of genuine excitement. “Looks like it’s all over but the goring, eh?” He turned back to watch the killing blow.

Cason grabbed the fallen nose and shoved it back into place as he stood up.

Realizing what he had seen, the seller looked back and stared at Cason. His grin was gone. He studied Cason’s nose. “What’s wrong with your face?”

“My father was not an attractive man,” Cason said.

The nose fell off again and landed on the ground between the two men. Cason watched it land and then bounce away under the seat into a pile of spilled popcorn. He sighed. By the time he looked back up, the seller was halfway down the row.

2

“He’s running?” Cason said into his comm as he chased after the seller. He was trying to keep up, but his prey was throwing spectators into his path. The rows were so close together it only took a slight shove or a gentle tug to send someone spilling over the seats. Cason tried to help them up as he went, but the pursuit was his priority.

“What happened? Why did he run?” Meena Stendak asked through the comm piece in his ear. The panting on the other end of the comm told him she was running as well.

“My face melted,” Cason said as he fought his way through the crowd.

“I’m looking forward to having that explained later.”

While using audience members as obstacles probably seemed like a good idea at first, the tactic was starting to backfire on the seller. Despite the spectacle in the arena below them, the spectators took notice of the man’s actions and redirected their ire for the matador on this stranger shoving his way through the crowd. They started with boos and quickly escalated to throwing drinks and popcorn buckets at him. Soon they were reaching out and trying to grab him. He fought off the hands and kept pushing until he stepped out from the row and into the aisle.

Meena appeared at the top of the stairs leading to the mezzanine. The seller spotted her immediately and raced down the stairs toward the arena instead.

Cason’s earpiece rang as Meena shouted, “He spotted me!”

“I’m on him!” Cason reached the stairs and turned to pursue the seller. “Get the car!”

The majority of the crowd was still focused on the match and were now cheering the bull’s almost certain victory. They gripped their hats and held red carnations in their fists, ready to shower the victor with these accolades as soon as the final blow was made. They paid little attention to the two men racing down the steps until the seller vaulted the protective wooden wall and raced into the ring itself.

This was something new. They saw him but they didn’t know quite how to react to his presence. Was it part of the show? Was this a planned interruption? Or was something truly unexpected happening? Unsure, they watched and waited.

As soon as Cason jumped over the boards, they knew something wasn’t right and took it upon themselves to make the intruders’ presence known. Boos rained down along with frisbees and seat cushions, confusing the bull and the matador who were in the final stages of their act. The two opponents looked to one another trying to understand how they had lost the crowd. Once they spotted Cason and the seller, their fight was forgotten and they focused their attention on the intruders. Both of them charged after the interlopers intending to make an example to any who dare desecrate the hallowed ground of the Plaza de Toros de Las Ventas.

Cason knew there was no use in trying to explain the situation to a mad bull or a pissed off, sword-wielding man in tights, so he focused on the chase.

The seller dodged an attempted tackle from one of the picadors and reached the far side of the arena. He pulled himself over the boards and dropped to the other side.

The picador that had missed the seller grabbed Cason’s ankle when he tried to rush past and brought him down. Cason rolled twice and crashed into the wall. A burst of panic rose in him. The seller couldn’t get away. If the information on the drive got into the open, it would undo months of work and endanger the Alliance. He got back to his feet as the minotaur came bearing down on him.

Smoke blew out the beast’s nostrils and the ground shook as it pounded its way toward him. The bull dropped its shoulder and leapt toward the interloper with the half-melted face.

Cason made an “eep” sound and hopped to his left, his hips leading the way in a desperate attempt to get his internal organs out of goring range.

The bull crashed into the boards head first, cracking the planks forming the barriers and dropping to his knees.

“Olé,” Cason said to himself before climbing up the fallen bull and swinging himself over the barricade.

He raced behind the barrier and headed down a tunnel that took him into the bowels of the historic center. A fleeing man in an otherwise calm setting caused a trail of commotion and Cason followed that commotion, racing behind-the-scenes through the part of a bullfight few people got to see; the crew responsible for the spectacle going about their jobs, picadors practicing their lunges, bulls and matadors sharing a chat by the water cooler and the Marvelous Miss Marilyn fixing her wig.

Cason finally found an exit and burst through onto the streets of Madrid.

In most places on the planet, progress had little regard for history. Growing populations demanded accommodation and, in many cities, the past was forced to live in the shadow of the present as skyline’s full of cloud piercing buildings reached toward the heavens casting their reality on the land below. It was only in historic cities where the sanctity of heritage was protected with a little more care and additional zoning regulations. It didn’t stop progress but the streets were a blend of then and now with new tech interlaced into the old infrastructure.

This meant the sun was still beating down on Cason and melting his face off as he chased his prey into the ancient city. He pulled the prosthetics off his face and felt the fresh air hit his skin. With the residue still clinging to his cheeks, he probably looked like some kind of monster as he raced down the sidewalks in pursuit of the seller, but he felt more like himself than he had in hours. But, even with the mask gone, the itching persisted and he wrinkled his nose to stop the twitching.

Cason pulled a small cartridge from his pocket and tossed it into the air. The drone unfolded before it could hit the apex of the toss and engaged four small propellers.

“Keep an eye on him, Angel.”

“Oh, I always wanted to see Madrid,” his virtual partner responded in his comm piece as the drone rose into the air to get a better perspective.

There was a shout up ahead and a small ruckus at an intersection. Someone called somebody else a careless jerk and Cason raced toward the name-calling in time to find the seller darting out into the street.

The seller ran through the traffic, causing several of the automated vehicles to stop suddenly, instantly infuriating and slightly inconveniencing the passengers inside.

Cason raced into the street a moment after the seller. The cars had just begun moving again when his presence in the street brought them to another lurching stop.

Tourists from abroad and off planet began swearing at him in their native languages. Most of it was crass, but some of it—if you could divorce yourself from the meaning—sounded almost romantic. Being told where you can stick it in the original Dolphelian was a culturally enriching experience if you could get over the shame. Cason’s translator didn’t even try to address each phrase individually; it summed everything up in one insult that had something to do with his mother and a vegetable not unlike Earth’s rutabaga.

“The target is up ahead,” Angel said.

Cason ignored the angry tourists and pushed on after the seller.

The streets of Madrid were narrow and filled with traffic forcing him to fight through the crowds on the sidewalks. Cason ducked and twisted to move as quickly through the crowd as possible. He knew his prey was facing the same resistance but still feared the target would get away. He was losing sight of him.

“Where is he, Angel?”

“He just turned down Calle Cardenal Belluga,” his virtual assistant replied in a calm voice. Angel knew better than to add stress to the situation.

“Don’t lose him!”

The virtual assistant continued calling out locations as Cason fought his way through the crowd to stay on the seller’s trail.

* * *

The seller’s name was Orion Vox and he was a moron. Unlike most morons, he was well aware of this fact and had never let it bother him in the least. It wasn’t his fault he was a moron. He pinned it on society. The eradication of personal accountability had been one of the Alliance’s first great victories. Advances in robotics, AI and matter conversion had eliminated the need for people to do almost anything. Jobs and chores were handled by machines, and the need to work was made obsolete thanks to the prevalence of replicators. This meant the general population could pursue a life of education and self-improvement. Or, like Orion, they could not do any of those things. With his needs met, he saw no reason to learn or do anything. Orion was smart enough to know he could stay ignorant and not suffer any consequences. He may have been a moron, but he was no dummy. All the real idiots spent their time learning stuff.

Despite his life of ignorance, Orion was smart enough to recognize a disease when he saw it and he had no intention of letting the man with the disintegrating face touch him. Peddling in stolen information was a dangerous business and there were certain risks he was willing to take, but contracting some form of space leprosy wasn’t one of them.

He could find someone else to sell the information to and before he met with them anywhere, he was going to need assurances their face wouldn’t be falling off. He didn’t know how he was going to get those assurances, he wasn’t that bright, but with some hard thinking he would figure it out. Right now, he wanted to get as far away from that sicko as possible.

Vox moved through the crowd with little concern for etiquette or courtesy. He shoved people aside, creating openings in the throng as he worked his way farther from the stadium. Progress mattered more than manners and he pushed forward risking only quick glances over his shoulder to check for the man with the melting face.

But no matter how many people he shoved; more were ready to get in his way. The idea of an endless mass of people slowing him down frustrated him and the emotions that caused were making it harder for him to think. He rounded another corner and leaned against a low-lying wall to catch his breath. People were everywhere. He needed a place they couldn’t go.

Orion looked at the wall. They built the walls to keep people out, so there shouldn’t be people on the other side. Maybe he was smarter than he gave himself credit for. All he had to do was make sure the wall didn’t keep him out.

He backed up several steps, ran toward the wall and jumped. He caught the top of the wall with his hands and started scrambling. His feet moved fast enough and there was enough texture on the brick wall that he ran straight up it. Once the bulk of his body was above the top of the wall, he leaned forward and toppled over.

Vox landed hard on his feet and stumbled into a bush. The courtyard was empty. His plan had worked. He raced across the courtyard and reached another wall. It proved no match for his wall-running ability; he scaled it effortlessly and dropped to the other side. This landing was better than the first and he instantly broke into a run. By the fourth wall, he was a pro.

There was only one more wall between him and the street where he could lose the monster with the melting face once and for all.

He was halfway across the courtyard when an arm shot out from behind a tree and caught him across the throat.

Orion’s head stopped there, but the lower half of his body was still bent on running and carried on without his upper half. He was almost flat as a board when gravity took its turn in the tackle and dragged him down to the earth. He came down hard on his back and felt the air leave his lungs in an explosive blast of breath. If he had known it would be his last, he would have fought harder to keep some of it in his lungs.

* * *

“Jump over this wall,” Angel said in his ear.

“How many more?” Cason grunted the question as he jumped up and grabbed the top of the wall.

“Just one more. I promise. He’s right over the next one.”

“You said that last time.”

“And I would have been right if you had been quicker.”

Cason pulled himself to the top of the wall and pitched forward.

“Wait! Don’t…”

Angel’s warning came too late.

Cason dropped into the courtyard in time to see a mysterious figure standing over the seller’s lifeless body, tucking something into his pocket. The killer drew a weapon from inside his jacket and fired.

Cason fell straight to the ground as the rounds pounded into the wall behind him. He scrambled forward and dove behind a tree before drawing his own pistol. “Who the hell is this guy?”

Before Angel could answer, the AI’s “eyes” went dark.

The crippled drone landed at Cason’s feet.

“I can’t see him,” Angel said. “But I know I don’t like him.”

Cason risked a glance around the tree and watched as the shooter disappeared over the wall on the opposite side of the courtyard.

Maze dashed across the yard and pulled himself up the wall and dropped down to the street half expecting to dodge more bullets. But the shots never came.

He scanned the street for the killer, looking to find another fleeing target. But this man wasn’t like the seller. He wasn’t running. He wasn’t panicking. Cason finally spotted him moving calmly through the crowd without leaving chaos in his wake. Unlike the dead man, this target was a professional at a craft long thought extinct. Who could he be?

As legally designated “good guy,” Cason didn’t have to move as discreetly. He raced after the target, weaving through the crowd, his own haste seemingly inviting obstructions as the people who tried to avoid him inadvertently ended up in his way.

The killer moved faster but still hadn’t broken into an all-out sprint. He turned the street corner and disappeared. Cason tried to increase his speed to maintain visual contact.

“Angel’s gone dark!” he shouted into his comm. “Where are you?”

Meena replied, “In the car.”

Cason shouted out his location and saved the rest of his breath for the pursuit. Dashing around the corner, it took only a moment to find the man in the crowd.

The killer had increased the distance between them in the short time he had been out of sight. How? Had he run?

Cason fought against the crowd as he tried desperately to catch up. The streets were choked with people and he lost speed due to the lateral motions required to get around the tourists. He ran into the chest of a sweaty Calorananganesian tourist with a wet smack and lost a few steps as he bounced back down the sidewalk.

Deciding it would be easier to dodge cars than it was to dodge sweaty sightseers, Cason stepped off the curb and started running down the middle of the street. He triggered pedestrian proximity alarms and middle fingers as the cars screeched to a stop at his presence. Ignoring the sounds and swears, he dashed up the space between the vehicles and started closing in on the killer.

The killer spotted Cason coming up the street and acknowledged his pursuer with a nod before opening the door to a parked car and stepping inside.

Cason raced for the car. If he could get in front of it, the safety systems would identify him as a pedestrian and lock up the brakes. That car wouldn’t be going anywhere.

He arrived at the vehicle’s front bumper just as the killer buckled his seat belt. The driver looked up from behind the steering wheel, grinned and hit the accelerator. The car shot forward, plowing into Cason and tossing him onto the hood.

Maze scrambled to find something to hold on to as the assassin weaved through traffic, dodging cars and trying to shake him from the hood.

He’d been relying a lot on friction and fingernails for the first few moments, but Cason finally found a finger hold near the windshield. He grabbed tight and pulled himself up to the windshield.

He was all but face-to-face with the killer. If Angel’s drones were active, she’d already have an ID on the man. As it was, he’d have to remember the details himself. The man was human, clean shaven and had no scars or identifying features on his face. He didn’t even have funny eyebrows or anything. He was dressed like a local Spaniard with no distinguishing articles of clothing. The only distinctive feature was a ring on the man’s right hand. The way he gripped the wheel, the face of the ring was pointed at the windshield and Cason got a clear look at it. It was silver and inlaid with a blood red design forming the shape of a skull with golden tusks.

The killer pulled his hand back out of sight, smiled once more and cranked the wheel hard to the right. It shouldn’t have been possible, but he sideswiped another car somehow the driver had managed to override not only the safety protocols in his own vehicle, but the systems in the vehicles around him as well. He wasn’t driving now; he was piloting a weapon.

The killer pulled the wheel back the other way.

The sudden shift sent Cason sliding from the hood to the ground where he hit the street and rolled several times before pushing himself back to his feet and continuing the pursuit. Limping frantically, he crossed the road to an empty hire car and jumped behind the wheel. He swiped his ID over the center of the steering wheel to engage the vehicle’s services.

In response, the interior of the car flashed red and issued a soft bonk to indicate an error.

Cason swiped the ID once more.

The lights went red again and lasted longer. The bonk was louder this time.

A third swipe followed by a swift fist in the center of the steering column and the red lights stayed on. A gentle and condescending voice spoke. “You have insufficient funds to engage the services of this vehicle. Public transportation is located nearby. I can send the information to the device of your choice. Please vacate the vehicle to make the services available to others.”

Cason swore, smashed the wheel again and stepped out of the car. Insufficient funds? It was a government issued ID. He had a license to kill, but not cab fair? It was one more item on the ever-growing list of issues that came from starting a new spy agency.

He slammed the car’s door which, to his disappointment, did not bang or crash but hissed gently closed behind him as he ran out into the middle of the street. The killer’s car hung a right at the intersection and disappeared from view.

Cason ran across the street and doubled back down the sidewalk. He took a left and headed back toward the plaza hoping his target would pull another right when it reached Cal de Alcala. If he was lucky, he might intercept the assassin once he reached the other side of the block. Then all he would have to do is figure out how to stop a three-ton car that apparently had overridden all safety protocols.

He reached the end of the street as the killer’s car sped through the intersection.

“Dammit,” he cursed softly and ran after it, determined to chase it down one way or another.

He rounded the corner and the arm hit him like a metal rail across his windpipe, stopping his pursuit cold. Cason landed flat on his back hard enough to draw a few gasps from the crowd on the street.

Cason rolled over onto his chest and pushed himself to his knees. The fall had taken the breath out of him and it was in no hurry to return. Panic hit him. He had to get to his feet to confront whoever had hit him, but he was overcome by a rush of dizziness.

He tried to face his attacker, the killer’s accomplice, but his legs were unsteady and he fell backwards.

A pair of bystanders caught him under the arms and lowered him to the sidewalk where he sat and tried to focus on the new assailant.

Fearing he was still in danger, he looked up to see who had hit him.

“Son of a bitch.”

“The Alliance needs heroes, like you and like me!” The intrepid Captain Antarius Thurgood stood above him, waving an arm and inviting everyone to step inside the enlistment center and sign up for the Earth Alliance Forces. The marketing team had captured Thurgood’s likeness in irritating detail and the life-sized robot moved in a distinct pattern while addressing passersby. Every now and then, the damn thing spoke, “You can’t print courage!”

A car pulled up to the curb and Meena leapt out. She got to Cason just as he believed he could stand on his own. He couldn’t and she balanced him as he rose.

“What happened?” she asked.

Cason gestured to the promobot.

“Do you have what it takes to follow in my footsteps?” The Thurgood recruitmentdroid asked.

Meena soured at the sight of her former commander. “Son of a bitch.”

3

“Nice lair you’ve got here, Brother Warthog.” The speaker wore a cloak of crimson and a silver mask. All in attendance did. Their voices were disguised through digital means to further hide their identities. The only way to distinguish one member of the Crimson Menagerie from another was a distinctive mask representing their title in the order.

“I don’t appreciate your jokes, Brother Bear.” Brother Warthog’s silver mask depicted the tusked creature of the Savanah and hid his face completely.

“No, I mean it,” the man in the silver polar bear mask insisted. “I love what you’ve got going on over here with this sheet of plastic covering this giant gaping hole in the wall.”

A sheet of plastic was, in fact, covering a giant gaping hole in the wall, but it was not Brother Warthog’s fault. And while it was not ideal for keeping the beasts and bugs out, it afforded a wonderful view of the Savanah.

“Brother Bear, you know as well as I do the pains of getting a secret organization off the ground. And building a secret lair becomes twelve times more difficult when all of us are trying to do it at the same time. There are limited resources. Especially when some of us insist on killing our architects. I’m looking at you, Brother Serpent.”

Brother Serpent shrugged. “Secrets must be kept.”

“I wouldn’t change a thing,” said Brother Monkey. “I especially like what you’ve done with the bathroom.”

Warthog cursed behind his mask before replying. “I’ve told you the portable toilets are temporary.”

“At least you sprung for the fancy ones,” said Bear. “They’ve even got the blue stuff for your hands.”

“You sure talk a big game, Brother Bear,” said Jackal. “As to date, none of us have even seen your lair.”

“Why is that, Brother Bear?” asked the tentacle-faced Brother Octopus.

“We’ve all had you over to our lairs,” said Wolf.

“Okay, my lair is still under construction,” Brother Bear said. “But once it’s done, it will put all your lairs to shame.”

“Promises, promises,” hissed the Serpent. “Yet you give Bother Warthog a hard time.”

“I’m dealing with a unique environment, okay? You don’t understand how hard it is to build in permafrost. There are some very special challenges up there.”

“I built my lair beneath the ocean,” said Brother Octopus. “That had challenges.”

“I think we should all show one another some grace,” said Brother Jackal. “The course we have set upon is not a simple one and we have all accomplished much that is worth celebrating. To steer the course of the world from the shadows is a challenging task, to say the least, and every victory should be celebrated.”

Another crimson clad figure entered the room bearing the mask of a silver bird of prey.

“Ah, Brother Eagle,” said Warthog with a sweeping gesture. “Welcome to my lair.”

Brother eagle pointed to the sheet covering the giant gaping hole in the wall. “What’s with the plastic?”

“For the love of…As if your remote mountain fortress is completely finished.”

“On the contrary,” said Brother Eagle. “The Aerie is done and it is majestic. I must say I was pleased we finished ahead of schedule and under budget. I’ve got a wall guy. I can give you his number.”

Brother Serpent was growing impatient. “Let’s get this meeting started, shall we?”

“Let’s,” said Brother Gator. “Where shall we confer?”

“Brothers, please join me here around the circle.” Warthog stood at the edge of a large, ornate circle inlaid into the floor. “And this meeting of the Crimson Menagerie shall come to or—”

“Where’s your table?”

“Please don’t interrupt, Brother Monkey,” Jackal said.

“But where’s the big table?” Monkey asked again. “We’re all supposed to have a big round table to signify that none of us is above the other and to set our drinks on.”

“It isn’t finished yet,” said Warthog.

Monkey backed away from the group. “I don’t know if we can do this without a big table.”

“Yeah, it’s a little weird just standing in a circle,” said Wolf. “It almost feels like we should be holding hands or something.”

“Just use your imagination,” said Warthog.

“Use my imagination?” Brother Bear laughed. “Like a baby?”

Warthog fired back. “We are setting out to reshape worlds and you don’t have the vision to imagine a table?”

“Think about how many more worlds I could reshape if I didn’t have to waste my time make believing there was a table here and instead you just got a table!”

“I said, they’re working on it.”

“I’ve got a table guy, too,” said Eagle. “If you need the number.”

“Thank you!” Snapped Warthog. He regretted the outburst and adjusted his tone. “Thank you, Brother Eagle. Sincerely. But it is expected in the next week and I shall have no need of your table guy.”

“Enough of this!” Brother Jackal stepped into the middle of the circle. “We do not need a table! It would be nice, yes, but it is not necessary. Like the rest of you, what I seek is wisdom. Since man’s first days, he has sought wisdom to wield like a weapon against his prey and his enemies. To lay the foundations upon which powerful empires are built. Millenia later, nothing has changed. Science has progressed. Technology has advanced beyond ancient man’s wildest dreams, but it is still wisdom that separates the powerful from the peasantry. But wisdom is in short supply. Humanity was given the gift of time by these advancements and they have squandered it by seeking not wisdom, but leisure. This has made wisdom’s value even greater. And to those who would seek it, the world is their prize. Fortunately for us, wisdom is not the only thing in short supply. As the Alliance finds itself at war, it is desperately short of the means to fight it. We…”

Brother Monkey was no longer paying attention. He pointed over Brother Jackal’s shoulder. Trying to get the cloaked figure’s attention.

Jackal growled. “What is it, Brother Monkey?”

“There’s someone at the plastic,” said Monkey.

Everyone in the room turned toward the giant gaping hole and saw a man standing on the other side of the plastic sheet looking for a place to knock.

“That is our man from Madrid.” Brother Warthog stepped away from the circle to let the man in.

It took a moment for their host to find the slit in the plastic sheet, but the man was eventually admitted to the lair and brought over to the circle.

“Give us your report,” commanded Brother Warthog.

“I intercepted the buyer,” the man said and held up a small drive and offered it to Brother Warthog. “This is what the seller was offering.”

Brother Warthog took the drive and held it in front of his mask. “Did you examine its contents?”

“I did.”

“And what did you learn?”

“Nothing,” said the man.

Warthog looked up from the drive. “Nothing?”

“That’s right, nothing. There’s nothing on it.”

Octopus cursed. “We went through all of that for nothing?”

“Not for nothing,” said Jackal. “Even nothing is something.”

“How is nothing something?” asked Monkey.

“Knowing nothing means that we’ve learned there’s nothing to know,” Jackal explained. “And that is something.”

“No, it isn’t,” Bear said. “Nothing can’t be something.”

“On the contrary,” Brother Jackal said. “This nothing tells us everything.”

“How do you figure?” asked Wolf.

“If the information on this drive told us nothing, that means it was either a trap, in which they would not risk revealing anything, or it wasn’t a trap and there is truly nothing to reveal. Either way, we now know that the information regarding the building of an Alliance Navy means nothing because we now know that everything was propaganda and lies. And that tells us everything we need to know.” Jackal was pleased with this revelation. Even the voice modulation in his mask could not hide his delight. “We can proceed with our plans.”

“I’m glad I could help,” said the man in the middle of the circle.

“We thank you for your service to the order,” Brother Jackal said and nodded to Warthog.

“Should I just let myself back out the plastic?”

“No, I’m afraid you must be killed,” Brother Warthog said.

“Why?”

“You know too much.”

“But I know nothing!”

“And as we just covered, that is everything.” Warthog pressed a switch hidden within his cloak, releasing a trapdoor beneath the man’s feet.

Their agent screamed as he fell twenty feet into a rocky den filled with a pride of ravenous lions. Their roars were fierce and immediate as the hungry lions leapt on their prey, showing their meal no mercy.

“You don’t have indoor plumbing, but you have a lion’s den?” Brother Bear asked.

Warthog delighted in the roars and screams coming from his insidious trap. “You must have priorities, Brother Bear.”

“It seems like maybe a wall would be higher on the list of things that make a lair.”

“Do you want to be fed to the lions as well, Brother Bear?”

Monkey had his hand raised.

“What is it Brother Monkey?”

“I was just…you said the table is going to go here.”

“Yes.”

“Well, how will you get people to stand on the trapdoor?”

Brother Warthog considered the question. He looked to Brother Eagle for help.

The eagle looked away.

Warthog sighed and excused himself from the meeting. “I’ve got to call my table guy.”

4

The City of Agora was a collection of more than fifty thousand buildings representing a thousand cultures from across the stars. The architecture represented that diversity and many of the buildings were works of art in their own right. The Frajulian influence was seen in intricate spires. The Alchuscapacian’s worked in organic matter like the masters worked in marble. Even the Chuchucharandamarchids, known across the galaxy for their love of cringe humor, showed uncharacteristically good taste when it came to designing flying buttresses. Almost every building in the massive floating city added to the collective wonder known as the Jewel of Point Nemo.

The Arnold T. Fellows Center for Government Operations was not one of those buildings. It was pragmatic, efficient, and ran on the souls of the people forced to work inside its walls. Outside, it was bland, made of whatever lines cost the least to construct. Inside, it was worse. The only architectural point of note was found lining the walls of the office space itself.

During the construction of the Arnold T. Fellows Center for Government Operations, Alliance workplace scientists had discovered a new level of beige. Vantabeige. Beiger than any beige known, it promoted focus, lowered independent thinking and obliterated individuality.

The only part of the building Cason even remotely enjoyed was the elevator ride up. And only when he was alone with Meena. Like now.

The doors closed and they stepped closer together to share a long embrace. The couple worked together in the same office and lived together in the same apartment, but rarely had a moment to themselves.

“I thought taking this position back on Earth would finally mean we could spend some time together,” Meena said. “But this job has put more distance between us than my time with the fleet.”

“I’m sorry,” Cason said. “There’s just so much spying to be done.”

“I know. I’m not blaming anyone but the terrorists and the enemy spies. If only we had more control over the nefarious elements working against the Alliance to usher in its complete downfall.” She smiled.

He smiled back. “If only.”

She put her arms around his neck. “I just find it ironic I moved halfway across the galaxy to be closer and we rarely have a moment to ourselves.”

The elevator slowed, and they separated to a more professional distance for the office. The doors opened and a middle-aged man excused himself as he stepped into the car. He smiled awkwardly and turned to face the door.

It wasn’t a rare occurrence. The doors would open every few floors to reveal a drab government office and a drab government employee. Each office and every face looked the same, while every floor had the same fake plant prominently displayed in the elevator lobby in front of a picture of a majestic moose. The moose had no special significance within the Alliance, but the art buyer knew a great deal when she saw one.

The Arnold T. Fellows Center for Government Operations housed multiple Alliance government agencies and a scrolling directory in the elevator listed the departments as the elevator passed their respective floors. They passed the Department of Planetary Naming, the Ministry of Redundant Agency Elimination, the Department of Planetary Renaming and others on their way to the Ministry of Information Processing, where Cason and Meena worked.

The elevator stopped on the floor occupied by the Offices for Office Management and their fellow passenger stepped off the elevator after excusing himself.

They were alone once more but there was no time for another hug as the car resumed its journey to the floor housing the MIP.

When the Alliance fractured after the emergence of the Hama empire, the planet Earth suddenly found itself full of spies and dangerously low on intelligence. Thanks to the long period of peace brought about by the Alliance, tradecraft was a dying art, and its practitioners were in short supply.

As head of Thurgood Industries counter-corporate espionage department, Cason was one of the few people in the galaxy with the applicable skills. After his involvement in the Shandor affair, it had been strongly suggested it would be in his best interests to volunteer for the Alliance’s burgeoning spy agency where his knowledge and experience would be best put to use. There was no one better suited, they said. Only he was fit to lead the effort against foreign actors and keep Earth safe, they told him. They begged a little, pleaded some, and threatened him a lot in the effort to get him to head the Ministry of Information Processing.

When he finally relented and took the position, they hired his boss.

Algernon Brask was waiting for them with his arms crossed and a look of disapproval etched into his face when the doors opened. One of Brask’s many problems was his face was not fit for a scowl. His cheeks were chubby, his forehead was narrow and his chin was missing. His eyes were large and set uncomfortably close together, giving the impression that he was always trying to look at something on the bridge of his nose. He had nice enough ears. As far as ears go. But they were far too big for his head. Overall, it was a face that neither instilled fear nor inspired confidence. As a whole, the Alliance had not been prepared to have war thrust upon them; but no one was more ill-prepared than Algernon Brask.

And no one knew that better than he did. In a desperate attempt to make up for his deficiencies, he spent most of the time behind his desk reading centuries-old management books about parachutes and missing cheese. He was convinced the secrets to successful management had been lost to the ages and spent his spare time hunting through the shelves of antique stores looking for rare editions that may contain rarer secrets to unlocking career success.

“Good morning,” Brask said before quickly correcting himself for effect. “Or should I say good afternoon? Good late afternoon!”

“Good late afternoon,” said Cason with a nod.

Brask’s pleasant veneer crumbled. “Would you care to tell me what’s so good about it?”

Cason shrugged. “The weather’s nice?”

“The weather’s always nice,” snapped Brask and pointed to his office. “It’s programed to be nice!”

“You seem upset that it’s nice,” Cason said as he crossed the open office floor and stepped into Brask’s office.

Brask slammed the door to the office shut. “Maybe it’s not the nice weather that’s bothering me. Maybe I’m upset that you allowed our only lead to be murdered and then let the killer get away.”

“It wasn’t for a lack of trying. There was something wrong with my agency ID. My credits were declined.” Cason took a seat at Brask’s desk. “I had to pursue the suspect’s vehicle on foot.”

“There certainly is something wrong; but it’s not with your card. What’s wrong is that you’ve used up your fair share of credits.”

“My what?” Cason picked up an antique desk toy from the assortment Brask kept on his desk. Brask called them mind teasers and had quite a collection. Cason began fidgeting with the puzzle, trying to free a metal ring from a maze of rope and wood.

Algernon sat down and pecked away at the terminal at his desk. A holographic projection appeared between the two men showing a bar graph representing the usage of travel credits by members of the MIP. Cason was all the way on the right, his face beneath the tallest bar on the chart by a mile.

Cason tossed the solved puzzle back on the desk. The metal ring wobbled for a moment before coming to rest. “You put a cap on my credits?”

“I’ve got a whole agency full of agents here and you’ve used more travel credits than all of them combined.”

“That’s because they are all analysts and they work at their desks in the office. They aren’t field agents. They don’t go anywhere.”

“You’re not special, Cason,” Brask said. “I don’t care who you used to work for.”

“I don’t care who I use to work for either. How do you expect me to do my job without the proper resources?” Cason picked up another of Brask’s mind teasers and worked on it without breaking eye contact.

Brask waved at the holographic chart. “No one else has blown through their fair share of credits.”

“That’s because no one else is chasing down national security threats.”

“Oh, you just think you’re so special, don’t you?” Brask folded his arms, glanced at a book sitting on his desk about the Power of Posture and quickly unfolded them. “Jetting around the planet, fighting shadowy figures, getting laid a lot.”

“I can assure you that I’m not getting laid a lot,” Cason said as he fought back a chuckle. He traded the solved mind teaser for another. “I barely have time to sleep.”

“I was given oversight of this department specifically to make sure it wasn’t abused by the likes of you and your former employer. You may not like the way I do things, but that’s the way you’re going to do them, too. And you’ll like them.”

“That’s fine,” Cason set the completed puzzle back on the desk and rolled the steel marble he had freed from the trap toward Brask. “I’ll just ask these interstellar threats to Alliance security to keep things local then.”

“I knew you’d see it my way,” Brask said as he slapped his hand over the marble before it rolled off the edge of the desk. “There should be more than enough spying for you to do here, anyway. Agora has become the city of spies. That’s what the news is saying anyway. It used to be the City of a Thousand Civilizations before the Thurgoods started an interstellar war–”

“That may be an oversimplification of the facts.”

“Don’t worry, no one has forgotten about your part in all of it. But while Harius Thurgood is having to make his case in front of the council, you’ve somehow become my problem.”

“I believe the traditional term is asset.” Cason leaned forward to pick up another mind teaser. He eyed one that was simply two nails twisted together.

Brask dove forward and grabbed it before Cason could take it apart. He knocked several other puzzles from the desktop in the effort.

Cason reveled in the chaos as Brask tried to keep the clattering to a minimum.

Brask finally gave up and sat back in his chair. “You’re a mess is what you are. I was put in charge here to make sure this organization isn’t abused. I’m here specifically to keep you in check, Maze. I know the lifestyle you’re used to and that’s not going to fly on the Alliance’s dime. Thurgood may say he believes in the Alliance, but at heart he’s a capitalist, pure and simple. And I don’t trust capitalists.”

“Well, you can worry about the budget all you want. I’m here to stop the bad guys.”

“And how did that go today?”

“He got away in a car. Unlike us, he wasn’t on a budget.”

“Do you know who he was?”

“No, but I have a theory.”

“Here we go again. A theory. That sounds an awful lot like a hunch and I told you how I feel about hunches, hypotheses and ideas. I want facts! I don’t want to hear about theories or any other such thing.”

“I know this is all a part of something bigger. The man wore a ring and…I drew a picture. They’re running a search right now.”

“Stop everything! He had a ring? This is important! Let me get the council on the line!”  Brask picked up an imaginary handset from the desk and held it to his ear.

Cason picked up the twisted nail mind teaser as Brask went through the charade of pretending to dial the phone.

After a moment of awkward silence, it became clear Brask had not yet read the copy of Improv for Managers sitting on his bookcase and he had bluffed himself into a corner. He set the imaginary handset back in the imaginary cradle.

“What’s wrong?” Cason asked. “Are they not taking your calls?”

“I’m not really going to call the council, smart guy. I was being facetious.”

“I realized that.” He tossed the now separated nails back on the desk. Each metallic jingled rattled Brask and delighted Cason.

“Listen, I don’t want to hear any more about your fantasies about a secret organization or a cult or whatever it is your theory is about. I don’t care if this guy was a member of the Loyal Order of the Water Buffalo, we don’t have time to hunt geese or chase wild snipe. You got me? We don’t chase rumors. I want you to go out there and keep the planet safe and I want you to do it on budget and without disrupting any more bullfights.”

Brask brought up another projection. This was footage of Cason racing across the arena in Madrid and the chaos in the stands.

Cason watched as he outmaneuvered the minotaur and leapt over the arena wall. His bullfighting moves weren’t bad, but he knew he wasn’t ready to go pro.

“Way to blend in, super spy.” Brask killed the feed.

“That could be anyone with a melted face,” Cason said.

“From now on, you bring in the local authorities instead of traipsing all over the planet. You’ve got enough to do right here.” Brask hit the remote to open his office door and turned his attention back to his monitor.

“I could use my own office,” Cason said.

Brask rolled his eyes. “You could what?”

“With a door,” Cason added.

“Now you’ve got a problem with how I run the office?”

“We are a secret organization and we have an open concept floorplan,” Cason said. “There’s zero privacy, and privacy and secrecy kind of go hand in hand.”

“You need privacy? Use one of the cubbies.” Brask opened a copy of a book entitled I’m Surrounded by Morons. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some managing to do.”

Brask’s lips were already moving before Cason stepped out of the office.

Maze closed the door behind him and crossed the floor to his shared workspace capsule; a simple pair of desks pushed against one another.

The idea of a desk buddy was bad enough. Not only did he not get his own office, the MIP didn’t even get its own floor. Everything vaguely related to intelligence was crammed into the available office space. That meant that Cason’s desk buddy didn’t even work for the MIP; he was an art director for the Ministry of Propaganda who specialized in recruitment marketing.

Cason fell into his chair and leaned back until it reached its limit then bounced back. He put his hands over his face, questioned several life choices and exhaled. When he lowered his hands, Antarius Thurgood was staring him in the face.

Cason yipped, flinched and almost toppled out of his seat.

“Sorry, Cason!” His desk buddy reached out and grabbed the arm of Cason’s chair to help right him. “Sorry, I just wanted to share some exciting news.”

Once he got his feet firmly on the ground Cason relaxed. “That’s okay, Seth.”

Seth Freen was young, eager, and just happy to be there. It was an irritating combination of traits. But Seth’s biggest offense wasn’t his youth or enthusiasm, it was his undying admiration of Captain Antarius Thurgood.

To millions, the man was a hero of the Alliance. To Cason, he was the galaxy’s biggest pain in the ass.

Seth set the image of his hero on the desk in front of Cason who, out of politeness, examined it for a moment and nodded without verbally committing to its quality. It was a photo of the exact Thurgood recruitment robot that had clotheslined him earlier in the day.

“Did you hear that they put my Thurgood Animatronic Recruitment Display into production?”

“I did. I actually got an up-close look at the TARD just this morning.”

“You did? Really? Wow! Out in the wild!” Seth was always a bundle of energy but this sent him into new territory. “You know him, right? Did you think the piece captured his essence?”

That damn robot had ruined everything. It had caused the mission to fail, given Cason a headache and was blissfully unaware of it all. “It was just like running into him in real life.”

“Oh, wow,” Seth said as he welled up with pride. In his excitement, he didn’t know whether to sit or stand so he kind of ended up doing both by putting one knee in his chair and spinning around. “Oh, wow!”

Cason opened his desk drawer and started looking for something to take the edge off his burgeoning headache.

Seth had started mimicking his own creation by going through the same motions as the Thurgood Animatronic Recruitment Display. He performed a mechanical wave and bellowed, “You can’t print courage!”

Cason found a bottle of something and pried the lid off without reading it. It was probably fine.

“I wrote that, you know?” Seth asked. “Do you think it sounds like something he’d say?”

“He’ll say anything you tell him to. His head is like a canyon.”

“I’m so excited! I need to use one of the cubbies,” Seth said. “I have to call my mom.”

Cason put his head on the desk as the young man bounced away to share the good news that he had successfully replicated the galaxy’s biggest ass. The cold surface soothed his aching head and he wondered how long he could stay that way before Brask accused him of sleeping on the job.

“I can see it went great with Brask,” Meena’s voice was accompanied by the squeaking of a caster as she rolled Seth’s chair over to Cason’s side of the desk.

“He’s concerned that keeping the free world safe from destruction is costing us too much in cab fare.”

“What did he say about the ring?” Meena asked.

“He didn’t want to hear it,” Cason said. “At least we can rest easy knowing he won’t try and take over the case.”

“How can he not see the larger picture developing here?”

Cason shook a pair of tablets out of the bottle and popped them into his mouth. “If it’s not in one of his books, he can’t see anything.”

“Headache?” Meena asked.

“It’s been building ever since I ran into our old friend this morning.” He showed Meena the TARD drawing Seth had left behind.

She grimaced at the image. “Then this won’t help. There’s someone here to see you.”

Cason’s blood ran cold. “It’s not…”

“No,” she said quickly before his blood pressure could spike. “It’s not Thurgood.”

“Thank God.”

“It’s Vides.”

“Oh, no.” Cason shook two more tablets from the bottle and tossed them in his mouth.

5

Blayse Vides was a hundred-year-old soldier Cason had pulled from a secret cold storage facility for a rescue mission. His presence in the fight against the Hama had already proven beneficial. But his presence in person was another thing. Cason was thankful the man was on their side. But he was also thankful he usually was on their side on the other side of the galaxy.

Vides waited in one of the conference rooms. He made eye contact with Cason through the lightly frosted glass wall, but gave no sign of recognition.

“What’s he doing here?” Cason asked Meena. “I thought he was running rescue operations across the fallen worlds.”

“He was. He just returned from Mirada. He says they found something on the planet. Priscilla told him to speak only to you.”

“Well, then, hooray for me,” Cason said quietly. He took a deep breath and grabbed the doorknob. “Angel, can you give us some privacy?”

Angel beeped softly in his ear, acknowledging the request while she went to work jamming any MIPs surveillance systems in the area.

“Do you think Brask bugged the privacy cubbies?” Meena asked.

“No, he’s too cheap for that. But probably the conference room. I just want to make sure we’re the only ones to hear what Blayse has to say first. Brask would be upset if it was a theory.”

Cason opened the door and the old soldier looked up at him. Except he didn’t look as old as Cason remembered him, and he had to take a second look at the man.

There was no shortage of treatments, processes or serums one could use to remove a few years from their appearance, but Blayse had never struck him as someone who would bother trying to look his best. Scars and wrinkles meant things to a man like him. They were reminders of lessons hard learned and an unspoken testament to others that, despite its best attempts, the universe hadn’t found a way to kill him yet. Still, he couldn’t deny the soldier had changed. Not only did he look younger, he was bigger. Blayse had been hitting the gym.

“You’re looking good, Vides.” Cason crossed the room and offered his hand. “It looks like modern science agrees with you.”

The soldier stood and took the offered hand. “You are Cason?”

“Am I that easy to forget?” Cason said as he took a seat at the conference table and gestured for the soldier to sit back down. Meena sat down across from him.

“What can I do for you, Vides?”

“I have after action report to make on Mirada.”

Not only had Blayse Vides shed a couple of decades in appearance, he had lost his half-hearted hick affectations and replaced them with a brutally thick Russian accent. Cason leaned back in his chair and studied the man in front of him.

“Oh, wonderful,” Cason sighed once he solved the riddle before him.

“What?” Meena asked.

“He sent us one of his clones.”

Vides sat upright and puffed out his considerable chest. “I am my own person.”

“Of course you are. Please forgive me. When Blayse told us he planned to clone himself a dozen times to reactivate the Hell Drivers, I was one of the ones that advised against it.”

“You have something against clones?” The Vides asked.

“Not at all,” Cason said hoping he wasn’t about to have a fight on his hands. This Vides could tear him in two and call it a warm up. “I have something against Blayse.”

The Vides’ fierce expression cracked into a smile and he chuckled. “Dah, me, too. Rest assured; I am no Blayse. I am my own Vides.”

“That is good to hear,” Cason said. “So, what do I call you?”

“My name is Atticus Vides, Hell Driver Nine.”

“That’s the Ursine Armor?” Meena asked.

“Da.”

“Okay.” Cason offered his hand again. “It’s nice to meet you Atticus. I’m Cason Maze. This is Meena Stendak.”

Atticus shook Cason’s hand again. The soldier took a deep breath that shuttered on its way in. He released the hand but maintained eye contact with Cason. Then he started tearing up.

“Atticus?” Meena said as she shook his hand. “Are you crying?”

“Da.” Vides wiped away the tears quickly with the edge of his sleeve. “This is first time someone has called me by my name. And treated me as my own Vides instead of clone.”

“Do you need us to give you a minute?” asked Cason.

“Nyet.” Atticus shook his head and sniffed. “Forgive me. Is touching moment.”

“I’m happy we were here for it. Now, you had something you wanted to tell me?”

“Da, I was sent to give after action report from Mirada.”

“I heard it was rough out there,” Cason said. The initial reports from the rescue operation had included a surprise presence of a Hama super soldier unit. Several Hell Drivers had fallen during the mission.

“Da,” Atticus said with some sadness in his voice. “We lose many Vides. Also, ambassador we rescued was treacherous piece of shit.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Cason said. “I read the report.”

“There is more,” Atticus leaned in to speak but quickly glanced around the room.

“You can talk,” Cason assured him. Angel had seen to their privacy.

“This was not in report,” Vides said as he set a small drive on the table. “This was found in little boat.”

“Little boat?” Cason said as he palmed the memory chip and swept it off the table.

“Little Urania,” Atticus said.

“The Urania?” Meena looked up at Cason.

“Da. The man named Decote had model. He kept this inside little boat. He said was bargaining chip. But Prime says is really old memory chip. From his time.”

“What’s on it?” Cason asked.

“Is breadcrumb,” Atticus said and only remembered to make the air quotes a moment later. “That’s what they called it. But we could not open it.”

“A breadcrumb to what?” Meena asked.

Atticus shrugged.

“You don’t think?” Meena trailed off as she considered the possibilities. “It couldn’t really be out there, could it?”

“It would be the biggest secret ever kept by a government that is really terrible at keeping secrets,” Cason said. “But maybe they were better at it a hundred years ago.”

“The traitor we rescued,” Atticus spoke plainly. “He believed it was out there. But he was desperate. And liar. And piece of shit.”

“You mentioned that,” Cason said.

“What do we do about this?” asked Meena. “Should we take it to Brask?”

“I’ve been told we don’t chase rumors.” Cason stared at a spot on the table as he ran through his options. “Also, something about sniping geese. But it’s been made very clear to me that he doesn’t want to hear about it. So, I think we should respect his wishes and not bother him with this. Not until we know more.”

Atticus looked a little lost in the conversation so Cason put a hand on his shoulder to assure him his mission was a success. “You did good, Atticus.”

The Vides stiffened and his lip began to twitch.

“I think you made him cry again,” Meena said.

Vides nodded and the tears came. “Again, you call me by name.”

“I understand,” Cason said. “But I’m going to keep doing that, so the sooner you can get past the tears, the easier this is going to be for all of us. Now, I’m sure you’re eager to get back to your team. I’m sure the Hell Drivers miss you.”

“Nyet,” said Atticus. “I would like to stay.”

“What do you mean, you’d like to stay?”

“I want to stay. I want to be spy.”

“But you’re a soldier. And from what I hear, quite an impressive one. You’re the Big Bad Bear!”

“Soldier was not choice. Just because Prime was solider, doesn’t mean I cannot be spy. I do not wish to follow his feetstep. I wish to blaze own path, chart own course, set own stage, make own bed. I am own man and I wish to be spy.”

“This isn’t something you should take lightly.”

“I do not take lightly. I meditate the whole way here,” Atticus said. “I am not sure I meditate right. Our Prime is not big on meditating. Or thinking.”

“That’s an understatement,” Cason agreed. “But, to his credit, his lack of thinking may have been what saved us on Shandor.”

“I give this much thought and wish to be spy. I wish to know who I truly am. Away from other Videses. I want to know the real Atticus and I believe that as spy, pretending to be other people, I can find the real Atticus faster. Besides, Russians come from great tradition of spying.”

“But you’re not Russian,” Meena said.

“Vides was from Kentucky,” Cason said.

“I could be Russian,” Atticus said, his accent slipping for only a moment. “If I had been born by chance instead of clone, I could be Russian.”

“Fair enough,” Cason said with a shrug. “You’re Russian. I still don’t know if it’s the best idea. Being a spy is pretty boring work.”

“What have you done today?” asked Atticus.

“I chased a killer from a possible secret society through the streets of Madrid after an undercover sting went bad because my disguise melted in the Spanish sun.”

“And the bullfight” added Meena.

“Right, and I ruined a bullfight when I was forced to run through an arena that’s a few hundred years old.”

Atticus stared at him and refused to blink. “Da. Sounds very boring.”

“I can’t say it was a typical Tuesday,” Cason said.

“Give me job,” Atticus said and leaned closer so he could plead a little softer. “Let me help. I want to see little boat mission through.”

Cason looked to Meena for assistance and saw that she wasn’t going to be any help. The clone’s quest for identity had gotten to her. She was pleading with her eyes as well.

Cason tried to ignore them both. “I’m going to be honest here, Atticus. I understand you’re trying to be your own man and that’s admirable, but the fact of the matter is you are a clone of Blayse Vides and I don’t really care for your source material.”

“That makes two of us,” said the Vides.

He looked back at Meena. Had her eyes gotten even bigger?

A rapping on the conference room’s glass wall broke the moment. Another agent stood outside the conference room, pointing to a folder in his hands.

Cason waved him in.

“I ran the image you gave me through CRCF, DBII and the RISS,” the agent said as he handed over the folder.

Cason opened it. It was empty.

He pointed the empty folder at the agent. “What’s the bit?”

“It’s no joke.” The agent shot a wary glance at Atticus, but answered anyway. “Your guy isn’t in the system. Any system.”

“That’s not possible,” Cason said.

“I ran the image through several times. But there’s nothing out there. That’s why it’s empty.”

“Why didn’t you just say there was nothing, why would you walk all the way over here with an empty dossier and let me open it?”

“Brask says if we’re going to pay for the folders, then we’re going to use the folders.”

Cason flipped the folder closed and dropped it on the table. “There’s no way the killer isn’t in the system. Everyone that sets foot on the planet is in the system.”

“Unless they’ve been taken out of system,” Atticus said.

“That can’t…” Cason looked back up at the agent. “Is there something else?”

“Can I get the folder back? I don’t want Brask to see me waste a perfectly good folder. The last thing I need is the folder lecture again.”

Cason handed him the folder and the agent excused himself from the conversation.

“Who is man you cannot find?” Atticus asked. “Maybe I can spy him for you and then we find him.”

“That may not be a bad idea,” Meena said. “We could move the case forward without upsetting Brask.”

“Please. What is case? Let Atticus help.”

Cason took a deep breath of regret and let it out. “An assassin handed us a dead end this morning when he killed our only lead. He got away thanks to the intervention of an overenthusiastic recruitment ad and now it looks like he’s managed to hide his identity from the most sophisticated computer systems in the Alliance. So, either he’s been removed from the most secure servers in history or he never existed to begin with.”

“Or he is sneaky alien,” Atticus said.

“That’s possible,” Cason said. “But he was wearing a ring bearing the skull of a warthog. So, even if he is from off planet, he’s involved with something rather terrestrial.”

“What is warthog?”

“It’s an angry pig with tusks.” Cason stood up and grabbed a marker from a tray. He pulled off the cap and drew the ring’s emblem on the glass wall. “This is what I saw on the ring.”

“I will find this man,” Atticus said. “It should be easy with those teeth.”

“No, no. That’s his ring.” Cason put the cap back on the marker and dropped it on the table. “Even if I did want you to spy on him, I wouldn’t know which direction to point you in. Like the empty folder says, he doesn’t exist.”

“I must help,” Atticus said.

“Listen,” Cason had Atticus stand up and led him to the door. “This is your first time on Earth, right?”

“Da.”

“So, why don’t you make the most of it? See the sights. Eat the food. It’s all pretty great. If I need you, I’ll get in touch with you.”

“But you don’t know where I stay,” Atticus said as he found himself on the other side of the door.

“That’s right,” Cason said. “Thank you for your help, Atticus.”

He closed the door and rejoined Meena at the table.

“Now what?” she asked.

“The killer must have been removed from the system. There’s no other way.”

“Do you have any idea the resources that would take?” Meena knew her systems. Her former position in the fleet was basically as a confluence of systems. “If it’s possible at all?”

Cason thought it over. It was statistically more likely to be an error than a breach in the system. But the fact remained that, according to the Alliance, the man he had seen through the windshield that morning did not exist.

Angel pinged in his ear, alerting him he had an appointment. “Maybe Velora knows something about it.”

“Velora?” Meena asked. “You’re going to take this to her?”

“I’m supposed to meet her for drinks.”

“Talk about someone you can’t trust.”

“You can trust Velora to do what’s good for Velora. And as long as her status here is questionable, staying on my good side is good for Velora.” Cason slid the drive the Vides had pulled from “Little Urania” to Meena. “Do you think you can get into that and find whatever breadcrumb our very large new friend was talking about?”

Meena smiled knowingly and pocketed the drive.

6

Cason’s mind was still on the killer as he rode down the elevator for his appointment. Someone with the ability to erase themselves from the system was a suspect that was not to be taken lightly. When paired with the ability to override the safety systems in the traffic network, this meant they had unprecedented access to the Alliance’s network and the means to manipulate almost anything.

He arrived at the ground floor, crossed the lobby and stepped through the door into the South Pacific sun, where he was hit with a wall of humidity and a thickening crowd.

The gathered masses seemed excited about something, and Cason wondered if he hadn’t stepped into the middle of yet another protest. The plaza in front of the Fellows Center had seen more than its fair share of organized marches since the war broke out. Prior to the new hostilities, protesting had all but vanished in the peaceful, post-scarcity world, but the return of conflict had brought the practice back into vogue, along with all the familiar trappings.

It took a while for the protesters to find their footing. The first few attempts at rabble-rousing were met with indifference. The slogans weren’t catchy, the chants weren’t rhythmic, and the protest songs were akin to a cat being dragged through an organ grinder by the tail. Dismayed but not dissuaded, the protest leaders dove into the archives and studied the protests of the past. When they returned, they came with legible signage, focused chants with clear messaging, and everyone smelled like patchouli. The songs were still horrible.

Cason scanned the crowd for placards and gave the air a sniff. Relieved it wasn’t a protest, he started down the steps.

This crowd wasn’t up in arms about anything at the moment. But they were waiting for something. Cason was hesitant to disturb them as he stepped into the plaza. It was like needing to cross a concourse full of milling birds. He feared as soon as he moved, they would all flutter to life in a sudden burst of chaos.

“He’s here!”

The shout came from the other side of the plaza, but it excited the entire crowd. Cameras and drones appeared out of nowhere as the gathering turned into a mob and rushed toward the canal that ran in front of the tower. They arrived at the dock as a luxury craft drifted to a stop and began the automated mooring process.

A small personal security team composed of large men leapt from the craft and formed a hole in the crowd with terse commands and a few well-placed shoves.

The mob shouted questions at the limo’s passenger before the cabin door had even opened. They were mostly questions about a young starlet, an older model and well-known socialite. These questions were asked with excitement while others were barked in anger and constructed of phrases like war crimes, gross negligence, and extreme greed.

Everything intensified as the floating limo’s door opened and the passenger stepped out of the boat. Owen Kael was new to being a focus of the paparazzi’s lenses but he didn’t act like a novice. He mugged for those who were writing puff pieces and tabloid articles and glared for those behind the smear campaigns and investigative exposés. He refused to answer all questions but was polite enough to everyone as his security team bullied them aside.

The men on his security team finally punched a path through the crowd and led Kael across the plaza. One of the larger men stayed by his side as the rest of the team formed a line to keep the paparazzi back near the dock.

Cason had just arrived at the top of the plaza stairs when Owen Kael and his security guard started their way up.

“Kael?” Cason was surprised to the see the man there but instinctively stuck out his hand to shake.

Kael’s security man stepped forward, seized Cason’s wrist and put his other hand on his shoulder, placing himself in between his charge and the threat. “I’m going to need you to step back, sir.”

“You’ve changed, Owen,” Cason said with a chuckle as he looked past the guard.

“Stane Harlow, meet Cason Maze.” Kael reached the top of the stairs and made formal introductions between the two men. “Cason, Stane is my head of security. Stane, Cason is the man who’s going to put you on your ass and embarrass you in front of all these people if you don’t let go of his wrist right now.”

Cason smiled at Stane as the security man released his grip and backed away.

“Don’t worry. He would have been nice about it. Cason is really polite.” Owen shook Cason’s hand. “You’ll have to excuse Stane, he’s an asshole. I hired the biggest one I could find. That way I always look like the nice guy by comparison.”

If the description bothered Harlow, the security man didn’t show it. He simply shifted his focus away from Cason back to the surrounding area.

“What are you doing at the Fellows building?” Cason asked. “Are you coming on board with MIP? Alliance intelligence could use some more intelligence.”

“Of course, it could. Every department is short staffed, Case. That’s why I’m here. I’m sure you’ve heard that I’m no longer with Alexios.”

“I did. We both seem to be experiencing a lot of change these days.”

“Without a doubt. But unlike you, I’m not giving away my skills. I’m finally putting them to use for myself. I’ve gone private and started my own company, Xiphos Systems. We’re a private contractor supplying logistics, equipment and manpower to plug some of the holes in the Alliance’s leaky dam.”

“Manpower?” Cason asked. “That’s a new one.”

“It is. The Alliance needs warfighters. We’re not going to win this war without them and, as you know, the volunteers aren’t exactly lining up. You can’t print people and cloning is cost prohibitive, so the Alliance is coming to me to fill in the gaps. I’m happy to serve my planet in its time of need. Turns out it’s pretty profitable, too.”

“You do seem to be doing well for yourself.” Cason cast a glance at the boat surrounded by personal security.

Owen smiled at the understatement. “There’s plenty of room for more. Why don’t you join us?  I’m looking to open up an intelligence division at Xiphos and nobody does it better than you. Well, except me, of course. But I’m retired from that line of work.”

“Are you now?”

“I am. I’ve discovered I’m far better at cashing checks than stealing secrets.”

Cason considered the offer for a moment then dismissed the idea. “I’m afraid I couldn’t get away. We’ve got a lot going on here.”

Owen looked up at the building and then back at Cason before letting out a laugh. “You always were a sucker, Case. A better man than me, I’ll give you that, but still a sucker. You stay here and do your good deed, but I want you to know that the offer stands. Anytime you want to take me up on it, just come by the Xiphos offices.”

“Where is that?”

“The very top,” Owen said with a wink and pointed to SkyReach tower.

It was the tallest tower in Agora and visible from almost anywhere in the city.

“SkyReach,” Cason said. “Naturally.”

“Only the best for me,” Kael said with a touch of false bravado.

“That’s just our Agora branch of course. We’ve got places all over and we’re still growing,” Owen said appearing more exhausted than proud regarding the statement. Then he smiled. “Would you look at me? I’ve finally made something of myself.”

“Good for you, Owen.”

Stane returned to the pair, leaned in and whispered something in Kael’s ear.

Kael nodded and turned back to Cason. “I’ve got to run.”

“Yeah. I was on my way somewhere as well.”

“Take my boat,” Kael said.

“What?”

“Wherever you’re headed, you should take the Navisetta.” Kael pointed to the luxurious limo floating at the edge of the canal. “Just make sure and send it back for me, would you?”

“I couldn’t.”

“You will.” Owen stated and walked off. He threw one last comment over his shoulder. “And you’re going to like it.”

Stane held his gaze on Cason. He wasn’t sizing him up; they had both done that in the first moments of their encounter; both men evaluating one another’s capabilities and character. Stane had come to his conclusions already and he wanted Cason to know it.

Cason had made his own determinations. Despite Owen’s confidence in him, he recognized that Stane Harlow would be a formidable opponent in any kind of fight. From the look in the man’s eyes, the security guard didn’t feel the same about Cason. His scolding had resulted in resentment toward Owen’s old friend and he would be looking for an opportunity to prove himself in the future.

Harlow raised his hand to his mouth and spoke into a comm. “Take this man where he needs to go, then come back for the boss.” Stane glared at Cason once more for good measure before following his charge through the doors into the government building where Owen Kael would continue to forge an empire and build a fortune while Cason set out to save the world in a public taxi without the support of his boss.

“Screw it,” Cason said to himself. “I’ll take the limo.”

Released by security, the wave of paparazzi rushed past Cason on their way to catch Kael before he disappeared deep within the safety of the Fellows building’s vantabeige interior.

Cason turned back to the canal. The sleek, luxury craft was polished to such an extreme it appeared to float above the water.

Kael’s security team opened the door to the limo and waved for Cason to step inside.

7

The boat ride was pleasant enough. Many things were evolving in the galaxy with the emergence of the Hama empire, but one thing that would never change was the Italian state’s devotion to crafting luxury. Even though replicators had placed everything within everyone’s means, the Italian luxury houses had still found a way to generate want for their rarefied designs. The Navisetta Luxury Craft was no exception. The interior was silent and comforting, shutting out the distractions of the city and removing the passenger from the troubles of the outside world.

No doubt, per Owen’s intent, Cason’s ride in the boat highlighted the sharp contrast between government work and the private sector. Owen got a luxury watercraft for his infrequent trips to the Alliance capital; Cason couldn’t even get a taxi while on assignment.

Despite what Brask said, his tight-fisted and tighter-assed way of running the agency wasn’t a matter of managing Alliance resources as much as it was protecting them from the likes of Harius Thurgood and Owen Kael. Brask never had much use for the wealthy class. They had what others didn’t, so he saw them as usurpers of the common good. Cason’s close association with Harius wasn’t the only reason Brask hated him, but it was where the friction had started.

Whether Brask was right or wrong regarding the ills of wealth didn’t really matter. Owen’s boat was much nicer than anything afforded to the agency, and Cason had to admit that he missed being around the finer things in life.

The boat docked at the edge of Lyric Plaza. A popular tourist destination, the square was lined with some of the city’s most notable cafés and packed with visitors. It was a great place to sit in the open and be completely ignored. The hustle and bustle provided constant distractions and swallowed private conversations whole. Many a notorious affair had begun and ended in the din of the plaza’s constant chaos. It was the ideal place to grab a drink with an old friend whose legal status had fallen firmly in a gray area.

His friend wasn’t alone in her nebulous legal state. Many had been left in a similar situation since the incident on Shandor. While a great number of planets had taken the opportunity to sever ties with the Alliance, most did not join the Hama empire. Some chose to restore their independence while others banded together to form smaller alliances. This sudden realignment in allegiances left planetary dignitaries and representatives on Earth in a legal limbo. Some went home, some declared themselves ambassadors (with all the benefits befitting their made-up status, of course), but with no official framework in place, it was a bureaucratic nightmare.

And that much needed framework wasn’t coming anytime soon. The Alliance Security Council had moved to form a commission to recommend proposals, but the vote to form the commission had been held up in the committee to approve commissions.

Velora Denora of the planet Orvora wasn’t going to waste her time waiting around for the Alliance to figure out what her place in the galaxy would be. Within a month of the incident on Shandor, she had carved out a new role for herself as an independent broker of information. And in a city where secrets were rising in value every day, it wasn’t a bad business to be in.

Cason spotted Velora sitting at a cafe table. The Orvorans were humanoid in shape and size but luminous. They radiated light which many instinctively took for kindness. This made them great at negotiating but lousy at hide and seek. It was because of their shiny personalities and general kind countenance, that it came as a shock to many when Orvora was one of the first planets to withdraw from the treaty that formed the Alliance.

Velora spotted him and lit up a little more causing the couple sitting next to her to shield their eyes. “My dear friend, Mr. Maze.” Velora stood, embraced Cason, and then held him at arm’s length to study his face. “What a joy it is to see you today.”

Velora Denora and those from Orvora had a species wide tendency to rhyme whenever they spoke. Some people theorized it stemmed from a cultural belief on their home planet that beauty arose from balance and symmetry and should therefore be pursued in all things. Others suspected it was a trick they played on Earthlings. Even Cason wasn’t sure which to believe.

“It’s always a pleasure, Velora.” Cason pulled out a chair and took a seat at the table. “You look like you’re doing well.”

“This new life I lead is uncertain but sweet,” Velora said. “Regardless it is what has been set at my feet.” Velora signaled the waiter and ordered far too much food for an afternoon snack.

“So, business has been good?”

Velora smiled and beamed a little brighter. “They say soldiers and ships are the only things that cannot be printed. But secrets, too, are not readily minted. There’s value in scarcity to which many aspire. But only a limited few have the means to acquire.”

Cason spent the next fifteen minutes making small talk and resisting the urge to reply in rhyme for fear it would seem like he was mocking her. He caught himself starting to do it several times. It was as contagious as a yawn.

The phenomenon was called linguist alignment or priming. If you were around an Orvoran for any length of time, you couldn’t help but speak in verse. It made having an affair with an Orvoran particularly risky. The rhyming was more damning than lipstick on a collar.

At one point during the conversation, Velora Denora’s aura dimmed and she directed the conversation from gossip and politics to the matter at hand. “Our chat, without doubt has gone along pleasantly. But if you have a question, please ask it presently.”

“I’m looking for the man behind this symbol.” Cason produced a scrap of paper bearing the boar’s skull and slid it across the table.

Velora picked it up and studied the crude animalistic design.

Her aura was in constant flux and Cason had no way to know if the change now was a random occurrence or a reaction to something she was thinking.

“In crimson cloaks they twist the thread, in secret halls where whispers spread,” she said as she studied the design on the page.

“You’ve lost me this time, Velora.”

She looked up from the scrap. “A secret sect, long buried deep, emerges anew from shadowed sleep.”

“You’re talking about the Crimson Menagerie,” Cason said. “A cabal of elites that met in secret over a century ago.”

Velora continued, “At century’s turn on a distant sphere, an uprising sparked, then disappeared. Brave men with a cause that was just, but fire and iron led to rust. With too many dreams and too few hands, they’ve been lost to hourglass sands.”

She slid the paper back to Cason.

He studied the skull. “What does a hundred-year-old criminal organization have to do with this?”

“From dust and blood, their name returns,” Velora took a drink. The alcohol seemed to affect the glow around her. It brightened momentarily. “Old flags raised while the Alliance burns.”

“Someone is bringing back the Crimson Menagerie?”

Velora nodded.

“Who?”

She shrugged.

“Are they working with the Hama?” Cason asked.

“With the power they’re rumored to command. I have doubt they bow to any man. If the whispers are true, their resources are vast. Their reach is unlimited, their power unsurpassed.”

“That is concerning,” Cason said.

"Concerning it is, but something else demands your attention.” Velora leaned across the table and put her hand on Cason’s. “There’s a man following you. Do you know his intentions?”

Velora was getting good at her new job. She had indicated the tail was over Cason’s shoulder with little more than a glance. She smiled as if she had said something flirtatious and leaned back in her chair before taking another drink from her glass.

“Who says they’re following me? They could be following you.” Cason picked up a spoon from the table, checked it for cleanliness and then stirred his coffee. “Or anybody here. This city is so full of spies, they may not even be here for us. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“Of course, you are right, my fears are unfounded. He appears harmless and somewhat confounded.”

“Why do you say that?” Cason asked.

“A professional is subtle, calm and composed.” Velora said. “This man sniffed a palm full of black pepper into his nose.”

The man in question sneezed.

“I can assure you, he’s not a concern. I’ll deal with him later.”

“Speaking of deals, I’ve been very forthcoming. As for your end, I must say I’ve been wondering.”

“I’ve made some arrangements,” Cason said as he slipped an envelope across the table. Velora palmed the envelope, and it quickly disappeared. If it hadn’t been for a pulse of light from her body when she saw it, the transaction would have been flawless. “I’ve managed to extend your papers for a few more months.”

“As a lifetime is lived in years, a few months puts your account in arrears.”

“It’s all I can do right now. Your cooperation has been noted, and I’m sure we can work something out.”

“Orvora is my world of old. But Earth is where my heart takes hold. I’ve walked its ground, I’ve learned its song, and here is where I now belong.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Velora,” Cason said. He wanted to help her more. But having her in his debt wasn’t a bad thing. She had taken to her new career with great success and had already been a tremendous help. “We’ll both have to be patient.”

“You speak true. I know you do,” Velora said with a smile. Then her aura dimmed.

“Is something wrong?”

“The man at the table has gotten his meal. But what he has ordered seems rather surreal.”

Cason turned to look. The man Velora suspected of spying on them had disappeared behind a massive pile of ice cream scoops topped with lit sparklers, tiny noise makers and a spinning pinwheel.

He turned back to his contact. “It may be time for us to say good day, Velora. I’ll make sure he doesn’t follow you.”

“You make me smile at what you say,” Velora said as she stood. “But I could spot that man from a mile away.”

The Ovoran pursed her lips and blew Cason a kiss before turning and walking away.

Cason removed the spoon from his empty cup and glanced at the reflection once more. The man was still at the table, watching Velora leave from behind the fire hazard that was his pile of ice cream.

Once Velora was out of sight, Cason stood, walked over to the table, and sat down across from the tail. “You’re not very good at this, Atticus.”

8

The Vides looked up from behind the mountainous pile of ice cream with the eyes of a scolded puppy. Tears had formed in his big brown eyes.

Cason started to form an apology. His blunt critique of the man’s poor tradecraft wasn’t intended to make the man cry. But this Vides struck him as being overly emotional.

He wasn’t exactly sure how clones worked. The man appeared to be in his late twenties, but he couldn’t have been breathing for more than a few months. Did clones develop emotionally slower than physically? His comment had not been mean-spirited, only an obvious appraisal of the would-be spy’s tailing skills. Still, he realized he may have insulted what was essentially a child and decided it would be best to apologize.

“I wasn’t trying to be harsh, Atticus,” Cason explained. “All I’m saying is…Wait a minute. Are you crying because I criticized you or because I called you by your name again?”

“Da. The name.” The large man picked up a napkin to dab at the corners of his eyes. “It means you remember me.”

“You hardly gave me time to forget you.”

“I am acquaintance to you. I never had acquaintance.”

“What are you doing here, Atticus?”

“I want to prove I can spy for you. So, I put tail on you and follow you here for drinks with glowing lady.”

“What’s with all the ice cream?”

“Is called Mount Brainfreeze. Is Earth’s greatest treat and is famous! People come from across the galaxy to scale its frosted peaks. It also comes with souvenir spoons.” Atticus handed Cason a spoon.

The utensil was comically large and had a phrase written down the handle in raised lettering, I climbed Mount Brainfreeze and reached the peak of flavor.

Many local businesses took advantage of Agora’s moniker “The City at the Center of the Galaxy” by offering visitors some sort of unique dish or experience while they were in town. Each was labeled as Galaxy Famous, As Seen on Stream, or Home of the Original Pancake.  Mount Brainfreeze was this particular café’s attempt at a signature dessert. According to the menu, the dish was known galaxy-wide for its excessive nature and the summit of frozen indulgence. It was sixty-four scoops of ice cream stacked over a foot and half tall and topped with donuts, sprinkles, various gummy creatures and more. A Mount Brainfreeze flag, planted in the top scoop, fluttered in Agora’s gentle breeze.

“Don’t you think it’s a bit much?” asked Cason.

“I have sweet tooth.” Atticus raised a spoonful of Cosmic Cookies and Cream to his mouth. He lit up as the flavor–and the sugar–hit him.

“Spy lesson number one,” Cason said as he dug his own spoon into a scoop of New Classic Chocolate. “If you’re trying to act inconspicuous, do not sit by yourself at a table and order a dessert made for twelve to twenty people.”

“I will get better.” Atticus removed one of the still flaming sparklers from the mountain of ice cream so he could see Cason better. He made several attempts to blow the pyrotechnics out before giving up and dunking it in a water glass. “Give me assignment. I’ll show you.”

“What have you two gotten yourselves into?” Meena pulled out a chair and joined the men at the table.

“This is Mount Brainfreeze,” said Cason.

Atticus handed Meena her own souvenir spoon. “Join us on flavor expedition.”

“What did Velora have to say?” she asked as she searched the mountain of ice cream for a scoop of Field Fresh Strawberry. She found one on the third tier.

“She confirmed our suspicions,” Cason said. “There are some new players in town and I think our killer was a part of the club.”

“Is that all she had to say?”

“Pretty much.”

“They also make small talk,” Atticus said.

“Oh. I see.” Meena stabbed a scoop of Playful Peppermint with her spoon. This caused a few marshmallows to roll down Mount Brainfreeze, bounce off the table and fall to the ground where a small group of opportunistic pigeons went to battle over the fallen spoils.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Cason asked.

Meena shrugged to indicate she hadn’t said anything.

“What?”

“I don’t like the way she lights up around you,” she said.

“The lady did make pretty lights,” Atticus confirmed.

“Oh, did she?” Meena leaned back in her seat and turned to the Vides. “What else happened, Atticus?”

“I will have full report later,” Atticus said as he retrieved a spoonful of Radical Rocky Road and dipped it into the third tier of the hot fudge waterfall.

“No, you will not make a full report later.” Cason stabbed at the crumbly cookie base and watched as a pile of candy-coated chocolates toppled into a ramekin of caramel. “All of this stays between the three of us at this table. We have no idea who is involved.”

“You don’t think Brask is involved, do you?” Meena dug too deep into a scoop of Berry Blast, disturbing a tower of scoops which threatened to collapse. She moved to stop its fall, but Atticus was quicker and shored it up with his own spoon.

“I got you, Ms. Meena,” he assured her.

The two of them worked to stabilize the tower as Cason continued. “A hundred years ago, the Crimson Menagerie was a collective of the world’s greatest minds and most powerful individuals. I’m not sure Brask meets the group’s requirements.”

“Maybe not as a leader.” Meena dragged a banana into place as a new foundation for the stack of scoops and steadied the mountain. “But he could be a useful idiot,”

“An idiot, no doubt,” Cason agreed. “But I don’t know how useful he’d be.”

“You want I should follow this Brask?” Atticus asked.

“No, Atticus!” Cason pointed at the clone with his spoon and accidentally flung some melted Mocha Ripplestilskin across the table. “Stay away from Brask. You’ve done plenty. I don’t need your help on this case.”

“Then give me other case. What about drive?”

“What about the drive?” Cason asked Meena. “Were you able to crack it?”

“Of course.”

“Even Oncilla could not crack the drive,” Atticus said. “And she is very smart. She used latest software.”

“That’s where Priscilla went wrong,” Meena said. “I used old software. The formatting on the drive was ancient. It dates back to the time of the creation of the Urania itself. The real flagship of the lost fleet. Our latest software was trying too hard. So, I went to the archives and blew the dust off an old computer. The drive opened right up.”

“It wasn’t encrypted?” Cason asked.

“No. It was just old.”

Atticus grimaced and started slapping himself in the forehead repeatedly.

“Don’t beat yourself up, Atticus,” Meena said. “Anyone could have made that mistake.”

“Is not that. I eat ice cream too fast. Get headache.” Atticus slammed his fist into the table causing the ice cream dish to jump and a donut hole to roll down a slide made of pink taffy and launch itself into the air.

The small flock of pigeons took flight and tried to intercept the pastry before it landed. It hit the ground and started a squabble among the birds.

“What is this pain?” Atticus said through gritted teeth.

Cason pushed a glass of water toward the Vides. “Welcome to Mount Brainfreeze, my friend.”

“You may want to put the spoon down,” Meena said.

“Nyet!” Atticus snapped and pointed a finger at the mountain of ice cream. “It is too delicious! I will eat through the pain.”

“That’s the spirit,” Cason said and turned his attention back to Meena. “What was on the drive?”

“A poem,” Meena said.

“A poem?”

Meena nodded as she pulled a wafer stick from a scoop of Praline Dream and dipped it into a dab of raspberry topping.

“They said was breadcrumb,” Atticus reminded them. “Not poem.”

“What was the poem?” Cason asked.

“It was entitled, A Poem by Cassian Rhys,” said Meena.

“This is not good,” Atticus said.

“You know the name?” Cason asked.

“No, this is not good.” The Vides held up a spoonful of green ice cream. “What is this taste?”

Cason found the offending flavor on the pile of ice cream and tried a bite. “I think it’s pistachio.”

“Is crap.” Atticus said and flung the ice cream off his spoon. The green glob landed with a splat on the ground a moment later starting another pigeon fight.

“I did a search for Cassian Rhys,” Meena said. “Nothing came back on the name. It’s not in any of the systems.”

“Just like our killer,” Cason mused as he went for a bite of what he hoped was mint and not some other nut-based flavor. Going for green was always a risk. “It’s a bad day for the Ministry of Information Processing when we can’t find any information to process.”

“What are poem’s words?” Atticus said.

Meena recited the verse from the drive. “Life’s true light lies in true north’s sight.”

“Is bad poem,” Atticus said as he chased a cherry through a small mountain of whipped cream with his spoon. He caught it at the bottom of the whipped cream, popped it in his mouth, decided he didn’t care for cherries and spit it out into his napkin.

“You said yourself it was a breadcrumb, Atticus,” Cason said. “It could be a clue to lead us to another clue.”

“You’re right,” Meena said and jerked her head toward the Vides. “I think we should have someone get on this right away.”

Cason watched Atticus try to scrape the taste of cherry off his tongue and then looked back at Meena with a look she would know to mean, “No way am I trusting this weirdo with this.”

The look she gave back said, “I insist you give this Russian weirdo something to do because I’ve taken pity on the big dummy and you might as well do it now because I’m not going to drop it anytime soon.”

They had been together for some time.

Cason sighed and set his spoon in the foothills of Mount Brainfreeze. He grabbed a napkin and dabbed at the corners of his mouth. “Atticus, do you want a case?”

“Da,” the Vides said. “Very much.”

“Then I need you to do some research.”

“Research?” Atticus dropped half a gummy worm back into the Oreo dirt at the bottom of the mountain.

“Yes,” Cason said. “Research. Reading isn’t a problem, is it?”

“I want to help. I don’t want to do research.”

“Most intelligence work is research,” Meena said.

“She’s right. And right now, I don’t need you on the streets. I need someone I can trust chasing down this lead.”

Atticus thought it over for a moment then said, “Da, I can do this research.”

“Great. Now wipe that ice cream off your chin and go hail us a cab.”

Atticus dutifully cleaned his face, grabbed a donut from the top of Mount Brainfreeze and ran off to do as he had been instructed.

“I hope this is a good idea,” Cason said after the clone had left.

“What harm can he do?” Meena asked.

“You’ve seen what harm one Vides can do. And this one is a photocopy with bigger muscles.”

Meena pulled a chocolate covered strawberry from the north face of Mount Brainfreeze. “I’m sure he’ll do fine.”

“Maybe he’ll shake something free,” Cason said with a shrug. “Maybe he won’t. Either way, it will keep him busy and out of our hair for a bit while we focus on these crimson weirdos.”

9

Eleven figures draped in crimson and masked in silver stepped from the elevator into a voluminous chamber beneath the ocean and stared with wonder as sea life swarmed around them in all directions. Comprised entirely of transparent materials, stepping into Octopus’ lair was like stepping into a bubble beneath the sea.

“Welcome, brethren, to the lair of the Crimson Octopus!” Brother Octopus stood at the center of the chamber, arms outstretched, his crimson robes billowing like tentacles as he welcomed his guests to behold the spectacle he had created.

The eleven brethren dispersed around the room and spun continuously as they watched the underwater world teem around them.

“Wow,” said Brother Wolf. “When you talked about fleeing the surface, I had you pegged for a loon.”

“I didn’t flee the surface, Brother Wolf. I moved beyond the world above. Here beneath the waves, I have found peace and tranquility. A world separate from the chaos and din of the masses. Here I can watch a garden of coral bloom or hear the language of whales echo through the trenches. Here, life is not a constant struggle; it is a symphony. Balanced and eternal.

“I didn’t flee the surface. I was called home.”

Constructed of glass, steel and plasma shields, the submerged structure was a pocket of luxury and opulence in the depths of the Indian Ocean. What few opaque surfaces existed were covered with rare art. Soft classical music swam in the air, the notes of gentle strings swirling like the sea life outside.

The furniture was a surreal blend of comfort and eccentricity. Plush sofas were upholstered in stingray leather; armchairs were molded from deep-sea coral but softened with silk cushions dyed in aquatic hues. Bioluminescent chandeliers pulsed gently from above, casting a rainbow of colors across the polished floors.

Sea life played around outside the walls. A pod of whales turned lazily in the deep and dolphins darted about, exhibiting their characteristic playful nature. Sea turtles pulled their awkward shapes gracefully through the water as sharks mindlessly milled around, waiting for a meal to present itself.

“What do you think, brothers?” Brother Octopus asked after his guests had more than enough time to be amazed by his achievements.

“Most impressive, Brother Octopus,” said Brother Warthog, as a school of fish gathered in front of him.

“Stunning,” agreed Brother Ibis.

“Did anyone hear that?” Brother Monkey stared straight up at the structure’s roof. “It sounded like a pop. Did anyone else hear a pop?”

“Relax, Brother Monkey,” the Crimson Octopus said and pointed to a stocked bar in the center of the space. “Have a drink and enjoy the majesty of the aquatic world. I can assure you this facility is safe.”

“It’s just that it sounded like a pop,” muttered Brother Monkey and then spent a few moments trying to mimic the sound as the rest of the brethren spread out in the atrium. He lifted his mask, careful not to reveal his identity, but enough to flick his cheek and pop his mouth, trying to recreate the sound that had him so concerned.

“We are perfectly safe here, Brother Monkey.” Octopus crossed the room and put an arm around the man. He walked him over to the wall and put a hand on the transparent surface. “What appears to be glass is in fact a nano-infused adaptive Strombergian transparasteel that is strong enough to withstand atmospheric pressures at any known depth. Not to mention, it creates an impenetrable barrier to any attack. In addition, we are invisible from sonar, radar, lidar, thermal imaging, satellite detection, and those dogs they used to find explosives.

“This facility is self-sustaining. We grow our own food, generate our own energy and the interior ecosystem is perfectly balanced to create enough oxygen to supply us indefinitely as long as Brother Gator doesn’t bore us with any of his anecdotes.

“There is also a fully stocked bar and a Michelin chef at your beck and call.

“And, finally, the furniture is of the finest quality.” Brother Octopus pushed Brother Monkey down into one of the plush sofas. “Have a seat and relax.”

“This feels damp,” said Brother Monkey as he pat the sofa with his hand. “Why is this damp?”

The elevator doors hissed as they opened once more and a muscular man stepped into the room. He wore a tight teal t-shirt bearing an octopus over the right side of his chest. The graphic tentacles spread out across the front and back of the shirt, enveloping the man in the octopus’ grasp. He stepped forward and addressed the room.

“Dinner will be served as scheduled, sir.”

“Very well,” said Brother Octopus. “Give the chef my thanks, but remind him that, should I be displeased, he will swim with the jellyfish tonight.”

“Of course, sir,” said the henchman. “Everything will be to your liking.”

“It had better be or…the jellyfish.”

“Very good, sir. I shall convey your gratitude and level your ultimatum.” The man clicked his heels, turned and disappeared back into the elevator. A hiss of air drove the car up the transparent tube, carrying the man away.

Brothers Ibis and Gator stared at one another but said nothing of the conversation. Brother Wolf tried to stifle a laugh but the man in the snake mask let his laughter fly.

“What is so funny, Brother Serpent?” asked Octopus.

Brother Serpent didn’t answer. He waved the question away and continued laughing.

“Did you say jellyfish?” Brother Jaguar asked.

Octopus snapped. “What?”

The man in the silver cat mask didn’t back down. “Did you just threaten that man with jellyfish?”

“Yes. I find constant threats keep the servants’ spirits in—”

“Yeah, but jellyfish?” Brother Bear had turned his attention from a sea turtle outside to join the conversation.

“Box jellyfish,” Octopus explained. “An incredibly venomous cnidarian. Their venom is among the most potent found in the animal kingdom. Its sting causes severe pain, tissue damage and even death. It is one of the most painful ways to go.”

“Yeah, but that’s a shark,” said Warthog pointing to a shark outside the glass. “Why not feed them to the sharks?”

“The box jellyfish is the most venomous creature in the sea,” Brother Octopus said. “There are over one hundred-seventy different toxin proteins in their sting.”

“But sharks have over one hundred-seventy different teeth,” said Brother Fox. “Just feed them to the sharks.”

“Why don’t I just make them walk the plank?” Brother Octopus snapped. “Sharks are horribly cliche. If anyone crosses me, they would see sharks coming from a mile away. And they may even have developed some kind of shark repellant spray. Thank you for the predictable suggestion but I say no, thank you.”

“Okay, not sharks,” the man in the silver Bear mask conceded. “But jellyfish?”

“Well, what would you suggest, Brother Bear?”

“I don’t know.” Bear shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He wasn’t used to being called out. Few of the members of the Crimson Menagerie were. “What about Electric Eels?”

“I’ll tell you why, because electric eels are nothing like they are in your cartoons, Brother Bear. They don’t discharge enough amps to kill most people, they take a while to recharge and, most importantly, they aren’t even sea creatures, they are freshwater fish.”

“I thought bears knew their fish,” joked Brother Serpent.

“Shut up, Snake,” replied Bear.

“Gator?” Monkey asked. “Is your seat damp? Check your seat. I think my seat is damp?”

“What about a Blue Ring Octopus?” Bother Wolf had been quiet until now. He had most likely been researching deadly aquatic life. “They are extremely venomous, they are found right here in the Indian Ocean, and your name is Brother Octopus.”

“Very intriguing, Brother Wolf. That is an excellent idea. They are deadly. They are befitting of my moniker. There’s only one problem with the Blue Ring Octopus.”

“What’s that?”

“I can’t find one. Blue Ring Octopuses are very tiny and the Indian Ocean is very, very large. It is difficult enough to find one, much less fill a tank with them.”

“Then how about a giant squid,” suggested the man behind the eagle mask.

“Do you have any idea how much a giant squid eats?” Octopus had lost his patience. He slammed his fist down on a glass table making the reef sculpture jangle. “Of course you don’t, because I’m the underwater guy. Not you, Brother Eagle. And not you, Brother Serpent. And that means I decide how people die here in my underwater lair that’s under the ocean and I say they die by box jellyfish. And you know what? I haven’t had any complaints from my victims so far. So why don’t you just run your lairs your way and let me run my lair my way?”

Brother Eagle chuckled behind his mask and Octopus started moving toward the menagerie member.

“Take it easy, Octopus,” said Ibis as he stepped in between the two members. “He was just asking.”

“Everyone needs to settle down.” Jackal stood up and gestured for everyone to take a seat. “Brother Octopus is right. We are a consortium of equals here. And we must treat each other as such. We need to be respectful of one another and how they choose to run their lair.”

“Thank you, Brother Jackal,” said Octopus.

Jackal nodded. “Even if it is with lame ass jellyfish.”

“Hey—”

“But let’s not get distracted,” Jackal said. “What does your agent have to report, Brother Serpent?”

The man stood slowly and spoke softly. His voice was raspy and seeped out from behind the silver snake mask. “Our agent followed this man Maze to a meeting in Lyric Plaza where he met with an Orvoran known to deal in whispers. They spoke for some time.”

“What was discussed?” asked Jackal.

“It wasn’t clear. Our agent couldn’t get close enough to hear the full extent of the conversation.”

“Why not?”

“The man had another tail,” Serpent explained.

“Another tail?” Bear stood. “Who?”

“We do not know. He is a stranger to us.”

“Could there be another player on the board?” asked Ibis. “Another organization?”

Jackal considered this for a moment before speaking. “With all that is at stake, I’m surprised there aren’t more forces involved. We’ll have to keep an eye out for competitors. But right now, our primary concern should be Cason Maze and his work at the MIP. He got too close to us in Madrid. And that is enough to make a clever person suspicious.”

“We are too well hidden,” said Bear.

“This Orvoran,” Jackal said ignoring Brother Bear. “Could she know anything about us?”

Serpent shrugged. “She has made herself a mistress of secrets to keep from being deported off planet. We are cautious but our organization has grown so large that there could be whispers.”

“Did anyone hear a bloop?” asked Monkey. “It was like a bloop bloop. Bloop.”

“This Maze knows nothing,” Gator said.

“He knows enough to start asking questions,” Jackal said. “Warthog saw to that.”

Warthog bristled but stayed silent.

“Did the agent discover anything else about Maze?” Jackal asked.

“He doesn’t care for pistachio ice cream,” said Serpent.

“Well, who does?” said Ibis. “Ice cream should be a treat.”

“We need to put a team on Maze,” said Jackal.

“Is that wise?” Brother Bear asked. “We would risk exposing ourselves more than we already have. The more people we have on the streets, the more likely it is we will be exposed.”

“It’s a chance we have to take,” Wolf said. “If what Brother Jackal says about this man Maze is true; he must be dealt with.”

“If Maze gets our scent at all, it could be too late,” Jackal said. “It’s simple. Cason Maze must die.”

“That’s it!” Monkey shot out of his seat as if someone had sent a current through the sofa. “Okay, that time I definitely felt a drip!”

10

Agoran sunsets were always striking. Skybrush Environmental Services saw to that. Every evening the weather conduction service put on a show west of the city, manipulating atmospheric conditions to paint a picturesque end to the day.

Serena Nocthane was in charge of this particular sun-setting sequence. New to the position, she had brought a fresh take to the sun’s descent that had disrupted the traditional approach and set the city abuzz. Her work with altocumulus was groundbreaking and exposed colors of the spectrum others in her profession had often ignored. She was a true artist. A master of her craft.

While Agora’s sunsets had always brought people out to the western terraces, Nocthane’s work had made sunset such a popular event, the floating city’s systems had to redistribute power to favor the western stabilization motors to compensate for the population’s shift whenever the sun went down.

Cason stood with his arms around Meena as the couple watched the weather weaver’s work unfold in front of them.

Nocthane was leaning hard into the purples this evening. Cirrus clouds were strung across the Pacific sky like threads, refracting reds and violets and pouring the spectrum into a layer of stratus that created a gradient of a thousand shades while shafts of orange pierced the clouds. It was an impressionist’s dream. Her work had drawn comparisons to the great masters. Some even said her work was what Monet would have done if he had access to a weather station and a global satellite network capable of manipulating the elements at an almost molecular level. And if he’d had the cataract surgery earlier.

When the sun finally dipped below the horizon and the last touch of nautical twilight faded to stars, the crowd applauded. It wasn’t raucous or thunderous applause. The clapping was performed at a respectable volume, given the display they had witnessed. The crowd had no desire to wreck the mood, but they insisted the orchestrator be given their due respect.

Of course, Serena Nocthane couldn’t hear the applause from her place on the Weather Service Orbital Platform. She was already well on her way to her next engagement and planning tomorrow’s descent.

Meena waited for the last clap to fade and turned to smile at Cason. “This is the kind of normal thing couples do. Not chasing killers through the streets of Madrid.”

“Of course, but normal couples have to work, too,” Cason said. “They’ll watch the sunset, go to bed and then wake up and head to the office. Our job is just a little stranger, that’s all. It doesn’t mean we’re not a normal couple.”

He could tell Meena didn’t agree. But she didn’t press the issue. She looked up at the stars and asked, “How long do you think this war will last?”

“I’m afraid it’s just getting started. We are pressing forward at Orion and Musca. But we’re losing ground in Trappist and Cancer. It’s a scrum right now, and I’m afraid the real action hasn’t even started. Not without ships. The first one to build back a navy has the advantage. And I’m afraid it could be the Hama. We have so little intelligence about their actions.”

“And with people like Brask in charge, that’s not going to change any time soon. To top it all off, we’re stuck here.”

“You mean I’m stuck here.”

“And you’re stuck with me. I’m not leaving if you can’t.”

“Penance for my actions,” he said.

“Maybe.” Meena put her arms around his neck. “But I’m here because of your actions, too. You saved a lot of people.”

“And then I got us stuck on Earth.”

“It’s not so bad,” she said with a smile. “We finally get to be together.”

Cason smiled back. “It sure beats a cell.”

They kissed and held each other close. Meena couldn’t take her eyes off the stars. “What if the Urania and the lost fleet is out there?” she asked. “Would that be enough to let you go?”

Cason followed her gaze into the night sky. “I honestly don’t know. Not if it was up to Brask.”

Meena chuckled and swore. “That guy is quite a piece of work.”

“He’s a piece of something.”

“I don’t want to wish for anything bad to happen. But surely, they’ll need you back out there soon.”

Cason didn’t want to dwell on his predicament. If you were going to be incarcerated, house arrest on an entire planet wasn’t the worst thing. And he had something to keep his mind off the situation. “In the meantime, there’s enough to do here. The Hama are scrambling to set up a network here just like they’re trying to establish one in their empire. But, quite frankly, they’ve got an easier job of it than we do. Agora was the perfect setup. Former allies, nebulous relationships. It’s a breeding ground for spies and betrayal. We’re going to be busy.”

“Then we should enjoy these moments while we can,” she said and kissed him again.

They stood there in one another’s embrace until the terraces were all but empty and then headed toward the interior of the city. They strolled the canals, saying little and reveling in the comfortable silence of lovers.

The city of Agora never slept. The burdens of intergalactic governance were not constrained by business hours. Half the planets in the Alliance weren’t even diurnal to begin with. Crisis could happen at any moment day or night and Agora’s merchants were happy to accommodate the twenty-four-hour lifestyle intergalactic governance demand. Even in its earliest days, the city filled with around the clock conveniences and a thriving nightlife to meet the population’s demands.

The sound of music and the smell of alcohol mixed with bad decisions drifted from the various nightclubs and bars near the Terraces.

It was still too early to be making bad decisions, but people were already mingling on the walkways along the canals, counting down the hours until it wasn’t.

Meena and Cason walked along the canals in no particular hurry to get anywhere. They tried to talk about anything but the war and work. But they found almost any topic led them back to the events of the times.

“Have you heard from Thurgood?” Meena asked.

“Which Thurgood?”

“Harius,” Meena said. “I’m still not talking to his son.”

“Not directly. He’s focused on the hearings. He’s finding them, quote bothersome unquote.”

“Being tried for treason can be bothersome.”

“He’s also more than a little irked that people are calling the conflict Harius’ war.”

“That tends to happen when you launch an unsanctioned attack on a galactic empire without going through the proper channels.”

“He did the right thing. The Hama weren’t going to stop with their actions on Shandor. It doesn’t matter what the council thinks. His asteroid attack has bought us time.”

“I’m not saying he wasn’t right. You know that,” Meena said as the pair climbed a set of stairs leading to a footbridge over the canal. “Some people say it’s the only reason we’re at war.”

“People still have a right to be stupid.”

She stopped in the middle of the bridge and turned toward him. “I, for one, am thankful he sent you after Antarius.”

“I didn’t go for Antarius,” he took both her hands in his. “I went for you.”

She moved closer. “Oh, that was a good line.”

Cason put his arms around her waist. “I’d start a thousand wars for you.”

“One is enough.” She leaned in, kissed him on the cheek and then buried her mouth in his neck. She whispered softly, “We’re being followed.”

“For the last ten minutes at least,” he whispered back.

“Do you think it’s, Atticus?” she asked.

“No, I think it’s a professional. I’ve had Angel on them for the last two blocks and they’re jamming everything she’s thrown at them.”

“Any ideas who they might be?”

“They could be our new friends that Velora mentioned. Could be Hama. It could be Brask making sure we’re not staying out late and abusing agency funds.”

“Do you want to lose them?” she whispered.

“No. We need this lead. It wouldn’t hurt to see what they want. Once we get to the other side of the canal, we’ll find a place for you to break away and get behind them. Watch my back.”

He kissed her deeply. Not for cover and not for appearances, but because he desperately wanted to. They held each other’s gaze for a moment before resuming their stroll along Agora’s streets as if they weren’t under the watchful eye of those who wished them harm. Their path took them to a sleepier section of the city where the lights were less overbearing and the beat dropped with less intensity.

After turning another corner, Meena found a chance to slip away down a small alley. She squeezed his hand gently and ducked into the dark corridor, leaving Cason alone in the street.

It would be a moment before the tail turned the corner and realized she was missing. That would give her more than enough time to work her way back around their pursuers. It always amazed him how someone as beautiful as Meena could disappear so easily. She was a presence when she wanted to be and invisible when she didn’t. It was like a superpower, because he found it almost impossible to keep his eyes off her whenever she was around.

Cason took the next left, crossed back over the channel, and took a seat at a canal-side cafe. He picked up a menu and pretended to scan the offerings while waiting for the tail to catch up.

The man in question crested the bridge a moment later and stopped as soon as he spotted Cason sitting at the cafe table. The tail didn’t try to hide his presence or act nonchalant. Instead, the man leaned with his elbows on the rail and stared directly at Cason.

All secrecy and subtly was gone. Either the man knew they’d spotted him, or he simply didn’t care.

For his part, Cason acted nonchalant, acting like he and his companion had parted ways and he’d decided to grab a bite to eat. Ignoring the tail, Cason flipped to the second page in the menu.

The man on the bridge smiled at Cason and made a gun with two fingers and his thumb. He then drew careful aim and “fired.”

A bullet tore through the top of the menu, ripping it from Cason’s hands.

The shooter on the bridge blew on his finger like he was blowing the smoke from the barrel of gun.

Obviously, the shot had not come from the man’s fingers, but from somewhere on the other side of the canal. Cason still didn’t know who was following him, but now he knew they weren’t alone.

The man on the bridge aimed his finger again.

Cason kicked his chair over backwards and toppled to the ground as another gunshot rang out. The first had been meant to scare him, this one was intended to kill. Glass exploded as the round shattered the tabletop he’d been seated at moments before. The kick was the only thing that had saved him.

Whoever his adversaries were, they were competent, but hardly professional. He was thankful for that. A professional’s first shot would have been fatal.

His curiosity diminished, Cason was up and running even before the panic at the cafe could fully erupt.

Gunfire in Agora was unheard of. The first crack wasn’t enough to stir fear; it only raised curiosity. It was an oddity. When the diners at the cafe heard it, their first instinct was most likely to dismiss their first thought. It couldn’t be what they thought it was, could it? A gunshot? In Agora? Ridiculous. That couldn’t be.

But the second report and the sight of a man running sent a wave of terror through the populace as their fears were confirmed. The sound of screams and toppled tables filled the night air as the panic spread and the people ran.

Part of Cason’s plan was to draw fire away from the people. The other, more important part of his plan was to not get shot by an unknown assassin. Being shot by a known assassin would also be a problem, but dying ignorant would bother him even more.

Another bullet whizzed by him and shattered the plate glass window in a storefront display. The pane collapsed and fell into the street, where the larger pieces exploded and spread across the sidewalk.

Cason couldn’t pinpoint the shooter. Based on the angle of the shots, he figured they had to be coming from an elevated position. The knowledge did him little good, however, as Agora was made almost entirely of elevated positions.

He turned down an empty alleyway, putting the canal behind him and a building between him and the shooter. But there was still the man on the bridge to consider. In all the running for his life, Cason had lost track of his tail. He listened for signs of pursuit. He heard no footsteps but his own.

Cason pushed on and reached a junction in the alleyway where he almost took a knife to the face.

The killer had stepped out from behind the corner and brought the blade down in an overhead strike.

Cason had slowed just in time and the blade sliced the air in front of his face instead of being impaled in his skull.

Despite the forceful swing, the assassin recovered quickly and lunged with the blade. The blade wasn’t subtle or sleek like a stiletto or dagger. It was broad with serrated teeth and looked like it would hurt as much coming out as going in.

Cason had been stabbed a couple of times before—mostly on purpose—and if he had his preference, he would rather be shot. A bullet wound was clean and easier to deal with provided you lived. Even the most advanced surgical droids still had difficulty cleaning up stab wounds.

After sidestepping the lunge, Cason grabbed the attacker’s knife hand with his own right and grabbed the attacker’s neck with his left. He threw the man’s body forward into the corner of the wall with a disturbing yet satisfying crunch and let the unconscious assassin fall to the ground.

Cason knelt down to examine his assailant. He had barely rifled through a single pocket when the sound of fast falling footsteps grabbed his attention.

They were coming from the direction of the canal. Was it the man from the bridge?

They were joined by footsteps from the other direction. They were running as well. It couldn’t be the sniper. They couldn’t have gotten down from their perch to the alley so fast. It had to be someone else? How many killers were there?

Cason asked Angel for a headcount, but his AI was still being jammed. This in itself was concerning. Ever since they’d been forced to put Angel on the Alliance protocols, his aide had been jammed more and more. It had never been a problem when the assistant was housed on Thurgood’s private server.

There was shouting now. More voices. He didn’t know how many there were, but he knew he was outnumbered. Who would have thought playing the role of bait would backfire?

Cason ran and the sounds of pursuit chased him as he raced through the network of alleyways, twisting and turning, making his way back to the canal.

As he approached another junction, a man in a suit stepped out in front of him and drew a suppressed pistol from inside his jacket.

Cason drew his own weapon first and fired twice before the man could level the gun on him. One round struck the man in the shoulder and forced the assassin back behind the wall. Cason ran faster to close the distance and dropped into a slide as he approached the corner.

The man stepped out to fire again, but wasn’t looking for his target on the ground.

Cason slid past the unsuspecting killer and fired twice more, dropping the threat and tearing his pants in the process.

The new breeze on his thigh was unsettling but he ran on, turning corners at random until he finally found himself back at the edge of the canal. It was a dead end, unless he was willing to swim for it. He wasn’t a bad swimmer but his breaststroke wasn’t about to outpace bullets.

The city was quiet here. There were no crowds, no commotion. The only sound was the gentle lapping of the canal against the edge of the city. It was a rather peaceful place to die.

Then there was shouting behind him. The rest of the killers were coming. He worried about Meena. She was more than capable of watching out for herself, but he hadn’t suspected such a large team was after them. He pulled the magazine from his weapon, scanned it, and slammed it back into place with a curse. He had only a few bullets left and virtually no cover outside of the water.

Cason laid down on the ground to reduce his profile and readied to fire.

The footsteps were getting louder and more people were shouting. They had discovered the gunman’s body.

Cason took a deep breath and aimed.

“What happened to your pants?” Meena asked from behind the wheel.

He didn’t know what kind of boat she’d stolen. He just hoped it was fast.

11

Meena rammed the throttle, and the boat leapt forward instantly. Cason dropped to one knee and grabbed the back of a nearby seat to keep his balance as she swerved into the middle of the channel.

Driven by electric motors, the only sounds were the still waters of the canal breaking against the hull and the wind rushing past Cason’s ears. He pulled his way to the pilot’s controls and planted a kiss on Meena’s cheek.

“Thank you!”

“Don’t thank me, yet,” Meena said and glanced at the rearview monitor. “They’re still coming.”

Cason looked to see what had caught her eye.

Two water craft had rounded the corner and were catching up fast. AquaRaptors were the sports car of the canal, built for flash and speed. The vehicle was essentially an open-air cab with room for two straddling twin jet-powered pontoons. Normally it was a newly divorced middle-aged man trying to regain his youth with a bikini-clad woman half his age. In this case, it was a pair of killers; one behind the wheel and one behind a gun.

“Get down!” Cason shouted, and all but tackled Meena, dragging her to the floor as a spray of bullets peppered the cabin.

“You drive; I’ll shoot!” Cason said and started making his way to the rear of the boat.

Meena grabbed the wheel and turned hard to avoid another burst from the killer’s gun. This threw Cason off balance and sent him crashing into the gunwale.

“Careful!”

“Sorry.”

Cason had barely gotten to his feet when she turned wildly again, sending him tumbling the other direction. He rolled across the boat and crashed into the other side.

“Keep it straight!”

“Tell it to the river!”

She wasn’t wrong. They were entering into the cultural districts of Agora. Unlike the government center and more formal districts where designers laid out the canals in the most efficient and practical lines, here they twisted and turned, broadened and narrowed. This was another attempt at manufactured nostalgia. Engineers reasoned that very few people were sentimental about an interstate or broad multi-lane highway, but meandering cobblestone streets had been beloved for as long as anyone could remember. So here, in the neighborhoods and residential areas, the canals varied in width and wound without reason to create a homier feel.

Surprised by a bend in the canal, Meena took a sudden turn and sideswiped one of the many river taxis. On the next turn, she hit a stationary dock and almost t-boned a small junk as she sped into Chinatown.

The neighborhood was a blend of the ancient world and modern technology. Thousands of red lanterns swayed above the district, their flickering LEDs mirrored in the canal below, bathing the neighborhood in an electric glow. The buildings were designed to look like pagodas made of lacquered wood and residents crowded on balconies above shops serving traditional fare.

Meena swore and cut the wheel hard right to avoid another boat.

“You missed one!” Cason said, pointing to the junk she didn’t hit.

“This isn’t easy!” She fired back.

“You pilot star ships!”

“This is different,” Meena said. “Water is dumb.”

“Just keep it steady.”

She immediately swept the side of another taxi and bounced off the wall of the canal.

“Forget this!” Meena let go of the wheel and moved to the back of the boat.

“What are you doing? Who’s driving?”

“You drive!” Meena took the gun from Cason’s hand and pointed to the front of the boat. “I’ll shoot!”

She fired three times and forced one of the AquaRaptors off course and onto a collision course with the side of the canal.

Cason nodded and dove for the wheel. He reengaged the throttle and sped through Chinatown, dodging junks and ignoring the jeers and shouts of the neighborhood residents lining the canal sidewalks.

Occasionally Meena’s pistol barked, but the killers in their AquaRaptors still came; chasing Cason and Meena all the way to Little Italy.

Buildings here were painted with Tuscan reds and pale yellows. Strings of green, white and red pennants hung high above the canals, twisting in the breeze, and they could taste the garlic permeating the neighborhood.

The canal-side cafes were filled with patrons and neon signs filled the shop windows advertising espresso, gelato, and cannoli. Everywhere had pizza and vintage jazz filled the air as The Chairman serenaded diners all along the waterway.

The canal itself was filled with crooning gondoliers carting tourists slowly around the district with no particular destination.

Cason knocked one over with his wake and caused another to panic as they tore through little Italy. Curses and hand gestures were thrown in anger as he weaved in and out of the local traffic, dodging gondoliers and gunfire.

The diners stopped eating their spaghetti and started hurling insults and meatballs at the speeding watercraft that dared interrupt their peaceful evening out.

The chaos didn’t seem to distract Meena as she continued putting carefully aimed shots into the AquaRaptor cabins. The rounds weren’t enough to bring the chase to a stop, but they forced the killers to keep their heads down. This gave Cason an opportunity to increase the distance between them as he sped into MiniMexico.

Music blared from a dozen trajineras in the canal. These flat-bottomed boats were essentially floating cantinas, filled with up to twenty people enjoying the nightlife “Tiny Tijuana” had to offer with their compadres.

They weren’t transportation as much as they were a destination for people that liked to party slightly off shore. This meant that, for the most part, the boats weren’t moving, they floated in place. This made the path through the canal a minefield of mariachi bands and drunken merriment.

“Hold on!” Cason shouted the warning over his shoulder and began weaving a path through the trajineras. He cut left and right violently, leaning into each turn to adjust for the inertia. There were several close calls and many missed notes as the wake he stirred up caused the party platforms to rock violently, spilling drinks and toppling taco platters.

A quick glance at the camera showed the AquaRaptors were still in pursuit and also having a difficult time making it through the fiesta. They were less concerned with hitting the trajineras than Cason and several trumpet players went into the water.

The canal finally straightened out as they pulled out of the district, giving Meena an opportunity to draw a bead on their pursuers. She fired twice and then screamed, “I got one!”

Cason turned to see the driver of the closest AquaRaptor slumped half way out of the cabin and the gunman frantically trying to steer from the passenger seat. Unable to correct the craft’s course, it slammed into the wall of the canal and sent the passenger flying face first into the nearest building.

“Nice shot!” Cason yelled.

“Rugs!” Meena shouted back.

“Rugs?” Cason turned around in time to get a series of rugs in the face.

The fine fabric of several Turkish rugs slapped him in the head as the boat entered Itty Bitty Istanbul.

A man shouted from the shore, “Hey! My rugs!”

Itty Bitty Istanbul was filled with minarets and mosaics. The air smelled like cardamom and rugs hung everywhere. Strung across the river like fliers, the artistry of the Turkish rug makers was on display all across the canal. This was the Agora rug market after all, and most people who entered were browsing for tapestries and floor coverings; they weren’t trying to race through the neighborhood in a high-speed chase.

But the other killers were still after them and still doing their best to put bullets in Meena and Cason. He looked for a straight path through the draped rugs to give Meena another opportunity to fire. He found a line and straightened.

“I’m out!” Meena shouted.

The killers weren’t, and bullets raked across the windscreen

Cason sped out of the Turkish quarter and felt a chill as he shot down a darkened stretch of canal. The farther he went into the dark, the colder the surrounding air grew. The temperature dropped so dramatically that a dense fog formed over the surface of the water. He sped into the fog and the darkness and slowed down. Everything was still, and the atmosphere demanded silence.

“We must be in Neo-Norway,” Cason whispered as Meena felt her way to the front of the boat.

“I can’t see anything,” she said.

“They keep the air so cold that the place is covered in fog. It’s a really pretty neighborhood, when you can see it.”

They heard the AquaRaptor race into the district after them, but they couldn’t spot their pursuers in the dark fog bank.

Cason gave the boat a little more throttle and moved deeper into the darkness.

Meena gasped, and Cason turned as a dragon head appeared before them. Cason’s quick reflexes had helped them avoid a collision with a Scandinavian longboat. He pulled back on the throttle and steered as close to the wooden ship as possible.

“What are you doing?” Meena whispered.

“Once they go past us, we can double back,” Cason explained. “They’ll never see us in the dark.”

They heard the AquaRaptor pass by. It had slowed in its search for Meena and Cason but it was still moving fast enough to create a wake and the waves caused the boat to rock in the darkness and threatened to toss them into the wooden boat.

Cason gave it a few more seconds before he felt it was safe to talk again. “As long as it’s dark, they won’t see us.”

Thwunk.

“Did you hear a thwunk?” Cason asked.

They both turned and looked above them. A flaming arrow stuck out of the side of the longboat.

“Oh, no,” Cason whispered. “I think we hid next to a Viking funeral.”

“What’s a Viking funeral?” asked Meena.

Several more thwunks sounded as more flaming arrows embedded themselves in the side of the long boat. The boat was ablaze in a matter of seconds as the flames spread and ruined their hiding place.

Their attention drawn by the fire, the men in the AquaRaptor spotted their prey and began to turn.

Cason slammed the throttle forward and sped away from the blazing ship out of Neo-Norway and back into the network of canals. It was some time before they pulled out of the fog and the cold. Once they did, they found themselves in the Agoran French Quarter.

Elegant wrought-iron balconies overlooking the canal were packed with people hanging over the railings and shouting at the people below. Cheers and songs filled the air and some shouted, “Throw me something, Mister,” because it was Mardi Gras.

It was always Mardi Gras in New New Orleans.

Every night, amazing floats built by enthusiastic krewes paraded down the canal while tourists cheered and tried to snatch the tossed candy and beads out of the air. The parade took over almost the entire canal.

And Cason was headed straight for it.

He cut the wheel and shot across the canal in front of a float featuring a live Zydeco band. The washboard player gave him a dirty look as he passed by the front of the float, grazing the front.

The AquaRaptor was in close pursuit and clipped the front of the float with its left ski. The collision was hard enough to pull the front of the float away from the body, and the float started going down. The band kept playing, and the crowd went nuts.

Someone shouted from the edge of the canal, “Laissez les bons temps rouler!”

Cason kept driving. They weaved in and out of floats with a frightening number of close calls. Candy and beads were hurled at them as they tore the still water into waves and rocked everything around them.

A voodoo doll with pins stuck in some of the rudest places hit him in the face as he darted in front of a float sponsored by Madam Esmés Crystal Gaze and Tarot Shoppe. A giant crystal ball filled with smoke and a sexy dancer for fortune telling reasons stood in the center of the float and an angry Madam Esmé was pitched at the end, spitting curses intended to follow them as they sped away.

The next float in the parade was designed to mimic a Mississippi steamboat. The smokestacks belched white smoke, the paddle wheels churned up the water and the crew on board tried to pelt them with beads and doubloons.

It was here the AquaRaptor caught up to them and crashed into the rear of the boat. The faster craft shot forward and collided with them again.

“They must be out of bullets, too,” Meena said.

Cason pulled back to the left around a float called Hurricane Hurley’s. The centerpiece was a twenty-foot-tall drink glass filled with a swirling pink liquid. On either side of the glass, a pair of grand pianos dueled back and forth playing crowd favorite songs people only knew the lyrics to when they were drunk.

Cason circled Hurricane Hurley’s and came back around for another pass, giving them some distance between their pursuers. He sped down the side once more and reached the end of the float, where the boat came to a stop in the middle of the canal in the direct path of an oncoming crayfish.

The massive crustacean bore down on them, its pincers snapping, ready to crush the trespasser who had dared interrupt the parade.

“What’s wrong?” Meena asked as Cason fidgeted with the controls.

The crawfish raised a massive claw into the air and brought it down hard into the water as a demonstration of its crushing power. The splash it threw up reached the canal walls, soaking many of the onlookers. There was power in its pincers and it raised the other to strike.

“Cason?” Meena said. “That thing is coming right at us.”

“Yeah, I think they’re really mad. They don’t like it when people interrupt the party.”

The pincer raised to its full height, water dripped from the claw and fell on the bow of the boat.

The AquaRaptor sped around the corner of Hurricane Hurley’s and shot toward them.

“What’s wrong with it?” she asked.

“Nothing.” Cason hit the throttle and the boat sprung forward from under the claw and cut it again.

The AquaRaptor crashed into the rear of their boat and came to a dead stop.

The mighty claw fell on the AquaRaptor crushing its roof and trapping the vehicle beneath the pincer.

Cason walked toward the back of boat to get a better look at his attackers. He wanted to question them before the local authorities got involved. Something hit him in the head and he dropped to the deck. He saw the wriggling crawfish trying to make sense of its new place in the world.

Another one landed on his shoulder and grabbed his shirt with its pinchers. Then another landed at his feet as a hail of crawfish began raining down on them.

The krewe on the float had given up on their crawfish boil and were now showering them with everything they had intended to eat. And they had been hungry.

Cason brushed a crawdad out of his hair and screamed at Meena. “Get us out of here!”

12

“And what in the hell is a crawdaddy?”

Brask was yelling again. But this time he was also foaming at the mouth. Cason imagined he must have read about the technique in his latest management book because frothing was definitely a new addition to his repertoire. He scanned the office for new books while Brask ranted about the chaos Cason had created in the canals of the city.

Brask had positioned his desk in front of his bookcase so everyone that spoke to him would know how well-read, and therefore intelligent, he was.

Cason looked past the angry man and found three new titles had been added to the library since his last dressing down. Micromanaging for Maximum Results felt like a title Brask himself could have written. Managing Up, Down, and Backwards gave Cason the impression Brask had issues with his own superiors on the council. The final recent addition had to be the source of Brask’s new approach to relationship building. It was entitled Taking Your Career to Level 11 and promised to teach the reader “How to Amp Up Your Presence and Lead Through Volume.”

“Are you even listening to me?” A good amount of foam ran down his chin and dripped onto Brask’s desk.

“Of course,” Cason lied. “You were saying how I’m incompetent, probably.”

“A lucky guess.” Brask lowered the volume. He had run out of steam and decided to sit. “But accurate. You let the killers get away! Again! That’s at least two killers you’ve let slip through your fingers now. They told me you were supposed to be the best at this sort of thing. But I’m starting to think you’re not very good at all.”

“I know it’s not a great record. But at least we know for certain that we’re on to something.”

“And just how do you figure that?” Brask asked.

Cason thought it was obvious. “Because they’re trying to kill us.”

“They’re just trying to kill you. And they could have any number of reasons to want you dead. I have some myself. Just how many people do you think you’ve pissed off by working for that capitalist, Thurgood, over the years? How many people might be a little miffed at you for starting a war?”

“I didn’t start the war,” Cason said. It was something he’d been saying to himself a lot lately. “I was part of a rescue mission.”

“A rescue mission that started the war,” Brask clarified. “If you ask me, we’d have been better off if that spoiled brat, Antarius, had been left in his cell on that backwater planet.”

“You’ve got a point there,” Cason said and then regretted it. Leaving Antarius? Maybe. But Meena had been there as well. “The fact remains, they are trying to kill some of us before we get too close. We know too much.”

Brask chuckled. “And what exactly do you know about them?”

Cason blanked. He couldn’t share what he knew without being asked how he knew it. He wasn’t willing to burn Velora as a source. Not only would it be the wrong thing to do to a friend, she was too valuable a resource to hand over to Brask. Even then, outside of rumors and suspicions, he didn’t truly know anything except that people were trying to kill him. Brask already knew that. He just didn’t care.

The manager took the hesitation as an inability to respond. “That’s what I thought.”

“We know they exist, maybe,” Cason finally said. “And that appears to be enough to earn a place on their hit list. That means they’re powerful and scared of being exposed.”

“There goes your ‘know too much’ theory,” Brask said in a sing song sort of way. Then he shouted, “You don’t know anything!”

“We’re getting close,” Cason fired back. “Why else would they try and kill us?”

“Because you’re very unlikable, Cason,” Brask said. “I know you’re always being praised by your former boss and being given awards for your actions and you’re surrounded by friends and loved ones and Meena is hot and obviously very attracted to you so you probably don’t see it, but you’re terribly unlikeable. It’s something you need to work on. I was planning on bringing it up during your performance review.”

“I don’t think it’s my personality they don’t like, Brask. People don’t commit murder without a good reason.”

“Of course, they don’t. But, and I do hate to point this out, you’re not dead. No one has killed you. You have not been murdered.”

“It wasn’t for a lack of trying. Five of them came after us.”

“Five killers. You did say that. And you fought them off. Funny how there are zero bodies!”

“They had help. A cleaner crew. Further proof that they are part of a larger operation. They are obviously well organized. Well-funded.”

“Here we go.” Brask sighed and closed his eyes. He feigned a headache and rubbed at his temple. “Here we go with your big conspiracy theory again.”

“You do realize conspiracy theories are what we specialize in here, don’t you? We’re an intelligence agency. We have to explore possibilities.”

“Fine.” Brask opened his eyes and folded his hands on the desk in front of him. “Let me have it then. Give me your big theory.”

“There are rumors that the Crimson Menagerie has reformed.”

Brask was unfazed. “Is that supposed to impress me?”

“It should at the very least concern you.”

“Why would that concern me?”

“Do you not know about The Crimson Menagerie?”

“I don’t listen to popular music, Cason. I don’t have time to stay with the trends. So forgive me if I’m not as excited as you that your favorite boy band is getting back together.”

“They aren’t a boy band, Brask. The Crimson Menagerie was a cabal of powerful people who steered the world from the shadows through manipulation, blackmail, and extortion. They controlled governments, institutions and made the people bend to their will simply because they believed they were better suited to rule than anyone else.”

Brask laughed. “That’s literally a conspiracy theory, Maze.”

“That’s history, Brask. The group was ultimately exposed, defeated and held accountable for their actions more than a hundred years ago.”

“Then it hardly seems like our problem now, does it?”

“They’re back, Brask.” Cason pinched the bridge of his nose. He actually was getting a headache. “The Crimson Menagerie has returned.”

“So, what if they’re back? They’d be too old to do anything. My Grandfather is eighty and all he does is piss and complain. Mostly he complains about how much he has to piss.”

“Not the original members! New secret members with new secret aliases!”

“So what you’re saying is you don’t know who they are, and even if they are real, you don’t know what they call themselves.”

“No, what I’m saying is…” Cason gave up and collapsed in Brask’s guest chair. “I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“That’s what I thought.” Brask stood and paced the room. “You see, that’s your problem. Thurgood had you chasing shadows for so long just to protect the precious profits that you can’t even determine what is a true threat to the security of the Alliance and what is a bunch of made-up nonsense! You’re seeing threats everywhere.”

“That’s our job,” Cason wheezed. He was tired of explaining it.

“No. That’s where you’re wrong. Our job is not to unearth secret cables or find enemy spies. If you think about it, our job isn’t even to keep people safe.”

“It isn’t?”

“No, our job isn’t to keep people safe. It’s to make people feel safe. And if they think there’s any danger out there, they won’t feel safe. And making wild accusations about secret societies or having running gun battles in the Alliance capital does not make people feel safe. Quite the opposite.”

“We have to neutralize these threats before…”

“There are no threats, Maze! Nothing ever happens here! Agora is one of the safest places in the galaxy. If not the safest. It has been for decades. Why do you think I took this job? I’m not a moron, Maze. Do you think I would take a job that placed me in harm’s way? There’s a war going on. I’m not stupid.”

“You don’t think things have changed? We haven’t been at war for decades.” Cason pointed out the window at the sleeping city. It did look rather peaceful at the moment. It wasn’t helping his point. “The war has changed everything.”

“The war is out there, Maze.” Brask pointed to the night sky. “It’s not here. Not on my planet. Honestly, the biggest threat to world peace right now is you. You’re endangering the population.”

“Endangering them how?”

“Engendering them with fear. With doubt. They need to know that their government is taking care of them. And with you raising all these questions, you are putting their peace of mind in jeopardy!”

“What the hell kind of logic is that?”

“I have four degrees, Cason.” Brask pointed to the diplomas hanging on his wall. “That’s the kind of logic it is.”

Cason eyed the diplomas. “Are any of those degrees in physics?”

“No.”

“So, you never studied Richard Feynman?”

“Who?”

“He’s just a guy who said some stuff about education and intelligence.”

“Sounds like a smart man to me,” said Brask.

“He really was,” said Cason wondering if Brask would bother looking into the reference further. He assumed that was the end of it.

“You know, before I took this position, they told me all about you. They told me how smart you were and how much we needed you here. They told me to lean on you, to trust you. That you were the best. But I don’t see it. Unfortunately, because of your special arrangement, I can’t fire you. But I can make things so miserable for you that you’ll quit. Maybe think about that.”

Cason pointed to the shelf behind Brask. “Is that from one of your books?”

“No. This is something from the book of Brask. I’ve read dozens and dozens of books and I haven’t found a thing about how to discourage employees. But I’m clever, Maze. So you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to take everything I’ve learned about being a good manager and do the opposite of all those things to you. I figure I can make things so bad, you’ll beg me to leave.”

“So that’s what you’ve been doing,” Cason said. “I didn’t think anyone could be such a bad boss on accident.”

“What? No. I just had the idea right now. You see, Maze? You don’t even listen. You’re simply not a very good spy.”

“Fair enough,” Cason stood. “Can I go be a terrible spy at my desk now?”

Brask waved him toward the door and turned back to his terminal to continue his work.

Cason returned to his desk and sat. It was late and the MIP was empty. Brask had made a special trip into the office to yell at him. There was no one left in the office but the two of them and the janitor.

The janitor wheeled a large gray trash can his way and pointed to the small waste basket he shared with Seth. “Your trash, sir,”

“Take it,” Cason said before remembering they didn’t have a janitor in their secret spy agency headquarters. He looked up. “Atticus?”

“No. I am janitor,” said Atticus.

“What are you doing here?”

“I must speak to you. But we do not like this Brask because he is small-minded man. So I think the best way is to pretend to be something that he would not acknowledge. So I am janitor.”

“That’s not bad thinking. But agencies like ours don’t have janitors. We take our own trash to incinerators for security purposes.”

Brask’s office door opened and the manager stormed out of his office headed for the elevator. He stopped when he spotted Atticus. “You!”

The Vides reflexively wheeled the trash can in between him and the manager. “Yes, sir?”

“Where have you been? My trash has been piling up for weeks! Empty it now or I’ll have you fired.”

“Da…I mean, yes, sir.”

The elevator arrived with a ding.

“And lock my door when you leave,” said Brask.

“Yes, sir.”

Having exerted his authority, Brask nodded to himself and stepped into the elevator car and instructed it to take him to the lobby. The elevator dinged an acknowledgement and Brask nodded to himself once more.

Once the doors closed and Brask had left Cason stood up and slapped the janitor on the shoulder. “You may be a better spy than I gave you credit for, Atticus.”

“Dah, this is what I have been saying all along.” Atticus shoved the wheeled trash can towards Brask’s office and began removing his janitor coveralls.

“What are you doing here?” Cason asked.

“We must talk,” Atticus said. “Meet me in park in one hour.”

“What’s up?”

“I find poet.”

“And?”

“He is not poet.”

13

Deep in the Amazon rainforest, beneath an almost impenetrable canopy of emerald life, a bunch of weirdos in red cloaks and silver animal masks gathered around the trunk of a giant kapok tree. The once towering tree had been converted into a conference table almost fifteen feet in diameter at the center of some kind of headquarters and about a dozen of the weirdos ringed the stump like they were having some kind of seance.

“Much like the great kapok tree that blooms at night, we shall flourish in the shadows and spread our seed of influence while the world sleeps,” the silver face monkey’s voice boomed from behind the mask. “From the darkest emerald will come a crimson tide flowing from the mighty Amazon and out into—”

The weirdo in the bird mask slapped the back of his neck, disrupting the speech and killing a bug. He held his hand in front of the mask and examined the insect. “Can’t you do something about these bugs, Monkey?”

Ty Mercer sat on a bench on the other side of the room and tried not to think about the sweat running down his face. Agora hadn’t been the coolest place, but at least there’d been a breeze. The heat and humidity here didn’t move, it sat on you, smothering you beneath its oppressive weight, and waited for you to die. He could tell the weirdos in the red dresses were feeling it, too.

“How dare you interrupt my speech, Brother Eagle!” the monkey said.

“How dare you go on and on and on.” This one looked like some kind of dog. There were a couple of dogs in the group. This one looked more like a wolf or a husky.

“It’s an analogy,” the monkey said. “I’m comparing the shadowy nature of our work to mother nature’s true course. I’m building to a call to action.”

“Maybe you should call an exterminator instead,” the wolf said as he slapped at his neck again and examined the smashed insect. “What the hell even is this thing?”

The one that looked like he had an octopus growing out of his face chuckled. “And you dared complain about my lair, Brother Monkey. At least I could keep the pests out.”

The one with the monkey mask sounded defensive. “Yeah, well at least we’re not in danger of drowning, Octopus.”

“Speak for yourself, Monkey,” said the one that looked like some kind of pig. “It’s hot as balls in here. I’m swimming in my own sweat over here.”

“Everyone just shut up,” said the other dog. This one may have been a fox. But there were two that looked a lot like foxes. “Let’s get on with business. Cut to the chase, Brother Monkey.”

“Fine, Brother Jackal,” said the monkey. “In darkness we thrive. We must never be brought to light.” The crimson cloaked monkey beckoned to Ty. “Please, join us at the kapok tree.”

Ty chuckled as he pushed himself out of the seat and walked toward the tree table. He didn’t like the implication of ‘join us.’ When he had accepted the contract for the Agora job, he wasn’t aware he signed up for all these theatrics. It made him uncomfortable. Not afraid. He was confident he could take care of a roomful of weirdos if the need arose.

Ty swaggered over to the big stump and looked at the monkey. Waiting for the next question.

“Is it done?” asked the monkey.

“No, it’s not done,” said Ty.

The monkey looked uneasily to the snake-faced guy. “What do you mean, it’s not done?”

“It’s not done,” Ty said again. “Does that mask make it difficult to hear?”

The monkey was getting testy and spoke in a clipped phrasing. “Why is the target not dead?”

“Because the target is really good at not dying,” said Ty. “It wasn’t for a lack of trying, I’ll tell you that. We shot so many bullets.”

“How hard is it to kill one man?” asked the one that looked like a cat or something.

“Really, really hard. You all didn’t tell me he was that good at not dying.”

“You took five men with you!” Snapped the monkey.

“And he killed all five,” said Ty. “That was no fun cleaning up that mess by the way.”

“How much fun you had is not my concern,” the monkey said. “Did you learn anything?”

The one called Brother Eagle slapped his arm and examined the dead bug. He held out his hand to the wolf. “Holy crap, Brother Wolf. Look at that one.”

The wolf examined the insect and wretched behind his mask.

“Yeah, I learned something,” Ty said and took a seat. “I learned I need to take more men next time.”

“You should hope there is a next time,” the monkey hissed. “Did you learn anything else?”

“We overheard them saying something about something called the Urania.” He kicked his feet up on the giant tree stump.

“Get your feet off the sacred kapok tree!” shouted monkey.

Ty smiled and pulled his feet back. “All right, monkey guy. Don’t get all worked up.”

“The Urania?” the snake said to the group. “That can’t be. Can it?”

“Of course not,” said the second bird. Not the eagle, the other one. “The Urania’s existence is a myth. It was destroyed along with the rest of the fleet.”

“But what if the rumors are true?” the pig looking one asked. “If the Alliance is able to recover the Urania fleet, their need for ships would be drastically reduced. That could jeopardize everything.”

“It’s a myth,” said the bird. “Nothing more.”

“But what if it’s not? It’s not a risk we can take. They must be stopped before they learn anything else that could jeopardize our plans.”

“You want me to get more men?” Ty asked.

“You?” Monkey laughed. “You failed me.”

“Don’t give me that. If it wasn’t for me do you know how many of your enemies would be alive. All of them. I’ve been doing your dirty work for over a year now. And, you forget, I literally know where the bodies are buried.”

“You dare threaten the Crimson Menagerie?”

“Oh, is that what you call this weird little cult of yours. I thought maybe the Red Zoo. Or the Freaky Furries. The truth is, I don’t care what you red weirdos are into as long as your money is gold. But you need me.”

“Is that so?” asked the monkey.

The Eagle slapped at his neck once more and examined his palm. “Wow, look at this honker!”

“Yeah,” Ty said. “You have no idea how hard killing someone is because you’ve never done it yourself.”

“You’re right,” the monkey said and opened a hidden panel on the tree trunk. “Maybe it’s time I learned.”

The monkey pressed a button on the tree, and Ty’s world dropped out from beneath him. He fell only a short distance before his feet hit a metal chute and his sudden plummet turned into a slide. It was a short ride before the chute ended and launched him into the air. He fell on his back on the jungle floor.

Ty knew how to take a fall. He slapped the ground as he landed to transfer the force of impact into the earth and leapt to his feet, ready to fight. But there was no fight to be had. He was back outside in the rainforest. It wasn’t a death trap; it was an exit.

The assassin brushed himself off and started walking. He’d find his way out of the jungle and be done with the animal weirdos for good.

He had only taken a few steps when he was stopped by an invisible force. Upon further examination, he determined it was a glass wall, but it was so clear it could have been a force field. He put his hands up against the surface and began searching for the edge. The invisible wall extended a hundred feet in one direction before ending in an invisible corner. He wasn’t outside, he was in a giant terrarium.

Ty smashed a fist against the glass. “What the hell is going on here?”

The wall changed from invisible to an opaque frosted white. It cleared a moment later to reveal the red cult members standing before him, still inside the jungle facility.

A member that looked like a crocodile stepped forward and tapped the glass.

“Don’t do that,” said the monkey, reaching for the croc’s hand. “They don’t like it when you do that.”

“Whatever,” the lizard said. “This is a pretty lame death trap, Monkey.”

“Death trap?” Ty heard all of this over an intercom system. “What is this?”

“This is me doing my own dirty work, Mr. Mercer,” the monkey said.

“Let me out of here!” Ty punched the window. When it didn’t break, he kicked it.

“Shhhhh,” the monkey said. “I need you to listen, Mr. Mercer. Do you hear the jungle calling?”

Ty wasn’t sure what the monkey was on about, but he suddenly no longer felt alone. What had been a quiet jungle came alive in that instant. Insects buzzed in the air and scrambled through the litter on the ground. Bugs? Was that it? He wasn’t afraid of bugs and any bite could be dealt with. The only other noise he heard was a gentle croaking.

“What’s that noise?” asked the one that looked like a bear.

“Are those frogs?” asked the snake.

The assassin spun and looked into the jungle as the croaking grew louder and more aggressive. The air filled with the sound of tiny thumps as a host of frogs jumped around, coming closer to Ty’s place at the glass wall.

He certainly wasn’t afraid of frogs. Only little girls with pigtails were afraid of frogs.

There was another croak and something passed Ty’s ear. He turned to follow the sound and came face-to-face with a tiny frog, golden in color and kind of cute, if he was being honest.

“Seriously, Monkey? Frogs!” said the fox thing. “That’s lamer than Octopus’ jellyfish.

“Shut up,” said the octopus.

Another frog landed on the window in front of him and croaked.

“Gentlemen, I give you phyllobates terribilis, the golden poison frog.” The monkey stepped closer to the glass and stared at Ty. “Each has enough poison to kill ten to twenty men. Or two African bull elephants.”

Several of the hooded figures whistled at this fact.

Even Ty had to admit that was an impressive amount of poison in one little frog.

Two more frogs landed on the window beside the first.

Ty thought the ribbits were starting to sound a little lower. Were they growling?

“For centuries, the Emberá and Cofán peoples used this poison to tip their hunting darts. The toxin would retain its potency for two years and aid the tribes in taking down the largest prey. And there are approximately a thousand in there with the victim.”

One of the frogs leapt from the glass and landed on the bridge of Ty’s nose. He screamed and swatted at the tiny creature. He hit himself several times but finally ended up knocking the creature to the ground.

Ty felt the poison on his skin. Maybe? Was it poison? Or was the frog just wet? He knew parts of them were watertight, but were they wet? Had he been subject to the deadly toxin? Was he dying? He didn’t know. He gasped and turned back to the window. The crimson cultists had drawn tighter together and stared at him through the window.

They stared at one another for almost a minute, waiting for something to happen. The bear finally sighed and stepped away from the window. “Lame.”

“Lame?” The monkey laughed and then looked directly at Ty. “Batrachotoxin hijacks the body’s nerve circuits, prying open sodium channels and refusing to let them close. The result? Muscles lock up tight, frozen mid-signal, leaving the victim paralyzed and powerless. Awake; but trapped inside their own body.”

The monkey was right. He could feel it happening. All the things he’d just said. Ty’s body was going rigid. He desperately wanted to wipe away the place where the frog had landed, but it felt like his arm was too stiff and wouldn’t even bend at the elbow.

“That leads to heart fibrillation,” said the monkey.

Ty didn’t know what that was but he felt it in his chest. His heart began beating harder, faster in a desperate attempt to live, unaware it moved the deadly toxin through his body faster, probably. He wasn’t sure how toxins worked either. He had always been a trigger man, never a poison guy.

The rest of the silver-faced freaks returned to the window, suddenly engaged.

Ty fell forward. Only the glass wall kept him from collapsing completely to the ground. He stared at his killers’ faces, his mouth agape as his organs failed him.

The monkey put its silver face against the glass. “This ultimately leads to heart failure and death.”

Ty took a deep breath, a final gasp and then sneezed.

The explosive blast covered the window with mucous, and he stood upright to wipe his nose. A moment later, he realized he wasn’t dead at all and he may not even be dying. Ty’s mind raced. He had beaten death. Now all he had to do was get out of this stupid box.

“What gives, Monkey?” the pig said, tapping the glass. I thought you said he was dying.”

The monkey shrugged. “To be honest, the poison frogs don’t always work. But they do keep the victim distracted so they don’t see the jaguar.”

“Jaguar?” Ty asked.

The monkey pointed over Ty’s shoulder.

Ty turned and saw the massive jungle cat preparing to strike.

“Yes!” the bear cheered. “That’s more like it,”

“Get someone else on Cason,” the other dog said to the group. “We must know more.”

The jaguar pounced.

14

The kapok tree in the Agora arboretum was alive and well and in full bloom that night. Bell-shaped flowers exploded in shades of white, pink, and yellow and they weren’t picky about what kind of pollinators they attracted. The kapok depended on bats as much as it did bees to spread its seed and made for a striking sight in the night.

The mighty tree was one of a thousand living exhibits in the fabled park.

The city of Agora had been designed from the water up to be a place of meaning and significance to a thousand cultures from around the world. As the designated center of civilized society, the location had to have an emotional connection with every citizen. But attachment took time, and it was not something easily built from scratch.

Engineering a modern marvel was one thing. Making it mean anything to everyone was something else. Special places became special over time. Very few things were significant right away. This did not stop the designers from trying.

Agora’s design teams were plentiful and diverse. Charged with a challenging task, it was no surprise many of them developed unique and distinct approaches to manufacturing cultural resonance.

One group leaned heavily into columns and lined miles of streets and avenues with marble pillars. They produced so many for fear of missing the mark that, by the time the project was complete, they had an excess of pillars on their hands. With their funds all but depleted and shipping so costly, they were forced to get creative. This dilemma led to inspiration, and a museum focused on the art of the pillar was born. Despite being an afterthought, The Columnade became one of the most beloved cultural institutions on the floating city.

Another team landed on the idea patina induced nostalgia and focused on incorporating copper and gothic styling into their district. Incorporating advanced oxidization techniques, they sped up the patination process to ensure the roofs and statues were covered in the age old green in time for the city’s grand opening. The pigeons loved it.

For the most part, the citizens of Agora ignored these attempts to tell them what had meaning. But the Agora Arboretum was special from the very beginning. With trees and flora representing all corners of the globe, the park was instantly a favorite of residents and visitors to the new city.

Over time, family traditions were built beneath the boughs and branches of the trees shading the lush green landscape. And, while the patina was pretty and the columns were cool, everyone grew up with a special memory of the arboretum.

Cason and Meena had spent many hours strolling through the park when they first arrived in Agora and they knew the area well. They found Atticus at the edge of the pond, watching a family of ducks paddling lazily around the water.

“What are these things?” Atticus asked when they arrived.

“Those are ducks,” Cason said.

“Why?”

“You know, I never really thought of it that way.”

Atticus turned to face them. Even in the dimness of the gaslights, they could see his face was red and his eyes were puffy.

“Are you feeling alright, Atticus?” Meena asked.

“Dah,” Atticus replied with enthusiasm. “I have never seen so many different trees in my life.”

“I don’t think that’s any reason to cry.”

“I am not crying,” Atticus said despite the tears running down his eyes.

“But you are though,” Meena said.

“Nyet, I do not think so.” Atticus ran a finger under his eyes and looked surprised to find tears. “But I am not sad! What is this crying business?”

Atticus sneezed. This scared the ducks and caused them to fly away to the other side of the pond.

“Oh, I think I know what this might be,” Meena said as she pulled out her tablet and scanned the Vides. The results from the health scan confirmed her suspicions. “You have allergies.”

“What is this allergies?”

“It’s when things in the air make you cry or itch,” Cason said. “Modern science eliminated them decades ago; despite big tissue putting up a hell of a fight. Most kids are inoculated at birth these days. I guess that was after Vides’ time. So when they cloned him, they cloned his allergies as well.”

“Air makes me cry?” Atticus sneezed again. “This weakness is unacceptable.”

“Not air,” Meena explained. “It’s pollen. It comes from the trees.”

“Allergies,” Atticus stepped farther away from the nearest tree. “Yet another reason to dislike the prime; his weaknesses have become my weaknesses.”

“Your eyes are getting redder,” Meena said.

“We should make this quick so we can get you out of here,” Cason said. “Atticus, what did you learn?”

“I learned that libraries are very boring most of the time and, when you finally do get excited, they shush you.”

“Yeah, they like you to keep it down.”

“I did not care for the shushing.” Atticus wiped his eyes. “Also, I do not care for the Dewy Decimal System. I do not get point.”

“The point is the best part of it,” Meena said.

“System is rigid and dumb,” said Atticus.

“I’ve never met anyone with such strong thoughts on the cataloging of information.”

“I thought spy work would be more exciting,” Atticus said. “Not reading and searching on shelves.”

“I told you it wasn’t exciting.”

Atticus sneezed. “Vides always spoke of you storming palace on Shandor to save the captives. He spoke of your bravery and resourcefulness. He did not say how many books you had to read.”

“Those moments aren’t as common as you’d think. Unless you’re rescuing Antarius from himself, of course. Then it seems like you’re always getting shot at. Did you find anything at the library?”

“Dah. Cassian Rhys is not poet.”

“I know,” Cason said reciting the verse from the model in his head. “I remember his poem.”

Atticus touched his nose and was shocked to find his fingertips covered in mucous. “Why does nose drip?”

“It’s part of the allergies,” Meena said. “Your eyes are swelling shut as well.”

“This place is horrible place,” he screamed at the arboretum, “I do not like tree park! Trees are dumb!”

“We’ll get you to a doctor,” Cason assured him. “They can clear it up with a quick shot. What were you saying about Rhys?”

“He is not poet.” Atticus produced a piece of paper and handed it Meena. “He is scientist.”

“Did you just tear this out of a book?” Cason asked.

“Dah, I find in library.”

“You’re not supposed to do that, Atticus,” Meena said.

Cason pointed to the page. “What does it say?”

“Professor Cassian Rhys,” Meena read from the page. “It says here he is a computer scientist and one of the foremost minds in artificial intelligence. This is from quite some time ago.”

“Why would his name be in the model?” Cason asked.

“He helped make boat.” Atticus said quickly before another sneeze.

“The model?” Cason asked.

“Not little boat. Big b…b…” Atticus blasted a sneeze of such volume it woke several sleeping birds and sent them in search of a new perch for the night.

Meena held up the article. “He was the lead AI programmer on the Urania project.”

Cason took the page from her and scanned it quickly.

“He was brilliant scientist,” said Atticus, his eyes all but swollen shut. He sneezed several times and then punched a tree out of frustration. He held up another finger as he fought back another sneeze. He managed to hold it back and spoke quickly. “He had many awards and lots of little letters after his name.”

He sneezed and pulled out another torn page from his pocket.

Meena unfolded the page as Atticus continued, “He gave lot of speeches and was pioneer in cognitively entangled neural scaffolds and emotionally weighted heuristic recursion.”

Another sneeze was followed by a series of several smaller ones. Atticus finished sneezing, snorted a giant breath and collapsed against a tree trunk. He sunk to the ground and wheezed. “And solved the Anselmo paradox.”

“How is someone so bright responsible for designing the most infamously flawed, not to mention most dangerous, AI in history?” Meena asked. “That’s dropping the ball in a pretty epic fashion.”

“Perhaps, he was distraught,” Atticus said with his head tilted forward towards the ground in an effort to thwart his sinuses. He pulled out another plundered page and passed it to Meena. “His daughter was sick at time. He was not there because of project. She was only family.”

“How many books did you ruin, Atticus?” she asked.

“A sick child would take anyone’s mind off their work,” Cason said.

“Dah. Man was brilliant but human.” Atticus’ eyes had already been watering from the sneezes. Now they flowed freely.

“Your eyes are really watering, Atticus,” Meena said. “We need to get you something for that.”

“No, tears are for sad story. Is personal sacrifice. And great tragedy.” Atticus wiped at his eyes with his shirt and then sneezed. “I am no monster.”

Meena handed the pages to Cason and put a hand on Atticus’ shoulder.

Cason finished reading. “Do we know what happened to him after the project?”

“He become drunk. And crackpot.”

“Any idea where he did his drinking?”

“Last anyone heard, he was at a place called The Null.” Atticus sneezed.

“Do you think there’s a chance he’s still alive?” Meena asked Cason.

“There is no record of death,” Atticus said.

Meena raised her tablet and began a search. “What is The Null?”

“Is community —” Atticus sneezed. “Community for—” He sneezed again and could not finished his statement.

“It’s basically a retirement community for mad scientists,” Cason said. He had heard of The Null. Some of Thurgood’s best people had retired there.

“Da…Da…achoo!”

“It’s a place they send geniuses where they can’t hurt others,” Cason explained. “Or themselves.”

“But what about the poem?” Meena asked. “Life’s true light lies in true north’s sight. Surely that means something.”

“Is stupid breadcrumb.” Atticus was clearly exhausted from the sneezing. He’d need a shot and a couple glasses of orange juice before they went anywhere.

“Maybe there’s another crumb in The Null,” Cason said. “It looks like we’re heading to the mountains.”

Atticus sneezed once and collapsed against the kapok tree. “Please, just shoot me now.”

15

Long before man reached the stars, he dug beneath the earth in the mountains that surrounded Ouray for silver and gold. The needs of the miners drove the establishment of the town which flourished briefly before struggling when the mines ran dry. Set in a valley surrounded by snowcapped peaks, the town saw an opportunity to market itself as a tourist destination. It was quickly dubbed the Switzerland of America for its stunning views and the town welcomed visitors and their entertainment dollars for years.

Then the scientists came.

It wasn’t their fault. They were sent by the Alliance.

As mankind flourished, the population boomed. This explosion produced more geniuses that pushed science forward for the betterment of all society.

It also resulted in more crackpots.

Despite the derogatory term, crackpots are tremendously useful, but their eccentric nature eventually becomes a burden. Because of their contributions, they didn’t deserve exile. But they needed a place where they couldn’t hurt other people with their groundbreaking ideas and reckless abandon for the laws of nature. The Alliance reasoned a remote town surrounded on all sides by mountains of granite, was as good a place as any to let these potentially dangerous geniuses while away their golden years.

Here they could continue to poke at the fabric of time and space with the stick of progress and, if they happened to blow something up in the name of science the blast would be contained by the mountains. Hopefully.

So the Alliance filled the town with mad scientists and the tourists stopped coming.

It was still a beautiful town. For more than two centuries, the entire Main Street had been protected by its inclusion on the national historic register and it still stood unchanged bearing its historic beauty. The massive facility hanging off the surrounding canyon walls was new.

Accommodating the growing population had been difficult initially, so The Null facility was built into the sides of the mountains themselves, high above the town’s historic buildings. It was a massive complex clinging to the rock like a drunken octopus with a thousand eyes.

Over time, The Null had grown immense, and the facilities spread across the valley walls to accommodate the residents. Flyways above the town connected the various buildings of the campus. The buildings themselves were covered with a plethora of antennae and pieces of a thousand abandoned experiments. Things beeped, swayed and periodically exploded, drawing little attention from the residents.

The facility looked as if it had been designed by a mad scientist when the reality was it took an entire village of mad scientists to pull it all off.

Atticus stood in the middle of Main Street, staring up at The Null in wonder. “This place looks crazy. “

“Wait until you meet the residents.” Cason shoved his hands deep inside his pockets and shivered. He wasn’t sure if the tremor was a reaction to the cold or the memories of his last trip to Ouray.

The farther the Alliance expanded and the faster the population increased, the more geniuses were born and educated and given the skills to benefit humanity. But for every additional DaVinci and Einstein there were several Dr. Moreaus and more than a few Frankensteins; scientists more concerned with answering questions than with the repercussions the answers could bring.

Reasoning that mad science wasn’t necessarily bad science, the Alliance’s solution was a thriving community of aging geniuses who were given the facilities, materials and freedom to continue their experiments well into their golden years in the off case they invented something useful.

The project bore fruit almost immediately when one of the resident crackpots created weather modulation in order to turn the mountain into a year-round ski resort. The system was studied and then scaled up to control weather on a planetary scale. Natural disasters became a thing of the past. Droughts were eliminated and famine followed. Within fifty years the Sahara and several of the world’s deserts had been successfully reforested.

Cason, Meena and Atticus walked down Main Street. It was like a picture out of the late eighteen hundreds, but with more robots and less cholera.

There weren’t any people visible in the town but several robots bustled about the town going about their various tasks. Many were focused on removing snow from the sidewalks and no two models were the same. Most of the machines looked cobbled together from various parts. Some walked, others moved about on treads. Their snow removal methods varied as well. One shoveled. One used a blower. A third used a flamethrower to the dismay of several stray cats.

Meena spun around slowly, taking in all the activity. “Where are the people?”

“The crackpots killed the tourism years ago,” Cason said.

A crash came from one of the historic storefronts as a door flew open and an old woman in a white lab coat ran to the edge of the sidewalk. She threw a finger at the trio and screamed at the top of her lungs, “People!”

The woman leapt off the sidewalk and raced through the snow towards the group.

“You there, young man,” she shouted as she ran toward Atticus. “I need your help!”

His chivalry activated, the clone stuck out his chest and met the woman halfway. “What is it, ma’am?”

“Hold this,” she said and handed Atticus what could only be described as a gizmo. It was roughly the size of a potato but had one hundred percent more wires sticking out of it than a normal potato.

Atticus looked at the device in his hand. It beeped twice and then exploded with blue sparks of electricity. The Vides screamed and fell to his knees in the snow-covered street.

“It works!” The woman shouted with glee. She grabbed the gizmo out of The Vides’ hand and raced back into the building from whence she’d come, slamming the door shut behind her.

“Are you okay, big fella?” Cason asked as he helped Atticus back to his feet.

“Dah. I think so. What was that?”

“People!”

The shout came from another one of the buildings. This time, it was an elderly man in a lab coat. He stood in front of several other men and women gathered at the door, gawking at the three visitors.

“Der’mo,” said Atticus.

More people ran out of the store and joined him. Up and down the street, other doors swung open as men and women in lab coats emerged. There was a brief moment of calm before the elderly men and women in lab coats screamed and rushed the trio in the middle of the street as fast as their cybernetic hip replacements allowed.

He had never been charged by a herd of geriatrics before and Cason’s fight or flight response was as confused as he was. Should he run? Should he start throwing rights? These people were old but they were running with the enthusiasm of an eight-year-old chasing down the ice cream truck.

Ultimately, he froze and the three of them just stood there as the scientists converged on their position. Before they knew it, they were surrounded.

The cadre of scientists were all jostling to demonstrate their latest inventions to the tourists, pushing past one another to get to the front of the line.

Cason, Meena and Atticus were each assaulted by explanations of the devices based on wide ranging theories and possibly delusional hypotheses. Each explanation was quickly followed by instructions.

“Look in this part,” said one man as he shoved a tube up to Atticus eyes.

“Push this button,” said another, wrestling with the large man’s hands.

“Picture a tree in your mind,” said a woman as she set a complicated looking hat on his head.

A dozen devices were shoved, flashed or sprayed in their faces as the throng of scientists jostled to the front of the pack with another device and another set of instructions. Commands and directions soon turned into questions.

“How do you feel?”

“Does it burn?”

“Can you see the smells?”

A particularly old man who had arrived late on his walker pulled out a pistol gripped device and shouted, “Hypnoray!”

The other scientists looked at the man with the gun and scrambled out of the way an instant before he pulled the trigger.

The flash of a thousand lights filled the street and the Vides froze.

“Atticus?” Meena called his name. “Atticus are you okay?”

“You’re a dog,” said the scientist holding the hypnoray.

The large man dropped to all fours and started panting.

“Now bark!”

“Bark! Bark!” said Atticus as he had never heard a dog before and didn’t know what a bark actually sounded like. Still, he knew what was expected of him so he barked for a moment then began trying to scratch behind his ear with his foot.

“Great,” said Cason. “He’s hypnotized.”

“Don’t worry,” said Meena. “I’ll get the ray gun. You find the professor.”

“Does anyone know, Professor Rhys?” Cason had to shout to be heard over the gaggle of scientists.

Some of the scientists began peeling away from the main group, shaking their gadgets and making notes. One spoke into his shoe, thinking it was a voice recorder. Another woman threw her invention down in disgust and walked away, leaving it in the snow.

“Does anyone know Rhys?” Cason repeated.

The scientists turned away and started to leave.

Meena caught up to the scientist on the walker as he tried to make his getaway. She grabbed his arm and pointed at Atticus, who had rolled over on his back and was staring at the scientists, his eyes wide with hope.

“Fix him now or rub his belly!” she demanded.

The scientist sighed, pointed the hypnoray at Atticus and pulled the trigger once more. Atticus started meowing.

“Now he’s a cat?” asked Meena. “Do you want to clean that litter box?”

“This sometimes happens when the subject’s pineal gland is overactive.” the man said and pulled the trigger once more.

Atticus tucked his arms and squatted down. “Cluck, cluck,” he clucked.

“Odd. Now I’m getting some cross-dominant hemisphere interference.”

The next blast had him hopping around.

“I didn’t even think I had kangaroo programmed into the matrix,” mumbled the scientist as he fired again.

“Neigh, neigh,” said Atticus as he slid around on his belly in the snow.

“His horse doesn’t even make sense,” the scientist. “I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Atticus has never seen a horse,” Meena said. “He has no idea how they walk.”

“Let me try another one,” the scientist said.

“Be careful,” Meena said. “You’re going to break him!”

“I’m still working the kinks out of it.” The scientist bashed the hypnoray against the rail of his walker.

He pulled the trigger a few more times and they watched as Atticus went through hummingbird, squirrel and three-toed tree sloth before he collapsed in a heap as a clone of a hundred-year-old man from Kentucky with a bad Russian accent.

“Oh, now I’ve really done it,” said the scientist.

“No, no,” Meena said before he could fire the hypnoray again. “That’s our boy.”

“Why does head hurt?” Atticus asked.

The man with the hypnoray made no apologies, he only muttered something about updating the animal sequencing modulator as he wandered back indoors.

The crowd had gone and the trio was left standing in the middle of the street with a single old scientist.

“I apologize for my colleagues. We don’t get many test subjects here these days.” He stuck out his hand. “My name is Alistair Venn.”

“Venn?” Atticus asked. “Like little circles.”

“My great-great-cousin’s purview. He had a passion for circles and science. We should all be so lucky to find a place where passion and pay overlap. But I’ve stepped away from the family legacy and chose to go in a different direction. I’m a roboticist.”

“Maybe you can help us,” Cason said. “We’re looking for information on a Professor Rhys. Cassian Rhys. Do you know him?”

“I knew him,” said Venn. “Cass was my roommate when I first arrived here years ago. The facility was smaller then and we had to share space.”

“Can you tell us about him?”

“Brilliant scientist. Terrible roommate. Never did the dishes. He’d just let them stack up in the sink. I finally had to invent something to alleviate the problem.”

“Like robot dishwasher?” Atticus asked.

“Nothing so pedestrian,” Venn said with a chuckle. “It was a robot that slapped Rhys whenever he didn’t do the dishes.”

“Wouldn’t dishwasher have been easier?” Atticus asked.

Venn shrugged. “We’ll never know.”

“Can you tell us anything else?” Cason asked.

“He talked in his sleep all the time. I made an invention that slapped him when it got too loud.”

“That’s not what I meant. We—”

“In fact, this is my latest design.” the scientist stepped aside revealing an android that was roughly three-quarters the size of a person. It was proportionate to a human except for a set of oversized hands in white gloves. “It’s a robot that stops people from asking stupid questions.”

“Why would you invent that?” Atticus asked.

The robot dashed forward surprisingly fast and slapped Atticus across the face with a gloved hand and retreated back to its place next to Professor Venn.

Atticus yelped and put a hand to his face.

“What’s wrong, Atticus?” Meena asked.

“Little robot, it—”

“It what?” asked Professor Venn.

“Did no one see? It…”

“It what?” the professor asked again.

Atticus lowered his hand and gave the machine a leery eye. “Never mind.”

“We’re actually interested in a project Professor Rhys was working on,” Cason said to Venn. “Is there somewhere we can talk where we could also feel our fingers?”

“Of course,” Venn said and led them across the street to a nearby cafe where the group sat down for coffee at a table near the front window.

Cason blew the steam off his coffee and took a sip, savoring the heat more than the flavor. It would take time to thaw out, but the coffee was a good start. He set the mug on the table but didn’t take his hands off it. “We were wondering if you knew anything about Professor Rhys’ work on the Urania.”

“Not really,” said Venn. “Cass was a brilliant scientist once. His work on AI identity protocols was groundbreaking. By the time he arrived here, he was a husk of the man he used to be. He was always sad. And he didn’t talk much. He spent most of his time here literally staring off into space.”

Atticus was at the table, but he wasn’t focused on the conversation. He was staring at the machine seated across from him.

It stared back with lifeless eyes. The pupils were black and made it difficult to tell where it was focused. But he didn’t trust the machine.

“Why does it wear gloves?” he asked the professor.

The machine stood up, leaned across the table and slapped the Vides across the face.

Atticus leapt to his feet, startling everyone at the table. “I am warning you, little man!”

“Let it alone, Atticus,” Cason said. “We need to focus here.”

“So, Rhys never said anything about his past?” Meena asked.

“No. Not when he was awake, anyway. But like I said, he went on and on in his sleep. About his wife’s tragic disappearance and his son’s murder and his daughter’s slow and painful death from an incurable disease. And he blamed himself for all of it. I mean it was nonstop. Blah blah blah regret. Blah blah blah remorse. Blah blah blah what have I done with my life? I mean, let it go. Have some sympathy for your roommate, you know?”

“Do you think it was the tragic loss of his family that made him sad?”

“It was either that or the disgrace of blowing what could have been his most consequential achievement and having to retreat into obscurity with a bunch of other old geniuses with a loose grip on reality. But everyone here has a story like that.”

“You don’t say?” Cason said.

“Sure, but I mean who hasn’t pulled at the threads of the fabric of the universe with the best intentions only to unleash cosmic horrors and other unforeseen consequences that became varying degrees of threats to life in the universe? It’s part of the work we do. Do you remember the destruction of Pluto?”

For a moment, what Venn was saying tugged at a memory. But the thought was fleeting and the more he focused the less the statement felt relevant. “I think I would remember that.”

“See? That was me!” Venn said with a self-satisfied grin. “I’m the reason you don’t remember it.”

“What happened to Pluto?” asked Meena

“What was Pluto?” asked Atticus.

The robot stood up, slapped Atticus and sat back down.

“This thing is really pushing my buttons now!”

“Atticus, please!” Meena snapped. “Stop messing with that thing and pay attention.”

“It is not kind robot!”

“Look,” Venn continued. “The less that’s said about Pluto, the better. I’m sure I signed a contract or something.”

“Did Rhys leave anything behind?” Cason lifted the coffee mug. “Files? Personal effects?”

“Trust me, I looked,” the scientist said. “He owed me money. But he took it all with him.”

“No. I was told this is not possible. Vides always said, ‘You can’t take it with you so you might as well give it to me.’”

The machine slapped Atticus once again and the large clone was on his feet in an instant.

Meena shouted. “Atticus!”

“He is starting it, every time!”

“Do I need to separate you two?”

Atticus pulled his chair back into place and sat down. “I can handle it.”

Cason set his coffee back down. “Are you saying Rhys is not dead?”

“Oh, I’m sure he must be by now,” Venn said. “He didn’t take very good care of himself. He drank a lot. I can’t imagine he had many years left in him.”

Cason looked out the window at The Null and then back to Venn. “But he didn’t die here?”

“No. A group of whack jobs came through years back looking to turn a ship into a country. One of those old fashioned no nations kind of thing. These nuts were recruiting folks. They offered him a job and Cassian went with them to work on the ship’s piloting systems and AI. The Holly something? Haley? It was something like that. He left right away. It was the last time I saw him. It was the last time any of us saw him.”

Atticus leaned forward to speak, but hesitated. He eyed the small robot through narrowed eyes before proceeding. “I have question.”

“Go ahead,” said Venn.

“I don’t know if it’s a stupid question or not,” said Atticus with his gaze locked on the machine.

“You won’t know until you ask it,” said the professor. “It’s what I use to tell my students.”

“Do you make any machines that don’t hit people?”

The machine leapt across the table and slapped Atticus across the face.

16

Brock Greaves set his empty coffee mug down on the counter and left the coffee shop. The cold hit him the moment he opened the door. He braced himself and stepped out into the blowing snow.

Greaves didn’t trust the cold. It robbed a man of his vigor, reduced his vibrancy and shrank his junk. In many ways, the cold was much like peace. Peace made for soft times, which made soft men. History dictated that soft men made hard times, but the last time around, the soft men threw the times a curve ball by making robots and AI and replicators. All this put the hard times off for quite a while which ensured that when the hard finally did come back, the men were softer than ever.

But he was a hard man, so he welcomed the hard times. Having discovered the teaching of the great masters years ago; Zeno, Seneca, Aurelius. He had spent his adult life preparing for the end of the soft times, just so he’d be ahead of the game when it happened. Now that they were here, he was ready to prove his mettle.

Outside, the galaxy was in turmoil as the war raged. Inside, he was totally at peace; unfazed by the chaos swirling around him. The only emotion he felt was excitement at the chance to show the world how unconcerned he was about what they thought. He was chomping at the bit to tell them just how much he didn’t care.

Greaves removed a hand-held projector from his pocket and held it in front of him. Light shimmered in the falling snow and a cloaked figure materialized before Brock.

The shadowy visage spoke. “Are you in position?”

“Whatever,” said Greaves. Lesser men were concerned about their place in the world. But not Brock Greaves. He was where he was and that was all there was to it. No big whoop.

“I’m not doing this with you, Greaves. I’ll just assume you’re in position or you wouldn’t be calling me. Have you found them?”

“Can anyone truly be found?”

The hooded figure sighed. “While I’ll admit that I often find your complete misunderstanding of stoicism amusing, I also find it quite tiring.”

“We’ve found them,” the man sighed. Small minds tired quickly. He was used to it. Many he encountered quickly grew weary of his intellect.

“And?” asked the hologram. “Have you learned anything?”

“I overheard them in the cafe. They’re asking questions about a Professor Rhys and his work on something called the Urania Project.”

“I see,” the hooded figure said with little visible reaction. “Kill them.”

“It seems unnecessary. History tells us the Urania and its fleet were destroyed. Correct?”

“That is what history tells us.”

“So why stop them?”

“Are you having a crisis of conscience, Greaves?”

“I don’t feel one way or another about it. Emotions cloud judgment. Only the weak and feeble minded are guided by them. I control my emotions, not the other way around. I’m speaking from logic. Why not let them chase this loose end if there is no chance of success? Let them pursue this fool’s errand. They will be occupied and waste resources.”

“That’s not a risk I’m willing to take. Any leads to the fleet, real or imagined must be destroyed. I don’t want so much as a whisper left. Bury them all.”

The image faded and Brock stood alone in the street for a moment reminding himself how much he didn’t care how easily his opinions had been dismissed. While he focused on how not insulted he was, three other men stepped into the street and joined him.

He had handpicked the team himself. Each man had been selected for their talent and their disposition. They had all been members of a social group called Stoics and Suds where all the members sat around and drank beer and didn’t care about things.

“What did they say?” one of the men asked.

“You sound pretty excited,” Greaves said.

“No, I don’t,” snapped the man. “Just wondering.”

Brock tucked the projector back into his pocket. “He said bury them.”

“Perfect,” said one of the other men.

“Is it?” Greaves asked.

“Of course not,” the man stammered. “Perfection is unattainable. It’s just a perfect, uh, opportunity to improve ourselves by, uh, burying them all really, really good. I guess.”

“He makes a good point,” said the third man.

“Virtue is the only true good,” replied the first.

“Another good point,” seconded the second man.

“People!”

The shout startled the group. They turned to see a herd of scientists rushing toward them and were unprepared for the onslaught of commands.

“Hold this.”

“Look into this part.”

“Breathe into that.”

The man next to him screamed. A woman had shoved a sphere into his hands and it was now shocking him.

Brock Greaves took a deep breath and faced the chaos. His studies had taught him that chaos could not be controlled. The old stoics knew this to be true and taught that the only thing we had control over was our reaction to the world around us. But they didn’t know about firearms and the chilling effect small arms could have on chaos. Especially when that chaos was a small crowd of old people.

Brock fired once into the air.

The scientists scattered. White coats flapped as they scurried away from danger but not without a parting shot. One of the oldest scientists turned his walker, pointed an elaborate flashlight at the group and shouted, “Hypnoray!”

Brock fired into the air again and the old man hobbled away as fast as the walker allowed, leaving the four men alone in the middle of the street.

“Is everyone okay?” Brock asked.

“It is what it is,” said the first man, shaking the electric shock out of his fingers.

“Whatever,” said the second.

“Bark,” said the third.

“Did you say, bark, Brent?” asked the second man.

“Bark,” answered Brent before dropping to the ground and exposing his belly.

“Brent thinks he’s a dog,” said the first man.

Brent tried licking him.

“Brent, stop it!” said the second. “You’re better than this.”

“I don’t know that Brent is better than this,” said Greaves.  “But I think it’s clear that Brent has been hypnotized. He thinks he’s a spaniel.”

“How do you know he thinks he’s a spaniel?” asked the second man.

“I know spaniels,” said Brock.

The first man was trying to avoid Brent’s nose. “How do we unhypnotize him?”

“Wake up, Brent!” Brock shouted.

The second man tried snapping his fingers but it was too cold to try for too long so he put his gloves back on and gave up.

“Any other ideas?” asked Brock.

“We could get him a collar,” said the second, trying to warm his hands back up.

“Maybe we could try hitting him in the head,” suggested the first man.

“I’m on board,” said the second. “But I should probably ask why.”

The first man shrugged. “I saw it in a cartoon once. It just kind of makes them snap out of it.”

“It seems kind of extreme.”

“Maybe we should just try shaking him first.”

“That’s a good idea.” The second man turned toward Brent and slapped his hands against his thighs to get the dog’s attention. “Come here, Brent! Come here, boy!”

Brent stopped trying to lick himself and ran over to the man on all fours and then jumped up and tried to lick his face.

“I wouldn’t let him lick you,” said the first man. “You don’t know where his mouth has been.”

The second man grabbed Brent by the shoulders, looked him in the eyes and said, “You are not a dog.” Then he shook the shit out of the dog.

Brent’s temperament changed instantly from loyal companion to wild animal and he sunk his teeth into the man’s wrist.

The man screamed and tried to pull away, but Brent was more bulldog than spaniel and quickly dragged him to the ground where he continued to bite and snarl.

“Get him off! Get him off!”

“No, Brent! No!” scolded the first man.

“Bad Brent!” Greaves kicked at Brent before the dog could go for the throat.

His abuser forgotten, Brent turned and snarled at Brock. Then he charged.

Another gunshot rang out and Brent collapsed into the snow.

“Stay,” Brock said from behind the smoking barrel of his gun.

“You killed Brent!” shouted the first man.

Brock glared at him and then looked at the other man on the ground. He could see weakness welling in their eyes. “Get a hold of yourselves. It was just a dog.”

The buzz of a quad car rose over the sound of the wind and Brent spotted the approaching lights.

“Our ride is here,” Brock said and motioned for the group to leave. “You two, head up to the ridge. I’ll get to my position and signal you when I’m ready.”

The first man struggled to focus on the instructions. He stared at the body in the snow and grew glassy eyed.

“Are you listening to me?”

“Yeah,” said the man. “I was just thinking about Brent. He was only thirty-three in people years. I’m going to miss him.”

“Not me,” said the second man. “That mongrel tried to bite me.”

“That’s enough! I’ll get you a new Brent when we get out of here. Just head up on that ridge and get ready.”

The two men nodded and moved toward the quad car as it settled in the middle of the street.

Brock looked up at The Null complex and spotted his perch.

17

Atticus was excited to discover he was a fan of hot chocolate. It only took one cautious sip, and he was hooked. He chugged the whole cup. He slammed the empty mug on the table with a surprisingly loud boom that caused everything else to rattle.

“I told you it was a treat,” said Dr. Venn.

“Dah, I like this chocolate drink!”

“You really shouldn’t drink it that fast,” Meena cautioned.

“Please, is fine. I—” Atticus’ face seized up as the heat from the sweet drink hit him. One eye shut while the other slammed open. Gasping, he jumped to his feet and stumbled to the cafe counter, looking for something cold to counter the burning. The reverberations of his mass ran through the wooden planks that served as the floor, shaking the whole cafe. Coffee mugs and tea cups shuddered and silverware rattled.

The machines that ran the cafe hurried to brace the breakables against the vibrations.

Atticus reached the bar chest first with hands outstretched and grabbed the closest container bearing liquid. He upended the creamer, pouring the relatively cooler liquid into his mouth. He sighed and reached for a bottle of maple syrup as the pain abated.

The rumbling, however, didn’t stop. It intensified. Mugs fell from their hooks and spoons began jumping out of their rests as the shaking spread from the floors to the walls.

Cason looked out the window and up the mountain as the rattling grew.

A chain of explosions lit the ridge line of the eastern mountain face in quick succession. Snow and debris rose as the snowpack collapsed on itself and started sliding toward the town.

“Avalanche!” he shouted to the occupants of the cafe. The crowd in the coffee shop was comprised almost entirely of elderly scientists in white lab coats with fresh coffee and hot chocolate stains.

Cason’s alarm echoed back to him in varying degrees of comprehension as the patrons dabbed at the fresh spills. The responses evolved from a curious “avalanche?” to a calm “avalanche” to an enthusiastic scream, “Avalanche!”

Soon the scientists in the cafe were chanting the phrase in a growing intensity. “A-va-lanche, A-va-lanche, A-va-lanche!” they cheered and rushed to the windows at the front of the cafe to confirm it was actually happening.

The first scientist to the window was a smaller man, but he hit the window with arms spread wide and planted his face against the pain like a child intent on making faces.

A crowd formed behind him as the others shuffled about trying to see.

“Down in front, Vortmann!”

“Oh my,” said Vortmann, still blocking everyone’s view. He turned and screamed, “It’s a big one!”

“Yay!” The response from the crowd was instant and unanimous as the throng stopped pushing toward the window and started racing for the doors, emptying out into the street.

“Are they crazy?” Meena asked Venn.

“Most of them,” he said as he stood and joined the race out the door. He waved for the three visitors to follow. “Come on, we don’t want to miss this!”

Venn disappeared out the door.

“They’re running toward an avalanche,” Meena said.

“I guess we have to save them?” Cason said with a shrug. “Come on Atticus!”

Atticus slammed the mostly empty jar of Maple syrup on the counter. “Dah, I am coming.”

The trio rushed out into the street and quickly caught up to the team of scientists which had stopped in the middle of Main Street and stared up at the impending doom that was coming to bury the town and everyone in it.

They were also bickering.

“It’s my turn,” said a woman.

“You got the last one, Sandra!”

“I called this one, Daniel!” Sandra fired back. “You heard me call it!”

The man adjusted a dial in his hearing aid. “I honestly didn’t hear you.”

“Well, I called it!” Sandra shouted at the group and pulled a remote from her coat pocket.

The earth rushed down the mountain toward the town with the intention of creating a casualty list, the accumulating snow churning rocks, mud and trees into a torrent of chaos and carnage.

A wall of cold air hit the trio ahead of the avalanche as they arrived at the gathering of scientists. They yelled at first for everyone to get to cover but their warnings either went unheard or were straight up ignored. They gave up trying to talk reason and started trying to pull Null’s residents back to safety.

Dr. Venn stood behind Sandra, focused on the device in her hands. He smiled as she fidgeted with the device. “Did you get the kinks worked out, Sandy?”

“I reworked the formulation and adjusted the weave to increase structural integrity by at least 237% over the last iteration.” Sandra lost patience with trying to hold her gloves and work the remote at the same time. She grunted and started shaking the device.

Meena grabbed an old scientist by the arm and tried to pull him away from danger. “We have to get inside.”

“You had your chance, Caruthers!” the old man said as he pulled his arm free from Meena’s grasp and produced his own remote. It was a simple black box with a single red button in the middle.  “I made my device mitten friendly!”

The scientist mashed the button with his mittened fist and then looked to the sky.

A drone swarm a thousand strong emerged from the rooftops of Ouray and created a formation over the approaching avalanche. Once gathered, the swarm dove as one into the path of the raging mountain and began blasting the snow with a thousand flames. This did little to erode the danger. Even if it was melting the snow, which it wasn’t, the flames would do nothing to stop the earth, rocks and timber it had gathered along the way.

“I told you Krüger, you can’t melt rocks,” Sandra cackled. “But did you listen, oh no?”

The drones flew closer to the avalanche to concentrate their fire and were quickly engulfed by the tumultuous movement of the landslide.

Sandra dropped her gloves in the snow and succeeded in triggering her own device. All along the mountain’s face, giant nets sprung out of the ground and formed a barrier between the town and anything that happened to be plunging toward it.

“Nets!” Dr. Krüger laughed. “Really?”

“Not just nets, Krüger,” Sandra said. “Interlaced carbon nanotube weaves. They are strong enough to stop two thousand newtons per strand.”

The avalanche crashed through the barriers with the loudest twang that ever twung.

“Looks like you need more strands, Caruthers!” Dr. Krüger chuckled.

The mass of earth, rock, snow, drones and netting continued on its crash course with the town of Ouray and the group of men and women who were dumb enough to be standing in the middle of the street.

Dr. Vortmann wandered away from the group, walking closer to danger as he fiddled with a tablet.

They didn’t see him drift away at first. Cason shouted for everyone to get inside. Meena was tugging at lab coat sleeves, trying to drag the scientists to safety and finally succeeded in getting a few of them to move. Meena pointed to the man moving toward the avalanche and yelled to Vides.

“Atticus!” she screamed and pointed at the man. “Help him!”

The Vides nodded and rushed after the old man. He reached the scientist the moment the first of the snowpack arrived at the base of the mountain and threw him out of the way. Atticus then braced himself to take the full force of the avalanche. He screamed defiantly as the wall of snow rose up in front of him like a snake about to strike.

A small fleet of drones buzzed into position over the crowd in the street. These didn’t move toward the avalanche, they hovered in front of the crowd. One lowered directly in front of Cason and fired. A kachunk sounded from the drone as an on-board air cannon launched a projectile directly at him.

Cason flinched, ready to absorb the impact. But the small canister didn’t strike him. It cracked open in midair and enveloped him in a safety bubble. Compressed air hissed as it inflated a clear ball all around him. The rest of the drones fired, engulfing each bystander in a protective cocoon.

“Curse your safety precautions, Michaels!” shouted Vortmann. The scientist was on the ground now, his tablet resting before him as he frantically worked the device with both hands. “I’ve got this.”

Atticus roared as the wall of snow swallowed him.

A wall of shimmering blackness appeared between where Atticus had been standing and the impending disaster. The wall was hundreds of feet tall and a thousand feet wide. It pulsed and moved as if being acted upon by a thousand physical forces at once. They heard the roar of the avalanche somewhere beyond the blackness and felt the rumble beneath their feet, but the wind from the oncoming disaster had vanished.

Soon, the noise stopped altogether, and the rumbling ceased at their feet.

Vortmann smiled and made a few final inputs on his tablet. The wall of blackness disappeared, revealing a bald mountainside and a few rolling stones.

Cason’s protective bubble deflated, making a long, drawn-out burbling noise like a Whoopee cushion.

All the bubbles deflated with the same effect, and the crowd looked at one another in disbelief.

The mountain valley was still and silent except for the sounds of artificial flatulence emanating from their individual safety bubbles.

“Where did it go?” Cason asked.

“Dimension R7F3L9,” the small scientist explained as he slowly got to his feet.

“But how?” Meena said as she stepped from the still deflating safety bubble.

“The key was gravitic lensing,” explained Vortmann. “By manipulating the local curvature of spacetime with a targeted Hawking resonance, I generated a controlled micro-singularity that was stable, anchored, and wide enough to funnel mass on a macroscopic scale.”

“So, you stopped it?” Cason asked.

“Oh, no. That would be impossible. As I’m sure you know, matter cannot be created nor destroyed,” Vortmann said with a touch of condescension.

Several of the other scientists snickered at Cason’s ignorant question.

“So where did it go?”

“I just moved it to a parallel world.”

“That’s cheating, Vortmann!” said one scientist. “The challenge was to stop the disaster, not send it to our dimensional neighbors.”

“Whatever,” Vortamann said. “It’s R7F3L9’s problem now.”

“Oh, no!” Meena gasped. “Atticus!”

Cason and Meena raced to the small pile of rubble that had remained in their own dimension and began digging through the snow.

“Oh, please still be in our own dimension,” Meena said as she scooped heaps of snow away.

Another lump of snow began moving as Atticus struggled to pull himself free.

“Which is up?” he shouted as his hands broke free of the mound.

Cason and Meena raced over to the pile and pulled the Vides free. They helped him balance as he tried to stand.

Cason brushed the snow and dirt from the man’s clothes. “Are you okay, big guy?”

“Dah,” Atticus said weakly. “It will take more than one puny avalanche to stop Atticus.”

A gunshot cracked from somewhere in the upper levels of The Null complex. There was a new rumble above them as a pile of snow and chunks of ice fell from a landing above and buried Atticus in a pile of rubble once more.

Cason looked up and saw the source of the gunfire.

A sniper stood on one of the elevated walkways in The Null, high on the side of the mountain. The shooter wasn’t alone; a resident of The Null struggled with the sniper, fighting over the rifle’s barrel. It was this struggle that had turned the assassin’s kill shot into a stray bullet that caused the ice to fall on Vides.

“Help Atticus,” Cason said, eyeing the ledge above. “I’m going after the shooter.”

“How?” Meena asked.

The sniper was still struggling with the man up on the platform. But the resident was losing, it wouldn’t be long before the killer could bring his rifle to bare on the crowd below again.

“Venn,” Cason grabbed the scientist and pointed to the sniper. “What’s the fastest way for me to get up there?”

Venn looked up at the platform. Pointing, he mapped out a possible path and then started counting on his fingers. He muttered something about trajectory, velocity, glanced at Cason and said, “Run.”

“There has to be a faster way up. I have to get to—”

The conversation was interrupted by a blood-curdling scream. Cason looked up to see that the struggle between the sniper and resident had ended with the sniper being thrown over the rail and plummeting towards the ground, screaming in terror as he went. The Null resident looked very sorry he had thrown a man to his death.

“Oh, no!” Cason said, worried about losing another lead. There was nothing he could do.

But several drones were already moving. These were the same models that had emerged during the avalanche and they raced to intercept the man as he fell.

Kachunk.

The safety bubble inflated around the sniper mere seconds before he hit the ground in the middle of Main Street. The plastic safety bubble bounced several times before finally coming to rest near the coffee shop and then made a farting noise as it deflated.

Cason raced to the impact sight and dragged the confused, but very much alive, sniper into the snow. Cason frisked the man quickly, discarding a pistol and a knife, then grabbed the killer by the jacket collar and drew back a fist to strike.

“Who sent you?”

“Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, WAIT!” the man shouted. “Dude, stop! Before you start hitting me, I need you to pull out my right canine. It’s a cyanide capsule and I don’t want you to knock it out accidentally when you’re punching me in the face. I’d hate to swallow that thing.”

Cason pulled on the man’s tooth and found it slipped out of his mouth easily. He held it up and examined it. “Cyanide, really?”

“Thank you,” he said. “They make us all get them. Seems like a really bad idea to me. You could swallow it by accident so easy. One time I was brushing, and it just came out. Can you believe that?”

“Who makes you get them?” Cason said with a raised fist. “Who sent you?”

“Relax. There’s no reason to get excited. You’re so emotional. You should really try to get a hold of that. I have some books I could recommend.”

“The only thing I want to know is who you are and who sent you!”

“Okay, my name is Brock and—”

The bullet entered above Brock’s heart. The gunshot echoed all around the mountains, making it impossible to pinpoint where it had come from. Brock died in the street.

18

“Cyanide teeth?” Brask sitting behind his desk, literally pulling at his hair. “Do you really expect me to swallow that?”

Cason bit his tongue.

Brask’s words caught up to him and he realized what he had said. He looked up at Cason, all but daring him to comment.

They stared at each other for a tense moment before Brask let go of his hair and put his hands on the table in front him where Cason had laid out the facts of the case.

There wasn’t much on the table. There were very few facts to present. He had a sketch of the warthog ring and pictures of where the avalanche didn’t crash into the town. There was nothing on the desk about Professor Rhys or the Urania. That was still a theory, and he knew Brask didn’t like theories. But the notion there was a shadowy organization employing killers became less of a theory every assassination attempt. So, he’d laid what he knew about the Crimson Menagerie; the original secret society and what he knew about the latest remake. Lastly, there was the picture of the sniper Brock’s body.

Naturally, his identity was nowhere to be found in the Alliance servers. So, he didn’t technically exist, but Cason had the picture and a canine tooth in his pocket that said differently.

Brask stared at everything in front of him and sighed. “Do you really expect me to believe any of this, Maze?”

“No,” Cason said. “You’ve been consistent in choosing to believe nothing. I don’t see why this should be any different? I still thought I’d present the facts to you, because I’m stubborn that way.”

“Stubborn is right,” Brask mumbled and pored over the images on the desk. “There’s a lot of imagination on the table here. But do you have any actual proof your story is true? Is there any reason I should believe all this nonsense?”

“Here’s the tooth,” Cason said and tossed the canine on Brask’s desk.

Brask jumped as if the tooth was an explosive instead simply poisonous.

The tooth bounced a couple of times before landing in the middle of the evidence pile.

“Well, that could be anyone’s tooth.” Brask stared at the canine for a moment before he risked picking it up and examining it closer. “Looks like a plain old tooth to me. How do I know it’s really poison?”

“You could try it,” Cason suggested.

Brask was not amused. “What were you doing in the mountains, anyway? You can correct me if I’m wrong, but the mountains of Colorado aren’t located here in the South Pacific Gyre.”

“You’re not wrong, Brask. They are in fact in Colorado.”

“So, what were you doing there? Chasing your mysterious secret organization?”

“I think it’s obvious now they were chasing me,” Cason said. “Like I said, I was just visiting an old friend.”

“Do you often hang out with disgraced scientists?”

“Some are less disgraced than others.” Cason had insisted he and Meena were off the clock and doing some sightseeing when the killer triggered the avalanche and then opened fire. He wasn’t ready to come clean on the true purpose of their visit. “Dr. Venn is an old family friend.”

Brask grunted and dropped the tooth back on the sketch of the ring. “You’re just lucky those crackpots were able to the stop your avalanches”

“Yes, they were rather ingenious…I’m sorry, did you just call them my avalanches?”

“Yes, I called them your avalanches. You and your team are being held responsible for the avalanches.”

“The avalanches that are natural disasters?”

“They’re not natural if they’re caused on purpose,” Brask said.

“So, you’re saying they were caused on purpose.” Cason leaned forward. “Like by an assassin?”

Brask leaned back in his chair and waved away the question. “Assassins go after important people. Not you and your girlfriend. And whoever this Atticus is.” Brask picked up a picture of an unconscious Vides. “What’s his involvement in all this?”

“He’s been an important part of this case. His work led us to uncovering crucial information about the Crimson Menagerie.”

“You dragged a civilian into your fantasy? What if he was exposed to classified information?”

“He’s not a civilian. He’s one of the Hell Drivers.”

“A Hell Driver! So, another failed science experiment. You seem to collect them, Maze.”

“As a Hell Driver he does have the proper security clearances.”

“That may well be, but what he does not have is my permission to be here. I don’t want to see him again. If he pulls through.”

“He’ll be fine,” Cason said. “The Videses are from a tough stock. Just before he passed out, he told me that it will take more than two puny avalanches to stop Atticus.”

“That’s a shame,” Brask muttered.

A gentle chime rang and Brask lifted a receiver from his desk. “Yes? Speaking.”

Cason eyed one of the puzzles on Brasks’ desk. He had solved it during their last encounter but now the rope was twisted into an impossible knot locking the ring forever to the frame. Brask had given it his all.

“Well, that is good news. Thank you.” Brask set the receiver back in the cradle, crossed his arms and smiled.

“Is this good news classified?” asked Cason.

“Not at all. In fact, it’s all over the streams. It looks like your buddy Thurgood is a coward.”

“Antarius is a lot of things,” Cason said. “A braggart. A moron. A narcissist. A showoff. And even a bit of a dandy. But one thing he is not, is my buddy.”

“I’m not talking about Antarius. I’m talking about Harius. Thurgood the elder. The richest man in the galaxy. The greediest capitalist in history. It looks like rather than face justice for his actions on Shandor, he’s fled the system. Like a coward.”

Brask’s finger danced across the console built into his desk. The lights in the office dimmed as a projector displayed the latest streamcast.

Man had traveled beyond the stars and made a million breakthroughs to expand his knowledge of the universe, but journalists were convinced news should still be delivered from behind a desk by beautiful people speaking in an unnatural cadence.

“Chairman, humanitarian, fugitive,” said the handsome broadcaster. “Harius Thurgood, CEO Thurgood Mining, Thurgood Industries, Thurgood Companies and Lone Rock Brewing, Chair of the Gelsian Council, Member in good standing of the Order of the Oxia Palsu, Fellow of Cassini. Chair of Friends to Lonely Orphans, finds himself the subject of a manhunt tonight as the richest man in the galaxy was found missing.”

“How can someone be found missing?” Cason asked.

“Shhh,” Brask said. “He’s getting to the good part.”

“Authorities suspect Thurgood, accused of starting an intergalactic incident on Shandor and touching off the Alliance/Hama conflict, has gone into hiding somewhere off planet. This has launched an Alliance wide dragnet. As the wealthiest man in the Alliance, Thurgood’s resources are vast and some fear he may be impossible to locate. Despite this, authorities remain confident he will be placed in custody in due course to stand trial.”

The tone of the broadcast shifted from speculation to a recap of Thurgood’s life. Brask killed the channel off before they could say anything that might be considered complimentary about any of the Thurgood’s.

“Well?” Brask asked. “What do we do now?”

“I think we should look into why none of our suspects are turning up in the Alliance data systems. If we find out who is removing their information, it may give us a clue as to who is behind the larger operation.”

“I mean, what do we do about you, Maze?”

“I don’t follow.”

“Since Thurgood’s run away, my guess is he doesn’t have much say about the goings on here anymore. There’s nothing protecting you now. You’re on thin ice.”

“How many times do I have to tell you, Brask, that I’m not here because of Harius. That’s something you’ve made up. A theory of your own. I’m here to protect people, the planet, the Alliance. That means something to me. You, on the other hand, are just concerned with protecting the illusion of the status quo.”

“That’s the best quo we’ve got!” Brask snapped. “So, you’re damn right I’m going to protect it. And I’m here to protect the agency from rogues like you who think the rules don’t apply to them. You may not want to admit it but Thurgood fleeing changes everything. You’ll work the cases I give you. And you won’t go anywhere without my permission. Not to chase a lead. Not to see an old friend. Not for a vacation. Your travel pass is revoked. There will be no more rides on the government dime without my written approval.”

“So, I’m just supposed to focus on all the global threats that happen in a three-block radius?”

“That does sound terrible, doesn’t it?” Brask smiled as he leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Maybe it would be easier to just quit.”

This is what Brask wanted. Cason had known it all along but for the first time, he considered taking him up on the idea. But if he left, there would be no one there to protect the planet from terrorist threats or Brask’s mismanagement.

The director had never been welcoming but he had been increasingly putting up barriers since Cason started chasing the Crimson Menagerie. Was Meena right? Could Brask be a part of the conspiracy? He was no mastermind, that was certain. But could his gross mismanagement of global security seriously be chalked up to stupidity and pettiness? It had to be intentional. No one could be that dense that consistently without trying. What if he was involved in the whole affair and Cason called it quits? There would be no one else to stand in their way.

“Nothing smart to say?” Brask said.

No. Cason didn’t have anything smart to say. He just stared at the man before him trying to peer into his soul. Nothing had pointed to Brask as anything other than a middling political hack with zero vision. If that was the case, he was playing to type. Cason just couldn’t picture being fooled by the man in front of him.

He knew Brask would misinterpret Cason’s silence for fear. Maybe that would be the best thing at this point. To act cowed. He could play the defeated foe while he continued to sort out who was actually who. Cason lowered his head.

“That’s what I thought,” Brask said with a smirk and puffed out his chest in victory. “Get out of my office. We’ll discuss your caseload tomorrow.”

Cason left the office, sat down at his sad little desk and focused. Brask’s newfound confidence meant they were running out of time. But there was nothing he could do until they tracked down the nation ship. If there was another breadcrumb, it was on the nation ship. They had Atticus working on it while he recovered. It was the only way the Vides had agreed to rest.

Cason turned away from his desk and stared out the window. At least the Fellows building had a decent view. It wouldn’t even be a bad place to watch the sunset if it wasn’t for the SkyReach Center. It was the tallest building in Agora. That made it the best, as Owen had said. The view from there must have been something else.

“Owen,” Cason said to himself as he stood. Was that an option? He pulled the Xiphos business card from his wallet and studied it. He looked back to the tower at the center of Agora and shrugged. “Nothing but the best.”

19

SkyReach was the heart of Agora; a spire that pierced the clouds from the city’s center, rising to impossible heights. Technically, it wasn’t the tallest building in the world from surface to tip, that record would most likely always be held by a terrestrial structure. The realities of building at sea prevented that.

Real estate in Agora could be deceiving. For every story above ground, the building descended at least as much underwater. The taller they stood above the surface, the lower they descended underneath the waves.

For every foot above the water, the structure required a significant amount of ballast. SkyReach solved this problem by building down almost twice as far as they built up. The total height of the building rivaled the tallest structures on Earth, but most of it was in the depths of the Pacific.

Xiphos had quietly taken over most of the tower and Owen Kael’s offices were on top of the tower’s dry side.

There was no shortage of amazing views in Agora. The entire city had been designed as a spectacle for the most important people in the galaxy, and every angle had been given consideration. Combine the opulence and aesthetic design of the city with the blue waters of the Pacific and engineered ideal weather, it was stunning no matter where you stood. But the peak of SkyReach was another level of beauty.

Cason had never been to the top of the tower and he found himself lost in the view outside the elevator’s view screen. Everything was laid out in front of him. He could see every avenue and canal in the city. Few people were privy to this perspective.

The only thing that compared was the view from a space elevator. His mind drifted back to his last ride up from Quito to the Michael Bay Memorial Spaceport and his subsequent trip to rescue Meena and her team from Shandor.

It was a journey that finally brought them together. But it was also the trip that got him grounded; banned from extra-planetary activities. He looked out as the Earth began to curve at the horizon and realized that, as beautiful as it was, he was stuck here.

He raised his eyes up to the sky, where the solid blue stratified and faded into space. Where the atmosphere thinned and lost its grip on humanity as they escaped the pull of earth and reached for the stars.

In his lifetime he had spent as much time off planet as he did on. He’d been to a hundred worlds and it was still a fraction of what there was to see. Working for Thurgood had given him access to a life most dreamed of. But he didn’t miss the luxury. He missed the adventure. And now there was a war raging in the stars and he was denied a role in it.

So, he poured himself into his role on Earth. It was all he could do. And he was apparently the only one concerned with doing it. Brask’s view was inane, but it wasn’t unique. Earth had been at peace for a century. The populace had no reason to believe it would end. Everything evil and awful was off world. Out there where it couldn’t hurt them.

He missed “out there.”

He didn’t miss having to rescue Thurgood’s son. Antarius’ misadventures were responsible for a good amount of Cason’s travel. That had slowed once the younger Thurgood joined the Fleet, but having to drop everything to rush off and save the kid from himself was always a possibility.

Staying here also meant he could be with Meena. They had missed a lot of time together because of their jobs. Her position in the Fleet meant they were usually on opposite sides of the galaxy at any given time. Now they could try to make a life together in Agora.

And he was grateful for that but he wished it was more of a choice. The Alliance needed him here, they said. His skills were beneficial to the secret war at home. But it was a sentence as much as anything, bureaucratic if not legal, for his role on Shandor.

And now Brask seemed bent on stopping him from being of any use to anyone.

Maybe Owen could change that. A life in counter corporate espionage had given him a rare set of skills. If the Alliance wouldn’t use them, maybe he could find a different way to be useful.

The doors opened and Cason had barely set foot on the floor before he was greeted by a beautiful woman.

“Welcome, Mr. Maze. Mr. Kael is expecting you. He will join you in a moment. He asked that I show you into his office while you wait.” She directed him across the hall and opened a set of double doors revealing an office that occupied almost the entirety of the top floor.

The walls were floor-to-ceiling windows and they dare not hang art to obstruct the views. But the room was filled with freestanding glass cases containing works of art from across time and space. Priceless artifacts from history, Earth and other worlds, filled the displays and Cason strolled around the room studying each as if he was in a museum exhibit instead of a private office.

“Would you care for a drink?” The woman stood near a bar cart with an empty glass in her hand.

Cason declined the drink with his thanks and resumed his stroll about the room.

The woman smiled and set the glass back on the cart. “Mr. Kael will be with you soon, Mr. Maze.”

She left the room and closed the doors behind her.

Owen had never been a braggart. Blustery yes, but only in a competitive spirit kind of way. There was no ego behind his boasts. This office was too ostentatious for the man he knew. But he was making Cason wait on purpose and giving him enough time to wander the office, enjoy the view and understand what it could mean if he came to work for him at Xiphos.

Owen gave him several minutes to explore the office and take in the life that could be his again. His friend had even left out an organization chart of the ships at Xiphos disposal. They were merchant ships but almost rival the Alliance Fleet in number. There were references to Xiphos off world facilities as well. Kael had gone beyond global, his private contractor business had already broken the bonds of Earth and spread to other worlds.

“I had a feeling I’d be seeing you,” Owen said from behind his desk.

Cason tried to hide his shock at his friend’s sudden appearance in the room. It was best to pretend his sudden materialization from nowhere wasn’t out of the ordinary. “Am I that predictable?”

“Nah. I just know that you’re like me. You’re curious. It’s our superpower.” He crossed the room to the bar cart and made two drinks.

“That’s not what the old wives say.”

Kael chuckled at that and said, “Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it’s what drove man to plant the first seed, pet the first dog and fly a kite in a lightning storm. Curiosity is progress. And for the most part, we’ve lost it as a species. Everyone else accepts what they’re told. But you and I don’t know how to leave well enough alone.”

“Well, here I am, not leaving well enough alone,” Cason said.

Kael walked over to him and handed him the drink. “I’m sorry to hear about Harius. I guess lighting the fuse on an intergalactic conflict is something even he can’t sweep under the rug.”

“I’m sure he’ll manage,” Cason said. “He always does.”

“Of course, he will. We know he’ll end up back on top. But where does that leave you in the meantime.”

“I left Harius some time ago.”

“Of course, you did. But my sources are telling me they’re not making life easy for you over at the MIP. That this Brask guy is busting your balls all the time and that’s he’s got a real hate on for the Thurgoods of the world.”

“Your sources?” Cason asked pointedly.

“You’ll see,” Kael said and put an arm around Cason. “Forget the MIP. Come and work for me. It’ll be fun.”

“Doing what?”

“You know better than anyone the Alliance wasn’t ready for this fight. They thought they could just keep flying the Peacebringer and other ships into the lower atmosphere of a planet and everyone would be inspired/or cowed into falling in line with the Alliance. And who could blame them. It worked for so long, there was no reason to think they’d ever have to change. They weren’t ready for anyone to push back. They were complacent and overconfident. They actually thought they were doing something when really, they were the only option. With the Hama out there, the galaxy finally has choices and the Alliance just isn’t ready to compete.”

Owen wasn’t wrong.

“And the Hama aren’t just offering different ideas. You’ve seen their war machines up close. Hell, most of what we know is because of your engagement on Shandor. Their war machine is formidable and, frankly, terrifying. The Alliance doesn’t have the manpower or equipment to fight it. We’re outnumbered, outgunned and if it hadn’t been for Harius’ little asteroid trick, we would have already lost. Xiphos makes up for that shortcoming.”

“So, men and ships?”

“And R&D and logistics and training and just about everything you can think of,” Kael said. “I’ve even contracted a composer to write a few new marches for the army. I’m supposed to head over to the symphony hall later today to hear the first draft.”

“Now you’re adding conductor to your list of services?” Cason laughed. “Is there anything you won’t charge for?”

“The Security Council is scared,” Owen said plainly. “They don’t know what to do so they’re doing what they do best; they’re throwing money at the problem.”

“And you’re wearing a catcher’s mitt.”

“Lucky me,” Kael laughed. “But I’m in this for the right reasons, too. You and I have seen the inner workings. Do you trust the Alliance alone to keep the galaxy safe? There are too many rules and meetings and power-hungry bureaucrats protecting their fiefdoms to win a war. That’s going to be up to us.”

“I’m not a solider.”

“I’ve got soldiers. But what I’m really lacking is intelligence. As you know, working at the MIP, the Alliance doesn’t have enough people with a knowledge of tradecraft to fill a building much less run an intelligence network across the galaxy. I need you at the head of my Xiphos Intelligence Branch. You’ll have the resources and reach you need to give us a fighting chance in the information war. What do you say?”

Cason took a sip from his glass and held the liquor in his mouth for a long moment. “It does sound like a worthy cause.”

“I can’t tell you how excited I am to hear that because I know you love worthy causes. You’re a sucker for them. Also, because outside of you and me the pickings are slim and I’m very busy being so important now.”

“Of course, you are.”

“You can’t tell me you never wanted this.” Kael spread his arms to encompass the office, the tower and the world outside. “All this time working for the richest men in the solar system and you never wanted a little taste for yourself?”

“Honestly? I never thought too much about it.”

“Everyone else can believe in this ‘status is your reward nonsense’ they push on us. But we know differently. We know that even in this post-scarcity paradise they’ve created, some things are still more valuable. Not to mention, being the one who calls the shots has its own rewards.”

“I just want to do my part. Once the war is in our past, I’ll worry about the finer things.”

“Oh please. This war is our chance. For too long the money has been in nothing but ideas; a better blueprint, a better recipe, a better system, a funny dog character that talks silly or something. I was never good at ideas. But now I don’t have to be. Thanks to our rarified experience, we have the skills they need. There’s nothing wrong with being compensated for that experience.”

Cason let his gaze wander around the office. His eye lingered on the org chart. “It’s impressive. Both, what you’ve built and how fast you’ve built it.”

“That’s not the half of it.” Owen set down his drink. “Let me show you around.”

Kael walked toward his desk. At his approach, an elevator car rose silently from the ground and opened its doors.

Cason smiled. “I should have known.”

“Of course,” Owen said. “It’s the old secret elevator in the floor that appears as if from nowhere trick.”

“Oldest trick in the book.”

“You don’t expect me to take a public elevator, do you?” Owen waved for Cason to enter. “Please.”

The private elevator dropped fast enough to make Cason’s stomach sink. Owen must have been used to the speed, as it didn’t seem to faze him one bit. He just kept pitching Xiphos.

“You know why we’re screwed, Case? Because we believed what we were told. We were told when there was no want, there would be no war. No one else thinks like we do Cason. Our experience has taught us both that greed still exists. We’ve been in proximity to power and know it can never be sated with platitudes and printed meals. It was a rare way of thinking in the Alliance. But now there’s a whole empire out there that thinks in a way most people in the Alliance want to pretend doesn’t exist.

“Did you know there are still people in positions of power that think this is all a misunderstanding and will end with a meeting? They don’t understand. But we do. And that’s why we’re needed right now. To protect the Alliance from the Hama and from itself.”

“For a price,” Cason stated.

Owen shrugged at this and checked the progress of their descent. A display ticked off floors faster than Cason could count. And it was quickly approaching zero.

“Are you that worried about the Hama?”

“I’m less worried about the Hama than I am about saving the Alliance from themselves. Seriously, the Hama are like fifth or sixth on my list of worries. Everyone is gunning for Earth now. And many of them are much closer and currently more dangerous than the Hama. Old allies. Current allies. Earth itself. New factions and new threats are popping up every day. Things have changed in a way most people haven’t even noticed yet. Peace had a good run.”

Cason glanced at the counter. Zero was only a few digits away and they weren’t slowing down.

“But it doesn’t work when not everyone is on board.”

Cason drew a sharp breath as the elevator counter blew by zero and started counting up again. Now the numbers had a “u” in front of them. He knew the ground floor wasn’t the bottom but it was still unnerving to watch.

Kael chuckled at the reaction and turned back to the doors as the car finally began to slow twenty stories below the surface.

The doors opened and the two men stepped out into a corridor that was less opulent than the building above and more industrial in its nature. Armed guards stood ready at a heavy door. They nodded to Kael as he approached and lowered their weapons.

“Good morning, gentlemen. I’ll be taking my friend here on a tour of the facilities. Please let everyone know to expect us.”

“Yes, sir.”

Owen opened the door and let Cason enter first.

“I can’t get over everyone calling you sir.” Cason said.

“Me either. But I never get tired of hearing it.”

Kael led him down a hall lined with windows on either side. On the other side of the glass, an army of people were hard at work at various stations. Owen stopped them at the first window and pointed to the office environment inside.

“This is our recruitment marketing department,” he said. “We’re outpacing Alliance numbers by two hundred percent”

“How?”

“Simple. We pay in more than feelings. If you’re looking to fulfill your sense of duty and moral purpose, sign up with the Alliance. But if you think that sacrifice deserves a little more, sign up with Xiphos.”

A figure popped up from behind a cubical wall inside the office and waved at the window. “Hey Cason!”

Cason pointed back. “Seth?”

“Oh, yeah,” Owen said. “And I hired Seth.”

“I have my own desk now,” Seth shouted, his voice muted by the glass.

“The kid is pretty good at the propaganda game,” Kael said.

“Your source at the MIP was Seth?”

Owen smiled coyly and led Cason farther down the hall to another window. Inside was a classroom environment filled with men and women in officer uniforms sitting at desks watching a presentation. Information flashed on the screen as the officers took notes.

“Officer training,” Kael explained. “In our race to peace we chose to ignore a large portion of the past. We’ve dusted off the books and are studying the history and the art of war. I’m not just supplying soldiers; we’re going to give the Alliance everything it needs to win this war. And the one after that.”

“It sounds like you’re planning something.”

“This won’t be the end.” Owen resumed the tour. “We have no idea what lies beyond the boundaries of the Hama’s empire. Our encounter with them will surely introduce us to other belligerents we haven’t even met yet. I won’t let the Alliance get caught off guard again.”

Images of the Hama forces were presented, along with technical readouts where available and estimates where they weren’t. This presentation focused on Hama ground forces. There was footage of their scout ships, mech systems, and tanks. One particularly dramatic image captured their mobile defense fortress. This structure was shaped like a massive robot; designed to intimidate as much as accommodate Hama command forces during a siege.

Cason recognized the designs. He even recognized the footage. It was his. Angel had captured it during his rescue mission on Shandor.

The next window was laced with metal and gave them a view of what looked like a small arms armory. “This is our weapons’ development program. We’re not just supplying manpower; we’re supplying firepower. Everything from squad level support to ship based and orbital weapons platforms.”

A group of technicians in the back of the room working around a suit of power armor that, minus the big red nose, looked a lot like “Giggles,” Blayse Vides’ power armor. He pointed to the hulking suit. “Is that old Hell Driver tech?”

“Yeah, the dummies put it in the public domain. Half of the Alliance designs are in there. It’s one of the reasons we were able to get up to speed so fast. We’ve been taking antiquated designs and bringing them into the present with new materials and augmentations. We’re using that old thing as a punching bag to test our own power armor models.”

The technicians backed away from the suit and a pilot stepped in. The armor closed around the man and he gave the team a thumbs up. A partition in the wall swung open and the Hell Driver suit walked through.

“Perfect,” Owen said and shoved Cason farther down the hall. “We timed that just right.”

Kael pushed Cason to the next window over and they watched as the Hell Driver suit stepped into what could only be described as an arena. Another suit of power armor was waiting in the room.

This one was roughly the same size but was more refined. Whereas the Hell Driver armor was bulky and looked clumsy, this suit was sleek and more fluid in its movements. One could almost feel the power needed to move the Hell Driver armor as if it was powered by diesel and pushrods, but the Xiphos armor moved like an extension of the pilot inside. It was responding to movement and actions instead of being controlled.

The Xiphos suit has also benefited from a designer’s eyes that went beyond practical field applications. It was dark and menacing.

Red beacons spun to life covering the room in passing swaths of mood lighting. An air horn sounded and the floor shook as the two suits charged one another.

The Hell Driver pilot threw a powerful straight right.

The blow was duly blocked by the Xiphos pilot. The dark suit’s hand caught the fist, mid-blow and stopped it cold.

The Hell Driver pilot must have been somewhat experienced as they reacted quickly and drove a left uppercut into the Xiphos armor’s core.

The Xiphos mech responded by tearing the Hell Driver’s arm free from its chassis and then used it to beat the machine to the ground.

“Impressive.” Cason watched the Xiphos suit retreat from the room. “I’ve seen the Hell Driver systems close up. They’re top of the line.”

“They were top of the line,” Owen said.

Cason heard a door open behind him somewhere farther down the hall and turned to see the power armor suit step into the hallway. The machine made less noise than the door. The armor was at least eight feet tall and made the entire hallway feel small by comparison. The driver strode forward, stopped in front of Cason and stared at him.

Cason could feel the pilot’s piercing gaze through the optics. He reached up and wrapped his knuckles on the faceplate. “Are you in there, Harlow?”

There was a small hiss as a network of pneumatics released pressure and the suit opened up to reveal Owen’s henchmen was indeed at the helm.

“I thought so,” Cason said. “I never forget a leer.”

Owen chuckled at this. “Stane, you remember, Cason.”

“Sure,” said Harlow. “It’s the G-Man from the B-team.”

“Cason is thinking about joining us.”

“Good,” Stane said with a humorous smile. “We could always use another secretary.”

Owen smiled at this but continued, “With you heading up the project in Kenya, I’ll need someone here.”

“Oh,” Cason said and turned back to Harlow. “It sounds like I’d be taking your spot, big guy.”

“You couldn’t fill my lunch order,” Stane growled and the power armor’s fist clenched.

“Careful, Stane,” Owen said. “We want Cason to like us. And he’s a pretty tough customer himself. There’s a reason he’s their top guy at MIP. He’s their best.”

“At what?” Stane asked. “The story is that MIP can’t get its shit together enough to catch a simple shooter.”

“We’re still getting our feet underneath us.”

“From what I hear, it’s nothing but a building full of failures and useless bureaucrats.”

“You going to let him talk to you like that, Cason?”

“Oh, he’s not so bad,” Cason said. “He’s just itching to get into this fight. I admire someone who’s looking to get some first-hand experience. So far, everything he knows about the enemy is based on intel I gathered. It would make me edgy, too, if I had to follow behind the B-team.”

Stane lurched forward until their faces were close enough he could smell the oil in Stane’s beard. It took everything Cason had not to flinch.

“Anytime you want to try me, Maze. I’m game.” The armor’s face plate folded shut and Stane turned back down the hall.

Cason waited for the armor to disappear back into the armory before speaking. “Are you trying to get me into a fight, Owen?”

“I am.”

“Any reason why?”

Kael put a palm against the wall and patted the building. “I’m building an intelligence agency here. That means I need to know everything. And right now, I honestly don’t know which of you would win.”

A chime in his ear notified him that he had received a message from Meena. “You’ll have to excuse me, Owen,” he said pointing to his ear. “That’s the B-Team calling.”

Kael’s jovial expression dropped. He was serious now. “What are you doing, Cason? All kidding aside, the war is here and it needs to be won. And we both know the Alliance isn’t ready for this.”

Cason looked back into the test room as the technicians helped pull the pilot from the broken heap that had been the Hell Driver armor. He couldn’t say for certain his old friend was wrong. The Alliance was going to have a hell of a fight on its hands and he’d have to decide where he could make the biggest difference.

“Thanks for the tour, Owen,” Cason said and pointed to his ear once more. “I have to take this.”

20

“When Brask said no more traveling on the agency’s dollar, I didn’t picture it working out this well for us.” Too professional to drink on assignment, Meena filled her champagne glass with lemon soda instead of alcohol, but sipping from the glass while reclined on the plush sundeck sofa painted the image of a beautiful jet setter all the same. “I could get used to being grounded.”

“The Aetherwing is faster than most ships, anyway.” Cason took a seat next to her. There was a small amount of alcohol in his drink. “Besides, it’s not like Harius is using it.”

Harius Thurgood’s personal yacht cruised several meters above the water, its wings outstretched, riding the cushion of air beneath them as they approached their destination, the nation ship Halcyonopolis. The seaborne metroplex wasn’t as large as Agora. But while the Alliance capital was never expected to move, the people of Halcyon designed their ship to be a nation on the go.

For decades, these ships roamed the seas independent of any nation. Once the Alliance formed a global government, the government jurisdiction spread around the world and international waters ceased to exist. The nation ships refused to recognize the new authority and continued to claim independence from any lawmaking bodies outside of their own.

For the Alliance’s part, they realized it was best to let the nation ships be. They almost never made port and rarely bothered anyone.

Originally, nation ships were designed to exist outside of international waters and therefore outside of the authority of any nations. But they found another benefit of finding their sovereignty on the sea was the ability to see the world without leaving home. As the scope and scale of nation ships grew, it was no longer possible to retrofit existing cruise ships. Custom designs became necessary, and the designs became more elaborate and ambitious. Nowhere was that truer than Halcyonopolis.

The massive structure was custom built from the keel up to be an independent nation that would hold not just the people but their ideals of liberty and not paying taxes. To the people of Halcyon, nothing captured those ideals more than a soaring eagle.

From the surface, the structure looked like a flotilla of dozens of massive ships, but from above one could see that every hull connected to a single massive superstructure designed to look like a bird in flight over the sea, its massive wings spread to protect the people and their beliefs.

Halyconopolis wasn’t alone. There were other nation ships still at sea, carrying citizens of their respective nations.

The Celestara was technically a kingdom ship. Her devotees had followed Queen Seralyndra to sea once her music career faded. Despite having an uneven record in the pop charts, she was an even-handed ruler, fair and just, and many prospered under her rule. But her first heir was a prick. As was his heir. And things just got worse from there. The Celestara was still out there, but it rarely made port, as they had difficulty buying fuel since no one would accept Seralyndrachmas for payment.

The Optimal Prime was home to the citizens of a cyberocracy. They believe in the doctrine of optimization and that everything could be refined. Their systems, life, emotions, and everything else were placed under the guidance of a near sentient computer. The Optimal Prime’s system of justice was the swiftest, their birthday parties were the happiest and their lazy days were the laziest. Everything was optimized for efficiency for decades until the ruling algorithm determined a full human life was most optimally lived in twenty-one years. This led to a sudden population crisis the Optimal Prime was still trying to solve.

The Goreans were a collection of planet first religious zealots that had built the iceberg shaped Gore’s Ark to prepare for the melting of the ice caps. They spoke in a monotone voice and frowned on expressing any emotion that wasn’t virtuous outrage toward heathen unbelievers of the cause. Although their ship was mobile, they didn’t get around much. Their ark had been stuck in the polar ice since their maiden voyage. Within a generation, the populations cry had gone from “Save the Ice Caps” to “Won’t Somebody Please Melt These Ice Caps.”

The Alliance’s policy towards these nations and their claims of sovereignty had mostly been a hand’s off approach. It was determined boatloads of crazy were fine as long as it was at sea and not on land bothering everyone else.

The hull sliced into the turquoise water as Cason set the yacht down in the ocean. The Aetherwing’s foils swept back into the structure of the ship as the pleasure craft switched from ground-effect flight to water going vessel.

He engaged the aquatic motors and piloted the yacht beneath Halcyonoplolis’ wings and steered towards the body of the bird. From above it looked as if the wings dipped into the waves but once they passed beneath them it became clear exactly how large the ship was. The wings were two hundred feet above them, casting a world of shadows below.

The Aetherwing navigated through the channel into the Haylcon’s official harbor. There were several boarding points at the sea level and no shortage of flight decks above but this was where tourists and dignitaries were formally welcomed.

Cason let the computer take them in the rest of the way and stepped onto the deck with Meena and Atticus.

“Nice job getting us an invitation, big guy,” Cason said. “I didn’t think they cared much for guests here.”

“On contrary. They were excited to have visitors.” Atticus replied. He had bounced back from his avalanche related injuries quickly thanks to an equal dose of advanced medicine and old-fashioned stubbornness. Even now he nursed a stiff shoulder he refused to let fully heal before leaving the hospital.

It was only fair that he be here. Finding the floating ship was easy enough. Getting invited onboard wasn’t. The people here didn’t trust outsiders.

Cason tossed a mooring line into the air as they approached the dock and watched as the automated deckhand grabbed it out of the air and began the docking procedure. In only a matter of minutes, the Aehterwing had been secured and they found themselves standing on some of the only foreign ground left on the planet.

“Welcome, weary travelers!” The cheerful voice came from a woman standing at the end of the dock. She wasn’t alone. A pair of guards stood on either side of her, each armed with firearms that would be considered antique in any other part of the Alliance but still shined like new.

Cason thought perhaps it was ceremonial, much like how the Vatican guard still marched around with pikes. But after making eye contact with the guard, he was certain they weren’t merely ornamental. And it looked like they couldn’t wait to prove it.

“I hope you had a pleasant journey,” she said as they approached. “My name is Liberty Jones. I’m the governor here in Halcyonopolis and we are delighted you’ve chosen to visit us here in our great nation.”

“Thank you for having us,” Cason said. “My name is Cason Maze. This is Ms. Meena Stendak and Mr. Atticus Vides.”

Liberty turned to the man on her right and whispered harshly. The guard let his rifle rest from the sling around his neck and reached behind his back. He produced a handful of colorful leis and held them up.

“My apologies. I’m afraid we’re a little out of practice. It’s been some time since we had visitors. Our tourism numbers have been down since the outbreak.”

The guard stepped forward and draped the colorful wreaths of flowers around the visitors’ necks.

“Outbreak?” Atticus asked. “No one mentioned outbreak.”

“It’s fine now, mostly, of course,” said the woman.

“We hope you enjoy your stay here in our great nation. Please let me know if you have any questions.”

“Why does big bird swim?” asked Atticus. “Is duck?”

“No, it’s an eagle,” Liberty Jones said and spread her arms out like wings. “It soars.”

“Why is it sore?”

“Thank you, Ms. Jones.” Cason jumped in before Atticus could cause an international incident. “We’re happy to be here.”

“Oh please,” she said with a laugh. “Call me Ms. Liberty Jones.”

“Of course, Ms. Liberty Jones.”

“Please follow me.” Liberty turned and led them up the docks and into the nation’s welcome center. She threw open both doors with a flair fit for a chocolate factory and declared, “Welcome to Halcyonopolis!”

They stepped into the center and found themselves at the start of a long hallway. The walls on either side were covered with paintings depicting the history of the nation and its people. The corridor stretched for a considerable distance.

“It used to be a longer wait at customs,” Liberty Jones said in her non-presentation voice. “It was kind of a self-guided tour for while people waited. But we can skip a lot of it.”

Liberty started down the long hallway.

Cason studied the art on the walls. The story of Halcyon, as represented in the art, was surprisingly similar to the founding story of the United States of America. Large oil paintings hung in ornate gold frames depicting a story of righteous rebellion and independence. The paintings were filled with courageous charges, cannon fire and a surprising amount of fife playing.

According to the history books, as far as Cason knew, the people of Halcyon pretty much just built a boat and sailed away while waving a middle finger to everyone left on shore. The world’s response at the time was a collective shrug.

It was generally considered a non-event to the rest of the world, but, according to the paintings on the wall, it looked like they had to shoot their way out.

The paintings in the hallway told of their “valiant struggle for freedom,” their “fight against tyranny” and their “escape from beneath the boot heel of oppression.” Scenes included the founding of the nation, the first session of congress, and the great pirate war. Unlike the other moments immortalized on the wall, this event actually happened. But everyone was pretty sure the people of Halcyon started it by intentionally sailing around pirate-infested waters until they got attacked so they had an excuse to retaliate. About the only thing everyone agreed on was how bad the pirates lost.

“So, what brings you to Halcyonopolis?” Liberty Jones asked. “Is it the duty-free shopping, the sun-soaked upper decks. Or are you here for the show?”

“What show?” Meena asked.

“What show, she says,” laughed Liberty. “Only the longest running show in musical theater history.

“Is Cats?” asked Atticus.

“Cry, Halcyon!” Liberty Jones directed their attention to a nearby marquis poster. “It’s been running for over forty years. It’s about the founding fathers of Halcyonopolis; from their struggles against the oppressive regime to taking liberty to the seas. And the pirate battles are simply incredible. The music is an exciting blend of traditional and contemporary styles. Well, they were contemporary styles forty years ago. But they haven’t lost their oomph. I’ve seen it at least twenty times myself.”

Cason shared a look and a shrug with Meena and Atticus. “That sounds exciting, but—”

“Oh, it is! Everyone comes to the ship to see it. It’s one of our biggest draws. And…” Liberty Jones gasped and then pointed over the group’s shoulders. “Oh, my goodness. What are the chances? Would you look who it is?”

Cason turned to see a man standing behind him. He was middle-aged, dressed in a suit and he looked exhausted.

“Who it is?” asked Atticus.

“Why, it’s the star of Cry, Halcyon! himself, Remington Revere! He’s been starring in the production for forty years and appeared in more than sixteen thousand performances. What a treat this is! Would you like to meet him?”

Atticus shook his head. “Nyet!”

Liberty ignored the response and waved to the actor. “Oh, Mr. Revere!”

The actor rolled his eyes, sighed heavily and walked toward the small group.

“Mr. Revere, I’m such a huge fan. I’ve seen Cry, Halcyon! at least twenty times.”

The actor gave an almost imperceptible bow. “Thank you, Madame Governor.”

“I’d love for you to meet our visitors.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Remington shook everyone’s hand in turn. “I hope you will have a chance to catch the play.”

“You’ve been doing same thing for forty years?” Atticus asked.

“Yes.”

“What is that like?”

“You look like a big strong guy,” said Remington.

“Dah?”

The actor leaned in close and spoke softly so Liberty Jones could not hear. “Could you just kill me?”

“What?”

“Just like snap my neck or something?”

“Nyet, I don’t even know you.”

“Come on! Just do it!” He grabbed Atticus’ shirt and started shaking the big man. “The curtain goes up in three hours! Again! You have to make it stop!”

A small group of people rushed in and surrounded Remington Revere. They pried his hands from Atticus’ shirt, dosed him with a sedative and dragged him away.

“Isn’t he wonderful?” Liberty Jones watched the actor in awe as the team carted him off. “He’s like our Sir Lawrence Olivier.”

“I do not know who that is,” said Atticus.

“Don’t worry about Remington. He’ll be right as rain in time for tonight’s performance.” Liberty said with a smile. “What a treat it was to meet him!”

“I’m afraid we’re not here to see the play,” Meena said. “We’re actually looking for someone.”

“Well, I know just about everyone on board. I was born here, raised here and freedom willing, I’m going to die here. Who can I help you find?”

“Cassian Rhys,” Cason said.

“Oh, you’re looking for Professor Rhys!”

“Dah!” said Atticus. “You know him?”

“Of course. Everyone on board knows the professor.” She waved for them to follow and walked them farther down the hallway to another painting. This one featured an elderly white-haired man being greeted by a host of Halycononpolis’ founding fathers. “There’s the good for nothing, drunken shit heel right there.”

“Good for nothing?” Cason repeated the phrase.

“The professor came to us at somewhat of a low point in his life. He wasn’t a part of our movement, but we welcomed him with open arms and treated him like one of our own. We gave him a place to live and something to live for. He worked on the AI that runs our ship. If it wasn’t for his work, we’re not sure we would have made it the first decade at sea. The improvements he made to the system ensured that we became a self-sufficient nation. He improved the crop yields significantly. He optimized our desalinization system so that everyone could take longer showers. The professor is the reason we’re still here today.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“Hopefully dead,” said Liberty Jones with a smile. “And if he’s not dead, I really hope he’s suffering.”

Atticus was lost. “But all the stuff you just said.”

Liberty directed their attention to another painting of the professor. It was not a flattering painting. The professor was passed out in a pile of empty bottles, dissolved and sitting in a puddle of his own urine.

Meena gasped. “My goodness.”

“It’s true that we are in his debt,” Liberty Jones admitted. “They say that if it wasn’t for his work, we wouldn’t be here. But if it wasn’t for him, we also wouldn’t find ourselves in the arctic circle every July.”

“The arctic?” Cason asked.

“The arctic. Of course, We’d rather be in the Mediterranean. Or the Caribbean. But no! We get to freeze our asses off in the North Pole, of all places.”

“I’m not sure I follow,” Cason said.

Liberty Jones sighed through a smile. “Every year, regardless of where we are at the time, this stupid ship turns itself north with enough time to make it to the North Pole by July 20th.”

“Why didn’t you have him fix it?” Meena asked.

“He wouldn’t. People complained. But he refused to do anything about it. He said it was critical to the functioning of the ship’s AI.”

Cason looked back at the painting. “So, what happened to him?”

Liberty Jones gave the painting a satisfied look and said, “Who cares?”

“We care,” Atticus said, as he was not fully aware of how rhetorical questions worked. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” said Liberty. “He was pretty much a raving drunk by the end. We took a vote. We all figured if he liked the North Pole so much, he could stay there. So we dropped him off and didn’t even bother waving goodbye from the bridge. Now he’s gone but we’re stuck with this stupid AI and we still end up in the North Pole every year. Where it’s cold and it sucks. There’s even a song about it in the play. You really should go. I can get you great seats.”

“Why not have someone else fix the systems?” Meena asked.

“There’s nothing we can do. It really was critical to the functioning of the ship’s AI. Rhys saw to that. We’ve had other AI experts come in and look at it. But it still happens. The stupid thing heads to the arctic and we arrive at the North Pole on the same date every year.”

The final exhibit in the hallway was a not-so-subtle ad for Cry, Halcyon! And then customs.

Liberty Jones stepped around the empty desk and processed the trio’s arrival in the country. Her phony smile was tired and beginning to fade. Thinking about the arctic had chilled her enthusiasm. Still, she managed to muster a jovial, “Welcome to Halcyonopolis!”

Once leaving customs, the trio ventured onto the upper deck to find a place to talk. The Halcyonopolis was an impressive structure and, according to the brochure Liberty Jones had handed them, was filled with thousands of attractions and dining options. They found a bar overlooking the ocean at the rear of the ship and discussed their situation while sipping something called Libertea.

“So, trail goes cold,” Atticus says.

“Literally,” Meena added.

“Maybe not,” Cason said. “There could be a clue on board. As long as this ship is floating, we still have a chance.”

An explosion rocked the ship spilling Atticus’ Libertea and knocking him from his bar stool.

21

There was already a mass of people at the edge of the ship’s rail when Cason and his team arrived. They had to jostle to the front of a small crowd to see what was happening. Another explosion rocked the deck beneath his feet and caused him to stumble as he approached the rail.

He pulled himself back to his feet and looked out to the sea. An armada of crimson colored craft were bearing down on the Halcyonopolis. The bulk of the ships were the size of a small fighter craft and appeared to be a cross between surface ship, submarine and wing-effect craft. Rocket pods mounted to the craft flashed as the fast-moving boats fired at the nation ship.

A barrage of ordinance flew towards the ship’s hull directly beneath them.

Klaxons sounded up and down the length of the massive ship. Beacons flashed. Mechanics whirred as access panels on the side of the vessel opened up to reveal an arsenal of defensive batteries. Gatling-styled gun barrels emerged from the hidden portals as the defensive turrets moved into position. Each barrel moved independently as they each began tracking the incoming rockets in flight. A moment later, they spun, spitting bursts of fire and lead.

Rockets detonated like fireworks as the defensive rounds shredded the explosive warheads. Despite the wall of lead thrown up by the Halcyonopolis’ defenses, several rockets made it through and slammed into the hull. They felt the impact as the ship rumbled, and fire suppression systems sprang into action to put out the flames caused by the assault.

The crowd at the edge of the boat cheered at the response from the ship’s defenses. They didn’t seem the least bit fazed to be under attack. Instead, they cheered every time the defensive turrets went brrrtt.

Atticus pointed to the incoming attackers. “Now, who are these people?”

“Judging solely by the paint scheme, I’d say they’re Crimson Menagerie’s forces,” Cason said, staring at the approaching boats. “I think it’s becoming clear that they are trying to destroy any trace of the professor’s work. It also looks like they aren’t afraid of stepping out of the shadows anymore.”

There was a whine overhead as crimson aircraft buzzed the ship and began targeting the defensive guns along its perimeter. A larger aircraft flew overhead, higher and slower compared to the faster fighter/bombers. It wasn’t dropping bombs; it was dropping soldiers. Parachutes deployed as the Crimson Menagerie’s invasion force descended toward the ship.

The crowd wasn’t sure how to respond at first. They gawked and pointed at the approaching threat. Then one person shouted, “Pirates!”

“Hell, yeah!” replied another.

“Finally!” screamed a third.

“Battle stations!” The cry came with some authority from one of the men near the front.

Cheers rang through the crowd and grew in intensity as the word about the pirates spread. The people began to move, not in panic, but in a practiced and organized manner. They formed lines as they approached rally points designated by clearly marked emblems on the bulkhead walls.

Cason and the others watched in amazement as the crowd produced an incredible number of weapons and armor from caches. In a matter of minutes, the men and women of Halcyonopolis were an armed militia.

“They look so happy,” said Atticus.

Cason noted a certain enthusiasm in the people. “It does look like they were itching for a fight.”

“I admire their spirit,” Meena said. “But if they can’t repel this attack, we could lose any clues Professor Rhys left behind.”

“Dah, we must get to computer and check for more breadcrumbs.”

The deck beneath them rumbled again and Atticus reached for a nearby railing to keep his balance. “What is happening?”

“I don’t know.” Meena found her balance while grasping for the handrail. “But those weren’t explosions. It was something else.”

The rumble turned into the whine of jet engines as a fleet of watercraft launched from a hidden hanger at the rear of the Halcyonopolis. They shot into the air and spread their foils before descending to the ocean’s surface where their wings caught the draft coming off the water. These nimble fighters formed an attack formation and turned toward the enemy fleet.

It wasn’t long before they engaged the crimson ships and the two forces began dogfighting for dominance, mere meters above the ocean. The Halcyon forces struck quickly and turned the attention of the crimson fleet onto their fighters instead of the nation ship. The rocket attack stopped as the forces engaged the smaller, faster craft.

Back in the air, the sky filled with parachutes. The first wave of enemy soldiers was about to touch down.

“We have to get to the servers before they do!” The battle cries were heating up around them and Cason had to shout to be heard above the excitement. “Atticus, I need you to get back to the Aetherwing and call this in.”

“Nyet! I must fight!”

“We’ve got to let the Alliance know what’s going on out here,” Cason said. “And I don’t think the Halcyons are the type to ask for help.”

Atticus looked at the battle raging in the water and to the troops dropping in from the sky.

“We’re counting on you, Atticus,” Meena said.

“Dah!” Atticus nodded. “But I can’t promise I won’t hit any along the way.”

“Fair enough,” Cason said and turned his attention back to the ship. “Angel! Can you tell us where the server room is?”

The AI responded in a matter of moments. “The central processing facility appears to be located by the bridge in what could be identified as the eagle’s head.”

“I’ve got it,” Cason said to Meena and started across the deck. They hadn’t gone twenty feet when a Halcyon citizen stopped them.

“Where do you think you’re going?” the militiaman asked.

“We have to reach…” Meena began.

“You’re going to need these.” The citizen soldier handed each of them a rifle and draped a canvas bag around their neck containing extra magazines. “Don’t forget to grab a hand grenade or two. We’ve got lots.”

Now armed, the pair raced across the deck. It was at least a kilometer from tail to beak and, despite the fact most of the upper deck had been designed as a recreational nature space with plenty of trees and picnic areas, it wasn’t going to be a walk in the park.

The people of Halcyon fought with honor and frightening enthusiasm. Cason and Meena heard a dozen different battle cries as they fought their way through the park.

“Don’t tread on me,” shouted one woman as she fired from behind a tree.

“Don’t tread on her,” shouted another man who fired and then dove behind a park bench.

A man that had been using a trash can for cover jumped out and shouted, “The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the…” He didn’t get a chance to finish before he was gunned down. His sacrifice was a good reminder to all to keep your battle cries brief.

Cason and Meena raced to keep up with the patriots of Halcyon as they moved across the deck. The people weren’t cowards. And they weren’t unprepared. They moved through the park as if they had drilled in the shade of its branches a thousand times. Their efficiency did not go unnoticed.

“These guys are really good,” said Meena.

“Do you think we could talk them into fighting the Hama?” Cason asked huffing.

“I think they’d fight anyone.”

They ran to keep up with the Halcyon force’s progress. Cason tried to do his fair share of shooting, but by the time he had raised his rifle, his target was already neutralized. He swore he heard some of the defenders calling dibs on targets.

The attackers didn’t stand a chance. They were on the Halcyon’s home turf and didn’t appear to want this fight as much as the citizens did. Those who didn’t fall to bullets fell back quickly. At first, they used cover to minimize their exposure, but eventually turned their retreat into a full fledge run as the Halcyon’s forces overran their positions.

Whether it was out of honor or because they were caught in the throes of laughter, the defenders didn’t seem too keen on shooting their enemies in the back. Instead, they hurled insults and pressed their position on the deck, driving the paratroopers toward the front of the ship.

For a moment, Cason grew concerned. That was his destination, surely it had to be the enemy’s as well. Were the defenders unwittingly pushing their foe towards their true target without realizing it?

The defenders fought the invaders to the edge of the park and onto the crest of the eagle’s head. If their intention was to raid the core, it didn’t show. The raiding force was still looking for a place to run when a second squad of Halcyon troops sprung an ambush from the rear.

The militia poured out from all directions, engulfing and confounding the enemy force. There were only a couple more shots fired in desperation, but after a handful of invaders fell, the remaining dropped their weapons on the deck and threw up their hands.

The battle overhead was coming to an end as Halycon’s air force engaged with the crimson fighter craft and drove them back out to sea.

Cheers mixed with cries of lament that the fighting hadn’t lasted longer. The people of Halcyon had been looking forward to this for some time.

“What do we do with the prisoners?” asked one defender.

“They’re pirates,” said a commander. “I say make them walk the plank.”

“Hell, yeah!” shouted another soldier. “Someone get a plank!”

Hurrahs went up and the search for a suitable board began. But it didn’t last long. The whine of a jet engine drowned out their rejoicing.

The soldiers scanned the skies, looking for the source of the sound, but saw only their own fighters giving chase to the retreating forces.

“I don’t see anything,” Meena said.

“It’s not above us.” Cason spun to face the front of the ship. “It’s beneath us!”

The aircraft flew straight up off the nose of the eagle. It had approached under cover of the bird’s wings and vectored straight up into the sky. It shot past them like a rocket on its way to the stars, but not before dropping something from its bomb bay.

The large crimson object fell free back toward the ship.

Before anyone could scatter or even yell ‘bomb,’ the object landed at the edge of the park with a thunderous crash. It didn’t explode. It growled.

The object straightened and then stood, revealing itself to be a crimson red armored polar bear. It stood nearly ten feet tall on its hind legs, and cast its gaze over the battlefield, processing everything.

Someone yelled, “Shoot it!”

The defenders opened fire on the bear.

The bullets struck the machine’s armor and bounced away without causing so much as a ding. There was no metallic sound of ricochets. Instead, the bullets made a cracking sound like something striking a hard plastic. The armor wasn’t made of metal; it was made of something stronger. The rounds weren’t even knocking paint from the bear. At best, they left smudges as the lead scraped harmlessly off the advanced plating.

The bear stood motionless for a moment, soaking up bullets, just to let the enemy know that they were of no concern. There was an amplified laugh from inside the machine just before it raced forward and began mauling the defenders of Halcyon.

A single swipe of its massive paw knocked several off their feet at once.

It seized another and tossed the man overboard with little effort.

His screaming faded away as he fell. There was no splash. The surface was too far down.

The enemies that had surrendered dove for their weapons and the battle raged back to life. This time the defenders had the disadvantage. They didn’t have a polar bear.

“We have to get to the core first!” Cason shouted to Meena. “I’ll cover you!”

Meena nodded and prepared to run.

“Go!”

She took off.

Cason stood and provided cover fire until the magazine was empty. He dug into the canvas pouch, retrieved a fresh one and slapped it into the rifle.

Meena crossed the distance quickly and slid behind cover near the steps leading down into the Halyconopolis’ bridge. She waved at Cason to make his run and prepared to provide cover fire.

Cason counted to three and went. He leapt over his cover and dashed across the open distance to the stairs. He was only halfway there when the beast of a machine came crashing down in front of him. It knocked two defenders off the ship and turned to face Maze.

Cason emptied the magazine at the bear’s face and a coldness grew in his stomach as the bear simply laughed at the effort.

The powered suit rose to its full height and extended a clawed finger at Cason.

“You’re Maze,” came the voice from the machine.

Cason looked around, hoping maybe a tank had arrived to save him. The Halcyon forces were engaged with enemies and unable to help.

“We’ve been looking for you,” the bear growled and charged toward him.

Cason rolled to the side as a massive arm came crashing down into the deck.

A brave Halcyon defender leapt onto the bear’s lowered back and tried to find a weak spot in the armored neck. He fired several shots before the machine reared up and tossed him aside like a busted bronco rider.

“We missed you in Madrid!” The bear roared as it swung at Cason again.

Once more, Cason was only a fraction of a second ahead of the strike. He rolled out of the way and under a bench that was bolted to the ship’s deck.

The polar bear grabbed the bench and ripped it from its mounts. The sound of rended metal screeched in Cason’s ears as he got back to his feet.

“We were right behind you in Agora,” the bear growled.

Cason had barely taken two steps when he was forced to dive again to dodge the bench.

“We dropped in to see you in Ouray.”

Cason scrambled back to his feet and scanned the area. There were several discarded small arms, but nothing short of explosive ordinance would give him a chance against the machine. He told himself that the next time someone offered him grenades, he would accept them and say thank you.

Once again, the machine was between him and Meena.

He stood his ground. This was due more to a lack of options than anything. But he stayed light on the balls of his feet, ready to dodge, roll or drop when the machine finally made its move.

“Hey, you!”

The heavily accented voice came from behind him. He knew the voice, but it was filtered so it sounded deeper. Meaner.

Cason turned to see Atticus encased in his Hell Driver power armor. His battle rig, The Big Bad Bear, had been based on the short-faced bear, a monster out of prehistory that made grizzlies look cuddly by comparison. The rig stood as tall as the crimson polar bear before him.

“Why don’t you pick on bear your own size?” Atticus snarled.

22

The deck flexed beneath the weight of their battle rigs as the two warriors paced slowly, trying to intimidate one another while giving their respective AIs a chance to analyze the enemy and search for weaknesses.

Atticus enjoyed being a spy, but inside the Hell Driver armor he felt at home. He had quite literally been born to wear the suit, and it felt like an extension of his own skin as he piloted the bear across the deck of the giant eagle.

His opponent’s tech was formidable; he didn’t need his computer to tell him that. But a trained eye could see the pilot inside the polar bear rig was new. The steps were a hair short and taken with a hesitancy only a veteran could spot.

The Big Bad Bear’s AI registered it had the results of the scan. Atticus glanced at the HUD where a list of his enemy’s vulnerabilities would be displayed.

None.

The entry just said none.

“Blin,” cursed Atticus.

The brief standoff ended as the polar bear raised its arms to attack.

Atticus opened fire first. If his opponent was going to be that tough to crack, he wanted to get a head start. Several guns in a variety of calibers blazed to life. He directed it all at the polar bear. Atticus couldn’t feel the recoil or the heat and he couldn’t hear the rounds discharging. Those distractions were absorbed by the Hell Driver chassis so he could focus on the important things; like being the best killing machine he could be. The sensations were converted inside the rig into haptic feedback, to prevent compromising his situational awareness. The automatic fire registered in the suit like the pulse of a comm notification, and the constant vibration surrounded him as he unleashed hell on the world around him.

What he did feel was the return fire unleashed by the polar bear. Every round that slammed into his armor became a subtle beep in his ear and a sudden shock to his torso. This made the pilot aware he was under attack. This system was handy when they were being shot from behind. If not for the audible cue and the continual prodding, the pilot may never know he was under fire.

The system registered a frightening volume of hits as Atticus raced across the deck, trying to keep a steady rate of fire focused on his enemy who had also decided to become a moving target.

What remained of the defending and invading forces cleared the area as the two titans opened up on one another.

The firefight began with small arms and escalated as both suits ran through their offensive capabilities. Explosive rounds were deployed by both bears, and the ship’s deck soon became a pockmarked landscape of charred metal and burning holes.

Grenades and rockets rearranged the shrubbery at the edge of the park as rounds flashed back and forth across the battlefield. Unlike the bullets, Atticus could feel the impact of the higher energy rounds inside the rig, but he was confident in his armor’s ability to take the beating.

At its inception a century ago, the Hell Driver systems were the most powerful and feared personal armament appliances in the known galaxy. After the team had been reinstated by Vides Prime, the suits had been treated to an upgrade employing the latest technology. The modernization initiative improved their armor, firepower, and computation systems. The modifications had proven to be more than capable of taking on the Hama in their own power armored suits. A few grenades were nothing.

Smoke and flames engulfed the combatants and filled the immediate area of the deck as chemical weapons burned and did their best to eat their way through armor and pilot.

Atticus’ HUD overlayed an image of the enemy over the dust, debris, smoke and flame to keep his opponent in view. The polar bear appeared unbothered by the explosives as well.

A gust of wind blew the smoke out to sea and revealed both bears were still very much in the fight.

Atticus shut down his fire systems. Barrels and rocket tubes retracted into the housings on his rig. It was clear this contest wasn’t going to be determined by bullets and ballistics. He was going to have to fight this monster bear handed.

“Little teddy,” Atticus said through the Bear’s speaker system. “Let’s go.”

The polar bear charged. The short steps were still there. The pilot was uncertain and not one hundred percent comfortable in his suit.

Atticus smiled and charged. He drew back his fist to strike and the polar bear went vertical.

The machine leapt and shot straight into the air, somersaulted, landed behind Atticus and struck him in the back of the head with a massive fist.

The force knocked him forward off his feet and the Hell Driver fell to the ground face first. He rolled over in time to see the polar bear was back in the air above him.

Jets flared on the enemy’s back and the crimson mech sped toward the deck, knee first.

Atticus rolled out of the way as the suit came crashing down, leaving an impact crater where his head had been a breath before.

“You are nimble, little teddy,” said Atticus as his enemy stood. “This will not be boring.”

Atticus rushed forward, and the two giants engaged. The Big Bad Bear was one of the most powerful Hell Driver units. Atticus had used the suit to tear tanks apart. If he could just catch the crimson beast, he was confident he would emerge victorious in the battle of the bears.

Or so he thought. He rushed into the fight and tried to bash the polar bear in the head.

There was a quick flash of jets and his foe sidestepped the blow, caught Atticus’ arm and tossed him effortlessly through a frozen lemonade stand that once served thirsty park patrons.

Atticus crashed through the concession stand, burst out the other side, and skidded along the metal decking surface in a shower of sparks.

The polar bear rushed forward. Its jets flared again, making it quicker than it had any right to be as it raced across the ground and struck Atticus in the chest with a fist.

Atticus tumbled backwards once more as alarms sounded in his ears and flashed across his HUD. That single blow had done more damage than the rocket barrage.

His crimson foe raced toward him again and Atticus hurried to stand.

He had barely risen to one knee when the full force of the rocket powered polar bear caught him in the midsection and drove him back into the park.

The polar bear’s rockets burned with a new intensity and it flew the pair back through the park using the Hell Driver armor to take out several trees as they went.

The polar bear left Atticus in a pile of brush and fallen limbs and backed away; putting some distance between the two rigs in order to build up some steam for a second charge.

“That’s it!” Atticus said and picked up a tree trunk. “No more, mister nice bear.”

The polar bear screamed toward the Hell Driver, engines flaring.

Atticus stepped into the swing.

The tree snapped, armor cracked, and the report echoed across the nation ship and out into the ocean.

Forced off course, the enemy rig collided with part of Halyconopolis’ superstructure, and embedded itself half in and half out of the bulkhead.

It wasn’t enough to stop the machine completely, but it held his foe long enough for Atticus to get in a few cheap shots. He pounded relentlessly on the polar bear’s back until it managed to pull itself free.

The polar bear attempted another rocket charge but was sent wildly off course and slammed into a wall. He tried to dash again and ended up upside down.

Atticus held up a fistful of rocket parts and dropped them to the ground. “Now is the part where we just punch each other, Little Teddy.”

The pilot roared through his intercom and ran at Atticus.

The damage done to the polar bear had slowed it considerably, but the machine was still impossibly strong and the pair began trading blows. Fists hammered against armor plating, human muscles strained against reinforced servos; the Big Bad Bear was giving good but getting worse, and Atticus soon realized the advanced tech of the polar bear was going to win out.

His enemy landed three straight blows, forcing Atticus to stagger back in his rig. This began an endless rain of blows. His armor was failing; responding slower and slower. His HUD blacked out. Even the alarms were getting tired and started giving up. Blow after blow knocked him backward until his back was close to the ship’s edge. A mighty right paw sent him rolling across the deck. He finally stopped a hair shy of the edge, with the ocean’s surface two-hundred feet below him. Beneath that, the ocean floor fell to a depth that would crush all but the sturdiest submarine.

“You’re done Hell Driver,” screamed the polar bear. “You’re obsolete!”

“Nyet,” said Atticus. “I’m brand new!”

“You’re old news; you and your busted tech. You’re looking at the future. We’re stronger, we’re faster, we’re smarter…we’ll take it from here.”

The polar bear charged and drew back a fist for a finishing blow.

Atticus made no effort to dodge. Instead, he charged forward and opened his arms for a hug.

The two machines collided, and Atticus embraced his enemy.

“You may be all those things.” Atticus hooked his arms around the polar bear and ceased the servos, locking them in place. “But I was born for this.”

Atticus spun and hurled both bears from the edge of the boat and then triggered his ejection system. Explosive bolts blew the back off the bear and the cockpit shell launched into the air. Atticus rocketed upward as the pair of battle rigs tumbled towards the ocean below, the polar bear still locked in the Hell Driver’s death grip.

Atticus’ chute deployed and he slowly drifted back toward the deck of the Halcyonopolis.

The bears vanished into the ocean with a massive splash. He watched the water swallow his rig and his enemy. It would be a long fall to the ocean floor below and he wondered how long the power armor’s life support would last. Would the pilot survive to the bottom? Or would the pressure crack the suit open in crushing defeat?

In the distance, the Crimson Menagerie forces were in retreat. Their surface ships were headed for the horizon, their air support was gone, their forces on board the nation ship had been defeated and were being rounded up by the militia.

Everything had worked out.

Atticus drifted back to the deck and set foot on the nation of Halcyonopolis as Cason and Meena stepped from the bridge entrance and back onto the top deck.

“Are you okay, big guy?” Cason asked after quickly scanning the area.

“Dah. The enemy flees and the eagle smokes, but bird still swims,” Atticus said. “You found next breadcrumb?”

Cason hesitated. “We didn’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“We were too late.”

“They beat us to the core, Atticus,” Meena said. “Anything Professor Rhys may have left behind is gone forever.”

Atticus looked at both of them for a long time without speaking and then turned and stared at the spot in the ocean that had swallowed his battle rig. There wasn’t so much as a bubble left where it had gone down.

“Are you okay?” Meena asked.

“Nyet,” said Atticus. “I do not like losing.”

23

Mount Kilimanjaro stood, a lone sentinel over the sunbaked savannah, its snowcapped peak a reminder to those below there was more to the world than what was right in front of you.

Visitors had summited the Mountain of Greatness for centuries. They would conquer the long climb and stare out across the continent before returning home and telling everyone how they had climbed the storied peak and never once seen the frozen cat Hemingway was talking about.

Even now the white mountain was covered with visitors from across the galaxy trekking up the long slope, staring in wonder at nature’s majesty, and wondering aloud why they didn’t have a drone drop them off at the top instead of doing all this stupid walking.

Little did these tourists know that beneath their feet, inside the core of the Shining Mountain, the peak of humanity gathered in secret.

Using the interior of a dormant volcano for a lair was hardly an original idea. But a classic was a classic for a reason and Brother Jackal had taken the idea and elevated it to a new level of luxury. From the art and the furniture to the fixtures in the volcano’s in-house spa, everything in the lair was of the finest quality and the rarest providence.

In addition, the facilities boasted an elevator to Uhuru Peak, where the views from Kilimanjaro were first rate. On a clear night, when the crowds had gone home to their warm beds and the air was still, one could see the twinkling of the Arthur C Clarke Memorial Space Elevator anchored in Lamu.

Eleven members of the Menagerie stood around the large, circular conference table, waiting for their host to join them.

“Crocodiles would be great,” said Brother Gator.

“Lions, maybe?” said Monkey.

“It had better not be lions,” said Warthog.

“Boomslang,” said Brother Serpent.

“What the hell is a boomslang?” Monkey asked.

“It’s a type of snake,” said the man in the silver snake mask.

“Of course,” said Bear.

“Why not just say snake?” asked Monkey.

“Because there are a ton of snakes,” replied Brother Serpent. “I’m guessing he’d use a boomslang.”

“Why not a cobra, or a puff adder?” asked Monkey. “They’re native to the region.”

“Yeah, but everyone would say cobra,” hissed Serpent. And a lot of people might say puff adder. Or even black mamba. But who’s going to say boomslang? It’s exotic but still preys on a person’s fear of snakes.”

“There you go,” said Monkey. “So, you agree with me that once your victim sees a boomslang, they’re not going to go, ‘Ahh! A boomslang!’ They’re going to go, ‘Ahh! A snake!’”

“So?” asked the snake.

“So, what does it matter what kind of snake it is? Just say snake.”

“You just don’t get it, do you Monkey?”

“I guess not Serpent.”

“It’s not a boomslang,” said Jackal as he stepped into the room.

Brother Eagle stepped forward and greeted him. “I’ve got to hand it to you Brother Jackal, you have outdone yourself with this lair. If only it were nestled on top of the mountain instead of beneath it, it would be perfect.”

“We were just trying to guess what kind of deadly animal you use for retribution purposes, Jackal,” said Brother Jaguar. “You’ve got a lot to choose from in this part of the world.”

“That I do,” said Jackal. “Most of nature’s killers are at my proverbial doorstep.”

“Gaboon viper?” guessed Serpent.

Monkey huffed. “Dude, get off snakes!”

Warthog cleared his throat, then spoke, “I’ll bet none of you know that the animal responsible for the most deaths in Africa each year is the hippo.”

“The rhino?” asked Ibis.

“The Hippo.”

“That fat thing?”

“That fat thing will snap a canoe in half, Brother Ibis,” Warthog said. “It’s the deadliest creature on the continent.”

“That’s not true,” said Jackal effortlessly grabbing a mosquito out of the air. He held it up between pinched fingers. “There is something much more dangerous.”

“A mosquito?” asked Monkey.

“It is believed to be responsible for more than fifty billion deaths before mankind found cures for some of the deadliest diseases.”

Brother Ibis was not amused. “Please tell me your mantrap isn’t a room filled with mosquitos.”

“Yeah, that’s a lame threat, Jackal,” added Brother Bear.

“Small and infectious is not a lame threat,” said Jackal pacing about the room. “About the only thing more dangerous is an idea.”

The Jackal walked slowly in front of the Menagerie’s pantheon. He paused in front of Brother Monkey and held up the mosquito. “Once supplanted, it festers.”

He moved on, slowing his gate in front of Brother Ibis and Brother Serpent. “And if the host is not careful, the idea spreads with viral efficiency.”

As he passed Brother Gator and Brother Eagle he continued speaking, “The idea infects others, propagating its deadly message across a population that was not prepared for the consequences of the originators stupidity.”

He stopped in front of Bear and let the mosquito go. It flew away, unharmed. “Isn’t that right, Brother Bear?”

“What are you talking about? My plan?” asked Bear. “The assault was a success. My men erased the core and destroyed any possible path to the Urania.”

“Your failure was in the assault itself. You revealed our forces to the world. You have exposed us all.”

“No one is going to care what those Halcyon fools say!” Bear said looking around the room. “They’re persona non grata in the Alliance. We would have done the council a favor if we had sunk their ship.”

“It was foolish!” shouted Jackal. “We were not ready to show our hand! It was a needless risk!”

“But what about Cason?” Threatened, Bother Bear stood taller, trying to tower over the Jackal. Despite his height advantage he still appeared small. He started to ramble. “And…and we had to stop him from finding that fleet.”

Jackal stared at the man and waited for the bear to back down before he continued. “We’ve been chasing Maze around the world, tipping our hand, and looking like fools.”

“He must be stopped,” Bear sputtered. “If he finds the fleet…”

“He will be stopped! But we don’t need to sink a nation or bury a town to do it. You have all squandered our resources and exposed us to the world. It is the thinking of a small mind.”

Roaring in protest, Bear reared up again. “How dare you speak to me this way, Jackal! We are equals here!”

“Of course, Brother Bear. But some of us are more equal than others.” He stepped closer to the bear and leaned in close. “Do you want to see what deadly creature I use for retribution?”

Brother Bear looked at his feet to make sure he wasn’t standing on a trap door. When he looked back, he was staring down the barrel of a gun.

Jackal pulled the trigger. The bullet pierced Brother Bear’s silver mask right above the right eye.

“See? It wasn’t a snake,” Brother Monkey said to Serpent.

Brother bear hit the ground and collapsed in a heap of crimsons robes. The silver mask fell away, revealing an almost bloodless wound on a face no one knew.

The remaining members of the Crimson Menagerie looked at the scene before them, trying to understand the significance of it all.

Brother Wolf spoke first, “What are you up to, Jackal?”

Several servants dressed in matching uniforms entered the room. The Jackal handed the still smoking gun to one of them as the others began tending to the corpse.

“Is this a coup?” asked Jaguar.

“No,” said Jackal. “It is the natural order of things. There must be a leader.”

“We are equals,” Eagle said. “This is a democracy.”

“Democracy has gotten us into this mess. I do not trust it to get us out. Under my leadership we will finally be able to move forward with our plans. Instead of chasing our tails.”

“We won’t stand for this,” said Brother Gator as he rushed around the table and came face-to-face with the Crimson Jackal.

The man did not give an inch. He waited calmly for Gator to arrive and pointed to a nearby chair. “Would you be more comfortable sitting for it?”

Jackal and Gator locked eyes as best they could through their masks. Then Brother Gator balled his fists, opened them, and returned to his place at the table.

“But what about Cason?” asked Brother Octopus. “Maybe he can’t find the fleet, but he knows too much about us.”

“He must be stopped; he’s cost us too much already,” said Warthog.

“We will deal with him,” Brother Jackal assured them. “But we’ve been using an axe when what we need is a scalpel.”

“A scalpel?” hissed Serpent.

“An old surgeon’s tool,” Jackal explained. “Cason is a cancer. We remove him and the threat stops growing.”

“We’ve sent assassins after him,” brother Octopus said. “Avalanches, armies and navies! Everything.”

“Not everything,” Jackal said.

“What haven’t we tried?” asked Eagle.

“A close friend.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Wolf.

“I’ll handle Cason myself,” Jackal said. “You find us a new Brother Bear.”

24

“You went to Halcyonopolis!” Brask was up on his feet and slapping his desk for every syllable he uttered. “The Alliance doesn’t even acknowledge those weirdoes exist! As far as official channels are concerned, it’s not even a real place!”

“It is though!” Cason fired back. The entire conversation had been shouting. “You know how I know? Because every time the super-secret private army you like to pretend doesn’t exist fired a missile at it, something blew up!”

“Do you have any idea how much trouble your mere presence on that boat has caused me?”

“My presence on…Are we just skipping over the part about the private assault force that tried to put it on the bottom of the ocean? Shouldn’t that be your primary concern?”

“Don’t you know what you call a million cultists on the bottom of the sea?”” Brask asked. “A good start.”

“We’re making jokes now?”

“This whole thing is a joke! Do you have any idea about the history of these fools. They think they’re not part of the Alliance just because they say they’re not part of the Alliance. How crazy is that? It doesn’t work like that.”

“Aren’t we fighting a war because a bunch of planets just said they aren’t part of the Alliance? Didn’t we start this intelligence agency because a lot of people simply made the call to leave?”

“That’s different!”

“How?”

“These freedom people are crazy.”

Cason was going to get dizzy going around in circles like this. “You should still, at the very least, as head of the intelligence branch of the Alliance effort here on Earth be concerned that someone has amassed an army right under your nose.”

“My nose?” Brask said. “You’re the super spy! You’re the one that likes to call yourself an asset!”

“That’s what spies are called, Brask. I don’t know what to tell you. Now what are you going to do about the Crimson Menagerie?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing,” repeated Brask. “They aren’t bothering the Alliance.”

“You just said Halcyon was a part of the Alliance whether the freedom weirdoes admitted it or not.”

“That’s not what…” Brask stammered and then shifted gears. “Quit trying to change the subject. This attack is all your fault, anyway.”

“Oh, I have to hear this,” Cason pulled out the chair and sat down at Brask’s desk. “How do you figure this is my fault?”

“If you hadn’t gone there, they wouldn’t have followed,” Brask spoke as if he was testing out what his theory would sound like aloud. He heard it, decided he liked it, nodded and continued. “Instead, you led an unauthorized investigation into a political minefield which resulted in the first armed conflict on our planet in years. You’re lucky you’re not being investigated for murder.”

“It was self-defense.”

“With air support? And power armor? It sounds pretty premeditated to me. And where did all these bears come from, anyway? What the hell is going on, Maze?”

“I’ve told you. A secret organization called the Crimson Menagerie has taken a page from history and formed a secret cabal and funded a private army to steer the course of the Alliance from the shadows.”

“Oh please. I can’t believe you’re sticking with this insane story. You’ll say anything to avoid responsibility.”

“So, what’s your theory? Where did all the explosions come from?”

Brask sat at his desk and thought. He picked up a metal top and tried to spin it. It fell over and he tossed it away in disgust.

“No theory?”

“Pirates,” Brask said suddenly. “We know these whackos like stirring up trouble with pirates. They were pirates.”

“There haven’t been pirates on Earth in fifty years,” Cason said.

“Oh, I see. Your secret origination of shadowy figures can come back from history, but not pirates. Oh, no. That would just be silly.”

“So, shouldn’t we go after the pirates?”

“I think we should just let your new friends handle them, since they’re so keen to start a war.”

“So, we’re going with a pirate attack as the official explanation?”

“Not so fast!” Brask snapped. “I see what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to pass the buck. Well, you’re not getting out of this that easily. You still have to answer for your part in this.’

“How do you think any of this is my fault?”

“This agency has dozens of agents, but somehow, you’re the only one that has things explode around them. Why is it that trouble finds you and only you?”

“Because I’m the only one doing anything. Because I’m the only one in this office, present company included, that seems to give a damn that there are real threats out there!”

“Threats to who? Your boss? His cronies?”

“Threats to the Alliance! Threats to the people of Agora and Ouray! Threats to Halcyonopolis!”

“As far as I’m concerned, you’re the only threat that matters. It’s your meddling that’s drawing out these attacks. Our other agents don’t go antagonizing people. They don’t pursue and they don’t cause trouble. Did you ever think of that? They investigate and report and mind their own business. You dig and things explode. We need to let the authorities handle any problems.”

“We are the authorities! This is on us! When we suspect a threat to the safety of the Alliance and its people it is our duty to investigate and intervene to prevent harm. Not just send it up the chain.”

“Okay. You’ve investigated. You’ve investigated until things blew up and caught fire. So, tell me, what have you learned? Who are the people behind this secret organization?”

Cason remained quiet. They had learned nothing. Nothing concrete. It was all for nothing. The trail had gone cold. Even the bodies from the invasion force on Halcyonopolis had come up blank in the Alliance systems. There was no answer Brask would accept. And he had no answer to give him, even if he would.

“That’s what I thought,” Brask said after it was clear Cason had no answer. “I’ll forward your extensive evidence to the defense force. They can handle this. As for you, I’ll have you—”

“I quit,” Cason said as he stood. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it, Algernon? You wanted me gone, so I’ll leave. The defense of this planet is too important to be left up to you, anyway. You know, I don’t know if you’re working for them or not. But you might as well be. You’re a bigger threat than any terrorist could be.”

Cason was out the door before Brask could start putting words together.

“And you’re a terrible manager.”

25

The Xiphos complex outside of Nairobi made their offices at SkyReach Tower look like a fly-by-night operation by comparison. As they drove, Owen explained the Agora branch was essentially a showroom. The facilities in Kenya were where the real work happened.

Cason rode in the passenger seat of a Xiphos assault vehicle that had literally rolled off the assembly line moments before. Owen had given him a tour of the factory and demanded the ignition code from the foreman. From there, he had received a whirlwind tour of the sprawling campus, all while enjoying that new tank smell.

There was plenty of activity. Soldiers drilled, weapons were tested and trucks, tanks and atmospheric fighter craft were transported from their assembly lines to the marshaling yard by an army of Xiphos employees.

Cason was taken aback by the scale of it all. “How have you built all this so fast?”

“It wasn’t hard. People just needed purpose. Most folks had forgotten what it was like to have a purpose. It hasn’t been a part of Alliance culture for decades. But suddenly, we’ve all got something worth working for. In a weird way, we may owe the Hama a thank you for reminding us of that.” Owen steered the assault vehicle toward one of the larger buildings in the complex. “That’s why you’re here. Isn’t it?”

“I’m here because I hate my boss,” Cason said.

“Yeah, but you hate him because he wasn’t letting you do what needed to be done. So, it’s the same thing. You, and all these people, are here because Xiphos isn’t just talking about how we’re going to make a difference, we’re out there making it. And with you on board,” Owen reached across the cab and slapped Cason on the back, “there’ll be no stopping us.”

Owen brought the vehicle to a stop in front of a massive hangar.

Cason looked from one end of the building to the other. It was absolutely massive and amazingly dull. The wall was white and completely featureless. There wasn’t so much as a drainage pipe in sight. “This place is huge. What do you make here, Owen? Starships.”

“Nope.” Owen approached the seamless wall and raised his hand. A door panel retreated into the wall and slid back to reveal a doorway. “Here we make super spies.”

They stepped through the secret door into a cavernous space filled with nothing but darkness and cold. The floor and walls were covered with a grid of black and white squares measuring an inch across.

“This is our holographic training facility,” Owen said as he hit the lights.

Between the volume of the building and the pattern on the walls, the space looked as if it went on forever in every direction. It was hard to fathom the sheer size of it.

“We can create any training scenario necessary.”

The floor vibrated beneath Cason’s feet as the walls and ceiling came alive. The grid surface began moving as segments raised or retreated, forming obstacles. Holographic projectors activated, laying imagery over the newly formed surfaces to create a setting. Stone walls were erected, and the floor turned to sand. The sunlight blared from overhead and the air grew warmer until it was stifling and difficult to breathe.

In a matter of seconds, Cason found himself back in the marketplace desert planet Shandor, looking up at the palace where Meena and her crew had been held captive.

“What do you think?” Owen asked. “Did we capture it?”

Cason marveled at the accuracy of the recreation; the heat, the dry air, even the grit of the sand in the air had been precisely simulated. If only it had a bustling population, it would be like being back on planet. “I seem to remember more bad guys.”

“We’ve got those, too,” Owen said as dozens of featureless robots rose from the floor. They stood motionless in their raw form for only a moment before the holographic projectors transformed their appearance to match the citizens of Shandor. Once masked in their new skins, they began milling about the market setting, much like real Shandorians.

“We can recreate any situation and populate it with allies, enemies or bystanders. We run candidates through here in various scenarios. We can test everything from intelligence gathering to handoffs. All things I’m sure you’d have no problem passing. Child’s play for you.”

“I never considered myself much of a super spy.”

“Oh, please,” Owen said and reset the machine to neutral. The holographic projectors shut down and the dimensional objects retreated into the floor. “You out super spy me on my best day. I’m glad you’re here. We need you. And I don’t mean just Xiphos or even me. The Alliance needs you. This war effort needs you. The people in our government are well intentioned, but they aren’t ready for this. They may have the resources but they don’t have the will. At Xiphos, we have both.”

“They’re doing their best,” Cason said, but he couldn’t figure out why he was defending them.

“Years of peace have made the Alliance useless. We have to step up or the Hama win. It’s will that runs the world. The sheep have been running things for too long, and if we let them run this war, we all lose.”

Cason was quick to agree but he didn’t have an argument. Until the Alliance adjusted to the times and shed the bureaucracy, they were going to find themselves on the losing end of the conflict with the Hama.

“So, here’s the deal,” Owen said as he walked over to one of the machines and rapped it on the head. “The environment is holographic but the physical structures are solid, thanks to our tactical flooring here. The scenario will be populated with robots. They’re going to look like people, but don’t feel bad about slapping them around if you have to. I would try to spare the innocent ones. It’s just nice to be nice.”

“I thought you said I’d have no problem passing.”

“Oh, we won’t be running the intelligence test. I know you’d crush it. It would just be a waste of energy. But there is one question I still need answered.”

The secret door opened briefly and the outside sun poured into the room silhouetting a large figure.

“Good afternoon, Stane.” Cason couldn’t help but smile at Owen.

“Sorry, buddy,” Owen Kael said with a shrug. “I’ve gotta know.”

Stane walked into the room without a word and stood across from Cason.

Cason offered to shake but Stane wasn’t interested in anything but staring down his opponent.

“Now, we just need a place for two field agents to duke it out,” Owen said with a clap. “And I have the perfect place.”

The floor and walls began restructuring themselves as the robots spread out around the room. The holographic projectors flickered to life as classical music played softly. In the blink of an eye, the three of them were standing in the grand ballroom of an elegant mansion surrounded by women in ballgowns and men in tuxedos. Chandeliers lit the room, and the floor was polished to a reflective finish.

Cason looked down at his own attire and was surprised to see that he was in a holographic tux as well. By the time he looked back, Stane’s outfit had also changed.

“This one is simple, boys,” Owen said. “It’s spy vs spy. Cason, you’ve infiltrated a really nice dinner party in a classical European estate and accessed state secrets. Now you have to get away with the information while Harlow tries to stop you.”

Cason realized that Stane had not taken his eyes off him the entire time. He must not have found the room as fascinating as he did.

“Over there is your exit.” Owen pointed to a green light marking a door located on the upper balcony. “It’s really simple. Cason, get out. Stane, get Cason.”

“Best of luck, Stane,” Cason said and offered his hand to Harlow once more.

The security man responded by shoving Cason into the ballroom.

He fell backwards across the dance floor until he crashed into an android the projector had re-skinned as a waiter. This sent a silver platter full of drinks crashing to the floor. The collision felt like bumping into another person; not a machine. It was all too real.

The platter crashing and the glass breaking drew the attention of the entire room. The machines reacted like real people; once satisfied, their focus returned to the party.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Cason said to the waiter as he bent down to pick up the platter.

“Yes, sir,” the waiter replied with obvious contempt.

Stane charged across the ballroom floor. He must have had other things to do today, as he seemed in a hurry to beat up Cason and be done with the exercise.

Cason stood up and swung the platter just as Harlow arrived. The clang it made as it connected with the man’s face drew the attention of the crowd once more.

Harlow went down on top of the spilled drinks. If he was injured by the broken glassware, he didn’t show it. He rolled over immediately and started to get up.

Cason brought the platter down on the back of Stane’s head and sighed as the man dropped to the floor once more.

“Sorry again,” Cason said and handed the bent platter back to the waiter as he began his dash across the dance floor to a grand staircase.

The other guests at the party were gawking at the altercation and staring at him as he ran. Afraid of what he might do next, they did not try to stop him and only gasped and backed away whenever he approached. If all he had to do was get up the stairs and exit the door marked by the green light, this was going to be easy.

Two large men in black suits were hurrying down the staircase. They moved in sync and were roughly the same size. They weren’t gasping or backing away like the rest of the crowd and by the time Cason hit the bottom of the stairs, they had stopped trying to blend in altogether and moved right for him.

Owen had said he could slap them around but he still wasn’t too keen on trying to punch a machine. Based on his collision with the waiter, he had to assume it would be like fighting a human. He hoped they would play the roles they were assigned.

The first man reached out for him as he came down the stairs.

Cason grabbed the arm and spun. If the machine wasn’t willing to play along, it would remain firmly planted on the staircase and he would have to think of a new way up. The machine flew over his shoulder and crashed to the dance floor below. For a split second, during the bounce, the machine was out of alignment with the holographic projector and Cason could see the robot beneath the façade.

Good, he thought, he could hit them just like people.

He turned back around and caught a fist across the jaw. The blow sent him tumbling back down the stairs and onto his back. He slid across the polished dance floor for a few feet before coming to a stop. He rubbed his face. It hurt like hell, but it could have been worse. Thankfully they hit just like humans, too.

So, it wasn’t just him against Harlow. It was him against, potentially, the whole room. Every machine could be a foe.

Cason got to his feet as the second guard reached the bottom of the stairs. Stane was coming and the guard he had thrown was back on his feet. If he didn't act fast, the guards would quickly outnumber him.

Tackling the guard on the staircase confirmed once more the machines were willing to cooperate with the scenario. But it was still a machine and the android’s metal frame bit into his shoulder as he made contact and they both hit the staircase.

Cason sat up, grabbed the guard by the tie, and punched it in the face. The guard went limp. It was just like punching normal faces. Cason’s hand didn’t break but it was going to bruise.

He could hear shouting behind him as Stane barked orders at the other guard.

Cason started up the stairs for the door but had only gone a couple of steps when the other guard grabbed his ankle and tripped him. He caught himself and turned to face his attacker. After a couple of swift kicks to the head, the machine lost its grip on Cason’s ankle and he was free to scramble up the stairs.

Stane was shouting from below when Cason reached the door and grabbed the knob.

As soon as he touched it, the room went black.

“Sorry, buddy.” It was Owen’s voice, filtered through an intercom and pumped into the room. “It can’t be that easy.”

It was instantly hot. Oppressively hot. Even hotter than it had been when the room replicated Shandor. He was already sweating.

The floors and the walls moved as the room reset and re-skinned itself, changing from an elegant ballroom to a factory setting filled with cauldrons of molten metal. He was still on an elevated level, but the floor had become a grated metal catwalk suspended above the main floor. The staircase before him disappeared entirely, leaving Stane glaring at him from below.

The room finished reforming into a steel fabrication facility. Conveyor systems rolled and cranes shifted around overhead, transporting cauldrons of molten metal about the factory.

At the far end of the room, a green light appeared over a set of doors on the lower level.

The two guards rose from the ground. Their suits gone; they now wore flame resistant coveralls, thick gloves and hard hats. They were armed with sleever bars, spud wrenches, and other tools of the steelworker trade.

Several more of the machines joined the group, wielding metal working tools that could easily move a girder or crack a skull.

One of the machines handed a large spud wrench to Stane. He swung it a couple of times to get the weight of it and then used it to point to Cason. “Get him.”

The workers raced about the room, each running to a ladder that would bring them up to Maze’s level.

Cason wasn’t going to wait around for them. The platform wobbled under his footsteps as he raced along the catwalk, sweat dripping from his face from the heat radiating off the cauldrons.

Stane and a few of the workers tried to keep pace with him below; but they were forced to navigate around the factory equipment and fell behind. There was no shortcut to be had over the glowing red steel.

Some of the factory workers had reached the catwalk and were running after Cason now. They banged their tools against the railing as they went, driving him faster forward.

He reached a junction and had to take a path to transverse the room to another set of suspended walkways. This would give his foes below a chance to make up ground, but he had no choice. His feet rattled the metal bridge as he went, the heat increasing as he passed over to the production line of molten metal below. He wasn’t sure how they were creating such localized intense heat in the room but he got the impression that if he loitered too long over the cauldrons, his soles would melt. Moments before he reached the next junction, a steel worker stepped out in front of him and blocked his path.

Cason stopped and then turned to run back.

Two more workers had caught up to him and were now blocking his retreat.

The worker in front of him advanced.

Cason moved cautiously forward.

The worker swung and Cason leapt backwards. He dodged the follow-up backhanded swing as well and then raced forward when the worker raised the bar above his head for a crushing blow. Having closed the distance, Cason was inside the swing. It missed and the bar struck the metal rail with a BLANG he felt in his feet.

He put his right hand on the bar and held it in place while he drove his left elbow into the machine’s face. The worker released the bar and stumbled back from the blow.

Cason brought the bar up in time to block an attack from the worker behind him. The two metallic tools vibrated from the impact, causing it to sting his hands like a wonky hit in little league. He grimaced at the sensation and wondered if the machine even sensed it. Despite the pain, he kept his grip on the bar, and when the worker raised his wrench to swing again, Cason was able to strike first and catch the machine under the chin. This knocked the worker back into its companion and sent them both tumbling to the floor of the catwalk.

Cason turned as the first worker was back on the attack; but this time Cason had the weapon. He cracked the man across the face with the bar, reminded himself it was just a machine and swung again. The machine screamed just like a man as it toppled over the railing and fell into a cauldron of molten steel.

“It’s just a machine,” Cason told himself as he raced across the bridge and turned onto the next catwalk. “It’s just a machine.”

Ahead of him, two of the machines were using their tools to attack the catwalk itself in an attempt to bring it crashing down. Cason sped up, trying to reach the machines before they could collapse the suspended walkway. He hadn’t made it very far when the first support gave way. With the floor beneath him leaning to one side, he turned to run. He had taken only a few steps when the last support let go.

The floor fell out from underneath him as the catwalk collapsed on one end and sent him rolling backwards to the ground level. Once he hit the floor, the momentum carried him a few more rotations until he crashed into the wall and struck his head.

He groaned from the pain and slowly opened his eyes to see where he was. To his surprise he had crashed into the doorway beneath the green light. It was the exit. Maybe.

Cason winced as he reached up and touched the doorknob. His head hurt; his hands hurt; he wanted this to be over.

The room went black once more, and the heat vanished as quickly as it had formed. It was replaced by the heavy humid air of the coast as the smell of the sea permeated the space. Not the good smell of the sea that beckons sailors and invigorates beach goers; it was the smell of dead fish and raw eggs covered in heavy oil mixed with low tide.

By the time Cason had gotten back on his feet, he was standing in a moonlit shipping yard filled with stacks of cargo containers and grumpy dockhands, upset they had drawn the night shift. Far overheard, a crane moved, shifting the containers from one pile to the other. In the distance a foghorn blew.

The green light blinked on at the other end of the room and Cason searched for the sleever bar he had taken off the steelworker. It had disappeared from his hand without him even noticing it. The technology in the room fascinated him, but answers would have to come later.

Owen’s voice boomed over the intercom. “You’re running out of chances, Stane!”

The machines hadn’t spotted him, and he couldn’t even see Harlow. The security chief was out there somewhere, probably getting madder that Cason kept reaching his goals. He felt it best to approach this particular challenge by avoiding his enemies all together.

The rows of shipping containers made it an ideal location for sneaking around. It was probably why so many illicit things happened on shipping docks to begin with.

Cason edged his way to the end of a container and peeked around the corner. A trio of dockworkers peered into the dark looking for their prey. Forward wasn’t an option so he climbed.

Stacked three high, was almost thirty feet to the top of the containers, but the height made it easier to move around without being spotted by the men below.

The containers were lined up end to end and Cason was able to cross the shipping yard silently and unseen. Leaping the gaps between the stacks, he made it about halfway to the exit before the machines spotted him.

It was his own fault. He leapt the distance between two of the containers and landed too hard. The sound was enough to get the attention of the machines on the ground.

“He’s on the containers!” Stane shouted. The security chief was close by.

With his position given away, Cason pushed harder, sprinting across the containers at full speed; watching and waiting to see a hand or head appear in his path. He was so certain they were coming for him, he forgot to watch the sky.

The crane’s hook came flying in and crashed through the container in front of him just before he jumped. The sound was thunderous and shrill as it tossed the forty-ton container like it was nothing. Twisted metal crashed to the ground, cracking the container open and spilling its contents on the dock.

Cason teetered on the edge of the container, pinwheeling his arms to stop from falling to the ground below.

A shout from behind him confirmed the dockhands had been climbing to get him. They started popping up all over the yard like hook-wielding prairie dogs.

The crane had only knocked the top container from its stack. Cason leapt for the ones left behind. Dropping nearly ten feet meant he would hit the container hard, so once he landed, he rolled forward to distribute the force of the impact, and resumed running. He leapt for the next stack as the crane returned for another pass. It knocked out the remaining containers and several dockhands that had followed Cason after he jumped.

Cason was focused on making it to the exit but he risked a glance at the ground. Stane was keeping pace and trying to pull ahead. If he beat him to the exit, Cason would have a large angry man to deal with. He leapt another gap between containers and caught movement on his right.

The crane was coming back. It was going to be close.

It swung low this time, intending to take out everything beneath him.

He reached the edge and leapt as the crane connected with the pile. Cargo and steel went everywhere. The only upside to the carnage was that the crane had become entangled in the wreckage and struggled to pull itself free for another strike.

Cason checked on Stane. The security chief had not been crushed, but the contents of the container blocked his path and he was looking for a way around.

Pushing harder, Cason raced across the final container where he slid to a stop and dropped off the edge. He caught the lip of the container as he fell and used the latches and hinges as footholds to descend to the ground. There he found himself standing at a chain link fence. The green light was to his left, pulsing above a nearby gate.

He looked to see Stane charging towards him, but the man was nowhere close.

Cason opened the gate, and the room went black. This time it stayed black.

He took the opportunity to sit down and rest; his legs were toast, and he was breathing so hard he wasn’t even sure the air was staying in his lungs long enough to do him any good. Whatever Owen threw at him next; one thing was for certain: he wouldn’t be running anymore.

“This isn’t going well for you, Stane,” Owen said over the speakers.

Somewhere in the darkness, Harlow screamed in frustration.

“So, I’m going to make this one as straightforward as I can,” Owen continued.

Thunder rolled and rain fell as the room reconfigured itself once more. Brick walls formed on either side of Cason, forming a narrow alleyway complete with rusted fire escapes and rank dumpsters. Rats scurried and cats gave chase, but in the middle of it all, Stane stood alone, brooding and soaking wet.

The dockhands were gone, and they had not been replaced by any themed character fit for the environment. It was just Cason and Stane.

“This is your last chance, Stane,” Owen said.

Behind the security chief, at the end of the alley, a green light illuminated the final exit.

Cason examined the setting. The fire escapes were inaccessible. He saw no doors or windows. There was no way over or around the alleyway. He had to go through the alley and through Stane Harlow.

“There’s no running this time, you coward!” Stane shouted. “It’s just you and me.”

His breath caught, his legs somewhat recovered, Cason nodded and walked into the alley.

He had studied several forms of combat and knew of several systems that would be ideal for facing an opponent like Stane. Some used agility, some used weight and leverage, but sometimes you just wanted to punch the hell out of someone. Cason screamed as he charged through the puddles and threw a wild right for Stane’s head.

It was too wild, and Stane was ready for the sloppy punch. He slipped the right and hooked a left into Cason’s ribs.

Cason came back with an elbow into the side of Stane’s head and then drove his left fist into his enemy’s mid-section.

Stane seized Cason’s wrist and yanked him forward, pulling him down and exposing his back. He held him while he delivered a haymaker to the base of Cason’s neck.

“I’ve heard so much about you,” Stane said as he raised his fist again. “Maze this. Maze that.”

Cason grunted as the second blow landed on his neck.

Stane raised his fist again. “I’ve really been looking forward to this!”

Cason sprung forward and stood up quickly, driving the top of his head into Stane’s jaw. The blow was enough to get his wrist back and his opponent stumbling backwards.

Stane felt his mouth and pulled his hand back to find his fingers covered in blood. He grinned through red stained teeth. “I’ve been thinking about beating the hell out of you since we met.”

“I hate to tell you this, Stane, but I hadn’t given you a second thought.”

Stane growled as he charged. Cason stood his ground. This was no longer about a job interview; both men wanted to hurt the other. And there wasn’t going to be anything fancy about it.

Harlow kicked Cason in the chest and sent him flying back into a pile of garbage against the alley wall. Stane raced after him, but Cason came out swinging a trash can. He bashed the metal pail over his foe’s head until the handle broke off in his hand. The trash can was flat and blood ran down Stane’s hair.

Cason threw the handle at Stane as the security chief came at him once more. It bounced harmlessly to the ground about the same time Stane tackled him and drove him into the brick wall.

Harlow pulled the head butt trick and shot up into Cason’s chin before driving a combination of blows into his torso. If his ribs weren’t cracked before, they were now. It would probably hurt to breathe if Stane would give him a chance.

Bringing his elbows in, he managed to block a few of Stane’s powerful body blows and used his shoulders to get some distance off the wall.

Stane grabbed him by the neck and pulled him over in an attempt to drive a knee into his face.

Cason grabbed the leg, shoved forward, and the two men fell back into the alley. Stane went down in a puddle while Cason managed to stay on his feet. Stane sat up and Cason kicked him back down.

Cason stumbled over to a pile of debris and came back with a short two-by-four. He raised the plank over his head to make sure Stane stayed down but the security chief was done. Stane struggled to lift himself and then collapsed face down in the puddle.

He dropped the board and watched it bounce.

“Congrats, buddy,” Owen said. “Looks like the job is yours.”

Cason turned and walked slowly toward the green light and something to put on his ribs as the alley faded away and the room returned to neutral.

“Stane!” Owen shouted. “What are you doing?”

Cason felt Stane’s weight on his back before he felt the blade in his side. The pain was blinding.

“I don’t need you beat,” Stane growled quietly in his ear as he dug the blade in farther. “I need you dead.”

Cason pitched the man forward and felt the blade rip from his side. He didn’t even have a chance to check the wound before Harlow was back on his feet.

The alley was gone. The trashcan, the board, the puddles, all of it had vanished. There was nothing to use in his defense against Stane’s blade. Even his holographic tuxedo had faded away.

Stane wasn’t at his fastest. He was battered and bruised and desperate. It was the only thing in Cason’s favor.

The security chief made several lunges with the blade that Cason was able to sidestep or dodge. It was the follow up punches that hurt. They were landing too frequently. He was just as battered and bruised as his opponent, but he was also bleeding out from the wound in his side. He didn’t have much time left, it was time for a bold and stupid plan.

He let Stane stab him. It was only the shoulder, but it really, really hurt. Cason grabbed the knife’s handle and turned away quickly, ripping the blade out of Stane’s control.

Harlow recovered in an instant, punched Cason in the face and pulled him into a headlock. He started choking. It felt personal.

Cason pulled the knife out of his shoulder and drove it into the back of Stane’s thigh.

Stane screamed as Cason twisted the blade and dragged it across the man’s leg

Both men fell to the floor as Stane lost the ability to support himself.

Cason rolled away. He’d lost a lot of blood and needed to get out. He slowly rose to his feet and began dragging himself toward the outer wall. The door opened and Owen rushed in with a medical team that set about seeing to the two men.

“Are you okay?”

“Sure. If you don’t count the stab wounds,” Cason said.

“I don’t know what that was,” Owen said. “That’s not like him,”

“Well, how well can you really know a person?”

Owen got out of the way and let the medics tend to Cason’s wounds.

“How about that, Stane?” Owen said. “You cheated and he still won.”

“Cheating?” It was weak but Cason laughed. “I don’t know that I’d put attempted murder in the same category as bending the rules.”

“Regardless,” Owen said with a smile. “It looks like I have a new number two.”

The medics gave him something. He didn’t know what it was, but it acted fast and he soon felt as if he was floating.

Working with Owen meant he could make a difference in the world. Someone needed to fight the Hama. Someone needed to do the things the Alliance was unwilling to do.

But someone needed to protect the earth as well. It was tempting to take the job with Xiphos even if he didn’t agree with their workplace stabbing policy.

He looked over at the security chief and saw that Stane was getting medical attention as well. And that seemed a little unfair.

“What do you say, Case?” Owen asked.

He didn’t answer right away. Working for the MIP was out and working for Xiphos would be the smart thing to do. But just before he passed out, Cason had another idea.

26

Days later, Brother Eagle found the Jackal alone inside his lair, standing at the holographic table. The man pored over construction plans for a small twin-engine starfighter.

“Brother Eagle,” the Jackal said. “Did you miss your flight?”

“I wasn’t quite ready to head back to the Aerie just yet.”

“I have a spare cave in the back of the volcano if you’d rather stay the night.” Jackal swiped at the air. The starfighter vanished and was replaced by a large battlecruiser.

“I thought you were going to finish off Maze,” said Eagle as he crossed the room.

“I decided he was more valuable to us alive. If he is going to be the hound chasing scents, it might be worth putting a lead on him instead of putting him down.”

“Those are the kinds of calls we used to make as a group.”

“You don’t care for the way I’m running things, Eagle?” The Jackal stayed focused on his work.

“If I’m ever bothered, you’ll know.” The Crimson Eagle said with a chuckle and approached the table. “But the others may not be as understanding of these unilateral decisions.”

“I’ll make them understand.”

Brother Eagle reached into the center of the table and shut down the projector.

The Jackal looked up suddenly. “How dare you?”

“There’s no need to get upset, Brother Jackal. I’d just appreciate your undivided attention. If I were a younger man, I’d find your murder of Brother Bear and your seizing control of the group surprising. But as it is, your move was expected and, you may find this hard to believe, welcome. A group cannot function without a head.”

“I’m glad you agree with me.”

“I do. So, congratulations, you are the head of the Crimson Menagerie. And you shall remain that way as long as you make smart decisions that benefit the menagerie in general and myself in particular. Or there will be another head. It’s simple really.”

“I don’t need your permission, Eagle.”

“As you have demonstrated. But you do need my friendship. You made ten enemies today. The only reason you didn’t make eleven is because I can see your potential, Jackal. And no matter how ruthless you are, or how clever you are, you can’t do this alone. So, I shall be your friend and I shall remain your friend as long as it suits my purposes.”

Brother Jackal was silent for a moment, contemplating behind his silver mask, running the numbers and plotting, always plotting, the possibilities. When he finally spoke, he asked, “And what are your purposes?”

“They are my purposes. And I will never tell. So, you had better do your best to make sure your interests and my interests remain aligned.”

“You dare threaten me in my own lair?”

Brother Eagle laughed. “Oh, I dare. It’s not a coincidence that I wear the mask of an eagle. I have sat perched for years, watching with a gaze few can imagine. Studying everything. There is nothing I don’t know. It’s good to have a friend like me. But I make a terrible foe.”

The two crimson clad figures stared at one another, both coming to a silent agreement.

“Before I go, answer me this. The truth. I know there was a personal connection between you and this man Cason Maze. Is this connection why he is still alive?”

“I told you I—”

“Did you let him live?” Brother Eagle said slowly. “Or did he win?”

Brother Jackal took a deep breath and then hissed, “I did everything I could to kill that man.”

Brother Eagle nodded slowly. “Good. It’s important to know that we can trust one another.”

“Indeed,” Brother Jackal said. “Now let’s get you home.”

Brother Eagle watched as the Jackal walked around the table to escort him out. He was favoring his left leg as he walked, making his gait uneven.

“What’s with the limp, Brother Jackal?” the Eagle asked.

“That is none of your business.”

27

The Aetherwing swung wide around an iceberg as it made its way north gliding quietly above the water and ice flows.

Cason and Meena watched the iceberg drift away from the comfort of the main cabin and made their way through a fresh cup of coffee. The scenery was beautiful up on the deck but it was warm here and they were enjoying the quiet time together watching the Northern Lights dance through the cabin’s canopy.

“I could get used to this,” Meena said. “Do you think Harius is ever going to want his boat back?”

“He doesn’t anticipate being planet side anytime soon,” Cason said. “I’m not sure what he’s got planned off planet but if I were to make my guess, he’ll be opening another front on the war.”

“Do you think it’s right?” she asked. “What he’s doing out there?”

“Right or wrong, he’s doing it. It doesn’t matter much what I think.”

“But should a private citizen be allowed to fight his own war like this? Just because he has the resources?”

“He’s still on the Alliance’s side,” Cason said. “He’s one of the good guys. It’s just that he doesn’t have much patience for their processes.”

“I can see why it would upset the people back in Agora.”

“Of course. It makes them look bad. But optics aren’t going to win a war against the Hama. It might not hurt having someone willing to make decisions others aren’t.”

“Where does that leave us?”

“It was his hope that the Alliance and the Ministry of Information Processing would be able to handle threats to earth on their own, but I don’t think he ever believed it. He had a back-up plan.”

“Some plan, leaving it up to us to protect earth.”

“Brask isn’t going to do it.”

“How are we ever going to pull this off?”

“Thurgood made some provisions before he left. That means we’re already better funded than the MIP. And Professor Venn canceled the weekly bingo games at The Null so the scientists have time to serve as our R&D department. And the Halycons said we’d always have a home on Halcyonopolis ever since Atticus threw that bear off their ship. Not a bad network for a secret, secret spy organization.”

“He doesn’t have an army for us, does he?”

“No. It’s just the three of us.”

“Are you going to make Atticus a spy?”

“I think he’s more than proven himself. Though I’m not sure letting him take us on this slurps cruise was a great idea. It’s pretty out there, but I’ve got enough cold in Ouray.”

Atticus’ voice came over a speaker mounted in the cabin. “Attention. This is Captain speaking from bridge. Please put on jackets; we are arriving at our destination.”

Cason looked out the starboard window. It was dark out, despite being the middle of the day. The only lights he expected to see were the aurora borealis, twisting their way across the sky in colorful strands. He squinted at what could have been reflections in the ship’s window. But he thought he spotted something in the black night. “I think I see some other lights.”

Once they sailed closer, they saw the lights were part of a complex that sat on the ice floor. They saw a dock lined with flags and a large contingent of uniformed staff.

“Welcome to Polynya,” Atticus said as the Aetherwing turned toward the dock. “Is greatest resort here at the North Pole. Is only resort at North Pole. Luxury living at Peary’s Point.”

Docked and moored, they were welcomed by gregarious staff members who took their bags and promised them all a relaxing stay at the top of the world.

“What are we doing here, Atticus?” Cason asked after handing his bags over to one of the hotel staff.

“This is where boat goes,” Atticus said.

“The Halcyon?”

“Dah.”

“But we still don’t know why,” Cason says.

“I got you suite,” Atticus said. “Go unpack then join me for drinks on ice pack. Then we look up at lights. Is pretty.”

Once they were settled. They met Atticus on the ice pack. The hotel had arranged loungers covered in warm blankets and checked every fifteen minutes to see if their drinks needed refreshing.

Above them, the sky danced. Curtains of green and violet rippled across the heavens like delicate drapes hung to catch the starlight and transform it into a spectacle for those fortunate enough to seek it out. The aurora shimmered like it knew it was performing for an audience.

Their breaths fogged the air but the cold was forgotten as they watched the majestic interplay of the earth and a billion years of starlight. And beyond it shimmered every star in the night sky.

“It’s magnificent,” Meena said. “I can see why the professor would want to see this every year.”

“But he didn’t.” Cason sat up in his recliner. “He programmed the ship to come here, in the summer. It would be 24 hours of daylight at that time of year. Why would he program the ship to come here in the off season?”

“Dah,” Atticus said.

“You know something Atticus.” Cason smiled. “Don’t you?”

“The professor did not come to see the stars,” Atticus said. “He came for one star.”

“What do you mean, Atticus?” Meena asked. She was sitting up now, as well. Both of them watching the Vides watch the stars.

“It’s her birthday,” Atticus said. “July 20.”

“Whose?” Cason asked.

“Lyra Rhys,” said Atticus.

Meena gasped lightly. “The professor’s daughter.”

“Dah. This is anniversary trip. To celebrate her birthday each year, he commanded the eagle boat to bring him here so he could be close to her.” Atticus sniffled.

Cason asked, “Is your nose running because you’re cold or because you’re crying?”

“Crying,” Atticus said and wiped away a tear before it could freeze. “The idea of people with parents gets me all emotional.”

“But why did he come here?” Meena asked.

“Because he wanted to be closer to her,” the Vides said again.

“Atticus, I need you to stop being cryptic,” Cason said. He was eager to hear why Atticus was being so playful but wasn’t enjoying the game. “He can’t be close to her because she’s dead. Isn’t she?”

Atticus finally took his eyes off the night sky and looked at Cason and Meena. He was smiling. “Not technologically.”

“You mean, not technically.”

“Nyet.” His grin grew larger. “I mean not technologically.”

“What are you saying?” Meena prodded as she tried to climb out of the mountain of blankets the hotel staff had placed on her.

“The Urania,” Atticus said. “The AI did not fail.”

“History says different,” Cason said. He was starting to feel the weight of the blankets, too. Atticus was building to something.

“Nyet. It did not fail, because it was not AI.”

Meena was on her feet. “You mean…”

“Dah, Lyra is the Urania.”

“How?”

“Daughter was sick. She was dying. The professor could not save her body, but he could save her mind. But no single system was big enough to hold human consciousness.”

“Of course not,” Cason said. “It would take enough computers to power a…oh, my God.”

“A fleet,” Meena finished.

“Dah. Lyra is the Urania.”

“So, the AI on board? It wasn’t…”

“Was not crazy. Was just little girl.”

“Where? Where is it? You said he came to be close to it.”

Atticus pointed up into the heavens. “Life’s true light lies in true north’s sight.”

Cason looked up into the sky. “Polaris.”

“Dah. Polaris.” Atticus climbed out of his blanket cocoon and opened a satchel he had brought with him. From the case he pulled an old computer terminal and turned it on.

“Why Polaris?” Meena asked.

“Here on Earth,” Cason explained, “it’s the North Star.”

“It always points to true north,” Atticus said.

“How do you…How can you know this?” Cason asked. “I’m not going to say it doesn’t make sense. But it all sounds pretty farfetched.”

“Dah, I thought so, as well. So, I checked.”

“Checked?” Meena asked.

The terminal booted up. Atticus produced the small drive from the model of the Urania from his pocket and plugged it into the computer.

The terminal read the drive and initiated a communication program. The screen went black and a green cursor began flashing.

Atticus typed. “Hello?”

He hit return, and the cursor dropped to the next line, where it flashed again.

For the longest moment, there was nothing more than the flashing green cursor. Cason and Meena held their breath as they watched it blink. Then, after an impossibly long pause, a single word appeared.

“Dad?”

“My God,” Cason said. “How did you…”

“Breadcrumbs,” said Atticus with wink.

The cursor flew across the screen, revealing another line of text.

“Dad. Where have you been?”

Meena took a deep breath and took over at the keyboard. “This is going to be a delicate conversation.”

Cason and Atticus stood shoulder-to-shoulder, looking up at the North Star.

“So, Polaris,” Cason said.

Atticus nodded. “Polaris.”

“Atticus, you’re going to make a damn fine spy.”

“Dah,” said Atticus. “I told you so.”

THE END

If you liked Benjamin Wallace’s take on space,
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Shattered Alliance

Send in the Clones

Alone on Altair

The Crimson Gambit

JUNKERS

Junkers

Junkers Season Two

Junkers: The Missing Season

DADS VS

Dads Vs Zombies

Dads Vs The World

Dads Vs Zombies: Year 2

THE BULLETPROOF ADVENTURES

OF DAMIAN STOCKWELL

Horror in Honduras

Terrors of Tesla

The Mechanical Menace

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Table of Contents

- Title Page
- Untitled
- Copyright
- Preface
- 1
- 2
- 3
- 4
- 5
- 6
- 7
- 8
- 9
- 10
- 11
- 12
- 13
- 14
- 15
- 16
- 17
- 18
- 19
- 20
- 21
- 22
- 23
- 24
- 25
- 26
- 27
- Duck & Cover Series
- Also by Benjamin Wallace
- Join My Readers Group
- About the Author