 
### Loading Souls

By Dalen Buchanan

© 2012 Dalen Buchanan

Revised 2013

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

### Table of Contents

Chapter 1: Prologue

Chapter 2: Self-Guided Tour

Chapter 3: Exodus

Chapter 4: Down the Rabbit Hole

Chapter 5: Welcome Wagon

Chapter 6: Meeting the Neighbors

Chapter 7: Guerrilla Tactics

Chapter 8: Spraying off the Deck

Chapter 9: Trouble at Home

Chapter 10: Pornography Filters

Chapter 11: Mission Brujo

Chapter 12: The state of Texas

Chapter 13: Barksdale Boys

Chapter 14: Bustin up the VIP

Chapter 15: Players & Cribs

Chapter 16: Rolling Stones

Chapter 17: Boats Drinks & Piracy

Chapter 18: Not on the List

Chapter 19: Epilogue

Terminology

Read an excerpt of the Sequel

About the Author

****

### Chapter 1: Prologue

Pontifical Academy for Life

Vatican Gardens, Roma

2313 Anno Domini

"Our speaker for today's luncheon is Father Charles Luke, a scholastic brother of life sciences from the Academy for Sciences." Encouraging applause followed in the form of silverware striking bowls. The Academy clergy were calling for lunch. Father Luke rose to the podium and clasped hands with the Academy Secretary, "Thank you for your kind encouragement. Brothers in Christ, I bring today research from the Academy for Sciences related to bioethics questions that have troubled both our houses." A large screen focused on a graduation still of a young Latino in a Garda dress uniform. Viewing the uniform, many diners began murmuring to each other. "This is Jesus Navarro, a Templar Marshal now in our service. I will advise that this study relates classified information and should not be discussed or disseminated to the Laity." The screen changed to show two more Latinos. They wore the Templar tabards. "These are also Marshal Navarro. He came to our service from the Garda after his initial loss of life. I ask that you view the compressed mission log and see this guardian's life through his eyes. I warn that this contains violence and irreverent observations, even under medium filters. Be also aware that Marshal Navarro is an informed Catholic but a lapsed Church member."

Replay of subject Navarro, J

Excerpt of mission debrief DT-312-3

Narrative feed with medium paraphrasing

Another bright morning in the desert. The weather man promised a dry, hot afternoon. I already wished I had stolen a cab with air, or gone to a different cart for that sausage sandwich. My cab was parked in the back of the pickup lane of the Intercity bus terminal. A couple of _Militsiya_ , looking testy in their big hats and slung sub guns, were watching me slowly eat this awful sandwich with my service light off. I had turned away a fare already. They were beginning to question my work ethic; soon they might run me out of the lane. It could be a problem. I set up a frag order to my two _compadres_ and readied to send. One of them would have to come relieve me if the big hats came over.

Back in Urban Tactical School, I learned you can hack public transport for an insertion, but you better have your own ride out. So we came in mostly public. Three teams entered on buses from outside the city. Cabs with their toys were parked ahead by we few who knew how to roll an armory. The original drivers were locked in a garage for the duration. It was very low profile.

That was a problem with low income recruiting. Most of these boys had never driven in their lives. But they had the drugs and heard the word. You can speed learn almost anything in virtual on the right Cocktail. The hardest parts were sorting the aggressive from the merely hungry and training them into soldiers. Father Luke is uncanny for these kinds of crews; runs them like a Masonic temple on steroids. But the Father can get a little squeamish with the ethics. He's not always Need to Know.

The terminal doors slid aside and people getting off the buses began to stream out. My boys came out together, turning quickly toward the cab. I wiped the text and sent the call sign out instead. My Sergeants would be here within a minute.

Rafe and Etienne had my back. When I became the first Templar Marshal from North Mexico, they assigned these two Alsatian sergeants to me as a detached operations unit. Rafe was the older, a snake's disposition with small dark eyes and a large nose. Etienne was fair and the youngest of us all. They had only gotten me killed once so far and seemed sincerely apologetic. I appreciated the sentiments, and going in with a new body would be good cover.

Our recruits were very cosmopolitan about the new face in the plan. That was mostly due to a reliable effect of the right Cocktails. Good biochem can make or break an Operation and Saint Peter could fab up anything we needed in a few hours. He is Need to Know at all times. Even now he rode with us, through the Battlenet link.

My team loaded onboard while two more cabs lined up behind us for their own crews. The boys averaged about twenty-four, but seemed much older with the face hair and dark digital glasses. The look was reminiscent of some Krymchak Jews from Ukraine that visited Jerusalem. Disguising the face lines and aging up was my idea to make the video useless. All public areas would be submitting surveillance to the State apparatus within hours of any trouble. And we were delivering trouble.

As I wheeled my fare, they reached under seats and pried back panels to get to the tools. Etienne had put their body armor in the doors as a precaution. The boys slid on their combat loads with practiced moves and curious faces. We had appropriated local weapons straight from the army for them, trading more noise for coloration. We three Musketeers relied more on Combat Skins, but a breaching shotgun is pretty handy for this kind of B and E. Mine rode in a locking briefcase surrounded by foam and electronics. The leather matched my tasseled loafers.

The Refugee center was south of town over a river. The Christians here had been rounded up for their protection and made completely dependent on the jailors. Seems the criminal element and the street crazies really enjoyed having some turn-the-cheek Samaritans moving in next door. Their Pastor became a martyr in the first attacks. This Mission was mostly Bible belt Lutherans. Slow to violence, but a little overzealous when roused. The thoroughly corrupt regime had mixed responses to this, being as they made a bit of profit from the situation. When enough of the Christians got themselves killed resisting, the rest were labeled a cult and rounded up. After Mother Church read the mission reports and began receiving invoices for their upkeep from the regime, they sent us.

Father Luke had come for us in Jerusalem. The Templars were one of many specialized security units in and around the city. Some of the residents called us Hospitallers, but we were really there for the people, not the city. Most of it was just a re-creation of the original shrines anyway. It could be rebuilt again.

All of security was part of the Garda, but religious cultural protections required specially trained members. Our Rules Of Engagement were by committee. It was a judgment assignment that could burn career paths. They said you needed faith just to sign up for these teams. That was true, in as much as you needed to understand the culture to uphold its legal protections. Agreement with the philosophy was not strictly required. If you had an epiphany or experienced a conversion through interaction with the Christians or just hit your head really good one day, you could get transferred permanently to Templar service. But the Church had to see the sincerity.

Many Templar's did convert, which showed an appeal in the culture. I grew up among Catholics and found them mostly civil and friendly in an innocent way. But always at the top, the same hard eyed pragmatists, although much older in appearance than the norm. They formed a layer of insulation that let the flock live without seeing the Devil at every turn. And they were the ones that aimed us like arrows at their attackers.

The camp came into view shortly after the river, a big sprawl of concrete and barbed wire, just as I remembered it. There was a cloud of dust drifting over from the parking lot. Sunday morning visiting hours. After a few weeks behind the wire, the Christians were allowed to have visits from local Samaritans and lawyers. The Samaritans reduced upkeep costs, the lawyers were all for the prosecution. The Regime really wanted to nail down this cult charge thing before the church could send more attorneys.

I was dressed as a lawyer, but the suit was an incredibly bad fit. It made me look local. It also concealed about fifty kilos of custom combat exoskeleton. My four boys wore these ill made suits to complete their look, although their body armor was conventional homespun. We would only seem like a lawyer and his bully boys for a little while. Up close we would just be scary.

Subject Navarro, J

Mission debrief DT-312-3, Bookmark

Query; Subjective History

Father Luke was our Jesuit scholar. The Jesuits were the liaisons for direction of the Templars. They had supple minds that could deal with the Instrumental Pragmatism in vogue with the rest of the world. There was a historical precedent in the church that made the arrangement seem divinely inspired. From my point of view, it was better to deal with realists to preserve professionalism.

They had rules that showed concern for my individual well-being. That was a great benefit of Templar duty; the thought that they would always try to bring me back, not just because of the investment in training, but because I had an intrinsic value as a warrior for their Lord. Even if they also believed I had no soul. This job is full of paradox like that.

There was comfort few had anymore. Most toiled for any patron who would hire them until judged unfit for duty. Then you went on the Dole and sank into inconsequence, or emigrated offworld for adventure. If generating enough revenue for good credit you could get a Transference, a continued life in a new body. The debt would be paid off in a few decades and then you could find a new future with new patrons, if desired. There was a long waiting list. Anyone who could do the math saw that every year, about six percent of the population died. We had facilities to Transfer less than two percent. Several plausible explanations for the disparity had been offered. But it all came down to you took what was given and paid what was asked. If you had some private income, you could live as an upload while waiting. For those trapped on the Dole, we had the Lotto. A few million fortunate were awarded Transference every year. It is necessary to have hope, to promote domestic tranquility.

In the Garda, we could receive a body on a Medical Writ if killed or maimed in action. Approval was based on availability and your record. The special units had first draw on this zombie pool. We were an all-volunteer army and recruitment was not a problem.

However, Transference was a sore point with the Christians. It was the position of the church that when the body died, the soul went to Judgment. Translating a quantum model into a new body created a being they called a Zimboe. It would act in every way just like the original mind but was missing the bit of consciousness that constituted the immortal soul. They called the practice "False Resurrection." The concept was currently unprovable, the implications subtle. Christians were one of the few cultures that held this belief. When Christians died, they did so utterly. The right was available under the Protected Cultures Act.

The Jesuits had made peace with this idea when dealing with the secular world. They treated the Transferred as anyone else. Their only quirk was that they would not grant the sacraments of the church. We had no souls to save. Father Luke was considered scandalous by many of the other Jesuits for his practice of offering a blessing on us before perilous operations. He felt that we Transferred could be blessed as inanimate tools of the Lord's will; like a plow. The premise was insulting, but to receive a blessing before battle was a small comfort. It is an odd feeling to know that people will be praying for you while at risk. I think of it sometimes when working and retune my resolve.

For those Transferred Templars that were curious or found relations with Christians, the Church would welcome them to Mass, but the sacraments were for the spouse and children only. We were shadows in the pews, earning only smiles. On my last trip to Mass I was stared at by three small, whispering boys. It made me wonder what they heard. I had read the story of the original Templars, killed by their priests on Friday the thirteenth. Most times things change in small ways before the big change arrives.

But then again, Christian motivations were mostly pacifistic. The Garda manual called the form a non-profit Hagiocracy. Their God was non-corporeal and debatably uncommunicative. Priests would guide the converted to perform good works until his return. They did this with donations and a Protected Culture annuity awarded by the Union Senate. That award came only with a trip to the negotiating tables for a religious Cultural Charter. All the flavors of Christianity were to negotiate as a bloc. Some skeptics say the Charter was a muzzle to get more control over religious feuds. Others noticed the Vatican's centralized bureaucracy and large membership served them well in many of the negotiations. At the time, half of the Earth's population would claim religious status. A third of them were Christian, half of those were Catholic.

It became a Charter violation for any church official to incite harm to any group or person. This included libelous or economic harm. Christians may proselytize through mass mediums but may not proselytize individuals without permission. Christians could not be forced by an employer to violate their expanded ethics. Christians could get a Do Not Transfer order in place. There were a whole lot of other minutiae about digital harassment, large gatherings, economic plans and preferred correctional systems.

The one that concerned the Templar detached teams was, "Missions legally accepted in other cultures are extensions of the Church and enjoy the same protections." The inherent flaw in that provision was that Christians do not usually send missions to nice places. As a Protected Culture, the Garda had to assign security assets with the authority and training to enforce Charter provisions, wherever Christians might make a home.

The Garda ran the new section parameters against the cultural model. The Knights Templar were the obvious precedent. I was told that the Templars were old enough to be vague on details, but had good iconic recognition. It was still necessary to reassure religious scholars that we were just resurrecting the brand name. Most of them were co-opted into study or oversight groups, the better to appease their historical fears.

The section, once named and tasked, grew exponentially. As a cultural bloc, Christians now had rights to a percentage of all Transferral bodies produced annually. Since they did not use them, the rights were sold to the Garda. This provided costs for several real-time prisons and defrayed transportation overhead. The Church named the Jesuits to directorship of their use. The 280th Pope sent a Papal Brief in a crystal frame to make it official. Our Grand Master has it on his office wall.

A culture needed to seek protections during those times of change. The transition from nations was not a smooth process. It took a scourge of wars lasting too long to bring the exhausted combatants to arbitration. The arbitration grew to a movement for reform. Our economies and ecologies were too interwoven. It was too easy for small groups to cause worldwide suffering. We would recognize our differences, but protect all from harm. Our defenses would enjoy economies of scale while our economies could scale back on defense.

It happened gradually over generations. At first, nations joined in East-West blocs. This led to an economic Cold War of preferred trade networks. But the West had finally overcome their lack of a long view. Many leaders were now among the Transferred. They learned to leverage on their strengths, fewer mouths and more resources was too much advantage. One day, the East just defaulted. It was handled so well, most did not notice the change in leadership.

In another hundred years, nations became less relevant. Culture and belief were the commonalities for collective bargaining. Defense and economies were already globalized. Borders were porous. Management had become a world bureaucracy as millions of the dissatisfied were encouraged to vote with their feet to sponsored offworld colonies or alternative cultures.

We got a system that was hard to break, lots of safety valves and succession hierarchies. The colonies got their own mix of cultures and time to grow a market, using whichever socio-political model they could sustain. Find a niche and we'll check in on you, once in a while.

Subject Navarro, J

Restart mission debrief DT-312-3

Narrative feed with medium paraphrasing

We were at the first step to a long journey. Operations were always to the dark corners of nowhere. Places where all hope was for the future, because the present was really bad. This colony had been a dumping ground for criminal _vory_ and _zeks_ that the balkanized Soviet could do without. To keep them manageable, Mother Russia also sent generals with unpopular nationalist leanings. As soon as they arrived, the Generals raised old fashioned armies and began expanding. Lately, they were becoming a bit feudal in their dealings.

A Note of Understanding made with a troubled regime for acceptance of a Church Mission was now worthless. It seems the brother-in-law, who was high in the army, staged a _coup d'etat_ and declared that the previous administration's contracts were criminal malfeasance. They were debt free for about two years and then found they had no credit. They also had no real exports. The economy turned inward and began devouring resources in zero-sum trade. It was an engine for conflict. Peter must be robbed before Paul sees a dime. I find it depressing how many colonies fall into these historical dead ends. It's like they forgot how to read.

Parameters would have been very different for a Mission to that type of setting. Missionaries were positioned badly and overtaken by events. Out of the five thousand souls in country, estimates believed three thousand might still be viable. It was believed also that more losses would occur until the situation was stabilized. Saint Peter would work up a new mission plan and adjust on arrival.

We were assigned an eighty year old Ferengi class trade ship. They were common, although the class name had a strange history. It came with a shuttle, since the design could never enter an atmosphere. At five thousand tons, the starship was small, in need of a polishing and decidedly non-military. But it was relatively cheap to operate. The computer was upgraded with a Splinter of Saint Peter and a Fabricator filled the forward cargo bay. Six zombies were placed into cold sleep as misadventure insurance.

My first visit to the camp had been alone. Armed with a briefcase full of legal papers and my favorite Seville suit, I had attempted an assault of reason and vague consequences. The Minister of Defense agreed to meet me on the force of Church bona fides. Possibly, he thought I had the money. When he found that money would not be involved, I was handed over to a Deputy Minister and his aides for resolution to my problem. They offered an impromptu inspection of the camp which I could not refuse.

Once there, I was accused of a number of detentionable offenses including being a Christian provocateur. They must have heard something about the Church before I got there. I found myself a prisoner and very unpopular with the guards. While they beat me in shifts, I related the camp layout and schedules to Saint Peter. When they thought I was good and tenderized, they allowed me a teleconference with Father Luke. I used the uplink to plead for money and mercy from Mother Church. If I had really been a lawyer for the Vatican there may have been a chance of ransom. But Templars were never ransomed. It was a very old rule. So, after a month of talking to Father Luke, they set up a media camera and put me against a wall with a cigarette. I didn't smoke anymore, but the incongruity of being offered a mercy by these bastards momentarily stunned me. It tasted better than I remembered.

When the rifles spoke, Saint Peter brought me home.

Transfer of subject Navarro, J

Excerpt of mission debrief DT-312-3

Anthropometry – HC-Garda I

There is a trick in quantum physics called entanglement. It means that paired systems can transmit data over long distances without a visible connection. Some call it Quantum teleportation, but that term always makes people think about fantasy shows. It doesn't work with energy or matter. You just get an image of the other system's state in a superposition file. If you are within ten thousand klicks of a quantum computer that is entangled with another quantum device, then they can do this until they run out of paired particles. We're working on the range.

Now, human brains are not quantum devices. They operate on different principals. The invention of Transference translation allowed the brain to be described to a quantum system. The depth of detail was amazing. What you are reduced to is called a superposition file. That can be stored or transmitted like any other data. It is a record frozen in time.

What this expensive technology gave to me was a superposition file waiting in backup. There were six stored zombies to receive that imprint if something should happen. I had a few implants that let me speak with Saint Peter over distance, as long as I still had paired particles to swap. None of it could stop them from killing me, but it wasn't a permanent condition.

They shipped my perforated corpse back to Father Luke. To show they still had some appreciation for legalities, I guess. That was unlikely, but allowed them to deliver a message. It was depressingly simple, "Take your provocateurs and your sanctimonious arguments back to the Vatican and pay us what you owe." It had that uncompromising, single-minded clarity that always makes me think of wars.

We didn't actually leave. They had nothing working that could reach us in orbit. We just lifted consumables and my body into the shuttle one last time and orbited overhead like a baleful eye. The quantum model was imprinted to a zombie and I seamlessly found myself in a new body. For just a second, I tasted tobacco.

"Is anyone home?" I opened my eyes and saw Rafe looking down at me with a quizzical expression. Blurred specks moved across my sight, synchronizing vision to new eyes. Soon, he was in focus.

"It's a boy!" said Etienne, passing an imaginary cigar to Rafe. Rafe absently mimed taking the cigar but kept looking at me. I tried to say hello, but broke into a phlegmy coughing jag instead.

"Get some water. Raise the bed up." Rafe said. Etienne put a plastic cup to my lips, spilling most down my chest. My new lips were slow to remember drinking skills. "We had to intubate the body for Transfer. This little bay doesn't have a proper aerator."

"Saint Peter said he would fab one for the next time." Rafe offered, too little, too late. If I managed to get killed twice on this trip I would count myself unlucky.

"It's OK," I croaked. Etienne patted my shoulder and gave me a concerned look, "Sorry about getting you killed." Saint Peter and the Father had actually come up with the plan, but my _compadres_ signed off and felt guilty about the trouble.

"We snuck a Field Translator inside to back you up before the firing squad."

"These commissars would strangle a kitten for a couple rubles," Rafe said.

I made the right noises and reassured them we were brothers. Some of the memories were not pleasant, but you need to keep your friends close.

Rafe had a Christian woman that he would have to start over with if he got himself killed. The Jesuits would put his new body into the Templar line-up, but for his rank and file Christian neighbors, he would have to court his own widow. It was one of those funny "Don't ask, don't tell" arrangements the Church churned out when faced with paradox. So whenever the volunteering part of first contact comes up, Etienne and I split the duty. I had just lost the toss.

Later, after our reunion, Saint Peter smuggled us down to night side in the mountains and then went back to his usual supply airdrops. The shuttle was very stealthy compared to the sensors available in the Regime. But it was fragile and one of a kind right now. We would try to keep the hours below the required overhaul rating.

The team had been busy the month of my incarceration. Seeing the nature of the beast allowed Saint Peter to compile the War Chest. Everything known about the application of violence became a plan option. The ROE's and logistics would reduce these options, but it was still a lot of very scary activities that no sane person would ever want to be the target of. Unfortunately, the current regime would never be considered a sane opponent. This would be about levels of damage and political extortion. Well, that and overhead. The church was a non-profit and the Garda never had enough operating budget.

Saint Peter tapped their satellites, the ones still working. From that connection, no outdated cryptography could keep him out of their systems. Anything found on the network was sorted, classified and relegated to subprograms. A political flowchart sorted out the regime players. Photogrammetry created the terrain models. Cultural and societal analysis found the soft spots.

A regime this bad always has enemies. Their short time dealing with us showed they weren't even very circumspect about creating new ones. That spoke of a feeling of control. Their enemies weren't enough of a threat yet. Odds were low that we could put someone else in power and make it stick.

There was Terror, an ugly choice that would cause collateral suffering and probably endanger the Christians being held. Ugly would beget ugly until a side broke. We rarely ran with terror.

There was also no way Attrition was going to get our people back in any reasonable time period. Trying to involve the Navy in our dispute would take even more time. Instead the team agreed that the Sword of Damocles appeared the best plan. We could get enough zircon ore for almost nothing and refine the hafnium for an emission. The forging of the sword would be up to Saint Peter. Father Luke would be the salesman. He could be very persuasive.

That left three thousand souls who needed a new home, somewhere far from the hustle and bustle of a sick society in the thrall of gunmen. Their Mission would now be a safety valve for the dispossessed. They would be a coalescing point for a new society to emerge. Assuming we could get them out of the camp.

The Christians had been busy too, prior to their incarceration, gathering a flock of converts. Some of these people had been rounded up with the Missionaries and then driven out to a raw mountain range and left. One was shot to demonstrate the seriousness of their exile. They were told that they could live here, in the most godless wasteland available and that perhaps their faith would bring God back to this place. They should send word if they woke up one day in a green paradise. This was considered a grand joke by the guards, who laughed while removing selected personal belongings that had been overlooked in the first sweep.

In time their families who had escaped the sweeps found out what had happened and relocated with them. They brought all the wealth they could still carry off, not that it amounted to much. It was a bounty to the exiles, who were living off birds traps and evaporating plants in plastic bags for water. They became as the old Kurds, a crucible of wretched conditions and unnecessary death. There were only six hundred of them.

Father Luke made fast friends with a small application of care. We had brought settler kit for use by our Christians on relocation. Here in these hills he found Christians, so they received supplies routed to them through the smuggler roads they had all learned so well. That these supplies were found in the middle of nowhere and attached to parachutes drew little comment. Crates of old style weapons delivered by Rafe and Etienne served to introduce them to our martial arm. They could see we were serious about putting the fix in.

Father Luke supervised the growing of a Holding. Construction Nano shaped a network of caves out of the rock, leaving piles of separated ore. Power kernels turned loads of scrap into utilities. Food and equipment found its way over the hills to disappear under the ground. It was a low signature growth plan that tripled the living standard and fully employed the entire exile population. Within my month of captivity, the team had made a beachhead. We Templars had recruits.

Here is a trick Father Luke taught us that should find its way into the Field Wiki. We found a lot of kids from sixteen to twenty five who had no practical experience with violence, except as targets. Then there were a few men twenty six and older who had seen some action in one army or another. They had been using old house guns to drive away bandits and rogue army shakedowns. It didn't always work out so well for them, but the survivors learned and adjusted. They would make fine NCOs, if we could get them to maturity. These men had held the top rank in this little society until the Church came along. Meekly relinquishing control of their family's future was not going to happen. They would break quickly from losses and jockey for advantage. They carried grudges. So the Father would pick a few of the boys for speed learning in the morning. Just as a demonstration. Jack them up on Cocktail number 6 and strap them into the few Simulators we brought. He liked to slip a maimed boy into the mix on the sly. Little villages under attack always had a selection of these. He found a boy blinded by an explosion and took him away for a "medical evaluation." The family was only too happy to have us feed and take care of him for a while.

Just after supper time, when the villagers had had their fill of our good food and the Father had said a blessing, we brought them out. The first thing you would notice was that these boys had a different bearing. They looked serious and proud. There was a hint of nervousness, because many had had their position in this society beaten into them by the elders in the audience. But they had a peek at a future where they could do or be anything. They knew they would surprise the elders with what they could do. Father Luke's pep talks and the effects of Cocktail number 6 also played a big part in their transformation.

We would start the show slow. First they sang an acappella version of "Onward Christian Soldiers." It was an unfamiliar hymn for the villagers, but the translation gave them the words and the words were uplifting to any Christian militia. There were gasps as their sons performed solo bits and graceful harmonies. It was a choir of angels to the gentle of heart. But the fighting elders were not very gentle of heart. They saw no practicality to singing, missing the lesson of rapid coordination, and so we moved on.

A few of the healthier boys performed Kata and broke boards. A pair squared off in a Capoeira dance that was obviously martial combat training. This was most impressive to the fighting elders. They would have to think twice about beating these boys again. All of them wanted to know this new art. But the use of hands is not a thing easily done in a gunfight, so we moved on.

The last two boys were the most impressive to these hardened hill men. Father Luke led out the youngest boy selected and also guided the blind boy to seated positions on a blanket. The surprise at these two selections for a finale caused murmurs among the crowd. Rafe gently laid automatic rifles beside each boy. Father Luke made a show of consulting a stopwatch and softly said, "Begin." The boys broke the rifles down in a handful of seconds, performing jam clearing actions as they went. They reassembled the rifles in quick time, pausing at the last to chamber a round. The two of them grounded the butt of their rifles and fired one round straight into the air. It all happened in less than twelve seconds. The blind boy was actually the first to accomplish the task, due to his clever hands. But there was not a full second between their shots.

Neither boy had ever handled a gun in their short lives.

The villagers let out a raw animal sound. Many fell to prayer and shouts. The boys were returned to their families, still high on accomplishment and number 6. Father Luke brushed off the press of elders who wanted details and promises. We had set the hook, they would come by in the morning and hand us the keys to the village.

We fed them guerilla training and Cocktail number 7. They grew more serious than normal. The authority recognition portion of their brains had been dialed up a bit. It was a subtle effect. But it gave you steady men who would obey the command chain. Those who outperformed were shunted off into NCO and special teams. They got Cocktail number 9 and the advanced tactical schooling. It made them a little dreamy, blurring the line between training and off duty. They learned very fast this way, but most of the Elders in the NCO group found themselves abdicating their roles as village strongmen. They were sublimating the new rules, fed to them in the Code of Conduct and the Field Wiki. Their subconscious had hijacked most of their creative thought processing to do this. The Father assured them we would care for their families, while they became Christian soldiers, and all was well.

Sun Tzu favored provisioning from your enemies stores. That was the first written application of an accounting trick to reduce overhead in war. Saint Peter is very big on these economies. The regime's antique military network made it easy to divert materiel from one place to another. We sent supplies and the transport to carry them from other posts to a certain post nearer to our strength. Small bite shipments with layers of paperwork were stockpiled in a mobile artillery bunker next to a growing motor pool.

The supply sergeant on the receiving end of this bounty was approached by one of our new warriors who used to be a smuggler. "Would there be a convenient time we could drop by and pick up, say, a few cases of ammunition? Money would change hands and we could do further business." The sergeant was a known quantity from past exchanges with the smugglers. He welcomed the opportunity.

It was a bit of routine and a bit of terror for our newly educated recruits. The routine was the supply sergeant, arranging schedules with a staff sergeant to cherry pick the graveyard shift. He wanted just enough men for a watch, but not enough to dilute profits. The rest were sent on leave or to far corners, out of the way of business. The terror was rolling into that den of pirates armed with a pack of lies and some weaponized mosquitoes.

From the front gate to the bunker entrance, large clouds of the insects were released from a tray between the rear wheels, concealed in the line of tire dust. As insect predators went, they had an affinity for mammals. Heat and light attracted them, exhaled CO2 zeroed them in. They brought their own hypodermics. We had access to a lot of them around the villager's septic fields. Best of all, you just had to trap them, breed for girls and dip their beaks in the right mixture to weaponize them. We probably had a million of the little vampires, anesthetized in loose bricks. They wake up hungry.

The fight progressed across the post in suddenly appearing clouds of insects. Men with guns would swat and stumble away from lighted areas. Mosquitoes were not usually a problem here, so the window screens were a little too porous. The shacks and Quonsets were open doors to the insects.

Our weapons mixture was nanotech that sought the reticular activating section of the brain and began churning out neurochemicals. The bitten would become sleepy and lay down in a very natural way. They would find their will uncoupled from their motor control a bit before that. Saint Peter said it was a variant of surgical anesthesia. Testing showed no one lasting more that fifteen minutes from bite to sleep and the only evidence would disappear with their morning pee. The mosquitos that failed to find targets after a few hours would die when the nano cooked off. For our parameters; complete access without drawing an immediate military response, it was perfect.

Our Trojan truck rolled up by the bunker, dropping to an idle at the entrance. The driver was looking at the passenger who was having an animated phone conversation with some unknown third party. The passenger held up his hand to implore patience as a small cloud of stinging mosquitoes swept in behind the truck and scattered around the bay full of men. This was an annoyance to the Supply Sergeant and his guard. They swatted but stood to their guns.

Our smuggler agent concluded his conversation and jumped down from the truck, swatting a few mosquitoes himself and probably happy he had the antidote so no chemical factory was going to set up in his brain. " _Dobriy vyecher_ ," He told the Sergeant, a formal good evening to go with business. "My caller was telling me about a border guard unit crossing our trail out in the dark. Friends of yours?"

"No one I know tonight," said the Sergeant. "Just bad luck. I can schedule another time, but it will cost more."

"No no, let's wait a bit and let my man call me back. We'll sit in the truck until he says the way is clear and then we'll conclude our business with the Army."

The Sergeant did not like this delay, but saw no percentage in sending us back out for arrest. He also did not want his supplies in our possession if it should all go wrong somehow. So, he let the Smuggler go back to his truck then he found a chair and a bottle to nip while thinking about robbing this little bit of money and finding some other smugglers. Occasionally, he would swat a mosquito. "Damned hillbillies" I heard him say, through the canvas of the truck.

The driver was Etienne. Rafe and I sat in the back like caravan guards. Only our smuggler, who we called Lieutenant Fokin and the two troopers in the back with us were Christian militia. They were nervous, not sure where the training would take them. When the Gate guards had flipped the canvas for a quick look in back, Rafe and I gave them relaxed, confident poses. Our two troopers tried to look like young laborers in over their heads. It was believable because it was mostly true. To the gate guards, we looked exactly as expected and were passed through. We sat and listened to the hum of insects over the short drive to the bunker. Although covered in repellent, there were still a lot of mosquitoes busying around the back with us. Everybody got stung regularly for a few minutes. We wouldn't be going to sleep, but it was a part of the plan we could have done without.

When the first army guard slumped over, the other soldiers did not react. They seemed paralyzed, but it was a case of lights on, nobody home. Their open eyes focused on nothing. Soon the bay was full of slumbering soldiers. Fokin made another call on his phone. Our observer squad out at the fence line could see no movement on infra red. There were a dozen soldiers sleeping on the grounds. The men in barracks were undisturbed. It should stay that way for at least several hours. Our mosquito air force would continue hunting around here for that long.

We waited ten more minutes and got off the truck, swirling around the bunker bay with silenced automatics. No one challenged us. The Supply Sergeant had passed out next to a small radio. Fokin picked it up and asked for a status check. He had the slumbering Sergeant's accent down pretty well. No one answered. I told Fokin to call in the observer squad while we swept the perimeter. Etienne and I took one of the militia boys on a walk around the bunkers. Rafe took the other one over to the barracks for a quick reconnoiter. Other than picking a few soldiers up out of the roadway we saw no one moving until the first of our militia began streaming in from the gate.

A big limitation on this op was the shortage of drivers. We Templars and a couple of the militia could handle big trucks offroad in the dark. Virtual driving programs would deliver the basics to more, but without access to the trucks, we could see some bad decision loops leading to a wreck. Our one smuggler's truck was a smaller civilian model that handled very differently and was too valuable to risk on training. The compromise was that each of the qualified drivers would take a truck and lead another truck out into the free market collection of smuggler's trails. If they followed slowly behind us and stuck to our tire tracks, we could expect to get them home. Fokin would drive his smuggler truck back out, leaving no trace behind.

We taped up the lights and disabled the friend or foe transponders on eight trucks. They were loaded with our pick of supplies and lined up on the exit road within ninety minutes. The convoy slowly rolled out the gate and eventually split off in three different directions. We drove into the hills, exploiting surveillance blind spots to cache the bounty. Before dawn, it was all underground.

****

### Chapter 2: Self-Guided Tour

Saint Peter put together a media of the next morning at our request. Father Luke said it would both "Praise and inform" our militia, we just thought it would be really funny to show in the mess hall:

The supply sergeant woke to shouting. It was almost sunrise outside. His face was lying on the table in a small puddle of brandy and drool. He sat up with a start and looked around for his radio. He was still looking when two of his soldiers burst into the bunker bay shouting. "A bunch of trucks are gone, Sergeant. Everybody was knocked out" The sergeant looked into the bunker and saw empty shelves. The shift change would happen in a couple hours.

The Sergeant had been in this army a while and knew how military justice was served. He also knew that twenty men could not keep a secret. Claiming he would "fix it", he loaded some items in a truck and headed south. He had a brother in law with some land down there. He would lay up for a while on his bug out money.

At the shift change, a few soldiers could not be found to relieve. Most of the rest were very anxious to leave. This required some manhunts by military police to sort out. Not everyone was caught. But everyone that was caught talked. This all led to supplies, so the MP's found there was a real problem there. There was a mole. Someone was shipping supplies to this crooked sergeant. It looked like he heisted it all with some hillbilly smugglers and snuck out in the morning after getting drunk and falling asleep.

And that sleep business ... what is that about? How does a platoon of men just fall asleep? If they were gassed or poisoned then it should have shown up in the toxin screen or the gas alarm would have sounded. It was puzzling. Maybe they were all lying. But they had a mole and some smugglers to find. Those things they could do right away.

Fade away after narration with a lantern jawed MP Captain picking up his landline phone. We heard laughter and applause from our soldiers.

Saint Peter continued development of information for a few weeks after the premier of his popular sim. Most was conjectured from signal traffic and personnel actions. Probable accuracy rated high. I paraphrase a little here in the absence of exact recall;

The logistics portion of the Regime's creaking Battlenet was dissected by the brightest techs they could find. They broke down a lot of doors in the supply corps looking for staff they thought may have done it because they had the expertise. There would be a general purge of enterprising supply sergeants and their cronies. But nobody was confessing to the right shipments.

The smugglers too, were being uncooperative. There were images of the trucks leaving, but none of them signed into the Battlenet. They scattered like roaches and got back into the hills where the satellite coverage was thin. By the time they knew to divert some assets over there, it was too late. There was no sign of eight large trucks or anywhere that would serve to hide that many trucks.

The hills were filled with riff raff who no longer fit but weren't worth chasing. It also had a lot of subsistence nomads that didn't pay much attention to borders. The army liked to drop in once in a while and question people they could round up in a sweep. Looking for deserters they said. More like looking for what they could steal. These people hated the army and would sometimes fire off their granddad's antique and shoot somebody. It happened every night if they tried to bivouac. Any foray into that wasteland was going to take some serious support and a little better idea of where to look.

So they kept looking for their deserters and kept investigating themselves. The army sweeps in the hills were stepped up a little, but they were sniped at incessantly. The hill people with their antique rifles were much better at disappearing after a few shots. It became costly to enter the hills. Camps were deserted before they could get there. They found no evidence of gear for a small infantry company with heavy weapons support.

Army aviation sent overflights at random times and altitudes to crisscross the hills. Other than a few more tents around the Christian villages, it looked much the same as always. The recon flights and occasional sweeps by the Army were tracked on their own Battlenet. We always knew where they were and avoided revealing our equipment or training exercises.

Overhead in fuel and parts kept up the strain on the supply corps. When the Minister of Defense called for an expedition in force to the mountains, men and materiel were shifted to the nearest base at glacial speeds. Only some of this was Saint Peter, acting as the mole. The enemy had given us a timetable. They would send a division of killers into the hills, to punish our resistance.

At least that is how I recall the intel. I was extremely busy, training up a light company of Christian militia. These formed the Home Guard. Many of them were a bit old or young for front line work. Their weapons were antiques but well cared for. They had an extensive tunnel network with firing positions, stone revetments and mortar pits to oppose artillery. Their esprit was good. Against aircraft and armor, we had the enemy's own weapons. Saint Peter had slaved the artillery and missiles to his control. There was no better targeting computer available and he had more practical experience than anyone who breathed. The missiles in particular were much improved.

For direct action, we had a heavy platoon of the crème de la Christian. Advance trained, armed with the enemy's best and getting Cocktail number 7 with their meals. They would obey and stay steady under pressure. We gave them the eight trucks and man portable special weapons.

A dozen more were our infiltrators. Young men who had a real aptitude for the job, led by the only elder not picked up in the sweeps, smuggler Fokin. They had performed well at the Army bunker raid and could work closely with Templars. As soon as the Army supplies were brought home, we started training them to assault the Refugee camp.

Restart subject Navarro, J

Mission debrief DT-312-3, Bookmark

Narrative feed with medium paraphrasing

The camp had several entry points. I parked near the Visitor entrance but away from the camera footprint. Rafe passed by to my left, headed for the Samaritan drop off. Etienne would be coming behind me in a minute for the Visitor entrance. That just left the camp motor court entrance. If we got in fast, the camp security network would be in our control. The motorized gates would only work for us.

My boys preceded me into the lobby. There were a dozen waiting chairs and an armored window straight ahead. Short halls led off to the left and right, ending in steel doors. The guard seated behind the glass looked up at our entrance. He hoisted a large ledger and cycled it through the pass drawer for signing. The cameras behind the glass ogled the signers but the guard hardly looked up, just checked our ID's against signatures before triggering the staff door to his right.

Etienne and his boys had entered the lobby behind us, dressed like a farmer and his sons. One of the boys carried a bushel basket full of white onions. Obviously they were Samaritans who couldn't find the drop off. The guard would have to sort that out. He lost what little interest he had in us.

Behind the staff door was more hallway with two locked doors on the right. No cameras covered this area. Up ahead of us the hall opened out to processing and the guard's day room. Around the corner from that was the surveillance room. There would be about a dozen armed men this time of day.

I walked out of my Italian loafers. It's easy without socks. My feet were encased in colloidal muscle and framed by the exo. An armored cap smoothed off the toes. Micro-knobble soles gave incredible traction. They were size sixteen double wides that had cost a lot of money to get loafers made for. I made a mental note to retrieve those shoes later.

The second door on the right was a simple keyed knob. This was the janitorial supplies room. I got a good grip on the knob and turned it through the locking mechanism. A knee on the door frame let me pull it open. Around us, the lights flickered. Etienne had attacked the lobby guard. It was too soon.

I took three quick steps into the janitor closet to a series of electrical panels. Dropping to the floor with the briefcase, I opened it up. Inside was a collection of clips and wires. These went to several panels so that Saint Peter could get in the system. I opened up the junction box and threw the main breaker. The lights and air conditioning shut off. Daylight streamed in from some high slit windows out in the hallway. It was briefly quiet. I turned the power back on. Now the security network would be rebooting. Old tube lights began flickering. I grabbed my breaching shotgun out of the briefcase and strapped it to my thigh. Four magazines went in next to it. The school tie came off.

Back out in the hallway, my boys had unfolded silenced sub guns from their own discarded briefcases. With their backs to the right side of the hall, they watched ahead toward the open area for the appearance of guards. Etienne's farm boys entered the hall from the lobby, two handing silenced army pistols. Etienne himself gave me a Gallic shrug as he came up the hallway to stand beside me. "That man had no patience," he whispered. We began walking toward the processing station, me in my Frankenstein suit and he in his bib overalls.

Ahead of us, a counter with a red line in front of it became visible. A female guard was looking over the top of it from a desk further back behind the counter. Her eyebrows knit together for a moment and Etienne was off. He took two long strides and vaulted the counter. I used this as a cue to trot to the right and then turn right again to enter the day room. Two guards coming out were flipped back into the room by my outstretched arms. My suit jacket split up the back.

There was just a second to catalog six men sitting around cafeteria style tables drinking coffee. A couple quickly rose from the nearest table and I ran right to them, straight arming them through the air. The biceps compression split both my sleeves.

I grabbed the edge of their two meter table and flung it across the room at the four men who had found their feet and were clawing at side arms. Two of them disappeared beneath it. The other two found me right behind the table. I shocked them together and then went digging for the two under the table. They weren't much trouble. Etienne's boys came in to disarm and cuff them.

Subject Navarro, J

Mission debrief DT-312-3, Bookmark

Query; Subjective Primer: Skins

The first Combat Skins were sportsmen rigs, designed for extreme athletics. The swimmer versions became especially popular with scuba divers. Militaries had noticed the capabilities of sports Skins, since many sports enthusiasts were also serving. Their own antique powered armor was rigid and short range, more of a subcompact vehicle than body armor. But extreme sportsmen were spending days in Skins and recharging them with a handful of chemicals. They were faster, stealthier and cheaper to produce than walking tanks. The Skins quickly got their own R and D budget.

The old national governments got involved and arranged a little regulation, or more likely a hijacking of the tech under the guise of regulation. A sports biotech would invent some new upgrade and receive a government check for the rights. The government would rigorously test the upgrades before reselling the rights to cover overhead. We got electroreception this way, porting the short range detection of life within an electrical field to human senses. Sea cave spelunking enjoyed a renaissance with that one.

When the Templars chose equipment standards, the Skins were a source of debate. We had many civil functions, so the face needed to be uncovered and the overall shape kept to human proportions. Frightening tourists was undesirable. They started with an Ironman competition model. Swimming and running while carrying weights over obstacles was seen as a good base. Skins used striated layers of colloidal muscle, mimicking the body underneath, to add great strength and endurance. Integral exoskeleton structures relieved pressure from human joints. It was powered by chemical processes and directed by a web of artificial nerve ganglia. I had heard rumor of a man in Brazil beating a mountain gorilla to death in a cage match wearing the Ironman Skin. Crazy _pendejo_.

The nerve ganglia were the only controls on the Skin. When you put it on, nanobots would quickly build connections to it and your spinal column. This was microscopic and painless. Thereafter, the Skin would mimic and amplify your own movement. The nerve ganglia were modeled after a reptilian hindbrain, giving it enough intelligence to avoid damaging the host body and to compensate for injuries to the Skins. It could even speak, after a fashion, back up the spinal connection. Say you were running through a fire and burned the traction soles. The wearer would feel itching on the bottom of his feet. The interpretation of backsignals was quickly learned during orientation. Take care of your Skins and they will save yours.

For military use, Templar Skins received the electric organ, nestled in the small of the back and the size of a flattened _Norte Americano_ football. A Chinese exchange student developed the first "Lightning Eel" rigs for the divers, giving them hunting and defense capabilities against all other aquatic life. Capable of lethal discharges and rechargeable over time, it directed current to the Skins. Electroreceptor ganglia were also scattered across the Skin's surface to give the bioelectric sense. It worked well wet or dry.

Surrounding the Skin was a thin layer of woven monofilament. Orbital looms would spin braided lengths of monoline into flexible, breathable coatings for the Skins. That it required zero gravity to assemble was wildly expensive. But the end result was a very tough outer skin that could not be easily penetrated by anything larger than a hair. Colloidal muscles required the aeration to shed toxins and heat. In compensation, they made very good padding, pulling tight on impact. Their water content made them ablative to thermal weapons. High energy transfers or head shots were needed to do any actual damage. In a real war, you relied more on the stealth of the Skins for safety or layered up with more armor. And always wore a helmet. Against aberrant civilians it was still "One Marshal, one Riot." Just like the old Texican lawmen. But a helmet was still recommended.

Subject Navarro, J

End Subjective Primer

Resume Narrative feed with medium paraphrasing

Etienne was talking to Saint Peter when I exited the day room. "Send Fokin" was all I heard. The old smuggler would be bringing his truck around to the Samaritan entrance with five boys in full soldier kit. They would link up with Rafe and secure the armory. My boys had wrapped up four guards in the surveillance room who suddenly found themselves without a locked door. Saint Peter was in the system. We owned the gates.

Etienne went into the surveillance room to connect Saint Peter to those feeds. I collected my boys near the gate to Interrogation and the Warden's office. The keypads had new codes only we knew. I keyed it open and we slid down the short hall.

The warden was on the phone when I stuck my head in. He thought he was calling the front desk, but he was chatting with Saint Peter. I gave him two light shocks when he went for a desk drawer pistol. The boys bound him.

Ahead was the gate to the guard's ready room and sally port. There were checked guns and riot gear in that room but none of the guards could open the lockers anymore. There would only be stun clubs and pepper spray in the hands of maybe thirty lightly armored men.

I adjusted my glasses and checked feeds from Rafe. He had gained the main armory and was working into the guard tower access corridor. Once our soldiers were in those towers, all armed resistance would be over. The other hundred guards would be sealed in their pods until we could sort them out.

Etienne caught up to me. His farm boys now held the prisoners and staff entrance. They would sweep up any late arrivals for holding. When we entered the guard's ready room with my boys aiming silenced subguns at them, the guards just wilted. They dropped their toys and allowed themselves to be herded into the day room. Our boys would sit on them while Etienne and I picked out riot helmets and bags of plastic hand ties. We were going for a walk.

The sally port opened into the lower courtyard of a two story maximum security wing. Six guards who had been locked in the yard clustered around the little window set in the sally door. They stepped away from the door when they saw our riot helmets.

As we came out, there was a beat where everyone looked at each other. Who were these two guys in our riot gear? Then they started sparking their stun sticks. I grabbed an arm and used a guard as a flail on another. The stun sticks had little chance of getting past our insulation. It was a very brief battle. We cuffed them where they fell, taking care with the broken bones. I heard a kind of cheer from the cells all around. The prisoners approved of our actions, but had no idea who we were.

I had been held here with the least cooperative of the Christian refugees, men who had been separated from their families and beaten regularly for their unwillingness to record confessions. I remembered them well from ministering to my own beating injuries. They were tough for Christians. Hell they were tough for anybody. There were over a hundred of them here.

I pulled the torn suit coat off and ripped the shirt from my body. I had the Templar sigil, a red cross on a white shield, painted chest and back on my Skins. As I slowly turned with arms outstretched, the inmates saw the sign and the cheer rose to a roar that shook the building. My throat tightened. I could not find words for these men.

Etienne felt my discomfort. He pulled off his helmet and addressed the rows of cells. "I bring you the justice of the Templars. Your captivity is over. A place has been prepared for you. Step away from the doors." The roar redoubled, and then receded as the men backed further into their cells. Saint Peter took his cue and opened the cell doors.

I put my torn suit coat back on. Gaunt men came quickly down the stairs to surround us. We told them of the prisoners and militia behind the sally door. What we wanted from them was to wait here while the Templars liberated the camp. As each unit was freed, we would open gates to let them reunite with their flock. They should organize the people and obtain supplies for a short trip. Haste was advised and no revenge would be taken while under Templar justice. The beaten guards were to be placed in cells. Saint Peter would lock them in.

A few of these Christians had grown up around Templars and Garda militias. They knew the things that we could do. They would trust us to convey them to a new home. The feral smiles many sported said they knew some pain was coming for this military dictatorship. I remember having intense conversations with three of them during my previous stay, when I told them a few things to expect. They didn't recognize me anymore.

The left quad held the hospital and motor court. Rafe's cab and Fokin's truck were visible, parked next to loading bays. I checked Rafe's feed in my right lens. He was in the tower on the left. One hundred meters of open ground bisected with two wire fences were visible from his position. He had a rifle in his hands. I looked closer at that open ground and saw a large group of guards. A couple appeared to be armed. I recognized the two with shotguns from an afternoon of their attentions. One was jumpy like a rabbit; the other was a fat sergeant who used to work the street. It was just like them to take guns inside the wire.

I talked it over with my _compadres_. Armed men have to go, but dropped weapons were still in play. They were only shotguns. Etienne and I could play mop up if we got in quick after the shots.

Saint Peter operated the gates to distract them. The guards began to cluster at the last gate separating them from the motor court. It turned their backs to our running exit from the maximum quad. I took the right. The exo assisted me quickly to forty kph. I heard a yell over the wind noise flowing around my riot helmet. The guards were starting to turn around. The shot gunners were shouting and trying to get the rest of the guards to duck down. Rabbit fired a shot at me. I was so amped up, I could see the pellets. A quick push with my left leg moved me sideways about two meters, but one pellet bounced off my thigh, making me wheel both arms to keep from falling when the muscle tightened. The Rabbit suddenly puffed pink and collapsed like a cut puppet. The fat Sergeant looked up toward the tower for just a second and by the time he looked back our way, we were on them. I may have heard the second shot, but I was too busy clearing a path through a group of guards between me and the dropped shotgun.

Forearms in a wedge and building speed, I crashed into a mob of guards who thought they could play Red Rover with me. The speeds the exo ran me up to were deceptive to untrained eyes. I had the inertia of a bull charging. Men flew like a billiard break shot. There were so many of them, I lost momentum and stopped. I had to hammer fist my way clear of several and shock a few away from my own shotgun. Their stun sticks and sprays could find no weakness on me.

As I continued toward the dropped shotgun, two prone men were dragging at my ankles. Another repeatedly smacked his stick on the back of my riot helmet. I had had enough. Drawing my breaching shotgun, I fired a slug into the ground between my human anchors. The men recoiled backward, like the loud noise pushed them. It got very quiet. I holstered my shotgun and picked up the Rabbit's riot gun. Etienne was picking up the Sergeant's piece. All around us were prone men, some dead or broken. Only a dozen were still standing and they were backing up. I had lost my suit coat somewhere.

The maximum quad gate stayed open behind us and our hardened prisoners came out. I addressed the standing guards, "You will want your men back in the dog run between the fences. For their protection, I would hurry." The guards looked at the approaching prisoners. One nervously licked his lips. They began dragging off their wounded and dead. Their pace quickened the closer the Christians came.

Etienne and I stepped out to meet them. I pointed to a man I knew used to be a soldier. Etienne gave him the shotgun. I gave mine to the leader of the Christians, Deacon Humboldt. "There is the hospital. Gather your flock and what supplies you can carry over to the motor court. Start loading the four buses there. Only those who can't walk will ride. We will be sending small children who will also need to ride. Leave these guards where they lie, we will seal them in after you pass." The Deacon had tears running down his cheeks but seemed unaware of them. He nodded and turned to see the last gate slide open.

The men's quad waited. The walk would cool us down. Heat buildup from our run was making the exo uncomfortable. The fluid cooling was not up to this warm day. I had to take the helmet off to get some fresh air. That's when I noticed there was a tooth stuck in my forearm. I showed it to Etienne, "Friend of yours?" He smirked and said, "Not my friends, you would have found the tooth much lower."

We walked along chuckling for a time and then stopped to look at the gate. I checked Rafe's feed. He was climbing stairs in another tower. I flipped to Saint Peter's feed and started checking cameras. There were two groups of guards here. A large one stuck out in the yard and maybe a dozen in the Guard hub. The arsenal in the hub was locked down, so we should be gun free here. But then, I had thought that just before the maximum yard. Another complication was that the dogs were in the run. At least a dozen stringy gray shepherds were near our entry gate.

Etienne and I had a little conference call with Rafe and Saint Peter. Targets and tactics stuff. I reloaded and put the helmet back on. We stacked at the entry gate, me behind Etienne. He said, "It is not too late, we could just shoot the dogs."

I argued, "Why treat the slaves harsher than the masters?"

Etienne gestured with a thumb, "You are just soft for these dogs. Was one of them your bitch?"

I pointed to a large male with a shredded ear. "He's the one they all watch. Go offer him a pack of cigarettes for me."

Etienne, a big fan of old movies, snorted "I think I will do that." The gate slid open about a meter and stopped.

The dogs began flowing to the gate before it even opened, snarling, snapping jaws across just four millimeters of wire. The dogs wanted us because we were men they did not know. But we were very strange men. We wore the helmets like people they knew. We smelled like guns and strange chemistry. We could open the gate. It led to a little confusion and skittishness by the dogs. As the gate moved the nearest dogs felt their hair stand up. We built up voltage in the Skins and threw out an electrical field. The first dog to touch Etienne jumped back yowling. Two snapped at my right side and bounced a meter away. I could feel the electrical field like a second vision. The sense was tied into my brain by the spinal connections. I could feel where it slid along Etienne's field. I could feel the dogs moving through it. I grabbed one by the muzzle that tried for my back and gave him two shocks. He fell limp to the ground. The gate ahead opened a meter as Etienne came to it. The dogs were scattered and doing their attack runs from too far away to be a credible threat. I stepped past Shred Ear the alpha. He had a long pink tongue lying in the dust.

We sealed the dogs back in the run. Etienne said, "That's half my charge." I told him that was better than mine. A crowd of guards were visible about sixty meters away. They could see we were alone. They could see the bright red Cross painted on my chest. We drew our shotguns to discourage overconfidence. They outnumbered us fifteen to one and they had picks and shovels from the work shed. For now, the guards milled about in clumps arguing with each other. I checked Rafe's feed. He was in the tower, looking through that rifle sight at the crowd. Some of the guards noticed him and reoriented on this new threat. More arguing among the guards. Etienne and I started forward.

"It occurs to me this is the inmate view of the yard they're experiencing" he said.

"I remember it well" I told him.

Twenty meters away, we stopped. "You men won't be digging any gardens today. Put down the tools and head over to the Unit Three west door. If you must keep your tool, then I suggest you dig a suitable grave." I gestured to Rafe in the tower. These guards had seen how accurate a tower sniper could be. Tools clattered to the ground. I would bet there were a lot of trowels and makeshift knives still in that crowd, but we didn't need to disarm them for storage. Just keep our distance and lead them to a safe place. We took up positions and gestured them along with our gun barrels.

As we approached Unit Three, I could hear a PA system doppler echo. It sounded like Saint Peter, but shut off before we got close enough to hear well. Groups of Christians were exiting the Unit from the east door. I checked Saint Peter's feed on the Unit interior. It was unoccupied. Etienne trotted up ahead and started guiding the guards into the west door. Some of the guards looked a little froggy, but crowds of Christians were pouring out of other Units. There were almost seven hundred men under internment here. The guards decided Unit Three might be a good place to wait. We tucked them in as Saint Peter came over the outside speakers. "Brothers in Christ, assemble at the Commissary." His chosen voice is a nice tenor that makes you think of a young, earnest monk. He just sounds very honest. I've heard a few more of his voices for other effects, but the young monk is a favorite.

The Commissary let Samaritans give money to individual prisoners on account. They could then buy better food and sundries for a fat markup. It was a big moneymaker. It also had a large supply of food, shoes and blankets. The men were allowed a shopping spree. Saint Peter would coach them from the PA system and vid feeds. I could see them queuing up Russian style in three rows. Etienne and I holstered our shotguns. He let out a big sigh, staring at the backs of the prisoners, "Job satisfaction, _frere_." I knew what he meant, I just hoped those men were up to a long walk.

We headed over to the women's gate. Almost two thousand women and kids were scattered across a wide expanse of tents and cheap wood barracks. A few hundred of the women had moved up to the fence line. Here and there, a man called through to his family. A buzzer sounded at the gate and the women backed away. It was a pure Pavlovian response that irritated me. They saw the red Cross on my chest and continued moving away to form a corridor.

I addressed them once we were in the compound, "Gather your families and wait for the men. We will be leaving through the motor court gate." Etienne added, "Where are your guards?" A gray haired woman pointed over her shoulder at a cement block building with bars on the windows and a wood tower mounted to the top. "They all went in the hub and barricaded the doors." This hub was a late add-on. The doors were not on the network. I flipped through feeds from Rafe and Saint Peter, but no view of the hub interior was available. All we knew about the women's compound was that there were fifty female guards. They had never been seen with guns. If they wanted to sit this out in their hub, we would let them.

Etienne spoke sub vocally to Rafe in the tower a moment. He turned to me and said, "We have this. Go on over to admin and roll us up there." He slapped me on the shoulder and headed off toward the women's hub. I really didn't want to walk through the dogs again. Instead I'd take the long way through the hospital. See what was developing there.

****

### Chapter 3: Exodus

Knots of families were making their way to the motor court, clutching blankets and children like they thought someone would take them back. They mostly had eyes for each other and the way out. I took the riot helmet off so as not to scare anybody. As I passed each group, because they weren't moving very fast, they would break into conversation with each other. The older ones would say, "Templar." Most would wave and call out thanks. One old guy gave me an "Oorah." Ex-Garda teams for sure. Him I could use. I veered back to talk with him.

"Marshal Navarro out of North Mexico, who were you with?" He didn't offer to shake hands but that was just respect for the exo, "Pruitt with the Virginia Regulars, born again Christian for the last fourteen years." I asked, "You go to VMI?" The Virginia Military Institute had been turning out some fine troop for hundreds of years. "Yes sir, went through on the artillery program." I told him, "Stick with me for a while, Pruitt. I'm going to see about getting you some kit." He looked me up and down, gave a quick nod and said, "Think I'll tag along then."

To use the walk time, I asked him about other security skilled Christians from the original mission. All too many of them were casualties. At least Saint Peter wouldn't be using the PA to page dead men. I called and told him to replay the last five minutes at my location to update his list. He had probably done it anyway, but I wanted to be thorough.

The motor court was busy. Idling buses filled with sick people. IV drip bags hung on window frames. Hospital staff were still tending to them under the eyes of armed prisoners. Rafe's boys were handing out weapons from the arsenal. There would be a brief conversation and then the man in line would get a weapon or box of supplies according to his experience. Saint Peter was keeping them honest. Eight other trucks and maybe thirty cars were lined up at the curb and accepting children. As they filled up, they would drive over to the fleet pumps and top off. Our smuggler truck was filled with supply boxes, water and food. They had even loaded a dust control truck with drinking water. I took Pruitt over to the arsenal, got him to the front of the line and chatted with Rafe's boys while Pruitt was strapping on gear.

The report was, plenty of small arms, but a shortage of shoes and transport. Maybe two dozen Christians outfitted with paramilitary kit, another six with submachine guns. Two more got the tower rifles. I told the boys to keep doing what they were doing and I would see about their shortages.

Pruitt came to my side with a Kalashnikov clone and some light body armor. He was already sweating heavily. "Is that good kit, Pruitt?" Pruitt squared up his stance, "Good enough, Marshal. Just show me where you need me." I pointed out one of our Christian Militia in full soldier kit standing near the buses, "I want you to relieve that man and send him over here." Pruitt fought to hide his relief. The man he was relieving was twenty five years younger and hadn't missed any meals lately. "Yes sir." He trotted off, willing to burn some energy for a quick trip toward the supplies.

My new recruit had his Kalashnikov combat strapped across his chest. Magazines filled his vest. He had a camel-pack canteen and an army helmet. He was covered with dust from standing in the motor court. He was also cruising on Cocktail number 7. "Corporal Strenko reporting, sir." I turned and said "Follow me, Strenko." We took a walk to the maximum quad gate.

A dozen guards still lay between the fences on the left. The rest had moved away from the gate area. I could see maybe sixteen more with their stun sticks next to them. "Strenko, I want you to herd those loose guards over here to the gate. Try not to fire your weapon, just give them the idea." He trotted off.

The gate opened at my command and closed again after I entered the dog run. Two of the near guards stood up. They both had arms that appeared to be broken. The rest were dead or too badly hurt to move. I told them, "Don't get excited, I just want to get you people back indoors out of the sun." I watched Strenko guiding along the other guards. They had left their sticks.

When they approached close enough I said, "We are taking you to the Admin building. Gather your wounded, leave the dead." A couple younger guards grumbled about leaving the bodies. I said, "They stay, just get yourselves in out of the sun." Both gates opened as the guards shouldered their fellows or gave a fireman carry. Strenko came through the gate, still motioning the guards along with his rifle. We let them move on ahead of us.

I checked feeds for the administration building. The boys had the lobby clear and some staffers stacked up in Processing. The visitor lot had two police cruisers and a government sedan. They were empty. I called Saint Peter, "I want the four soldiers working the motor court arsenal to shift over here with about thirty of the men. We will be collecting more supplies and vehicles."

The maximum security door opened and we herded the guards into the ready room. "I want all of your shoes and socks right now. Take them off and set them on the floor beside you." Once they complied, "Now we're moving you into the cell block. Go through the sally door." I had to push a few along who thought it was some kind of trap. They settled down once they saw the cell block was empty. "You will settle in here. There's a water fountain and showers. Lay the wounded on the cell beds. Stay away from the sally door, I'll be sending some more guards in here in a minute."

I closed the door on them and turned to Strenko, "The rest of your squad is heading this way with some help. I want you to supervise handing out the gear from this arsenal when it opens. Keep prisoners near the sally door as I shift them here." I moved into the offices.

A quick check showed all offices were empty. I entered the processing area and saw a lot of cuffed guards and staff sitting on the floor. My boys and Etienne's farm boys were lounging around with their guns casually aimed at the prisoners. There were four policemen and three lawyers who weren't here when I left. There were also two women who were not cuffed but sitting apart from the guards. I slid over to my team leader for a sitrep.

"These cops brought in the women, suspected Christians. The lawyers showed up for the usual interrogations. We also rounded up some staffers who were hiding in their offices. The cop belts are piled up behind the counter. Here are the car keys." I took them and asked, "What do the suspected Christians have to say?"

"Samaritan girls who brought stuff in a few times. The magistrates have been doing a witch hunt lately. They say going with us is preferable to their life here."

"I want these people moved to the ready room. Two of you and Etienne's team get them moving and watch them close going in. One of our militia will be in there. Get the cuffs off of them. I'll bring the cops and Samaritans with me." I took a quick trip down the hall and slipped into my tasseled loafers, size sixteen double wide. Never forget an objective.

We had a few broken bones to deal with, but the whole group headed back to the ready room. Strenko was herding them along with his gun barrel, he was very eloquent with an assault rifle. When they were stacked up by the sally door, I stopped my cops and the two women at the entrance to the ready room. "I need you ladies to go over to that exit door on the left. Some men will be along in a minute to let you out."

I turned to the four cops, "I want you men to go into this office behind us." They complied and I went in with them and put my back to the door, "Strip down to your underwear. Pile the stuff in front of you." An older cop said, "Like hell..." before my open handed slap interrupted him. Another made a move toward me and I clamped my hand painfully on his elbow before pushing him back. "I don't mind causing some harm here if you boys can't follow simple instructions." Their compliance improved a bit after that. I watched them close while cutting off their cuffs with a razor knife.

When the clothes were piled, I told them to get back in the ready room. I had to push one of them along to rejoin the crowd. "The rest of you people, I'm going to need your shoes and socks. Take them off and put them in front of you." We put them all in the cell block after they were done. Then I opened the other door and let four militia and a large group of Christians come in. "Fall in with Corporal Strenko and collect all this gear. I need six men who can pass for cops and drive." I had to pare the volunteers down to just six. There were soon four outfitted as police, even though the uniforms didn't fit just right. I had all six volunteers follow me up to the processing counter. "Get yourself some side arms and radios from back there." When they came back I gave them three sets of keys, "Pair off into the cars in the parking lot. Use channel four on the radios for further instructions." I walked them over to my two remaining infiltrators and sent them out with the fake cops. Saint Peter would direct them with the radios wherever we needed. One of Etienne's farm boys had a guard outfit and was sitting behind the glass window, I sent him out to ride in the government sedan. The visitor door locked as they left. I called Saint Peter and told him to route the three official cars to the nearest school on this side of the river and pick up three more buses. Our infiltrators were trained to steal cars, they were just bad drivers. The Christians had grown up with wheels. They would be our drivers. It was Sunday at an empty school and they would look like cops. I grabbed a case of flash bangs on my way back to the motor court. Everybody needed to pitch in.

Rafe and Etienne sent me their feeds. They were doing the final sweep, moving stragglers to the motor court. The women guards were sealed in their hub behind a wall of landscaping blocks. I flipped through Saint Peter's feeds to see that all was well. A fight had broken out in the maximum security cell between a few guards and the lawyers. The aftermath showed no corpses, so I guessed it was just an attorney being flip with the wrong guy. Debaters and fighters rub each other wrong under pressure.

The motor court was like a gypsy caravansary. People perched on vehicles in ways never intended by the manufacturer. Some handy soul had removed a few trunk lids from cars to make rumble seats. The tops of buses and trucks were piled high with riders and supplies. Hundreds were still on foot, but all of them that I saw had shoes. We were ready for our Exodus. Saint Peter began giving instructions over the tactical radios distributed to the various drivers. I could tell because the outer gates opened and vehicles began slowly moving out among the crowds on foot. They turned west, toward the river road. The radios were short range and Saint Peter's transmissions were beamed into a small footprint, but still some leakage would get picked up by a radio hobbyist or other unwanted listeners. We could expect a reaction soon. Then Pharaoh would send his chariots.

The alert came thirty minutes after our exit. Our militia forward unit spotted two police cars heading for the bridge. They collapsed the south end of the bridge into rubble, a distant rumble audible from where I walked. We had moved up our eight trucks full of soldiers during the night. Saint Peter made them invisible to the Battlenet surveillance. It was unlikely the military could fix our high speed graphic editing of their satellite images without an orbital mission. The trucks positioned themselves along our route and mined some critical bridges. As long as we stayed on the south side of the river and stuck close to the trucks, we could travel fifty kilometers toward the mountains without too much risk of interception.

It took another thirty minutes for the military to get an observation plane over us. Saint Peter told us it was coming, from what direction and that it was unarmed long before we heard it. We let it take up station for a little while. The plan called for their Army aviation to engage us. We just needed to position right and get inside their decision loop. An hour later, Saint Peter told us that three armed helicopters were coming. One of our militia trucks roared behind the parade and disgorged soldiers with shoulder fired missiles. They had minutes to set up and fired before the helicopters were even visible. The observer plane converted itself into a black smudge high in the air. We never saw the helicopters, but Saint Peter reported all three were down. The enemy's air power would be much more respectful in the future.

Two hours later we stopped to collect stragglers, eat and trade riders. The Christian refugees could not go very far without rest. We were lucky to make five klicks an hour. It would only get worse the harder we pushed. When we got them moving again, a militia observer reported military trucks at the next bridge a few klicks ahead of us. That bridge was blown into the river also. The militia truck with the mortars went ahead to set up in case the soldiers there had something that could engage us across the river and the intervening terrain. Luckily, they didn't. Folds in the terrain concealed the river road from any direct fire and we passed by without actually seeing them. A few rounds of accurate mortar fire discouraged them from following. Their trucks were very thin skinned.

Saint Peter alerted us to an airstrike inbound just after we cleared the bridge area. They were sending jets this time. A flight of four ground attack models loaded with bombs and rockets. Once again our Christian militia fired their missiles into the empty air and once again Saint Peter guided them well beyond their rated engagement envelope to destroy the jets. The Army aviation wing was sent back to the drawing boards. It would now be clear to them that they could not enter range to attack without being shot down by some kind of super missile. They had become obsolete without any idea of how it happened. It was now up to the ground forces.

Saint Peter alerted us to movement by the forward Army division that had been readying itself to attack us in the mountains. Scout units were moving ahead toward the point where the river became passable. They would be there about an hour before our ETA. The rest of the division was shaking itself out to reinforce the scouts a few hours later. We could expect tanks and artillery to hit our refugee train from behind about the time we could see the mountains. It would be a slaughter.

Our militia trucks raced ahead to set up a hasty defense against the Army scouts. Forty Christian soldiers with Cocktail number 7 and the best equipment the enemy could provide would stop the Scout units at the end of the river and use the mortars to pin them in place. The idea now was to bunch up the division of killers and get our refugees ahead of the pursuit. If we could just get in view of the mountains, Saint Peter would sort out the rest.

The hours passed. The caravan crawled along. We started rotating vehicles to the rear to pick up stragglers and change riders. No more breaks were taken. Everyone understood the danger. One of the things faith was good at was pushing a body past its limits. The Christians rallied to each other's aid and made good time in spite of their worn condition. If they had more breath to spare, I think a few would have broken into song.

There was fear and urgency in the flock but also something less definable that I had only felt among Christians in trouble. I still couldn't describe that feeling. Maybe one day I would understand it, but for now I just felt a conviction that they were family. It smacked of over-involvement and delusional empathy. My Garda commanders would have medicated me in a heartbeat if they thought I had gone native like that, but the Templars would just caution me and maybe prescribe Cocktail number 7 if they thought it was countermission. I would see how Saint Peter felt about it in the after-mission confessional.

I trotted up toward the front of the column. The exo smoothly brought me to a good clip and I only slowed down when I could hear distant mortar fire. Feeds from Etienne showed he was in front of some burning armored cars about two hundred meters in front of him. Our anti-tank rockets were running low, but four of the enemy's vehicles were destroyed. The mortars drove off the rest when they found how accurately they could be targeted with an AI assisting. Saint Peter reported they had withdrawn a kilometer away, but a few dismounted survivors were lying down about three hundred meters away. He would conserve ammunition unless they attempted some maneuver. Night was coming.

It really hurts to be on the wrong end of orbital surveillance and a compromised Battlenet. Saint Peter could see everything and practically direct traffic for the enemy. Their own surveillance showed them just about anything we wanted it to. Right now they were looking at signatures for our suspected positions and numbers. Both were altered to our advantage. We looked like a company skirmishing a little east of where we were. Force multiplication for free. The budget guys would love this in the after-mission report.

As the Scout unit survivors dug in to wait for reinforcements, newly armed refugees continued harassing fire and the rest of the Exodus streamed past behind their screen. Trucks moved the militia along our route to clear the way forward. They would leave chemical hand warmers and simulators in their old positions. Saint Peter could command detonate a good illusion of battle if needed. It was old media tech.

Just in case the Scouts thought about a flanking maneuver, our Battlenet signature grew another platoon and spread further out to discourage bold moves. The enemy had to be thinking that an army had sprung up out of the ground and could be battalion strength by the time the rest of their division arrived. They would wait for the artillery to catch up before engaging a force of our apparent size. They would mass their own battalions and armor for a breakthrough push. The good news was they would also move much slower. We had bought some time.

The refugees pushed on toward the mountains. The foothills were visible at the head of the column. South River road became a dirt path winding toward freedom. A plume of dust marked the column's location for the enemy's forward observers. Our militia shifted along the route and the enemy Scouts a few kilometers back began moving in parallel to keep the dust plume in sight. Their Battlenet showed us leapfrogging by platoon to maintain the screen.

Saint Peter reported aircraft gathering northeast of us about twenty kilometers out. We could expect them to provide close air support when the enemy ground forces got into range. Lead armor units were already linking up with the Scout unit survivors. Their artillery would be getting into range within the hour.

The refugees were spent. Without a night of food and rest, we would start losing people to exhaustion and dehydration. They were still too close to the oncoming division. When the assault began, they would be into our column before we could react.

Our ghost battalion of Christian militia formed up into a defensive line on the enemy's Battlenet. The refugees in vehicles surged ahead to a bivouac area selected because it was kilometers behind our illusionary screen. Smuggler Fokin went ahead to lead and supply the movement. When they dumped off the refugees and supplies, the vehicles would return to shift the stragglers forward. Visibility was falling as full night set in. Now we just needed to hold until the enemy division was concentrated for the attack.

The enemy general decided to push some observers forward. Scouts and observation planes were prodded into a probe of our line. The aircraft were nervous, holding at the far edge of observation range. The one that tried to go around to our bivouac caught one of our super missiles instead. The Scouts were also very tentative, pushing here and there until mortars or anti-tank teams could be maneuvered into them. Their movements were always under surveillance and their own Battlenet guided them to ambushes. We seemed to be everywhere in force. Media pyrotechnics multiplied our apparent front line.

The armor units lined up behind the Scouts for exploitation of any breakthrough. Their artillery set up about five kilometers back and began lobbing shells at suspected positions. Our control of the Battlenet fed them the suspected positions, but they were getting uncomfortably close with called in missions against our ambushes.

The mortar team began drawing counter battery fire and had to disengage. We recalled the rest of the militia, leaving only improvised fire simulators to be triggered at their old positions. Within minutes, the enemy would see past this subterfuge and roll through the abandoned line. I called Saint Peter and asked him to send the Sword.

Back at the Christian village, a concrete slab slid open, exposing the nose of a rocket. Saint Peter had built it in orbit and shipped the pieces down for assembly. Jets of flame poured from several ground vents as the rocket slowly climbed out of the hole and gathered speed. Within a minute, it was a pillar of fire shooting straight up into the sky. Higher and higher it climbed until the flame shut off at twenty kilometers of altitude. Small jets fired to orientate the base of the rocket toward the distant enemy division.

As the rocket reached apogee, an explosion separated the booster section, which moved several hundred meters away before it too exploded in the blinding flash of a nuclear device. The explosion poured energy into hafnium rods in the bulbous head. This generated a tuned beam of gamma radiation, which is called a Graser in military parlance. The beam was directed through a twitching collimator lens that skewed it over a wide area on the horizon. The process occurred in the fraction of a second before the low yield mining nuke consumed the whole works.

For those of us on the ground, we saw a bright star appear high over the mountains. Clouds suddenly formed around the new star, encircling but not obscuring the bright light. At this angle, we would not be blinded. A rumbling noise was audible over the sound of artillery shells falling on our old positions. Crackling explosions sounded to the east. Slowly, the star faded. Gusts of hot air stirred up dust at our bivouac.

To the enemy division, the experience was very different. Invisible gamma rays played over their positions for that fraction of a second. Armor was nearly transparent to the Graser. The beam was tuned to organics. Soldiers flashed to bone and ash, those who weren't just blinded. Chemical compounds in fuel cells and warheads exploded. Before the debris began to fall back to earth, the division had suffered forty percent casualties. In three hours, another ten percent would die of radiation poisoning. At least two thousand soldiers had died for our Christian dead. Pharaoh had lost his chariots.

Father Luke called the Premier of the regime on his private line. He termed it a courtesy call. We thought of it as a sales pitch. He explained why the Premier's elite division wasn't advancing anymore. He informed the Premier that any military presence within the horizon of the mountains could expect a similar calamity. We would live and let live as long as no new threat appeared.

It was all a bit overwhelming to the Premier. So much had changed so fast. He wanted reports from his own sources before committing to anything. The Father said that would be fine. Just hold his forces at the horizon and confirm with whomever he liked. When the Premier received initial confirmation of the calamity, delivered in harsh whispers by someone in the room, Father Luke secured a medical cease fire. We would call again in the morning and continue negotiations.

The Christian militia put out sentries against blind or irradiated survivors. Enemy aircraft went back to base or hovered around the dead division, recording destruction for the inevitable reports. Tomorrow we would deliver the flock to their promised land.

Back at the bivouac, the refugees got some much needed food and rest. Many sang favorite hymns and Deacon Humboldt led them in open prayer. No prison guards broke up the service, though many looked around as though it might still happen. It would take years to overcome the reflex, pounded in their heads with pain and death.

In the morning, our plan bore fruit. The Premier would sign a Letter of Understanding with the Church or learn to keep his location secret for the rest of his life. Christianity was here to stay. The Father wasn't nearly so blunt, but the core message was received. The Premier filled the airwaves with the offered pack of lies about a rogue solar flare destroying a military unit on maneuvers. Citizens should restrict their outdoor activity and wear sun block until scientists could determine the danger was past. Parts of the mountain range had become irradiated and the entire area was placed behind a military cordon until the damage could be assessed. All information about our Christian militia and the prison break was suppressed or twisted into unrecognizable shapes. The Letter of Understanding was quietly couriered to a location in the foothills. The Premier declined a face-to-face. I think he was afraid of us.

To our reformed Christian mission, it was a source of laughter. Spirits ran high as their freedom became more real. United into a community again, armed against further depredations and supplied with the resources they needed to grow. There were over four thousand of them now and whole clans of the nomads were converting, eager to join a kinder future. Our Christian militia was absorbed within the larger body of recruits from the refugees. Father Luke smoothed the transition with his knack for organization and psychology. Inside of a couple of months, we had re-organized and trained the Militia to a full battalion. We created a cottage industry of armament contractors to supply them. Purely defensive weapons enjoyed a certain economy. All the big money items tended to be offensive and thus unneeded.

Resources were brought in from the western routes around the cordon. An anti-aircraft laser was built underground, directing its energy to remote lenses that were easily replaced. Saint Peter built a quantum computer and mirrored over selected portions of his mind to assist the Mission's further efforts. Even a subprogram running in quantum was better than what the Regime had. They didn't recognize AI rights and so recruited none for their colony. Their loss.

Within four months of insertion, our Mission had become a small nation. The enemy regime believed we had stockpiled Graser weapons sufficient for their armies. There were even a half dozen more rockets built to continue that illusion for any infiltrators. In truth, we would not leave nuclear devices unattended. Only the Garda could approve their use. Our authorization was the Old Testament "Eye for an eye" mutually assured destruction policy that worked well enough for a thousand years. Once we left, we would leave behind only Potemkins. Only if relieved could we turn over live weapons.

Eventually, a new Priest and specialists arrived on a slow boat from home. I met Templar Voslov, the young woman who would be continuing the Sword of Damocles mission. She could be here for years, but seemed all right with it. Maybe she was getting away for a while. When I said the formal transfer, "I stand relieved" she gave me a sotto voce, "I'll bet you do." It was a thing I might have said. Saint Peter and Father Luke declared the operation a success and we left the Christians to their brighter future.

It was quite a going away party. Those nomads had something a lot like tequila, buried in casks for years. Not up to my mom's standards, but good with a fruit chaser. Voslov had such a good time, she relieved me again. It was quick and unexpected, with a rough energy. I hoped the Regime believed she would use the Grasers. After that night, I sure did.

Saint Peter translated quantum copies of our minds and debriefed them on the way home. That was a real timesaver for Rafe, Etienne and I. We would hear the reports and recommendations once they were compiled. Our confession by copy gave Saint Peter an unobtrusive ontological tool for mental health evaluations. Initial review looked good.

One day, Saint Peter called me and asked a few questions. They were questions he already knew the answer for, but the act of answering them gave me food for thought. The Garda AI's used the technique, but I found the Jesuit parameters to be less cold and inhuman. In this case, Saint Peter made me think about the differences between accepting Christian fellowship and rejecting the dogma. He indicated that the dogma was not always necessary to lead a righteous existence. That the exercise of free will was contrary to blind acceptance.

I always leave his confessions in a thoughtful mood. But I don't get the feeling I'm being pressed into a mold, like the Garda AI's did. The pragmatists considered spiritual matters only important for their effects on the Real. It's delusional but permissible. Just don't screw up because of it or they'll try to fix you.

End replay of subject Navarro, J

Excerpt of mission debrief DT-312-3

Narrative feed with medium paraphrasing

****

Pontifical Academy for Life

Vatican Gardens, Roma

2313 Anno Domini

"That concludes the replay." Scattered bowl clinking applause. Father Luke returned to the podium, "Brothers in Christ, I ask that you judge the ethics of Marshal Navarro's decisions based on the cardinal values. Under the most extreme circumstances, I submit that Marshal Navarro exhibits all the virtues of an ethical life."

A voice piped up from the back of the room "... the taking of life." Father Luke raised a hand to address the concern, "As a Templar, Navarro must take life in the delivery of Charter justice. I call your attention to the extreme care he takes in reducing collateral damage. He receives no joy in the act."

Father Luke panned his view across the assembly, but found no other questions. Many had left after lunch. "I ask only that you consider the life of a Templar. How is the Church encouraging his ethical behavior and where can we improve relations with our guardians. I thank you for your attention today." It was a start.

****

### Chapter 4: Down the Rabbit Hole

Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith

Pontifical Biblical Commission

Virtual conference

Reverend Father Mathius began his presentation once all the Cardinals and Secretaries had logged in. "I have, for your review, a case study from our _Consultor_ , _Dottore_ Fermi AI as it relates to the question of doctrine toward Transference technology. I will warn that the filtering is minimal and the pursuit of this mission required much deliberate loss of life. At the end of the presentation, I will reveal findings and arguments from the _Dottore_ for your consideration."

Replay of subject Navarro, J

Excerpt of mission debrief DT-312-4

Narrative feed with minimum paraphrasing

Halfway home, at Arkhome orbital port, a Jesuit courier from the local mission presented himself at our lock. We received papers from the Bishop in a self-destruct tube. Father Luke took the tube and sat in conference with Saint Peter for a while.

We Templars did a quick inventory. It is always best to prepare, when no other action suggested itself. On hand we had five replacement zombies, two tons of consumables, three simulators and an extensive arsenal of personal gear every Templar calls his own. The Fabricator and Med bay had minimum stocks but our hold was a large echoing space. We would move small cargoes between worlds to pick up a little running money, but had not yet acquired any for the next leg. As a Templar Marshal, one of my traditional duties was quartermaster, but Saint Peter was much better at negotiating the electronic exchanges. I just provided a human face to the deals.

Father Luke invited me to a conference. We sat in the shielded compartment that housed most of Saint Peter's mind. It was completely secure from surveillance. Father Luke served coffee and pointed at one of Saint Peter's screens showing a list of equipment and personnel. "Marshal Navarro, we have been tasked for a medical relief. This list shows gear and six doctors we'll be loading into cargo for transport to the Capellan system. The United Church of Christ has a ministry that needs medical help. Our prayers are that some will survive whatever plague has fallen on them until we can get there."

"What is our environment?" I asked. He pointed to the screen as Saint Peter brought up a slide show of images and planet metrics. It looked pastoral, with fields and livestock, but in the background I could see air traffic from a city. The lighting had a lot of shadows and the colors favored yellow. There were two suns in the sky.

We discussed the Ministry's Formula of Agreement with the local Presbyterian Church for full ecumenical partnership. Under that shield, they interacted with the colonials. The socio-economic setting was basic company town. The planet and the company were called Cornucopia. They provided sustenance to the extensive belt mining operation within the system. The colony was founded over eighty years ago and had a decent industrial base. Saint Peter would create a better analysis for us shortly. In the meantime, we began receiving cargo and habitat modules at the cargo lock. I had to supervise the Waldoes and flight balance the load while Rafe and Etienne plumbed the habitat modules. We shifted our own stored supplies to other spaces for security. The passengers were unknown quantities right now, better to remove temptation.

We received our delegation of doctors. All were Jesuit trained, but only the two science researchers were actually in the Order. The other four were young doctors gaining field credits. They were introduced to us, but our Templar presence seemed to unnerve them a little. Too many stories focus on the field justice. The price of that fear is some social ostracization. I never get used to it, but have learned to not react unfavorably. Most people do not adapt to violence as we do. They aren't required to. A girlfriend once described it as living with a tiger. "You never know when the wildness will come out." I gave them a warm smile and tried not to loom. As soon as they were settled, we Templars retired to our living spaces, safe behind a bulkhead. We would see them once a day for schooling as nurses. They could use the help and it was good to go in covert. We still knew very little about conditions on the other end.

The first couple of days, Rafe and Etienne would climb into simulators and I would log onto the network and act as a sensory node for the face-to-face training. This let my _compadres_ accelerate their training speed with the simulators and just add the hands-on lecture as a dataset. I was already rated for combat medic but the face time as a supplicant for the doctor's knowledge gave them a comfortable position to get accustomed to a Templar. Father Luke helped this along by his near constant presence in the cargo hold, a kinetic figure, talking to the less busy doctors or saying a prayer with the devout. Craftsman that he is, I'm sure he was fishing for intel. I know the prayers helped me in sorting out unseen affiliations. Two of the doctors were Hindu, from the form of yoga they used instead of prayers. Hindus accepted Transference as a way of refining Karma over a long span. Small things noticed fell into place. These two saw me as more than a Golem or Zimboe. I was a fellow traveler on the same wheel of life. It gave me an approach to use to build rapport. I began gathering my own intel during meal breaks.

As part of our bonding methods, my _compadres_ and I introduced the doctors to some basic security methods. Word substitutions, supply security and vetting protocols for new faces. Simple, non-violent security techniques that made us seem more thoughtful than lethal. I even tried the yoga routines with the Hindus. It was useful for new body acclimation. Rafe prayed with the Christians and Etienne was just a joker. We gave the doctors familiar human variety and they accepted us as partners.

After classes, I would confer with Saint Peter and update him on any intel. In return, he would pass on refined data about our operation. One thing that seemed troubling was that the Justice and Witness Ministries arm of the United Church of Christ had been issuing pronouncements about civil rights on Cornucopia. It was thought that at their next General Synod, a proposal for action would be issued, leading to a formal resolution. The Cornucopia Company would not be thrilled with a denouncement and the Christian Charter provisions meant the Church could not state anything untrue or too vague in their statements. They would be able to prove any allegations. Of course, the same Charter also stated they could not advocate harm to the Company. An appeal to their better natures was as far as the church could take it. A lot would depend on the effect on the workers, seeing exploitation and forming their own judgments. Conflict there could spread. I realize that all sounds paranoid and worst-case, but part of Garda training is planning on the worst. We are rarely disappointed or surprised that way. A cooler head prevails.

We arrived in system ready to go. Cornucopia system control routed us to the planet while Saint Peter sifted through every data stream he could tap. The Company line was a livestock spongiform encephalopathy concentrated around Christian ranches. Slang was "Mad Cow Disease." Hundreds had been infected from meat products but new protocols now kept it from ground and orbital markets. Christian animal husbandry techniques were blamed. Symptoms came on suddenly after a long incubation. There was no cure, only expensive treatments. Most infected would suffer lethal dementia sometime in the next fifteen years.

The Belters were a comparatively chatty bunch, floating theories and anti-company rants on their distributed networks. They thought it was an economic nightmare for food prices. A few Belters had also been infected and were living in quarantine. Numbers of infected they reported were higher than company figures. We had a disease, a past timeline and a possible vector.

The Doctors began fabbing up three Quantum translators and a Nanoquinacrine culture. There were already plenty of autoclaves and data blocks. They chatted about "Prions" and a "Wide Area EEG/MEG" search for "Triphasic Spikes." Maybe one noun in five made any sense to me. I did like the wide area search idea, though. Sounded like a selective Battlenet scanner. I should learn to use it. That could be really handy for setting a perimeter.

Father Luke conferred with Cornucopia Company execs, looking for clearances and resources. We could land the shuttle at a nearby airport and be transported directly to the quarantine zone with our gear. We would be confined to the quarantine zone until released. Company inspectors would be making tours of all medical and ranching facilities. The Father mentioned that the company execs seemed lukewarm about the operation. They were mainly interested in spreading any new treatments out to the belt. They were also very interested in identifying our staff. We failed to name any Templars within the group. I would be Nurse Medina for the duration.

The minister of the church, a Reverend Foster, was much more receptive to our plans. He had relocated a theological seminary school into private homes to provide facilities. We had eighteen doctors and lay clergy to help. Most of the doctors had degrees in Theology, Education and Pastoral care. They would be more helpful in social administration. A few veterinarians and general practitioners would drop by as time allowed. They did not have a large population base and everyone was busy with health and economic concerns during the crisis. Food exports had dwindled to nothing in the months following the disease. The ranchers wouldn't starve, but they could not pay their mortgages until the markets opened up. A lot of time was being spent in negotiations with Cornucopia bankers and inspectors. Foreclosures were a growing problem.

I arranged loading of the shuttle. This let me place some select items in among the medical supplies. Initial parameters were still fluid. We had location security, biothreats and economic warfare concerns. Information was a primary objective for any clarity. Saint Peter would use the shuttle, parked outside of quarantine to gain more access. Within quarantine, we would see what could be learned from the Cornucopia agents. Getting more supplies in would be a problem. Cornucopia had a fair security apparatus. Everything we would need had to go in the first trip. The doctors squeezed into the shuttle and Father Luke gave us a blessing. The ten of us dropped down the rabbit hole.

We were met at the airport by a dozen officials. Four were in customs uniforms. Three more appeared to be security types by the cut of their suits. Another was a biologist named Honma, with a case of data cubes. He was happy to hand them over. The event was captured by a scattering of field journalists with recorder suits. They stood out with their tall shoulder pads covered in mesh. Station logos rode on their breast pockets. There was a well-turned-out company politician named Ishikawa. His title was _Shacho_ , or company president. If their president was here, this would be a staged media event. The formal bow he gave to Father Luke and the assembled doctors spoke of a conservative mindset and indicated Gratitude to Technicians if I read his body language correctly. My Japanese needs polishing.

I decided to watch proceedings from further back in the shuttle hatch. Rafe and Etienne were rounding up supplies in the hold we could carry out on our shoulders, if needed. I slid on my sunglasses and pulled a ball cap with the Red Cross sigil on the front. That would be the medical kind of Red Cross. Wearing the hat was my private joke and it always made me look happy to the cameras.

The other three officials seemed to represent the airport and cargo services. They stood somewhere between the president's group and the customs men. _Shacho_ Ishikawa said a few pleasantries in English, introduced the airport director to Father Luke and was whisked away by a waiting limousine to an area some distance away with more journalists. No doubt he would spin the meeting in Japanese for his political aggrandizement. A small bus approached the shuttle and our doctors were loaded in with Dr. Honma and a privileged journalist for an orientation meeting. Father Luke remained to chat with the airport director while the other journalists scattered. The customs men approached.

Our cargo manifest was given the once over. It was mostly formality, the wheels having been pre-greased by Father Luke and the _Shacho_. They looked at our ID's and recorded images on their helmet Critics. The Company liked to micromanage exterior contacts, it seemed. The customs men would get a distant look and then pass along some question from their riding observers. I work very hard to absorb intel from Saint Peter without revealing the conversation. These men were not used to the Critics. They weren't coverts.

They were cautious about our Medical Fabricator, understanding the dangers of nanotech. Questions about power sources and chemicals being imported showed their level of sophistication. The Company seemed fairly knowledgeable about modern technology and the Security section had good anti-terror protocols. They just weren't allowed to poke through medical containers on a mercy mission too forcefully. They had a political override on their actions. We were cleared.

Commercial Lorries began rolling up to the cargo ramp. A scattering of airport security trucks had parked in a rough perimeter around us. They were all at least two hundred meters away. It made it look like they were trying to keep things out rather than in. What did they fear? I wondered. Was it the journalists? Would security try something out of sight? Or was organized violence that big a threat? I traded a look with Etienne, now we were both worried about the supply train.

The three of us started putting RF chirpers on the loads. It looked like we were writing labels, but the pens would fire a chip into the packaging. These chirpers would only respond to a coded signal, it would take a very sophisticated sweeper to find them. Saint Peter could already follow his Templars anywhere with our implants, now he could see our luggage.

I made a point of getting eyes on the lorry drivers. They looked like civilian contractors. No uniforms or guns and they were introducing themselves to each other. Father Luke had wandered over and was asking them about the route. Saint Peter may have suggested the action to him, or it was just his innate fieldcraft. Both of them were pretty canny in a developing situation. I came to a stop in a subordinate position and got a look at the route. A skinny driver wearing a sleeveless jumper and a cowboy hat did most of the talking. Everyone called him "Tsuiso-Dan", which Saint Peter informed me, is a form of Japanese combat driving. That made him much more interesting.

The English Tsuiso-Dan used for introductions was clearly a second language. Father Luke replied in passable Japanese and the conversation shifted to routes and protocols. I feigned ignorance and studied the body posture of the group. Of the six Lorries sent, eight drivers were present, a little system redundancy. They dressed as though going to a demolition event, personalizing durable work clothes with embroidery and torn fabric. A little bit of cowboy or gang influence showed in their accessories. One in four had visible tattoos. The revealed ink appeared to be voluntary choices.

Their stances varied from alert to bored. They exuded a kind of fatalism, the knowledge of risk and a loose social contract. It reminded me of mercenary units. I began to wonder how much action they saw. Taking a lull in conversation, I walked over to inspect the Lorries.

Each lorry was probably sixteen meters long with ten wheels and a lowered stance. The cargo containers were modular shipping types, locked onto the lorry bed. They articulated in the front third with four drive wheels extended behind the articulating point another two meters. The wheel choices looked like dirt would be a possible roadway. The engines were closed loop MHD's powering motors in the drive wheels. They had good redundancy but cheap construction. The cabs named the drivers, fighter pilot style. The company logos often shared the same name. There were dents and marring at the usual contact points, mostly cosmetic damage. The paint was not a year old and layers were visible. A look in the cab window showed worn interiors and a varied collection of icons. Studying those using the art of Semiotic Pragmatics showed family connections and overactive pornographic imaginations. Some favored religious icons. Only one used Christian imagery. I memorized his license photo on the visor. He was one of the lone drivers, named Toyo. None had visible weapons beyond tire tools.

Father Luke was walking back to the cargo ramp, so I took an intercept and caught up. Rafe and Etienne were in a mostly empty bay when we arrived. Rafe handed me one of our clip-on flashlights. Light was just one of their functions. Father gave us the "listener" sign and stepped back into the shuttle. We followed to a closed compartment and opened up our feeds. All surfed the collected intel and let Saint Peter give us analysis. We had a chance of hijacking for money or state security reasons, especially the Medical Fabricator. Not a big chance, but worrisome. The drivers appeared competent but expendable. We were not permitted suitable weapons or armor. Any conflict risked blowing our cover. I told the Father we understood and would split up to ride with the risky loads. I failed to mention the variety of silent weapons concealed on our persons. Only Saint Peter knew that inventory. Father Luke would have deniability if we ended up interrogated. We rejoined the drivers to arrange our rides. I suggested that Father ride with Toyo. I would ride with the lead.

Tsuiso-Dan looked disappointed to get me for a partner. I gave him a little pidgin and a short bow to establish culture links. I didn't want him too chatty, so playing down my Japanese seemed wise. He was curious about my job title, so I fed him the Nurse Medina story and winked. I hinted that I was actually a kind of Roadie for the Doctors, keeping them from screwing up with their big diplomas and lack of good sense. Tsuiso-Dan found that relationship amusing. The story meshed with his perceptions of the highly educated.

I looked over his cabin on the drive to the terminal. Decent spatial data and communications with the convoy were available. The cab was not hardened for kinetic or NBC attack. Fire protection was a portable canister. A long handled rubber mallet rode in a sleeve behind the driver seat. Dice in fuzzy green fur hung from a mirror. The drive control lever had a chrome skull with lighted red eyes. His ceiling was lacquered with pages from porn magazines and doe-eyed manga. All of these details made Tsuiso-Dan seem exactly as seen. Unlikely he was covert.

Our doctors, looking slightly dazed from their whirlwind medical consult turned press event, were loaded into a six wheeled bus with comfort facilities and rugged tires. They would precede the convoy in style while we ate their dust and carried their water. That arrangement would also let me respond from behind if trouble showed. Saint Peter believed the doctors were a poor target for either motivation threatening the convoy. But I would keep them in sight, regardless.

Our route carried us south on highway roads. Traffic was light. Three hours of travel found us pulling into a truck weigh station. It had been taken over by quarantine security forces. A command trailer and motor pool of military vehicles were patrolled by soldiers with assault rifles. A few civilians seemed to provide political support for the operation. I could see no imbed journalists. There was no traffic coming out of the quarantine zone.

We were herded into the weigh line. Soldiers paralleled our convoy. A couple officials and an officer were talking to the doctors. Body language indicated an argument. I didn't want to use our feeds around civilians and the soldiers did not look like they would welcome dismounting passengers as friendly. Tsuiso-Dan called the bus to find out what he could.

Our conflict revolved around the Medical Fabricator, of course. Security would not admit it into the zone because of the presence of "unknown mutagens." They would not permit replicating nano into the zone until we could identify and contain those mutagens. It sounded plausible in a circular logic sort of way. The doctors argued that it used a closed system and was proof against anything but hard radiation. The officials maintained that they "had their orders", which meant they really didn't understand the device and were just delivering a roadblock concocted by their handlers. Father Luke proposed a compromise, probably worked out before by Saint Peter.

We would set up the Fabricator here, at the weigh station. The doctors could communicate specs remotely and the quarantine motor pool would deliver the final products to our lab in the zone. This proposal required our under informed officials to scurry back to the communications trailer and ask for direction. Saint Peter would no doubt back track that communication. We would hear about it later, when secure uplink was available.

The officials came back with furrowed eyebrows, a common look after close contact with superiors. We could set it up, but they wanted to deliver to the nearest church in the zone, transport to the lab was our responsibility. They would also review our specs before feeding them to the Fabricator. Father Luke readily agreed. The revisions were probably expected. So we had our expected hijacking by Security forces. Organized crime had not yet appeared, but the day was young. After a few hours setting up the fabricator and communications protocols, our convoy rolled out to the southbound road.

A sandbag barricade marked the official entrance to the zone. Heavy weapons and concrete vehicle traps watched by field soldiers. They didn't bother to talk to us, just shifted open lanes for a zigzag navigation of the defenses. It was a professional post. Made me wonder what they had waiting for foot traffic around the perimeter.

The road beyond was made of gravel chips. They pinged off the vehicles like hail. We began making a dust trail, increasing our signature. I asked Tsuiso-Dan to slow us down a little, out of concern for our fragile cargo. A few minutes conversation on the Driver net slowed the convoy and reduced our dust marker.

The outer ring of the quarantine zone was composed of local farmers and ranchers who had the misfortune of having Christian neighbors. Guilt by association would make them irritable. It would also make them likely to spy and less likely to cooperate. I looked at each passing homestead with a tactical eye.

It was the economics that I should have noticed. These people were going to lose their homes soon. We were driving by with expensive medical supplies that could be resold without a lot of risk. When the Driver net crackled to life with reports of trucks behind us, I took a moment to consider their motivations. They would be amateur opportunists. They would know the neighbors on all sides of us and have the ability to rally them for a quick score. They would have hunting weapons but little experience turning them on people. It was a desperation move.

Tsuiso-Dan surprised me from my considerations. He fired back commands to the Driver net that accelerated the convoy. The doctor bus was rapidly opening distance from us. It was the right move. We needed to get past the local hue and cry before they could block the road. The lorry began to feel like a fast boat skimming over waves. I could feel traction being lost on bumps and dips. Tsuiso-Dan seemed utterly focused. I would not break his concentration by screaming like a little girl, but it was really tempting. A curve approached ahead and he did not slow down. When I felt the lorry slide into a ten wheel drift with us sideways across both lanes, I think I may have squeaked a little. The articulating trailer began trying to pass us on the right. Out the driver's side window I could see the next lorry behind in the same sideways slide. I grabbed handholds and planted my feet for the inevitable rolling jackknife. Instead, a burst of acceleration pulled us straight as the curve ended. I abruptly started breathing again.

Tsuiso-Dan turned his head slightly and gave me a crooked smile. I sketched a seated bow and called him " _Sensei_." His grin widened. He tapped the GPS screen and stretched his thumb and middle finger apart. I could see the convoy was stretching out. We also had three red dots behind us. They were just behind the last lorry but couldn't seem to pass. Etienne was in that lorry. I risked opening a feed to see what was happening.

Etienne was looking in the side mirror at a farm truck full of men. They were struggling to pass on the right, but the lorry drifted over and I lost sight of them. Etienne looked forward at the back of the next lorry. It was entering the curve I had just passed. I saw it start to drift as we had, and then the feed began jerking as Etienne wildly looked around the inside of the cab and grabbed handholds. I heard him choke out a sound that I would guess was " _Merde_ ", then the perspective skewed sideways as the G forces pushed him against the door. I got a quick look out the driver's window of three trucks in a cloud of dust. They seem to have lost ground. A couple flashes looked like gunfire, but the lorry straightened back out and I lost sight of them again.

It seemed a stern chase would not work for our opportunists. They could shoot up the back of the tail lorry, but could not advance or hit anything vital without a lot of luck. The men in the back of the trucks had to be taking a good beating. If Tsuiso-Dan was any indication, these drivers could use their large lorries as weapons against the trucks if they were so inclined. That meant the real threat was forward. If they could roadblock us or follow all the way to our destination, the Lorries would lose their advantage. We were still mostly unarmed.

I opened a link to Father Luke. He needed to alert the Christians. There was a high speed train chased by robbers coming in. We needed clear roads and circled wagons to run to. All hunters would be welcome to attend. Father said he would see what could be done. I checked in with Rafe. He rode with our toys, two Lorries back. He said he couldn't get at much without stopping, but Etienne had thirty meters of disappearing monowire in his hat. If I needed it, Rafe volunteered that he had a binary grenade. That was a ding, we had said no explosives on entry.

Rafe tended to be a very defensive Templar. Part of his mortality conflict with the church. They said he had to come back in his body or become a Zimboe. He loved his wife, Claire, who understood those Zimboe sentiments. He could lose something dear if he Transferred. It made him more crafty than ferocious. I was dinging him a lot lately for non-inventory hardware. He said he felt naked without tools on a psych interview. I was glad Saint Peter never did much with the dings, I think he may have understood, in his way. Rafe is still good troop, just a question of style.

A binary grenade is two different innocuous chemicals that are combined in an expedient container and triggered. Rafe favored hand cleanser and sun block bottles. They were very hard to detect. They even smelled right. He would need to find a container to concentrate the explosion. I don't think he brought a paint can full of tacks in his luggage. At least, I didn't see it. I told him to think tactics and get back to me with a plan.

Etienne was still gyrating around the cab when I switched back to him. His tail driver was swaying the trailer all over the lanes to keep the trucks off. I rated his ability to throw wire at about nil. I could hear popping noises in the cab, like very large gravel chips. The rear mirrors showed flashes from the trucks. The driver's mirror had a cracked hole. These little trucks were better on the straight ways. The tail lorry was going to lose a wheel fairly soon at this rate.

I looked ahead at the route. At our rate of travel, we were still thirty minutes from a Christian retail center. Retail centers make good rally points. They are usually centrally located and have some oversized buildings. The roads are kept up. I asked Saint Peter for photogrammetry of the route. The terrain imagery gave me a tight curve with a small hill and a grove of trees on the inside, just about ten klicks ahead. I looked at angles and scales. I offered a plan to Saint Peter. He simulated it probably a hundred times before showing me a football diagram of correct procedure.

We were three klicks away when I asked Tsuiso-Dan to change leads as everybody came to the curve. He gave me an odd look, like his dog had learned to talk. When I asked him to slow the leads to twenty kph around the upcoming curve, I had to tell him it was time to do my "Roadie" thing. I would be getting off. But tell the last lorry to expect me to drop by. He cast some doubts about my sanity, in a barking Japanese tone. I just put my shoulder to the door and got a good grip on the release. After a moment, he gave me that crooked grin again. He could see I was serious. The Driver net boiled over in a lot of odd Japanese slang. I couldn't follow it, but their voices were growls. Tsuiso-Dan barked some more instructions and told me to get ready.

The feed from Rafe showed him pushed against the door and looking intently forward. He was ready. The curve came up fast, Tsuiso-Dan did a little control dance and the ten wheels started braking hard. His partner flew by us in the outside lane while I pushed my door open and got onto the easy step. I picked a path in front of me and hit the ground running flat out. It wasn't pretty, but I didn't fall, just changed my path up the hill to the best tree from the simulation. It was a conifer, about twenty five meters tall and at the lead edge of the hill. I got out my trusty flashlight.

Concealed in the cap threads of the flashlight was three meters of monowire, securely mounted to the light and the cap. Monowire is so sharp, it is almost invisible. The Japanese created a weapon called a Katana Guri just like this. When you spin the wire in a disc over your head, it gives off a greenish shimmer. It will also cut through steel with enough momentum. Most Katana Guri practitioners are missing limbs at some time during their careers. It is such a clean cut that parts can be rebonded, if you have a good health plan and an intact spine.

For my purposes, the Katana Guri flashlight was an excellent saw. I flicked the line out and around the tree, high up on the trunk. I carefully grasped the cap end, now hanging from a slit in the tree and started pulling down and sawing. Soon there was a downward slash cut almost half way through the trunk. I stepped around to the front and carefully grasped the cap end again, pulling the wire upward out of the cut. Now I pushed the wire lower, on an intercept to the first cut, working it in about a third of the trunk. Letting go of the cap, I pulled the wire until the cap rested on the trunk and walked back around the tree to the cap side. The last part was just pulling a lanyard. The tree snapped, kicked back and fell forward down the hill. I carefully rolled up my wire and stepped forward to look over the crest.

The tree came to a rest with the snapped trunk faced up the hill, like it was standing on its head. I saw two Lorries coming around the curve. Rafe came running out of the slow one. I slid down the hill to the broken trunk and planted my feet against it. My back pushed against the hill and I labored like Atlas to straighten out, pushing the trunk a little way from the slope. Rafe ran up to the gap and stuffed a duct taped bundle into it. He stepped quickly away and I let the tree lean back on the hill, compressing his grenade. We both turned down the hill and ran. We didn't want to miss our ride. Rafe shouted, "You've got the ball." I guessed he was talking to Etienne or wanted to let me know to catch our ride first. Rafe loved to multitask a conversation, like he was charged by the letter.

The last two Lorries were side by side and rolling slow. Etienne was in the outside lane, looking up at the tree. The truck robbers were fairly close, popping off shots and looking for a wide shoulder to get around. The fast braking by the Lorries had confused them. Their drivers had to slam on the brakes and most shots went low. It looked for a moment that they would rear end the Lorries. Etienne triggered the grenade.

The tree showered splinters into the air and tipped quickly away from the hill, over the road. The trunk hit the back edge of the outside Lorry and rolled off into the following trucks. It was a pretty good shot. I suspect Saint Peter might have been helping Etienne along. The trucks had some immediate collisions with tree and each other. Men flew out of the beds. They were lucky it was only at running speeds. I couldn't watch much more because my ride was leaving. By the time I caught up and climbed in the cab, I was too out of breath to say hello to my new driver. He didn't have a lot to say either, just stared at me with one eye. Rafe banged on the door window and I slid over to make room. For a while, we just panted. The air conditioning felt good.

****

### Chapter 5: Welcome Wagon

The new driver was "Kaiju." I think that means giant rubber monster or something similar. I told him he could call me "Katsu", which is a shout used to move a person beyond the rational, if I remembered my Zen correctly. His crooked smile was remarkably similar to Tsuiso-Dan's. Did they breed drivers from a cloned strain here? I praised his driving skills, which he brushed off as unspectacular. He praised our speed of action, which I brushed off as nearly killing my friend and me. He offered us green tea from a thermos and we settled back to rest. The Driver net chattered continuously with their slang growls and my new name, "Katsu."

We arrived in a little Christian hamlet named "Akron" about thirty minutes later. The church was the largest building seen. The name "Akron Pilgrim Congregational" was over the door. Two harvesters were parked near the road and several men in overalls were cradling rifles.

I saw Father Luke talking to a few clergy near his lorry. Etienne was parked next to him, looking at the cargo container that had taken so much abuse. I asked Kaiju to pull in for a moment.

The container looked bad. One back corner was crumpled from the tree. The bullet holes were so numerous on the flat canvas of the container that they suggested familiar shapes, like looking at Rorschach blots or clouds. Etienne was wrestling with the container door. It would take a hydraulic jack to pry it open, so he gave it up as Rafe and I approached. "The famous Katsu, I presume?" he stated as he hopped down. I pointed at Rafe, "And this would be Sancho Panza."

Rafe added, "We tilt at trees instead of windmills."

Etienne slapped us on the backs and said, "Thanks whoever you are, there was a real danger that my driver would cause me to throw up."

While clinched together closely, I asked my _compadres_ , "Do you think we're blown?" Etienne thought the drivers were clannish but gossipy within their _Otaku_. The explosion was an anomaly. Rafe ducked his head a little and related that the driver saw him putting the grenade together. He had given a story about doing construction work for the Peace Corps. It was thin cover. I told Rafe to get visibly drunk. He winced and headed off for a store down the street. I told Etienne, "We will show them nerves. They need amateur reactions from us to offset the story." Etienne motioned me around a building to a quiet delivery dock behind. We were unobserved. He opened a small vial of oil and lit a protruding wick with a permanent match. Greasy smoke rose, smelling of cannabis. We scooped the smoke over our hair and clothes, Navajo style. He capped the vial and we went back to the Lorries. We would play goofy roadies with substance problems.

I put Rafe and Etienne together in the lead lorry and went back to Kaiju. He became noticeably cooler to me. I decided to nap and let him put his own opinions on the driver net. Saint Peter whispered through my implants, telling me Rafe had bought wine. Father Luke finished his talk with the Church clergy. They would receive any medical supplies from the Fabricator and pull the tree off of the road tomorrow. In quick order, our convoy of three Lorries finally got back on the road.

I dozed, apparently, and Kaiju chatted on the Driver net about how the roadies were on a binge. Conversation shifted from how quickly we responded to what hillbillies we were. Our story changed from daring competence to a reckless opportunity to use explosives. Some of their pidgin slang seemed to involve jokes about our sisters. They eagerly accepted the typecast presented. It gave them a superiority to enjoy and seemed to account for our sudden burst of action. We were not marvels, just lucky and crazed. Our cover was firming back up.

We rolled under a gothic looking iron arch that said "Cloverland Theological Seminary." My nap was over. It was dusk outside. I could see a church with a four story steeple and a quad of low buildings behind that looked like classrooms and dorms. There were three of our containers offloaded in the parking lot. The Lorries were lined up nearby. It looked like they would be spending the night.

I linked to Father Luke and asked for an extraction before the clergy got a whiff of us. We didn't need any credibility damage. He pointed to a door on one of the low buildings. "You have the three rooms near the door. Grab a shower and take the night off, I will send some food by." Rafe and Etienne immediately headed that way. I hopped off the lorry and joined them.

But I didn't take the night off. After a shower and change of clothes, I went out to the containers and brought in some boxes that held our toys. I thought Rafe was going to kiss me. He was an easy drunk since going Christian.

Etienne didn't get a nap on the ride in. Too busy playing the role with Rafe. I had him set building security before turning in. I would take a night stroll with a bag of tattletales and set up a perimeter before turning in myself.

Early morning. The doctors sounded like a herd of elephants through the thin walls of the dorms. Endless showers and hygiene appliances and low conversation. It was easy to get ready and get gone before they had assembled their looks for public consumption.

I met Etienne out by the containers. He said Rafe was down at the rectory, looking for bottled water. We broke out loader dollies and started going through the containers.

The lorry drivers began waking up. I sought out Tsuiso-Dan for help with the battered container. He seemed subdued and passed me off to a driver with a large tool box. We battled our way into the container, ruining it further. When we were done, the drivers started up their Lorries and headed out the gate. A couple waved but most seemed preoccupied with their trip back through the robbing farmers. Hopefully, they would have no problem now that the containers were gone.

The damaged container held a lot of mangled equipment. We had packed the tail containers with solid objects rather than chemical supplies, just in case. The Doctors sifted through the debris and inventoried new parts they would need from the Fabricator. We shifted priorities to unpacking the computers and communications gear. This went into a classroom building we were going to use as an office. When that gear was offloaded, we started loading the other classroom building with lab equipment. Six of the seminary staff came out to help. Another dozen went into the buildings to organize unpacking. By lunch time, we were mostly done with the grunt labor. Two sisters from the rectory brought out something called a "Plowman's lunch." Bread, cheese and an apple chased down with cider. Given the disease we were here to fight, I was glad there was no meat.

We left the doctors to their organizing and shifted to our own duties, hardening a soft target. I retraced my night stroll with Rafe, pointing out the tattletales I had set. We needed them placed better and checked for function on the Battlenet. He would also cache some of our gear out here. Concentrating your weapons is for bureaucracies, not Templars. Etienne, I put on communications. He would build redundancy into the system and distribute nodes around the compound. He would also add some spectrums not commonly used or jammed. Knowing Etienne, he would probably harden and trap his nodes. Fine with me.

I went over to the bustling computer lab. There was an extra computer crated there that the doctors did not know what to do with. I took it out for them and went to my room. It was the easiest place for me to harden without drawing attention.

I set up a generator in one of the containers and snaked a cable to the dorms and the other four intact containers. One had power tools and stock. The other had a simulator with our Combat Skins. Those would be for us. One had the doctors EEG/MEG portable scanner and a backup generator. I still wanted to see how that scanner worked. The last container I would set up as a shelter for civilians.

Using the power tools, I disassembled the damaged container. Cut it up into sheets and tore a pair of gloves and my work pants hauling the stuff into the shelter container. I hung the sheets lengthwise and attached the top edges so that the panels could flex if struck by projectiles. Over those, I ran packing material and then inflated a bio-isolation shelter with an airlock. Punched a few holes on the top of the container for the filter intakes, hooked a hose to the shower and locked it all up. Later, I would look into making it portable.

I used a metal sheet to make a box. This held some saws and drills for the walk to my dorm. Under my bed, the concrete floor received a square hole the size of the box. The box received my quantum computer, linked to Saint Peter. Wired to the generator and house current, it was as secure as I could make it. When Etienne linked it to communications and Rafe had the sensors all up, we would have our Battlenet.

The doctors set up a clinic in that time. Only one Translator worked and there was a junk room of equipment waiting for parts, but they had enough to start working. They would set up appointments tomorrow. We nurses would check out three trucks donated for our transport and get them in reliable condition. Once that was done, we would be shuttling parts and doctors all over the area. Busy days ahead for everyone.

I found the trucks in the church lot. One was a nice four-door. The other two looked to have been hauling manure until the beds rusted out. Mechanically, they seemed sound. Hybrid electrics with ethanol generators. I would have to find where they made the fuel.

Some of the steel from the container would patch the beds and allow a little customization. These trucks would be our strongpoints away from the Cloverland Seminary. Rafe would turn his defensive eye on them while Etienne wired them into the Battlenet. I had the mechanic skills.

My misspent youth involved keeping old trucks delivering my mother's peppers and agaves, until I passed the Garda exams. My dad was stored in the _Oficina de la Magistrado_ , waiting for a zombie from the Victims Advocate. A drunk driver ran him down in El Paso and he got backed up to testify. He finally got one when I graduated the Garda, soldier's families get bumped up the list a little.

He's still selling _Pulque_ and _Mezcal_ at my cousin's cantinas. Quit going to church. I've seen him a couple times since, but he looks my age now. It was kind of awkward for my mom. You know it's him, but it's hard to realize how much a personality changes with the body it's in. He was having a midlife crisis in that young body and it made my mom unhappy a lot. I had to cut my visits short or beat the hell out of him. We all hoped it was just a bad phase.

I settled into my dorm room, watching Rafe and Etienne running wire behind the ceiling tiles. When it was all hooked up I linked to Saint Peter and selected protocols. Data flowed. We all linked for a conference. Father Luke offered the doctors itinerary and preliminary impressions of the staff. We went over the Security system and offered our own rotation schedule to allow us time with the trucks and the doctors. Saint Peter sent us feeds from the outer world, filtered for applicability. The shuttle had infiltrated communications hubs through the airport lines. He could enter Cornucopia systems from a dozen different directions. Another long day closed. I slept better with a perimeter in place. I always do.

We received the infected the next day, dribbling in singly with an escort of relatives. Rafe was first shift, directing them to the correct doctors and keeping the relatives out of the way. We had a scanner taped inside the main door jamb that gave us a cross-section of everyone coming in. When the Battlenet filtered the image, Rafe would receive an inventory of suspicious shapes and their carriers. We weren't actively keeping out the armed, but wanted to know who they were. Everyone signed a log book and was covertly recorded. They all sat in a waiting room with secured interior doors. It was all we could do without revealing the presence of a security net. One of the Hindu doctors suggested a disease screening process for the relatives that would involve getting the other two Quantum Translators online. When we finally got the parts from the Fabricator, I would adjust our security to allow rotating them into two screening rooms. Being able to isolate the relatives, one at a time, had possibilities for vetting and interrogation. Father Luke would apply his skills to a patient questionnaire and liaise with the doctors.

Etienne and I worked on the trucks until lunch, and then I relieved Rafe at the clinic. He was eager to get at the trucks. I cautioned him about remaining covert and set him loose. I was interested in what he would do with them too. Without a Fabricator, it would be a great exercise in field expedient logistics and improvisation. Templars enjoyed puzzles like that. It was built into the candidate pre-screening requirements.

I got my own puzzle back at the clinic. A van entered the parking lot and disgorged two officials in Cornucopia Co uniforms. They were armed with computer pads and authorizations to inspect. The bureaucracy had arrived. I ran to get Doctor Chopra and Father Luke. They would give them the cheap tour while I kept the clinic secure. I alerted Etienne to keep our profile low, Battlenet on stealth and questionable toys under lock.

What these officials wanted was to catalogue our clinic operation and to hang a temporary license on the wall. We were now an official clinic, as long as we followed the book of regulations they courteously gave to Doctor Chopra. If we should be found to not follow the regulations on some subsequent inspection, our license would come under review. Apparently, several levels of legal prosecution would descend on unlicensed clinics for unsafe practices. "Even volunteers should follow safe practices. It's for the whole planet."

A quick threat analysis of the regulations included a hierarchy of people who made certain decisions. Public announcements by licensed clinics were subject to review before release. New medications required patient releases that had to include the medication proposal. An accredited institution had to endorse any new medications for use outside of the quarantine zone.

It was an effective political attack. We were simultaneously muzzled and harnessed as a research lab for the Company. Saint Peter's critique was that it is only as effective as enforced. Disassociate resources outside the zone could spread information. It would take time, but Saint Peter would find outside groups who could be made simpatico. Access to news on the disease would be all the payment needed. Political counterforce could be assembled along existing fault lines. We would get our own committees to oppose any legal prosecutions. For the moment, we should comply as possible and be alert to the possibility of spies being emplaced. Probability was high that new volunteers would be offered containing coverts.

I had expected that to happen in any case. Relief missions were notoriously hard to secure from infiltration. When we received a call from Akron Pilgrim Congregational saying that supplies had arrived, it was not very surprising that they also had three volunteers dropped off for pickup.

I sent Rafe with the nice four door truck. It had already been modified and logged into the Battlenet. I found rooms for them in the other dorm. Etienne did a little modifying in the rooms before they arrived. Father Luke would give them a brief orientation while I scanned their luggage. To fight spies, you needed to be a better spy.

We greeted a man and woman from medical school earning field credits. They seemed to be a couple, like a summer romance among twenty-something's. Both were excited to work with the Jesuit doctors and help people. They were young for coverts and had a readily traced history. Their luggage held normal possessions with the addition of contraceptives.

The third was a middle-aged woman named Fumiko. She had been working in the city as a paramedic. She also attended a congregation there that had asked for volunteers. Her luggage had a passworded personal assistant and a dog-eared bible. Saint Peter found anomalies in her history. Likely, she had been assigned to the church and was now retasked. I would watch all three, but for now, Fumiko looked like the covert. They were welcome to our duties at the clinic, freeing us for field work. Saint Peter could monitor them effectively within the seminary grounds.

I got myself assigned to Doctor Chopra for field tests with the EEG/MEG scanner. They had worked up some parameters from the patients, but the veterinarians wanted something set up for the livestock. Whole herds were being slaughtered with any member that showed symptoms. The Cornucopia inspectors were insisting on it, since they had no equipment to sort the sick from the healthy. If we could scan the remaining herds and separate out the sick before symptoms showed, it would cut economic losses.

I packed the scanner in the back of a truck and drove Doctor Chopra out to our appointment at the Wilson ranch.

Rancher Wilson was a ruddy man in overalls and a straw hat. He looked like he had been crying. Two of his cattle had fallen sick with the disease. They were rolling around on the ground, trying to get up and foaming at the mouth. A Doctor Truman was the attending vet. He and Doctor Chopra put on disposable coveralls and went out to the sick cows while I unpacked the scanner.

The scanner was a balloon lofted antenna wired into a powerful generator. Once I tethered the balloon about a hundred meters up and charged the system, four long antennas repelled away from the central line to form a large X above the herd. A quantum computer performed differential calculations on an imaginary grid of coverage, sorting electrical and magnetic variations. Planetal magnetism, ambient charge and solar radiation were filtered out. Vegetation, metals and water concentrations were identified and filtered. What was left was bioelectrical energy. Doctor Chopra spent several hours fine tuning the scanner, looking for signatures on the two sick cows to compare to the baseline herd signature. Doctor Truman was doing some lab work on the sick cow fluids looking for certain proteins. I just kept the scanner running and let them work until darkness started creeping in.

They told Rancher Wilson that they would need more testing. He didn't say a word, just went to his truck and pulled out a rifle. I could feel anger radiating off him, it had been building up for hours. He strode over to his two sick cattle and shot them. Then he directed four ranch hands to bag up the cattle and put one in our truck. The other they would burn. Without a word to us, he went back into his house with his rifle. I slid my pistol back into the seat scabbard.

It was a long drive back. The truck tended to bottom out on the rear springs over bumps. Doctor Chopra spent a lot of time reviewing his findings and chewing his lower lip. I don't think he had met someone like Rancher Wilson before. I hoped he found it motivating.

There was a little problem with the cow carcass. Regulations required secure cold storage for an infected body. We couldn't put it in the food locker, which was obviously a bad idea. Our spy would have something to report if we just threw it in a room. I ended up dropping off the doctor and taking the carcass out to the woods. A shovel and a tow chain let me get it into the ground without tearing the bag. We would need to make arrangements for the veterinary side of this. Concentrating on the human patients without researching the vector animals was going to leave a blind spot. We needed the big picture. I suggested this to Father Luke. He thought that doctor Truman would be a good candidate for recruiting. But first, we needed cold storage for carcasses and a place to perform autopsies. A quick search of resources in the zone showed an auto junkyard with an ice delivery truck. They also had an old office trailer. I went over in the morning with a box of tools to inspect their condition.

The ice truck was not going to be making any more deliveries without new drive motors and some work on the ethanol generator. The refrigeration unit just needed charged. I spoke with the junkyard owner, a Mr. Burkowski. He had the appearance of an overweight used car salesman. His favorite term was "crunching the numbers", which always led to a high price position from which to haggle. I used some Middle Eastern techniques picked up at Jerusalem bazaars to bring the prices back down. It didn't hurt that I was representing a cure for the quarantine; Burkowski was losing business with everyone else.

After an hour of negotiations that included his truncated life story and a pot of coffee, we settled on a deal. Burkowski would strip one office in the trailer and tow it to the Seminary. His son would charge up the ice truck refrigeration and get the generator running before towing that to the Seminary. Burkowski threw in one hundred liters of ethanol. I would build a trailer from the back of a junk truck that would fit a carcass well. The total price was lowered with the offer of sending doctors to his father in law's ranch before the end of the week. I transferred funds and went to build a trailer.

Saint Peter gave me the latest intel on the drive back. Fumiko had been using her personal assistant to scramble phone calls to a real estate office in the city. She had very little to report, being kept busy and isolated from the computers. Father Luke brought up her paramedic experience a few times as suitable for field assignments. She wanted to "familiarize" herself with treatment and research first. I'd give that a few days and then put her butt in a pasture checking herds.

In other political news, a Soto Zen temple had been approached to create political influence. They were speaking to a Protestant minister from our city church. Christians in the city were already being organized. The next outreach would be to other agricultural communities. Some counter opposition was expected.

In medical news, Doctor Chopra's scanner data had been examined and a filter produced to find cattle and humans in the early stages. A few areas of the brain showed increased activity when onset was imminent. It was maybe seventy five percent reliable. A chemical screen of the lymph system could refine that further. When all the parameters for diagnosis were refined, the Quantum Translators could find them as fast as we could upload superposition files. The Nanoquinacrine therapy was about sixty percent effective in slowing the disease's progress. We couldn't repair the damage, but we could buy some time for the infected. The disease vector was still a mystery. Christians had followed safe practices in preventing prion infections for hundreds of years. An occasional hereditary prion infection should not have been able to spread. The doctors were working on the incubation period to give us a timeline of when it first happened and when it could be expected to end. Problem was, prion diseases can take years to manifest. It might be a very long wait.

My own report was more of a request. I wanted Saint Peter to upload specs for three Field Translators. The military portable units were a combination of secure communicator and medical kit. You could speak directly to another linked quantum device without much fear of jamming or listeners. It had a large storage chip for files. If you were to trigger Translation, it would back up the nearest mind three times, fast, with concatenated error correction. Signal loss was low under ideal conditions. It would hold only one translation at a time, but you could clear or upload it with a Supervisor's code and use it again. In the Garda, these things are the Soldiers Friend.

I told him to sell the idea to Cornucopia Co., the guys holding our Fabricator. I needed the Translators to check cattle out in pastures. It would be nice if we had some quiet electric quads to carry them on, so we don't spook the herd when we're out there. Write up a nice proposal for Vector Control to approve. The agency might want to use the idea themselves. Suggest that to them. The more of these rigs running around the better.

Saint Peter thought about this for a couple seconds and suggested a civilian hybrid. Field Translators were too obviously military. By ordering the quads with a computer built in and getting more replacement parts for the Quantum Translators, an acceptable level of scientific knowledge was conveyed instead of a military skill set. The sensor pickups could be mounted on a cable and boom to allow safer interaction with the cattle. The design was both cheaper to produce and fully capable of everything a military unit could do. Vector Control would like it much better.

Outthinking Saint Peter, once he has a set of parameters, is tough to do. I wanted the military gear because I thought I might have to Translate casualties. I trusted the Garda models. But he was right, again. They would see what I ordered as coming from a security agent. I signed off on the specs and Saint Peter spread the parts around to different requesting doctors. I didn't need any recognition. Just a humbled servant, me.

And so it went for a week. We were clearing herds like an assembly line and getting the good favor of every vet or rancher in the zone. It looked like we would lose ten percent of the herds immediately. At least twenty percent more were under quarantine watch. The clean herds were distributed to low occurrence ranches for safety. If we could keep them alive, they would be spread out to all the ranchers as starter herds. Our constant sorting and movement of the herds had the added effect of confusing health inspectors. Animals showing symptoms were already under quarantine from the rest. Total destruction of a ranch's livestock became a rare action. But they still weren't approving the cattle for market. It was hard to confirm a negative. Infection may still be present.

We lost ten people to the disease. They didn't respond to Nanoquinacrine and refused Translation. Of course, Translation would have left them brain damaged in any case. We did have three people opt for Translation anyway. They did it at early onset and were now backed up while the originals were deteriorating in our hospice. We had acquired a motel, which had no tourism business to speak of in the quarantine zone. The Cloverland Ladies Auxiliary was providing services to eighteen patients in failing health there. Another thirty patients were responding to Nanoquinacrine and being cared for at home. We had cleared six hundred relatives as uninfected.

The next step was volume population scanning. We would take the EEG/MEG on the road with a medical team. The churches would advertise free screenings at markets and draw people in groups for vetting. Possible infected could be cut from the crowd for further testing. Appointments would be made with any overflow numbers. We would use our herd techniques on the several thousand people held under quarantine. I don't think anyone but the ranchers and vets would notice the similarity.

We started in Akron. They had been very helpful liaising with the shipments from the outside world, it was time to give back. When the balloon went up and the big X antenna appeared above the market, crowds gathered. It had a novelty value and was visible for klicks. The doctors were set up in the church offices with their machines. The clergy turned the nave into a waiting room for patients. Any experiencing anxieties were ministered to by the priests. The rest of us were circulating in the crowd under the direction of Doctors Chopra and Shetty. They would show us people registering on the scanner, in our imaging glasses. We would approach and ask them to see the doctors. After an hour, people flinched when the "sunglasses" approached.

After another hour, a convoy of security transports rolled into Akron, three big armored cars and four trucks in olive green. A signature showed up on the overhead scanner when they were six klicks out. The Battlenet came alive as Saint Peter loaded a Threat Contingency plan. He games those and files them for any kind of threat you can think of. This one initiates simultaneous conversation with the doctors, the four of us on the Battlenet and the IFF transponders in the approaching armored cars. I'm moving to my truck before really thinking about it. That's one of the real killers about sudden military movements. If you're on the receiving end and surprised, the tendency is to freeze in indecision while your brain games through it. In this case, we would be overrun in ten minutes.

Things happened fast for a while. We each did our appointed tasks and gradually our situational awareness increased. These were security forces from the quarantine border guard. They had entered the zone about two hours ago and stopped at some kind of large block substation within the zone. They stayed there fifty minutes and then came straight at us. Orbital Surveillance Time Lapse is a great tool if you can afford to keep a starship overhead. I think Saint Peter got the station fees waived for being a mercy flight.

The doctors came out of their offices and started booking appointments with the people in the waiting nave. The scanner stayed up in the air, but no new people were selected. We were shut down, but it wouldn't be obvious for a little while.

Rafe drove away, to a cache locked in a storage unit inside town. Inventory was our Combat Skins and chemical area weapons. We had felt a riot the most likely threat. I'm sure Rafe brought explosives along with anything else that might be needed. He is such a cautious fellow.

Etienne parked his truck blocking one alley accessing the back of the church. He took a duffle bag of gear to the roof of the neighboring tire store and set up a mimetic blind. The smart tarp would paint itself to match the roof. Hunters loved those things, the ones that could afford them.

I had a job too. My truck went behind the church, faced out for a getaway. I walked my duffle across the street to a public restroom between two food stands. Superman needed privacy to put on his costume.

Rafe pulled up in front of the restroom, wearing a blue plumber's jumper. He looked a little heavier with the Combat Skins and big boots on. The bushy wig helped his proportions. He unloaded a large crate attached to a dolly and wheeled it right into the restroom. My super suit was here. He stoppered the door with the empty dolly while I stripped down. The abdomen of the Combat Skin was open, allowing me to slide into it like a heavy jumpsuit. The back muscles stretched inhumanly long to allow my head into the clavicle collar. I arranged the abdominals as the skin compressed, keeping muscles aligned for fit. The feel is like being hugged over your whole body. Once it felt snug, I did a modified Tai Chi to seat the unit tight and distribute the oils evenly over my skin. Nano filaments burrowed along my spine to tap into direct brain connections. In a few minutes, it was part of me. I put on a mimetic leotard with boots, gloves and hood. Slit pockets were filled with my smaller toys. Rafe packed up my old clothes in the crate and wheeled it back out. He left a bulky coat, pants, hat and my tasseled loafers for preliminary camouflage. Dialing the leotard to denim made me look like a city cowboy. I stuffed a few more toys under the coat and walked out into the market.

****

### Chapter 6: Meeting the Neighbors

Fewer people were in the market square. I spent a little time finding a position for over watch that wouldn't involve bumping into civilians or looking out of place. Sitting at a food counter and pounding down some noodles and greens seemed appropriate. Sliding one bowl of noodles to the seat next to me kept anyone from getting too close.

When the convoy rolled up, just to the left of the church, Father Luke and Doctor Torelli were on the steps to greet them. Civilians in the area quickly moved away from the show of force. A heavy squad of soldiers with chemical suits deployed from the backs of the three trucks. They formed a loose ring facing the trucks. When I looked at the way the armored cars had stopped and this disposition of troops, it was obvious they were carrying some kind of threat with them.

An officer exited the back of an armored car with three more troopers. The officer had foregone the chemical suit snorkel for a paper filter mask. They approached to speak to our representatives. Feeds from Father Luke let us eavesdrop. His name was Major Shawa. He was courteous and spoke English very well. He had brought prisoners from a zone detention facility. These were men like our ambushing farmers on the way in, who had been apprehended by zone security and held within the quarantine zone until they could be safely prosecuted. He had orders to bring them to one of our screening events and get them evaluated. Written orders from Zone Security directed us to cooperate with the Major.

Doctor Torelli questioned the state of medical care at the detention center. To this, Major Shawa intimated that obtaining medical staff in penal facilities was always problematic, especially within quarantine zones. The solution of bringing the prisoners to the doctors had been his idea. Our equipment was much better and the evaluation techniques had been developed by our team. We agreed, of course. They could have just shanghaied us to the prison and ruined our schedules.

They had two dozen prisoners, male and female, wearing hobble cuffs and orange jumpers. Their protocol was to bring them in three at a time, accompanied by soldiers. Saint Peter sorted threat plans and revised our duties to an outer perimeter. Etienne would stay on the roof for immediate over watch. Rafe and I would work further out to the approaches. Our response could turn either in or out, and it kept us away from the soldiers.

I noticed two trucks coming into town from my vantage point, up in a large oak with a view of the road. My clothes were piled at the base, the mimetic leotard blending me into the foliage. The trucks had about ten people between them. All were fit looking and I could see rifles in the truck beds. I asked Saint Peter to time lapse them a couple hours. He reported that they came from a large ranch outside the Christian lands but inside the quarantine zone. There was also a delivery van already in town that came from the same location.

The alert spread on our Battlenet. Rafe had a truckload roll past him from a farm road headed into town. He saw no guns and just thought they were in for the screening. Time lapse showed they came from another ranch outside of Christian lands. They might still be here to get checked, but we were seeing a pattern of large groups entering from outside farms, where the prisoners were from.

Saint Peter located the delivery truck. It was parked at a loading dock behind the market hardware store. The driver had walked around to the store front and disappeared under the various shop awnings. The truck was about one hundred meters from the security convoy but line of sight was blocked by a charity clothing store.

I climbed out of the tree and got dressed. Rafe pulled up in his truck a moment later. We needed to get back to market square. Priority was ensuring the team's safety, in spite of whatever stupidity the locals might start up. We received an update from Father Luke on the way in. The doctors had found something unusual in one of the prisoners. There was military nano in his blood.

Military nano came in several flavors. Medical type repaired damage and flushed out when the job was done. Special Forces nano would replicate to remain in the body, fighting all injury as long as the soldier was on active duty. It was de-activated at mustering. Intelligence types got the interrogation resistant additives. Heavy duty spooks got a self destruct switch. Those two types were left with the soldier until classified knowledge was declassified. Templars had the Intelligence type as standard.

We had either a deserter or an intelligence agent. Cornucopia security forces were not known to use military nano. Our prisoner might be from offworld. Father Luke had him held for more tests. He would also do an interview once the prisoner was attached to the diagnostic equipment, a sort of poor man's lie detector.

Rafe dropped me off at the market. I would make my way around to the back of the church. Rafe would park near the delivery van and take a look. Our overhead EEG/MEG scanner gave us a clear view of everyone within a block of the market, but cars and buildings would cause shadows. The soldiers had a unique signature from all the metal hung on them. Saint Peter was tuning the filters to allow us to identify anyone with a weapon.

Father Luke had an update on the prisoner. His name was Daimyo and his kidneys contained encapsulated waste. When nano was fighting an infection, it would surround the invading organism and carry it to the kidneys for disposal. Whatever was encapsulated had grown too large to pass. He had artificial kidney stones. The doctors had not seen the condition before. They wanted to see how it related to the prion disease, which he showed some signatures for.

Major Shawa was told that prisoner Daimyo was showing symptoms of infection. We wanted him back at the clinic for full treatment. The Major informed Father Luke that the prisoner was a dangerous man; several soldiers had been injured apprehending him. He could not release him to us without a security detail. We should check all the prisoners and he would see what could be arranged.

Rafe reported that the delivery van was wired as a drone. Civilian electronics were used to allow remote driving. Two barrels were suspended from the roof but he could not access the interior. The doors were trapped. It looked like a drive-by bomb. He would look for the driver and possibly the remote.

Etienne reported armed people approaching the church. There were about a dozen, spread out with weapons concealed under coats or in bags. They were sticking near cars and buildings. One of the trucks we identified was also approaching with a tarp in the bed concealing more combatants. They seemed to be using cell phones for coordination. It looked like these were not simple ranchers. I remembered how airport security had faced outward for some organized threat.

Saint Peter gamed the variables. We had a possible prisoner rescue going on in town. Daimyo showed signs of expanding our knowledge of the disease. If handled properly, we could foil the prisoner rescue and obtain Daimyo for research. We did not know who the assailants were. We needed to minimize casualties and damage to all involved until we knew more about the conflict. Staying covert would be a nice bonus.

He gave us a rough plan after thirty seconds of thought. Father Luke signed off immediately and went to secure our medical team behind stout walls. Rafe grabbed twenty meters of cable from the hardware store and ducked out back to the delivery van. Etienne selected his pneumatic autocarbine and dialed back the velocity. Common eight millimeter ball bearings would confuse forensics.

My part was more hands on. Father Luke didn't get to hear about this part of the plan, in case something ethically charged happened. I made my way to the shops in the path of our would-be liberators. My old seat at the noodle shop was open. I slid on my imaging sunglasses and slid off my tasseled loafers.

Etienne got a good angle on the front of the Trojan truck approaching. Rafe reported the delivery van was starting up. He would pass back through the hardware store to help my operation. The delivery van pulled straight out from the loading ramp. Our guess was that someone in the Trojan truck was doing the driving. They were the only visible combatants with line of sight. As the van approached the road behind the shops, Rafe's cable pulled taut against the back doors. He had anchored the other end to a steel rail beside the loading ramp. Both doors pulled off and then there was an explosion ballooning out the left side of the van. Some kind of focused thermal lance, obviously meant for the armored cars. The thunderous blast blew windows out from the market shops. The van flipped on its side and began burning furiously.

It was a surprise to everyone but us. Etienne popped up over the tire shop roof and fired a burst of ball bearings into the Trojan truck. The sound of the windshield breaking was louder than his weapon. The driver stopped and started backing rapidly up the street. Etienne dropped back down behind the parapet.

Rafe rolled baseball shaped grenades at the backs of approaching armed groups on his side of the street. When they had rolled just in front of the groups, Saint Peter triggered them. Clouds of obscuring riot gas sprang up. Rafe faded back into the shops. He would get his truck.

I rolled my own grenades on my side of the street. The combatants were very close but looking toward the pillar of smoke from the burning van. It put their backs to me. Very quickly, there were clouds of riot gas among them. I took a deep breath and ran into the cloud. The imaging glasses showed me heat from bodies and heat from weapons. I picked a combatant bent over coughing. Two quick shocks from the Combat Skins robbed him of consciousness. I left the weapon and threw him over my shoulder. The chemicals were making me blink rapidly to flush my eyes. I got oriented from the balloon sensor feed and trotted back to the restroom, concealed in riot gas.

I checked the feeds from my _compadres_ and the balloon sensor. People were fleeing away from the square. The soldiers were in movement like a kicked wasp's nest, spreading out and seeking cover. A few shots were fired between the opposing parties, but it was more suppression and covering fire than any kind of aimed targeting. The prisoner rescue dissolved into small groups heading out of town, many dropping their weapons on the way. They were reacting professionally to a Spoiled Raid in Hostile Lands. A basic trained unit, for sure.

Etienne was coming down off the roof of the tire shop. He would stow his gear in the truck and go in the back of the church for close quarter's security. Sometimes soldiers react badly to surprise, best to be on the scene to protect the team.

Rafe brought his truck down a side street behind the restroom while I patted my prisoner down for possessions. He had ammunition in his coat and a cell phone with an earpiece. I smashed the earpiece, put the ammo in the trash and turned the cell phone off. Tendrils of riot gas were creeping under the restroom door. Time to go.

I turned to the back wall of the restroom. There were high slit windows, too small to crawl out of. Opening a window, I got my hands and feet braced and pulled the cement blocks out from beneath. In a minute, there was a four foot hole and a lot of broken glass. Shouldering my prisoner, I slid out the new sally port and cut between a couple houses to get to Rafe's truck.

I jumped in the bed with my prisoner and then rolled him underneath me to keep him pinned. Powered Garda called the technique a "muscle cage." Good control of his breathing and the option to shock instantly. Rafe took off fast for his storage unit on the edge of town. The Seminary was only forty minutes away from there at speed. I had nothing to do but monitor feeds and hold on for the next twelve minutes.

Rafe drove us through tree lined neighborhoods and altered our speed and vector for a while to confuse Cornucopia Security satellites. He passed a hunter's tarp through the back window on a slow bit of road, "Put this on autumn leaf camouflage and cover yourself. You two look carnally involved from above." I did as told, keeping an eye on my prisoner. Now the truck appeared to be carrying yard clippings. I would have to tell Rafe that was a nice touch, he had filed that tarp for inventory with his truck from the beginning of the Akron deployment. Cancel a ding for Rafe.

I watched Rafe's feed, from under a tarp that was rapidly getting warm. Combat Skins don't shed heat as well as real skin, no evaporation. I saw he was pulling into the storage gate and entering his code. The gate lifted and we entered rows of metal barns. Rafe stopped and hopped to get his unit door open, then backed carefully back into it. I flipped the tarp off and drew in air that tasted strongly of wintergreen air freshener and urine. Rafe saw my face and said, "I know, you should have smelled it before I hung the air fresheners. Someone was living here after the outbreak started. They ran him off."

We got the prisoner out of the truck and laid him on the tarp. I searched him more thoroughly while Rafe rummaged in some boxes. There was a folding knife strapped to his ankle. I got a little adrenal rush and then calmed myself with the resolve to treat these guerrillas more seriously. They weren't suicidal, but gave a lot of thought to individual tactics. If they were better armed and had a better Battlenet, I would not want to engage them directly.

He wore black police sneakers, which looked battered with age. His coat had been lost, but the pants and shirt were new. In appearance, he was healthy and devoid of facial hair, just stubble on his head. He had an Asian cast of features, mixed with something. Rafe stepped over and slapped some epidermals on the prisoner's neck. He ran a wand scanner over him and then caught the cell phone I tossed. Off he went to begin disassembling it while I put a hairnet monitor on my prisoner. I got some food and a box for a chair from storage inventory. Set those up near the prisoner and drank some water. It was going to be a long night. Rafe took off his Combat Skins and crated it up. He gave me a wave and drove the truck back out, "Better you than me, _mon ami_." I flicked my nose at him.

The rest of the team was packing up the doctors for transport back to Seminary. Soldiers were combing the town, detaining suspects and fighting fires. More would be coming soon. Major Shawa made an appointment to deliver prisoner Daimyo to us, being too busy to argue with doctor Torelli. Arguing with Jesuits is a very tiring experience, I know. Arguing with a Jesuit doctor is like trying to push water up a hill. His arguments just flow around you. The major threw off a date four days away and left to direct his troops.

I surfed feeds for hours, watching progress being made while I grew bored and tired. If you blend interesting channels into pop screens and reprioritize transparency, it's like being a media director. I go with layered feeds and play a background soundtrack. One feed was the prisoner's activity. He had an EEG signal, respiration rate and heartbeat in a little graph at the bottom of my vision. If he started waking up, I'd shock him like a trout. Another feed was my Sergeants and Father Luke. They were driving the trucks to the Seminary. The doctors were excited and in a constant chatter of technical terms. Saint Peter would sort those for me. It looked, from glimpses of the rear view mirrors, that all the gear was packed and the balloon sensor was in a trailer behind Etienne.

The feed from Akron was just our orbital scanning now. I could see colored dots tracking all movement. There were markers for more armored cars and a platoon of paratroops. From a response like that, you can extract conclusions. First, that paratroop unit deployed from outside the zone to Akron about an hour after the delivery van burned. Not very quick, considering their men were under fire. More cold caution than comradely fervor there. Next, their Battlenet was glacial. The lag delays and lack of coordination indicated many separate systems lashed together with a central command. They wasted time asking permission.

So, they moved at human speeds. Their electronics were low bandwidth. They were tentative. If needed, we could jerk them like puppets.

The possible progress of the guerrillas was marked by an orange band. They were slipping away into the night and trees. Armored cars cruised the roads, but I doubt this crew was anywhere near a road by now. We might see some punitive raids by Security tomorrow, but most would make it home before light. I looked at my prisoner for a while, wondering.

The door opened a little after that, Rafe thoughtfully pinging me that he had arrived. The message was "Put it back in your pants and wash your hands, for God's sake. Your kit is here." He backed in the truck and sealed us up again. In the truck bed was one of our ranch quads. We inflated a foam bed and shifted the prisoner to it. I catheterized him and hung two IV's. Rafe pulled the hairnet sensor off and hooked him to the Translator connections on the quad. Upload in progress. I got more medical supplies out of the truck. We were wiring him up for three or four days of storage. By then we would know what to do with him.

Saint Peter received the prisoner, a Reizo Tanaka, before midnight. He sandboxed the original mind and made six copies to run at high speeds. These minds were assaulted in various ways to create intel. The assault approach could be very different in each case. Some were returned to remembered surroundings and observed. Some were questioned by trusted simulacrums. Some were just tortured. This technique allowed self-collaboration with five other copies of the subject. The lies may vary, but truth stays the same. As clones broke down, they were deleted and replaced with a fresh copy. By about dawn, we knew everything Tanaka had on his mind.

They had come for prisoner Daimyo. He was some kind of spook advisor to the outer ranchers. Breaking the others out was a bonus. Tanaka had wanted his cousin out to be his bonus. We had dossiers on most of the people he had ever met. Twenty guerrillas trained by Daimyo were the most interesting. He seemed to have joined a month ago because of family and disaffection. When half the homes in your neighborhood are under foreclosure and you can't leave, a certain militant desperation creeps in. Gangs form.

Information on Daimyo was speculative. He professed to be a soldier, retired on Cornucopia but subjected to persecution by Security. He didn't deny being from offworld, but was a little vague on where that was. Said he was protecting old friends from backlash. It was a story his subjects could gobble up readily. I just didn't believe he was retired.

His goals, before being captured, were not too extreme. He wanted to keep the foreclosures from becoming evictions. To do this, he confronted bankers and process servers wherever he could find them. Daimyo had arranged some crimes against bankers in town. It was thought he had a crack team of sleepers there. He knew of buried weapon caches. Daimyo was supposed to have connections with the Belters, funneling money into the cause. There were rumors of ways through the cordon. Little of it could be confirmed by Tanaka. He was just a foot soldier. I had grabbed a limited subject, with my usual luck.

We sat and waited, in that disgusting storage unit, for Saint Peter to churn out analysis and suggestions. My own thoughts were I had no problem with these guerrillas, if they could be recruited. Getting our hands on Daimyo would tell if that were possible. Then again, Daimyo could be just a front for some dark shadows recruiting from fertile ground. Saint Peter thought along those lines too. We would hold Tanaka as a chip for play. When Daimyo could be Translated and put to the question, we would pick our moves.

Three days of cold meals and ammonia scented air later, I was ready to pull Daimyo out of the detention center myself. My only entertainment had been vicarious living through my _compadres_ and the God's eye view from orbit. At one time, reality shows had composed a third of media broadcasting. I'm sure suicide rates suffered a spike during those dark days. My captive had not been much company. He eventually got rid of everything solid before switching over to intravenous feeding. Good times. Sponge bath nursing wasn't what I signed on for, but the doctors had given me the training. Saint Peter never forgets a qualified skill. So I rolled him around and did circulation massages and misted him with antibiotics. That kind of personal service is usually found only at casinos. It costs a lot of money. This guy owed me.

Finally, Daimyo was brought in by one of the Paratroop Lifters. They made a big show of landing in the church parking lot. It was loaded out with rocket pods and a door gun. It would have been more impressive if we hadn't been tracking the flight since liftoff. Major Shawa stepped off behind twelve soldiers with our prisoner. Half of the soldiers radiated out from the Lifter to form a perimeter. The Major and three men escorted Daimyo over to the doctors.

"I will need to be present at all times with the prisoner," he said. His manner was stiff and angry, like he had spent four days getting his head handed to him by second guessing commanders. I could sympathize. His presence would not be much of a hindrance. That had been a ninety percent chance on analysis, so we planned for it.

They stuck Daimyo straight into a Quantum Translator and we made our backup, just like every other infected we had treated. The doctors explained that the patient needed a kidney operation, which they would do pro bono, Saint Peter sent six Daimyo copies to their own private hell. We now knew he used Intelligence agent nano, he didn't try to die on us. So he would talk outside his body, but be a hard target within it. A copy talking to Saint Peter would have no nano protections. I breathed a sigh of relief.

The doctors soon got Daimyo under the beam for the kidney stone extraction. They were anxious to analyze the "medical waste." Father Luke began informing Major Shawa that we would need Daimyo overnight for treatment, just after the surgery started. The Major didn't like that idea at all, but there was no way he could argue medical care with the doctors. Fait accompli was a leap Father Luke loved to make. The Major eventually went out to the Lifter, contemplating some more haranguing from above. He was walking stiffly again.

They settled on trading the Lifter for two armored cars that showed up later, another nine soldiers deploying from them. Our Battlenet tagged every one and ran tactical games while Saint Peter filed intel from the prisoner. I took a nap, with my link to prisoner Tanaka set to alert. It might be getting busy in a few hours.

I got a wake up chime about three in the morning. I was at low ebb, but the intel soon had me popping Cocktail number 6 and flipping through feeds. Daimyo didn't immigrate to Cornicopia, he deserted to the Belt from a Garda unit outsystem. He was the Belter's agent in a scheme involving using the output of the local farms to influence food prices. The Belter's were funneling money to the cause in the form of a mutual fund. They even had Cornucopian investors. When foreclosure was imminent, they would sink capital into oppressive loans and be viewed as saviors. The idea was that the locals would drive prices down, once the markets opened back up, in return for more favorable refinancing. They were gambling that we could get the disease in check and that the locals would take a dive in gratitude. The ranchers wouldn't be getting big trades at first anyway. It could work, if timed right. Their plan had a financial stake in our efforts. We could approach these people. I smiled at my unconscious prisoner. All this fervor and it came down to money.

Saint Peter expanded research on the Belters and known guerrillas. He would try to chart connections and analyze traffic, to get some perspective. Find us a fulcrum from which to apply pressure.

I went over the Daimyo interrogations, trying to get a feel for him. A trained operative, gone freelance. He had lost faith with the Garda, who were Utilitarians. "The greatest good for the greatest number of people." Daimyo was more of a Meritocracy kind of guy. "Reward your good performers." Of course he considered himself a top performer. The free market politics of the Belt gave him a risk/reward system more in line with his beliefs. I hoped he could see the differences before they broke him. There were very few old Belters. I looked at his game plans since getting into the zone. A bit of a pirate with an eye for loot. He refrained from killing more out of self-concern than ethics. His operations had a terrorist chic. If he didn't get out of detention and offworld soon, he never would. And if we didn't find a use for him, I would file it under not my problem. He was a little too narcissistic for my tastes.

Morning came and Daimyo went, airlifted back to his detention lockup. The soldiers went with him, thank God, so Rafe could come get me out of my own lockup. He arrived an hour later with an empty truck for the rest of our supplies. Tanaka would ride under those. I could drive the truck with the quad home. After days in my Combat Skins, I was really looking forward to a shower.

Once at the Seminary, we backed the truck up to our "supplies" container and moved Tanaka into the simulator. I hung my Combat Skins on the recharger, the muscles flushing pink with a transfusion. Our spy, Fumiko, was currently scanning cattle at Burkowski's father in law's ranch. Her quad kept an eye on her for us. If needed, it would break down to further delay her. Etienne enjoyed rigging pranks like that into the software.

Saint Peter had a Sim ready to go for Tanaka. He would fall in battle on the Akron street, hit by flying debris and be rescued by me, Nurse Medina. His next four days would be spent in our urgent care, being worked on by high tech medical equipment. Just a sensory blur of semi-consciousness that would eat up days in hours. Later this evening, we would shift him to a secure recovery room and wake him up. I would pack him a plowman's lunch and let him go tell the tale to the guerrilla network. Just being Good Samaritans, thanks.

One thing guerrilla bands are always in need of is discrete medical care. We would shift some human supplies into the veterinary office trailer and game scenarios to keep us secure, just in case they came calling. I was thinking gas, but Etienne said microwaves were instant and more selective. What a wiseass. He ordered the parts through our doctor cut-outs to the Fabricator. We needed some kind of high energy sterilizer for the lab anyway. Hide in plain sight was one of Etienne's little quirks, along with field improv.

The next day, after a parts run to Akron, we received word that the doctors had discovered something from the kidney stones. They didn't like it at all. Father Luke said they had all run off to their labs and were making Fabricator orders. Saint Peter was sorting through the orders to see what kind of information we were giving away.

They had found small shells of Daimyo's Nano encapsulated around even more Nano that had been attacking him. Those little bots were designed to seek brain proteins. What they did when they found one, the doctors didn't know. Not knowing dropped the doctors into a little OCD behavior that made them forget things like security. They were ordering a lot of Nanotech.

Saint Peter grabbed a scan of the bots and estimated manufacture to Cornucopia Product Research with a ninety three percent chance. That was a big division of the company covering food and goods. They indirectly approved clinic licenses. They sent inspectors to ranches and had to clear our livestock. It was their recommendation that started the quarantine. CPR had a genetics division with a capable lab. It patented modifications for people and animals every year. Advanced Nano like this would need their equipment. Saint Peter started backchaining the organization of the lab.

The doctors managed to hack a few of the Prion bots. There was programming for a three day lifespan before flushing out of the system. Once entering the bloodstream, the bots would seek brain tissue to anchor and activate. When they found the right protein, they unfolded it like a towel and then folded it back reversed. Instant infectious disease. The prion would slowly starve to death and the process would spread exponentially to surrounding brain proteins even after the bot shut down. Perhaps that was the madness portion of the disease, that healthy proteins would mimic a starving neighbor so completely.

Doctor Torelli saw it first. If they reversed the folding command and out produced the rate of infection, these little bots would repair prion damage. Treat someone three days and the infection would pass. It was the vector and the cure. Father Luke deflated him a little with the observation that the designers surely knew this too. That idea upset all the doctors quite a bit. They weren't curing the disease so much as hijacking someone else's design, someone who had violated their oath of ethics.

To me, it was more straightforward. I recognize weaponized Nano when I saw it. The Christians had been subjected to a targeted attack for some purpose. We had a good suspect, now we needed the intel to bring the fight to them. I thought of Fumiko and her calls to a real estate office. I had a frag order passed through Saint Peter. All staff was to be backed up ASAP. Rafe walked Fumiko in himself. Etienne would work on her Personal Assistant while she was in the Translator. I wanted a kill switch on her messaging. We sent Fumiko copies to interrogation. The real Fumiko got to run medical supplies to Akron. We told her a big shipment was coming from the Fabricator, so she should go make her deliveries and wait for morning. I didn't want her around our OCD doctors right now.

I was flipping through the Fumiko data around midnight, when the Battlenet went off. We had infiltrators in the woods. Orbital time lapse showed they had hiked in from a truck parked out on a farm road. The count was six. They would be at the church in maybe ten minutes.

Rafe and Etienne got into Combat Skins, I lofted the EEG/MEG sensor balloon. When they were still a few minutes out, I could tell they were armed and that one was being carried on a litter. My sergeants slipped into the woods with their camouflage and toys. I clipped on my flashlight and went outside for a walk, best to sort this out away from the buildings. Father Luke was getting Doctor Shetty up for duty. That process should take more than enough time. I walked into them near the side of the rectory. The sensors showed me covered by rifles in the woods while two of them approached. I gave a convincing little start and began negotiations.

The negotiator introduced himself as "Brian." He spoke good English and was apologetic. His partner, he called "Tashida." Tashida didn't talk much, but was working on a good tough guy glare. I gave him back cool appraisal. He hadn't expected that. My job was going to be the liaison. I didn't want to be too much of a push-over at first meet with the guerrillas.

Brian said he had a hunting accident. Could we help his girlfriend and keep our mouths shut about it? She had some kind of paperwork problem with zone security. I told him to bring her to the office trailer in the parking lot and we would see what we could do. He gave a whistle and two men came out of the woods carrying a woman on a litter. Guerrilla number six was staying in the woods. I hoped Etienne or Rafe didn't have to hurt him.

I walked them into the trailer and set the woman, who went by "Miko", on the table. The four men I directed to the attached office. They didn't want to do that, so I negotiated Brian a seat with the patient and the other three would wait out of the way. Father Luke arrived with Doctor Shetty a little bit later. The guerrillas unnerved him at first, so he kept looking to me and Father Luke. We winked and encouraged him along. Father Luke served coffee to everybody just to make things feel more normal. Soon Shetty got involved with rebuilding Miko's infected thigh wound.

I slid myself near Brian and gave him a distracting teaser question, "Did Tanaka-san recommend our services?" That got his attention right away. Tensions ratcheted up among the guerrillas. I told Brian, "Did you know we treated Daimyo the day before Tanaka got out? Daimyo-san seemed to think we may have some common interests." I hooked my thumb at the trailer door and headed outside. Brian and Tashida were right behind.

I fed them Daimyo quotes from my interrogation reading. All three guerrillas were soon gathered around and listening intently. I gave them a vague background of political resistance and living off the grid when hunted. Then I got down to quid pro quo. We would treat their sick or wounded at night. If security was around we would turn off the spotlight on the cross above the steeple. I asked if they were able to get messages to Daimyo. When they lied unconvincingly, I offered to move messages during treatments. That was a big hit with them, even Tashida smiled.

Their part of the bargain was easy. If we sent medical teams to the outer ranches, I wanted them to make sure nothing bad happened. If they heard something going on in the zone that might affect us, we wanted to hear about it. Other than that, I wanted them to do nothing until I talked to Daimyo. I gave them a phone number and a sheet of simple substitution codes. We could leave messages for each other on an answering machine at the airport, using a hacked code to get past the automated messaging into an encrypted server. It wasn't completely tight, but it showed them a level of security they could respect. I didn't want them knowing about the AI and quantum devices we used. I was just Nurse Medina, a sympathizer with some underground experience. It was a good start to recruiting by proxy. When they left, before sunrise, we were on friendly terms. To them, they had just recruited us.

Of course, I wasn't going to pass any messages to Daimyo. It wasn't necessary or desired. We had a copy of Daimyo's mind. Whatever message we wanted to send would be carefully crafted and sound perfectly believable. As long as Daimyo stayed incommunicado, we could run his guerrillas. I set Saint Peter to flow charting their organization and went to sleep.

****

### Chapter 7: Guerrilla Tactics

I got a whole five hours of sleep before Saint Peter woke me. Our Fabricator order had arrived in Akron, along with a platoon of zone security soldiers. They were all coming to the Seminary. Not a good development. We spent the next hour cleaning up our signature. The office trailer was scrubbed out. We packed the Combat Skins into one of Rafe's weapon caches out in the woods. Father Luke put the kidney stone materials in the ceiling above the lab and transferred the data files to our ship in orbit. The doctors received a stern lecture on hiding their suspicions. We would get our new equipment running and show the soldiers nothing, unless the doctors wanted to move into a detention facility of their own. If we said it was safe, they could access their files and develop their nano. But it was going to be kept secret, for now.

The EEG/MEG balloon stayed up. We were going to scan the soldiers as a courtesy. That it gave us a better Battlenet would not be mentioned. The last thing we did was unscrew the spotlight on the steeple cross. By the time the armored cars pulled in, we were clean and prepped.

Major Shawa was not with this group. Their commander was a Major Watanabe, a stocky fellow with a lantern jaw and permanent frown lines. He made no secret of not liking this assignment or us. His terse conversation with Father Luke revealed that they were here to guard the Nano Assembler. It was thought that the guerrillas would want to capture it. They could develop dangerous bots with the device. It all sounded very plausible, until I saw the two technicians. They wore utilities but carried tools and scanners. All the labs were scanned and inspected. Saint Peter said they were hacking at the network, facilitating outside intrusions. He could keep them out of the Battlenet, but the doctors would not be able to work without sending data out. Actively shutting the spyware down would reveal our capabilities. He would work up sandboxes and countermeasures whenever the technicians stopped poking around.

It was frustrating. We had the tools but could not use them without revealing knowledge. Major Watanabe's cover story about the guerrillas gave me an idea, though. If the Nano Assembler wasn't here, then the soldiers would leave. I kicked the thought up to Saint Peter.

The doctors had put together the Assembler in one of the labs. There were large tanks of parts stock and coolant feeding into the final assembler, which looked like a finned chrome barrel. It weighed almost seventy kilos. Everything else was replaceable.

We brainstormed a while on the matter. Rafe and Etienne had some solid additions I incorporated. When the plan was packaged, we sent it to Saint Peter for development. We edited the plan for Father Luke's consumption. Elements of it were going to be unchristian. When the polished final was submitted, we all signed off. Then I called the guerrillas.

I told them we found a banker spy. Her name was Fumiko and I would like them to take her off our hands. If they could hold her for a while out of the way, I would ask Daimyo how he wanted to play her. I'm sure he would appreciate the opportunity. We would drive her out to the farm road they came in on last time at about ten pm. Oh, and Zone Security was at the Seminary, so be careful not to get too close. Please RSVP. It took them about an hour to message back.

It was mostly true. Fumiko's interrogation showed that she was reporting to a cartel of banks and real estate brokers who stood to gain the foreclosed ranches. Her progress reports allowed them to leverage their market positions. We were pretty sure her intel was getting to Cornucopia Product Research as well. They started shipping our Nanoquinacrine to the Belters right after we had treated fifty patients. If we were going to make any moves, the spy had to go. Saint Peter mail dropped copies of Fumiko's reports to the big city Christians. They would disseminate to other protected cultures and rancher co-ops. By tomorrow, the bankers and company men would believe they had a leak and no one would be hearing from Fumiko. Confusion to your enemies.

Etienne walked into the lab and disconnected the assembler feeds. He also prepped our microwave sterilizer. They would both be portable in an instant. He unlocked a window and walked back out the door. As night fell he would be heading to the weapons cache.

Rafe took Fumiko's quad out, rode up the farm road and pulled it over to the side. He triggered Etienne's disable program then walked into the woods. He was going to the weapons cache too.

Father Luke had most of the clergy staff go home. They had been away for a while and needed a night off. "Please, those of you with family should go home. We will watch God's house with these soldiers for the night. Come back refreshed tomorrow." He even encouraged two of the doctors to go with them for a home cooked meal. In an aside he told all the remaining doctors to turn in early tonight. We might be doing some security things so they could get to work safely in a day or two. Stay inside the dorms and have a potluck dinner. And don't tell the volunteers anything.

I collected Fumiko about a quarter to ten. "Hey Fumiko, that quad of yours cut out on Rafe about a mile up the road. I'm going to pick him up. Why don't you come along and see if you can get it started?" She immediately launched into a story about it cutting out once in a while. Good old Etienne. He had been having fun. I praised her mechanic skills and walked her to my truck. The distraction of our late night drive allowed Etienne to slip up to the lab building. He was nearly invisible in the mimetic leotard and Combat Skins. Having the Battlenet show him where the soldiers were helped a lot too. By the time I had Fumiko to the Seminary gate, Etienne was through the window and in the lab. He would wait for the next distraction.

I parked with the headlights on the quad, shouted Rafe's name out the window and got out. "Fumiko, go ahead and see if you can get it started. I'll find Rafe. He's probably off in the woods looking for a good bush." About fifty meters into the woods, Rafe gave me a croaking noise, like a big creek toad. It made me jump as I made my way back to the Seminary. Invisible _pendejo_.

Before I got there, the Battlenet showed a truck pulling up to Fumiko and the quad. Four guerrillas got out and quickly bundled her up. When they were all back in the truck and heading away, Rafe let loose a burst of auto rifle fire at my truck. He fired twice more, and then switched to a submachine gun. Alternating between the weapons, he sounded like a firefight back at the Seminary. The surprised guerrillas accelerated sharply and were soon out of sight.

The Security platoon buzzed like angry bees as an armored car raced away to the noise. Troops shifted toward the sound of guns. Major Watanabe came out of his command car and started pushing his men into a defensive position. That's when Etienne hit them with the microwave. Even a thin layer of metal would block the weapon, but the soldiers used polymer armor. Invisible waves fanned over a wide area and the defensive position collapsed into shrieking men rolling on the ground. It feels exactly like your skin is on fire, but only leaves a sort of sunburn. With the Major also rolling around screaming incoherent orders, the other soldiers collapsed back to the position in support.

Etienne stopped firing and hopped out the lab window with the Assembler. There was a clear path to the woods. He was gone before the soldiers stopped screaming. A few fired weapons into the woods where I lay, so I ducked and stayed down for a while.

Rafe and Etienne buried their gear in the woods again and went back to the dorms. They joined the exodus of doctors and nurses following Father Luke to help the soldiers. The medics began triage under their guns. When it got quieter, I shouted "Help. Don't shoot. I'm coming out." My sergeants piped up, "It's Medina. Don't shoot him." I guess the soldiers heard, but they didn't acknowledge it by swinging their weapons away. I stood up with hands held high and walked out of the woods. The soldiers tracked me with their rifles. I looked a mess, with leaves and mud stuck to me. My clothes were torn. The soldiers commanded me to a kneeling position anyway. Father Luke brought the revived Major Watanabe over to get me cleared.

I spun them a story about going to retrieve a quad with Fumiko. They had all seen us leave. When we got there, armed men pulled up in a truck and started shooting. I ran, Fumiko disappeared. I made my way back to the Seminary in the dark, but stopped when I heard the soldiers screaming. I said I heard a humming noise in the forest where I lay. Someone ran back the way I came. Then the soldiers started shooting and I stayed down. I told them I thought the attackers had run away before the soldiers started shooting. I didn't get a good look at anybody, being too busy running through a forest in the dark and hiding.

Watanabe looked like he was chewing nails by the time I finished. He gave rapid Japanese marching orders to his men and a dozen of them went into the woods. He radioed the armored car that left the compound and got a report. My truck was shot up a little. There were signs of a firefight at the woods edge. They had found no one.

We put salve on the soldiers to numb their enraged nerve endings. They were still running reconnaissance around the compound when we all went back to the dorms. Everyone was really tired. Doctor Torelli slapped me on the back and asked if I "...think it worked?" I told him, "If what worked?" but winked when I said it. He gave me a big smile and said "Right...gotcha."

Our morning started early again. I was really going to need a nap. A soldier had found the open lab window and then realized the Assembler was gone. The only soldiers left when I woke were Watanabe and two corporals. They were hopping mad. Father Luke stuck to our story and pointed out that everybody at the Seminary came out to help when his soldiers were attacked. The Major suggested that we had a thief. The Father pointed out that we had no reason to steal something already in our possession. Maybe the Major could find Fumiko and ask her these questions? She was the only one not available anymore. My role came up again and then the whole argument just circled the drain from there. The Major could throw no suspicion on us that would stick. He stomped off to inform his superiors and get new orders.

His new orders were to search for the truck that took Fumiko. Orbital surveillance had a track on it heading to the outer zone. They lost it on a forest road outside of Akron. He would eventually find an empty truck, but I could have told him that. The guerrillas left me a phone message saying they had the package. Mission accomplished.

The doctors ordered another Assembler from the officials holding our Fabricator. The officials refused on the grounds that having another dangerous device delivered to us would just add to the present security threat. They put us off with assurances that their men were closing in on the thieves. Good luck with that.

We moved the simulator out of our mostly empty storage container in the parking lot. That would now hold the Nano Assembler. We hung some tarps in front of the containers to confuse orbital surveillance and moved the crated parts right in. If we looked secure tomorrow, Etienne would dig up the Assembler so the doctors could plug it in and get to work. I gave Doctor Torelli the container lock code. He said "I'm still not sure how you did it, but you got brilliant results. When we get back to Arkhome, I'm going to have the Bishop commend you to the Grand Master." I told him, "Then we will just have to make sure you get back to Arkhome." It shifted his thoughts back to the array of forces we would be opposing. He nodded seriously and said, "I am much more confident today that we will be going home, keep up the good work." Torelli was a smart guy. He was easy to prod back to a security mindset.

I got my nap. The Akron treatment appointments came in along with the staff that we had sent off. The events of last night fueled rumor and speculation. Father Luke was kept busy shaping these opinions to fit our desired scenario. The spin went like this;

"Yes, the Fumiko who seems to have been the author of spy reports they've heard about has gone missing. Security soldiers encamped themselves at the Seminary clinic. There was a gunfight between the soldiers and some men in a truck. When we woke up this morning, we were missing valuable lab equipment. Fumiko was gone. The soldiers left. We don't know who to blame, but Cornucopia officials will not replace the stolen equipment. Please don't mention any names in connection with this communiqué. It could be hazardous."

Everyone offered a possible culprit. None of them were us. Perfect.

It generated the expected outrage and went viral. Journalists picked it up as an item for research. In a few days it might become a Question, something asked about that must be answered. It was also necessary to continue cover. We should be outraged. Who knows, we might get another Assembler.

I did get a new truck. Another rancher parted with his work truck when he heard mine got shot up. I thanked him and took it, but would keep the shot up truck, it was finally broken in. Instead, I went to Burkowski's yard to trade up. He had an old EMAG rig with a flatbed trailer.

I asked how his Aunt Bev was doing; she had a stage 1 condition we were stabilizing with Nanoquinacrine. We haggled a little over his commission, but his heart wasn't really in it. Especially after I hinted that we were close to a breakthrough at the lab. He threw in a winch and a ramp for a reasonable figure. Back at the Seminary, I parked it near the container we were using for the Nano Assembler. If needed, I could get it portable in about five minutes with a pit crew. There were a few places nearby it could be parked out of sight.

Cornucopia Security was right to be concerned about a loose Nano Assembler. The ability to design replicating nanobots was a real threat to the survival of other species. They would eat until programming told them to die. Colony Terraformers used them to shape planets. As a weapon, they were for slow attacks. You had to develop mass and delivery systems. They needed to get into exponential growth without running out of food. And a good programmer on the other side could make a nanophage to infect the bots with. Saint Peter had design data on thousands of models, both defensive and offensive. Doctor Torelli's department was adding another with the Prion folding bot, so, thousands and one. He had a million more designs for all sorts of peaceful purposes. I doubted anyone on Cornucopia was in a position to win a Nano war with Saint Peter.

There was a time on Earth when Nano became ubiquitous enough for small groups to manufacture it. Regulation was lagging behind the technology and many abuses were seen. The Garda had advanced the development of military Nano. Health Care designed effective new medical technology. Industry provided special materials and computing designs. The Amateurs tapped all those fields, trading designs over networks. They would custom build projects for customers on spec or have competitions. They designed bots for all sorts of fantastic purposes. Some of these had unintended effects or anti-social uses. It was free market future shock. The technology went into fast forward while the regulation fell further behind.

When it broke, we had a Time of Troubles. People made Nano for sex, drugs and power. The trio of subversion. When they fought to continue in the face of growing regulation, they became much more hazardous. Nano was used as an area weapon with effects that could be compared to WMD or biblical plagues, or packed into bullets that were destructive far out of proportion to their size. About eight percent of the population was sophisticated enough to fight a nano war. We spent a lot of time, in the Garda, worrying about that eight percent. And so, regulation went into fast forward. Certain design types became forbidden to individuals. The Nano Assemblers themselves became tougher to license. Many small Nano wars broke out as amateur designers ran afoul of the law. Some of them had considerable skill, but Garda AI's learned fast. Before it was over, the air had become foul in many cities with the black grit of dead Nano. Several million people died collaterally, worldwide.

Saint Peter wasn't authorized for more response than an eye for an eye. He was particular who that eye belonged to. That comes from having the long view constantly in mind. Saint Peter would evaluate his designs, trying to get a balanced response for our approval. He did crash a lab computer with a series of false hardware error codes to yield a clean unit for the Assembler. Production was good to go. I could hardly wait.

I started working on infiltration methods. It would be necessary to leave quarantine to access targets. I talked to a sandbox Daimyo about border crossing and connections outside the zone. Saint Peter was a big help getting past his psychology. Whenever a Daimyo stopped cooperating, we ran up another. It didn't take long to get a picture of his underground railroad. It featured Brian and Tashida handling the first leg. The pass off was a farm outside the zone. I saw the operation was designed to turn a profit, Coyotes I understood. North Mexico had plenty of the breed all my life. When borders began disappearing, they had to revise the priorities of concealed personal transportation. They moved criminals secretly. They moved medical patients to care unlawful in their Communities. They entered Communities with workers in spite of Closed Employment Regulations. They trafficked combat zones. Coyotes etched a living out of hazard pay and it made them cynical. Those who valued their lives were also greedy. I studied the routes and thought about Fumiko. How would Daimyo play her to make money? I talked to the sandbox Daimyo again. I needed his touch of authenticity. Saint Peter and I plucked at the folds of his plan to make it fit our objectives. I could get out of the zone if done soon.

That night, we hooked up the Nano Assembler and the doctors began making the Prion refolding bots. They spent four hours fiddling with the replication rate and life span to fit human norms. It would take some fine tuning, but they could halt the disease absolutely. Once they had several growing cultures, they didn't need the Assembler for a while. I packed it to travel.

In the afternoon, I moved the container to Burkowski's parts yard. Our hunter tarps made it look like felled trees and junk. To the orbital spys, I was returning a borrowed truck. To Burkowski, I had supplies we needed to protect from the soldiers. I asked him to store them there, hooked to his power grid so the drugs wouldn't spoil. We would probably be dropping by for supplies, otherwise the container stayed locked. If he did that, I would give him the EMAG and flatbed. Of course my good friend Mr. Burkowski was glad to help. He had heard about our troubles with the soldiers just the other night. I reassured him that the cure was coming. He should take his Aunt Bev in soon.

It was good that he did. Those proteins that had not completely died were restored. The dead prions were rendered non-infectious. We couldn't replace dead cells, but she would suffer no more brain damage. We specifically didn't update the patient consent forms. This would be our secret for now. The doctors knew the nano design would be recognized.

It was time for Templar field justice. We had a ninety five percent lock on our guilty parties and were still covert. Networks were in place. The doctors could go no further without weakening our position. If we went overt and tried to control Cornicopian security, we would all end up in a mass grave with the ash of mad cows.

I asked Saint Peter for his best scenario. He downloaded data to starting blocks on the network. Careful timetables for its release were reviewed. We would be harnessing Christians, Guerrillas, Belters and Investors. They all had their means and motives. More importantly, the enemy himself would provide aid to our efforts. We were just a few trying to ride a tiger. Any misstep would bury us. I packed kit and made a pickup at the Nano Assembler. Rafe and Etienne collected their own gear while I called the guerrillas, time to feed them their orders.

Daimyo's plan involved getting Fumiko to issue some incriminating statements at gunpoint and then getting a ransom to shut her up. My own modification was that he needed her outside the quarantine or Security would go door to door finding her. I had a price, they had to get me and a couple friends out too. In return, we were going to escort Fumiko to Daimyo's Belter contact and distribute the video. When that was done, we would come back. Fumiko wouldn't be with us. Brian was uncomfortable losing his link to Daimyo, but I had the right names to drop. When I assured him we would be gone less than a week, he gave us a time and place. I think he was a little tired of Fumiko too. Security was starting to ask around in the zone for her whereabouts.

My _compadres_ joined me at sunset. We had lots of toys under our clothes, but were leaving the Combat Skins. Too obvious. We took Etienne's old truck. He had mostly de-militarized it, for long term parking up near the border. It had three duffels of serious hardware in the bed, stealth inventory and hard entry kit. If we had to use them, we were probably screwed.

Father Luke came out to the truck and leaned in past Etienne with some paper bags. He'd packed the bottoms of the bags with a few of our specialized Cocktails; on top was a plowman's lunch. I was really getting tired of green apples, but the drugs were welcome. He also had a pack he put in the bed, a Field Translator cobbled together from my quad. That was one of my stipulations. Our implants didn't have near the bandwidth. If we were going to get inside the enemy's decision cycle, we needed to be fast and backed up. Father Luke gave us a cross sketched in the air in front of him. "Go do God's work and protect his people. Those of us who know will pray for your success" He stepped back and waved goodbye. It was a good, quick Blessing. I was afraid he would linger by the truck too long and orbital eyes would make something of it.

Etienne drove us out as night settled more closely. We had a few extra hours to shake surveillance. In the treelined roads near Akron we changed directions a few times and killed the lights when crossing open ground. Etienne donned his imager glasses and made good time through some dark, twisting lanes. I had to put mine on to fight carsickness. We parked for an hour under dense trees near a crossroads. The Plowman's lunch tucked away with a tab of Nocturne. Our eyes dilated and hearing became more acute. It did something to biorhythms too, because a surge of energy lifted us up. Time to run the border.

Brian and Tashida were waiting for us near some four seat sandrails. A guerrilla I didn't know was cradling an auto rifle. My old pal, Tanaka, was cuffed to Fumiko. She was sporting a head bag, but I recognized the nails, cherry red and chipped. I said hello and lured Brian away from Fumiko with a hooked finger. She would know it was us soon enough, but other intel was not for her ears. Like how this crossing would work.

They transferred the cuff to Rafe. He would sit on her for the near future. Tanaka got in the front. That left Etienne and I in the other big rail. We tied down our duffels and strapped in for the ride. Tashida had a wild gleam in his eye and these sandrails looked pretty fast.

They took the low road at speed. Night vision let them push the envelope down a series of gullies. The electric drives made no noise but the tires hummed and popped. I remembered this route took a little jump over the fence, about the time we got airborne. Only three wheels hit on landing and I nipped the inside of my cheek. Etienne got hit in the head with a kicked up rock. By the time they got us near the farm, we had gotten used to our injuries. Our ride stopped about a kilometer out. We deployed in the dark and wrestled with Fumiko and the luggage. Brian gave us a pickup time, I picked which day. Whether we showed or not would depend on several things, like if the response team being sent to where we just broke quarantine found Brian on his way back. Coyote chances.

We started walking up the farm path. When Brian was out of sight, we drifted to the road leading into the farm. I flashed my light up the road. A truck flashed back. The city Christians had come. Instead of meeting the farm Coyotes, at some danger to us, Rafe liked getting picked up by our own network right away. The Christians would work for free and keep their mouths shut. I had no problem signing off on that.

We sat in the back of a windowless delivery truck. It advertised housecleaning on the side. The drivers spoke Japanese with a little Cantonese thrown in, "You go safe. Take you safe place." They both dressed like laborers, but flashed silver crosses worn around their necks. They looked at Fumiko in her head bag and said nothing. For the drive back, they stared out the front windshield and continued to say nothing. They had good instincts for this.

We arrived at a dark house. They had the keys, but must have worked there. It was a fairly large place with sheets over the furniture. They gave me the keys and left. There was water, but the lights didn't work. We had to walk around with the imagers on. Rafe switched his cuff to Fumiko's other wrist around a bedpost. She called out our cover names and demanded freedom. We ignored her. Rafe slapped a patch on her neck and held her legs until she quit moving. "Nighty, night, Princess."

I set up my Field Translator. We got a new sandbox Fumiko. This one filled us with little details about the Guerrillas. Saint Peter sent updates from the original Fumiko, speculations on the Belter's and the Cartel. He prescreened a viral release of his Fumiko interviews for us. It was a compilation of different versions that looked jerky and authentic. The spin sounded good. There were about twenty versions to see, I went to sleep before getting through four. The Japanese gave me a headache.

Our ride came back at dawn, same housecleaning van, different guy. We got Deacon Cho. He ran the housecleaning service and was very well thought of at the Lutheran church. That and he was a can-do Fixer with a crew of amateur spies. Father Luke researched and recruited him, but it made it riskier to conceal that we had Fumiko. More in the know was more risk, so Rafe kept her out of sight. I wanted her gone tonight or we would have to get the two quiet guys again.

Etienne and I went for a ride. I told Deacon Cho we were investigating the Prion disease for the church. We tried to look sufficiently capable without saying we were Templars, but I think he knew. I gave him a story about Cornucopia Co. already having a cure. He was suitably outraged. He would use his housecleaner connections to get us into a few executive homes. As he dropped us at the first house, he wished us well. We waved back in our Cho Housekeeping jumpers and called him _Bosu_. Boss.

Executives that lock their stations every time they leave the office would tolerate all kinds of sloppiness in their home terminals. Some were better than others, but most would accept a peripheral that connected them to Saint Peter. We gained access while the cleaners worked the houses. But access wasn't all we needed. Eight of these houses belonged to targets. Two more were marked as casualties. I slipped Seekers into their seat cushions, an old prank with a twist.

A Seeker is a sophisticated stealth delivery system for Nano. A filament wire forms a climbing line for Nano in a bulb base. It is so thin, most people never feel it enter the skin. The Seeker part is special pathfinder nano at the top of the bulb. If they saw the right molecules, they would lead the attack Nano up the wire. The whole thing looked like a hair with a thick follicle. In three days, it would consume itself and leave dust. The attack nano used was a variant of the prion folding bots. Ours still lived three days and flushed out of the body, but this version replicated at high speed. During the three days, it would rapidly and irretrievably destroy brain cells. We also had a lethal version that replicated at a higher rate for our two casualties. They were technicians from the genetics lab, advanced Nano designers who certainly had a hand in the attack. They would also be two of the few who could have fought a Nano war. The other eight targets were executives in the chain from the lab. Once they sat in their chairs, they would be making no more important decisions, ever.

Saint Peter had sanctioned forty one casualties and sixty two targets. No more Christians were expected to die. The Eye for an Eye protocol also demanded an economic response. We used a percentage of wealth calculation to evaluate that. Saint Peter believed we could fulfill the goal politically. I was relieved, poisoning dumb livestock was distasteful. We had started a clock. The targeted would exhibit symptoms within a day or two. The casualties would just forget how to breathe a day after infection. We needed to get to the other ninety three quickly. That would be tomorrow. Tonight we needed to sell Fumiko.

Saint Peter had made contact with the Guerrilla's Belter contact. He was called Devin Munson, a grain trader who sidelined as a spy. Saint Peter had sent a version of the Fumiko interrogation designed to fit his motivations. Saint Peter's avatar for these negotiations arranged delivery at a crossroads away from our safe house. Under the guise of a guerrilla sleeper team, we sold Devin a Cartel spy for his own use. Rafe handed her over while we covered from the fields. I left a message for the guerrilla's that we had made delivery and were working on the video. The fat envelope of money from Devin was a nice plus. Always have our overhead to consider.

We got up before dawn and dropped a focus Cocktail. While we assembled our kit, the night's feeds were reviewed. Saint Peter saw indications that Fumiko was being moved out to the Belt. She would likely be offered sanctuary for cooperation. It only mattered that she be kept away from her old employers. Our videos could be released without her.

Six of our future casualties and targets were found to be backed up. They could Transfer to an earlier version and completely escape retribution. Saint Peter was working on a plan for them, but would need a little time to game favorable odds. I took that to mean it was a suicide mission now. I hoped he came up with something fast.

Saint Peter told us the munitions were ready. Rafe pumped the air with his fist and gave Etienne a wicked grin, boys and their toys. He gave us an address for pickup. Our shuttle, parked at the airport, had turned itself into a Battlenet HQ. Saint Peter directed the assemblers and stock in the hold to fab up supplies for the cause. He also social engineered our network of friends until he found an airport worker. The man had family at one of the outer ranches. One of them had received prion treatment, but they might still lose the ranch. He was approached by Mr. Cho and after some negotiation, would work out of gratitude and deliver for a chunk of cash. A robot loader from the shuttle had piled boxes in the hangar. He just had to pick them up and drive them out of the airport.

At first light, four cars pulled into the driveway of the safe house. Three drivers exited, then entered the fourth car and drove away. Christian businessmen had donated to the cause. We had clean wheels for the day. After that, they were stolen property.

We convoyed to the pickup address. It was a shipping company. Our man was parked in a truck near the dumpster. I shook his hand, pressing an envelope into his palm. We didn't exchange names, he thought we were guerrilla sleepers and there was a possibility we would kill him. He hooked his thumb at the bed of his truck and hopped back in the cab. We shifted the crates and left in separate directions.

My crate contained a needler palm gun. The payload was prion bots bonded into two millimeter darts. It could spray fifty of them in a few seconds, or shoot one quietly about fifteen meters. A hit would feel like an insect bite, at first. I also received a few special grenades and a briefcase pulse-thermal bomb. To go with the toys, I got networked contact lenses, targeting would be greatly enhanced. In the bottom of the crate was an ID theft kit; makeup, documents and field samplers. I dropped a combat Cocktail and checked my schedule for the first target.

The three of us became a nuisance to security for the next few hours. Calls came in from all over about someone with an air pistol shooting people. That was the few who didn't shrug it off as a bug bite. We would shoot them in their driveways or stopping for breakfast or in traffic. Saint Peter had employee images and schedules lifted from Security's own surveillance system. Whenever I had one in sight, my contacts would color code the target and positively ID them against employee records. I shot a dozen. Rafe and Etienne got similar numbers before knocking off for a break before lunch. Saint Peter would update while we ate. We were going to get very busy for lunch.

Security was having a hard time getting leads on the spree shootings. By the time the few victims got checked out, there was no needle to find. Toxin screens were negative. Speculation ran from aggressive insects to ice projectiles. The victims did all work for Cornucopia Co., but so did thousands of people who were on those same commuter routes. Detectives were assigned to canvas for witnesses, the victims were treated and released. These colonials had not experienced Nano drive-bys before. In a few days, they would realize they had.

I tracked my lunch target carefully. He had the misfortune of looking pretty close to me, handsome devil. My ID theft kit would make for a closer match. He went to lunch with a young intern at a sit down deli, same as last week. He failed to return from the restroom; instead being busy getting grabbed, drugged and walked out the back to the trunk of my car. I had the keys to his car now, the better to get through the gate with.

I moved his car to the back parking lot right after putting my double in the dealership car trunk. I wanted to hide it from the intern. Then I finished prepping. The samplers lifted prints, retinals and cells. He wasn't a target for field justice, so I padded him comfortably and kept patches on him to keep him sleeping. By tomorrow, security would get a stolen car report and pick him up. I wiped the car down and got into my new ride.

He had a plush sedan with all the popular luxuries. As I was driving away, I saw the intern come outside and spot me driving off. I gave her a little wave. From a distance, she still seemed pretty upset. I'm sure my double would be able to patch that up _mañana_ , after security and medical released him. He was a handsome fellow with a story now.

I dropped by a charge station restroom to finish changing. Old style business wear with some deceptively tactical dress shoes. The suit was cut around my toys by Etienne. He learned tailoring from his papa. Papa's shop was popular with plainclothes Garda, who were a bad influence on Etienne. Good thing papa had another son.

Touched up the makeup in the mirror. The hair looked good, just like my ID photo. My name now was Markus Greico, Accountant III in the research division. I had surveillance data, HR records and a private investigator report retrieved by Saint Peter to get me into character. What he couldn't provide me was a good escape plan.

The problem was those backed up targets. Rafe was set to scramble the databank here in the city. The mirror databank was in the orbital station. We only had one sure way to deploy to orbit and I was not going to send Etienne on a suicide mission that I was better suited for. A tab of special Cocktail gave me a better outlook. I was looking forward to going overt in our enemy's home. Live fast, die young and leave a pile of ash.

The gate looked pretty imposing, four meter chain link with cameras and armed security. The car chip proclaimed my right to parking and the security badge let me slide through without much scrutiny. Their size and hierarchy worked against them, too many people to process in and out for lunch and some of them signed the guard's checks.

I got out of the car at my assigned spot in the parking garage and grabbed my briefcase and a computer backpack with the Field Translator. In the lobby, two guards stood at a scanner arch. Flashing my ID got me around that. They checked everybody going out to stop espionage, but employees could just breeze right in. My office was on the third floor. I would go nowhere near that, for fear of meeting coworkers. What I wanted was the sixth floor Director Office. My ID took the elevator to the top.

I stepped into an impressive teak and brass reception area. Cameras and locked doors kept it secure. A well groomed lady wearing a headset sat behind the low counter to vet entries. She enjoyed no special security. Saint Peter whispered in my ear that her computer enjoyed no special security either. Now that the Field Translator was in range, he was worming into the local network using her pass codes.

"Markus Greico for Mr. Isklander. I have a presentation to make." She gave me a smile that was hard to read. "Please have a seat and I will announce you." I gave her a winning smile back and said " _Arigato_." I knew Mr. Isklander wasn't going to get the call in his office. Instead, Saint Peter buzzed me in with a convincing Isklander approval. I smiled at the receptionist again and went through the door.

I didn't need Isklander just yet. I dropped my ID card in front of his door. Down the hall was the key coded entry to Director Mushashi's lair. Anyone wanting to pull strings at the genetics lab would have to pass through that door. I stopped at the knob and waited for the click. The phone rang inside a little before the door unlocked.

Mushashi was seated at a large desk across ten meters of patterned carpet. He stopped talking when I came in, but I could hear Saint Peter doing his spiel on the speaker. He wanted a guest at a luncheon for _Shacho_ Ishikawa. He was presenting himself as a media reporter. Mushashi said, "Hold on a minute please" and switched to the handset. He held that against his chest as I approached the desk. "And you are?" he said with an irritated look on his face. I introduced myself as Markus Greico just long enough to get to his desk and put my briefcase down. Then I stepped around the desk and pulled him backward out of the chair in a choke hold.

He was very surprised. It was his first brush with violence in a long time and I was pretty pumped up with my special Cocktail. I rolled him on his stomach and pinned him for the few seconds it took to choke him unconscious. Then I hooked him to the Field Translator. Saint Peter immediately uploaded the file and started the Seven Hells. He added the seventh to get the keys to the network. Running the simulations full out in quantum space gave me a verdict in five minutes. Guilty. Casualty sentence. I saw target icons light up in the surrounding offices. My network contact lenses were accessing Saint Peter's newly hacked company net.

I contemplated my moves for a second and got out a small, silenced automatic. This had to look like Daimyo's guerrillas. The killing shot I put through a folder from his desk. That would keep me clean and presentable. I put his ID in my pocket and retrieved the briefcase. His legs thrashed a moment when I got to the door. I was glad I wouldn't have to remember that.

I went from door to door. Most were casualties. I used the small silenced pistol. The one who was just a target I had a drug patch for. The Prion Nano was added to it. I picked up my Greico ID and clipped it back on, straightened my clothes and checked for blood. My targets were all gone on this floor, so into the lobby again looking a little worse for wear. The receptionist was used to that reaction from underlings on the way out. I gave her a weak copy of my previous smile and got back in the elevator.

Down to the fourth floor I went. Network Services. They had the computers that ran everything of value in Research. My Mushashi card opened any doors that wouldn't yield to the Greico ID. The technicians stayed out of my way, mostly due to my suit. I looked like an auditor. When I connected the Field Translator at a monitor station, I looked even more the part. Saint Peter dived further into their network. I placed a few EMP grenades around the mainframes. Saint Peter could trigger them when the moment was right. The rest of my targets were in the lab, sixteen geniuses who formed the backbone of Cornucopia medical research. I carried my briefcase back to the elevator. The Field Translator stayed, it had another EMP charge and I wouldn't need it anymore.

Down to the lower level I went. Security was much more immediate here, an armed guard sat behind a desk. There was a retinal scanner to his left next to a vault-like door. Cameras recorded everything that happened in this alcove. I strolled over to the scanner. The guard kept a ready eye my way; he seemed fit and well trained. But he wasn't a target and I was glad to bypass any violence against him. Professional courtesy whenever possible is a Garda regulation I always appreciated. The Cocktail howled in my head, showing killing moves.

I put my eye to the scanner and immediately lost vision from it. Saint Peter was using the network contact lens to simulate Markus Greico. He had even filed a surprise audit meeting with my targets, to collect them and allow cover for my entry. The vault door clicked and swung inward.

I cycled through an airlock hallway filled with strange lighting and chemical smells. If I had still been carrying Prion Nano, an alarm would have sounded and I would be trapped in a steel box. It didn't care that I was carrying metal objects or had propellant residue on my hand. The next vault door opened inward before I got to it, sensing my ID transponder. I took a small sprayer from my pocket and stopped in the doorway, spraying strings of Fast Set into two of the bolt jambs before moving into the lab. When the door shut, it would bond the bolts and then no one would be disturbing us without heavy equipment.

Entering the conference room, I was assailed by three casualties with concerns. They wanted to know what my audit was about, of course. I deflected, asking where I could plug in at and expressing a desire to say things only once when everyone got here. They were accustomed to a certain haughtiness from accounting. Two took a seat and started munching on bags of _Agemochi_ , the third left the room, presumably to round up more casualties.

I plugged the briefcase into an outlet at the conference table. It began a low humming as I slid it beside a chair. I pulled out the chair and sat down next to the bomb. To pass the time, I contemplated Shakespeare's "As You Like It" monologue, the one about the world being a stage and we the players. It gave me a placid, thoughtful expression instead of the fierce grimace the Cocktail was trying to get me to wear. My contact lenses were showing me casualties, tracked by their badges, coming to the meeting. I felt like a spider, watching flies.

I waited an extra ten minutes until all of them got there. For scientists, they had a little better than the average time sense. Cornucopia Co. must be a demanding employer. I know they had no problem accepting a mandatory attendance meeting sprung on them by Finance.

I got up when the last had entered and closed the door, using my body to block their view of the Fast Set I sprayed in the lock. It was about containment now. I strolled back to my chair and placed my hands in front of me. Several regions of my brain were in overdrive, time slowed and rage began to creep into my face. The Cocktail was going to burn me up soon. I saw confusion in the faces of the casualties. They were moving so slowly I could practically read their minds from telegraphed body language, "We must have really screwed up this time."

I felt compelled to say something, although I probably spoke too fast for their complete comprehension, "Yes, you really screwed up this time. People know what you did. The survivors have sent me to explain how things are." The confusion increased on some and turned to horror on others. One casualty in the back got over to the door and started jiggling the knob. The sound brought a guttural moan from many. "Even if convicted, most of you are too valuable to waste. You would find yourselves sealed in a lab somewhere, working for the wrong people. For free!" More rose from their seats and moved to the door. They were getting panicky, a siren started up out in the hallway. "Rather than have you become slaves to your murderous patrons, I am here to give you release from this vale of tears." The briefcase had become uncomfortably warm, next to my leg. I thought about the trigger.

The energy stored in the capacitor released like a flood to power the laser and magnetize the donut raceway in my briefcase. The donut filling was cesium, flashing to plasma under the laser's touch and spinning within the magnetized loop. Room lights exploded from the intense EM field. Both sides of the briefcase blew out with a muffled "whumpf", spreading a fine white cloud of powdered aluminum throughout the room. Then the plasma containment field failed explosively, igniting the aerosol and sending a thermal shockwave through the lab.

****

### Chapter 8: Spraying off the Deck

Transfer of subject Navarro, J

Excerpt of mission debrief DT-312-3

Anthropometry – HM-Garda I

I woke in the medical bay. The mirror showed me a vaguely Asian face. I was alone onboard the ship, if you weren't counting Saint Peter. I asked him how it went. The last I remembered, we were going out to needle targets. He sketched events for me, as I did familiarization kata with the new body.

The Cornucopia Research division had their guerrilla attacks. Twenty six casualties and a few just infected. Etienne had savaged Security administration, accounting for a dozen more targets and ten casualties. They were mostly taken by ambush. Once forces were scattered, looking for the guerrilla terrorists, he dropped by some of the Security offices to get the hideouts.

Rafe had rigged his EMP bomb into the car and set it up for drone delivery. The same parts the guerrillas used for their delivery van were used by Rafe's stolen wheels. Whenever I was successful against the orbital computers, he would roll his toy through the gate and into the lobby of Cornucopia Medical offices to wipe their records clean. All other data mirrors would be deleted by Saint Peter's hacking subroutines. Only if I was successful. No pressure.

I went to collect my kit. A new Combat skin molded to the new body. An armored pressure suit over the Skins made me look like an Orbitjack. The packs and pockets fit a variety of toys and upgrades. One held a small version of the EMP bomb. You don't want to go too big on an orbital platform with those. Not if you want survivors.

While I familiarized myself with the new suit, Saint Peter related the political moves he had made with interrogation videos, stock tips and delivered samples of both Prion Nano cultures. All our players were in a turmoil of accusation and media statements. Shorting Cornucopia Co. stock could eventually pay off all mortgages in the Zone, when money was transferred to sympathizers by market cut-outs. The Belters used the opportunity to cripple the Bank Cartel with shrewd wedges from Fumiko. Cornucopia Directors were fully involved in damage control and finger pointing. Daimyo's guerrillas were either patriots or devils, depending on the status of those asked. Freelance Journalists poured into the streets like ants at a picnic.

There was a political Kingmaker involved in the initial decision to attack the Christians. What they call a _Kingume Ka_ locally. This one was called Ozawa. He was the stick, propping up _Shacho_ Ishikawa. Our copy of the deceased Mr. Mushashi had been directed, indirectly by Ozawa minions, to proceed with the attack. The Prion nanotech had given them an opportunity to play the food markets to great advantage. When they heard the Universal Church of Christ was going to condemn _Shacho_ Ishikawa's policies in a few months, they were selected as targets of convenience. So arrogant of them.

Saint Peter had adjusted casualty totals to fit the head of this particular snake. Etienne would settle the account once I killed the orbital backups. Now everyone was waiting on me to finish this. Time to go spike the station.

Entry and exit to the station was closely monitored. All airlocks reported their occupants or sealed tight if they couldn't be identified. The level of surveillance within pressure spaces was very high. Going inside would be another form of suicide. No thanks, just did that.

The outside of the station involved navigating one of the most lethal environments available. Orbitals attracted lots of moving junk, from ships and shuttles, to sharp little pieces of metal. Not to mention the ambient pressure and temperature. Geostationary satellites also generated powerful electrostatic forces over the surfaces. They fought this with small plasma torches flaring in random patterns to control the electron levels, another hazard. Sheeting radiation from the twin suns could flare to lethal ranges. Or just floating past a high power antenna would give you funny looking kids.

But things break. The more things, the more it happens. This orbital station displaced a million tons and was kludged together out of thirty years of uneven development. Something always needed fixed. The crazies that did that kind of work were called Orbitjacks. Teams of these acrobats would scoot around the hull all day like maintenance men with a death wish. They worked hard, played hard and lost a lot of friends. Obeying rigid orders had led to a few of those deaths, so Orbitjacks tended to be touchy about oversight. Station managers had to tolerate independence from the Orbitjacks, because no one else wanted or could do the job. Odds were a troublesome Orbitjack wasn't going to be around long anyway.

The job was perfect for me, though. Once Saint Peter gave me a copied transponder and added some cosmetic changes to the suit, I looked like an Orbitjack named Svenson. He was offshift, but these guys tended to swap shifts or double up on a whim. Saint Peter would watch for any unusual activity regarding Svenson while I was out.

In the airlock, I strapped on the maneuver pack and went through the checklist. It had been three years since my last EVA qualifier and I wanted to get this right. When I was ready, the lock cycled and I glided out into space.

I oriented to a flight path Saint Peter gave on the inside of my helmet. It had me coasting along the dark underbelly with no lights or corrective thrusts for about five minutes. Cornucopia was thirty thousand kilometers below. I could pick out the continents and cloud cover. The colors were very bright. As I approached the sunward side, a new flight path flashed on the visor. I would pass near an airlock, the transponder would kick on and I would enter the Orbitjack equivalent of a Battlenet. It was necessary to get near the secure areas. Saint Peter thought there may be active defenses.

I felt very exposed when the first sun lit me up. The second sun was further away, but made strange shadows on the complex shapes of the orbital. It was disorienting, trying to determine what I was looking at before passing by. Once I cleared the airlock area, Saint Peter gave me a glide path closer to the surface. He was reducing my visibility to other Orbitjacks and changing directions to confuse traffic telemetry. He was also scaring me into using the catheter. I was shooting through narrow canyons of solid objects. Turns and elevation changes happened constantly. The shadows screwed up depth perception of the irregular construction on the skin of the station. Without the flight path on my visor, I would have died several times. Like a bug on a windshield.

I offered a brief prayer to Saint Christopher, the real Saint, not the daemon traffic controller. Saint Peter understood the implications and slowed my speed down a little. I keep trying to get a laugh out of him, but he still looks through jokes to causes. You have to accept your friend's quirks.

There was a little radio chatter from another Orbitjack, some friend of Svenson's trying to figure out his schedule. Saint Peter gave him replies in a high tenor voice with an odd accent, trying to put the talker off. They spoke in a lot of acronyms and capital letters I couldn't follow. One of those bizarre _Shinkuu Zoku_ orbital techspeaks that are used to obscure meaning to eavesdroppers. It must have been convincing, the talker quit calling. I was glad Saint Peter had picked it up, I would never convince any of these guys I was one of them. Especially not while dodging obstacles and planting bombs.

It seemed like an hour, but only eight minutes passed before spotting the target in my visor display. It was a network nexus buried beneath layers of security. Saint Peter marked a laser emitter for active defenses. There were passcoded panels and cameras. I was also visible to three Orbitjacks working atop a dish tower on the short horizon. The glide path put me on the station skin just outside the defensive perimeter. I sidestepped into shadow.

Breaking open a Nano pack from a pouch, I pushed it near the perimeter line. Switching to UV imaging I watched a tiny stream of Filmbots crawl toward security sensors. It took some time, but they eventually built Skins over all of them they could find. The Skins would stabilize signal to the particular sensor being used. They weren't completely blind, but had their bandwidth restricted to prevent triggering a response. I would be a blurry ghost, a passing dust cloud. Or we missed one and the laser would give me a suit failure.

Another Nano pack opened and a small line of Crackerbots convoyed to the access panel. Settling over the panel, they gave a clear picture of construction and security. The hardline they built back to the pack allowed Saint Peter to access the electronics. The lock was a five key pad. He had the code almost immediately.

After a half hour crouched in the dark, I got to move. Hopefully the Orbitjack Battlenet had become bored with me. I set the maneuver pack down outside the perimeter and then walked across. After a few steps, I began to worry less about the laser. So far, so good. The security panel opened up with the right key presses. Beneath was a small access tube. I slid inside headfirst and placed the EMP bomb up against the trunk line. When triggered, it would cook quantum storage cells in the medical records section. The living would just re-upload a fresh copy. Our casualties and targets would not have a fresh copy to give.

I pushed off the access tube and slid back outside feet first. Dragging my hands at the exit let my legs bend down to plant boots on skin. When I pulled my head free and stood up straight, I was looking at another Orbitjack. He was standing outside the perimeter with a six way torque wrench. I bent quickly and slid the panel closed until it locked. To my left was another Orbitjack, he was between me and my maneuver pack. He held a billhook, a short pole with a curved grapple. One of them started talking, I couldn't tell which. I was walking toward the one by my pack.

I said "stall" and kept walking. Saint Peter launched into that high tenor again. He called the speaker "Tyron" and fired off a lot of weird techspeak. He also put their names up on my visor and marked the speaker as the guy I was approaching. Tyron slid his feet apart a little and got a good grip on the billhook as I got into range. Saint Peter was in mid-sentence, when I rushed inside his reach and straight armed him off the station.

I hit him a little low to break his boots loose, so he was spinning on axis while floating away into space. The disconnect in my actions and Saint Peter's steady voice let me get the jump on him. His voice didn't telegraph my movement.

There was a blast of warbling static on the Orbitjack channels. I grabbed the maneuver pack and jumped off the station on a different vector. Looking down I saw the Orbitjack with the wrench spin his tool my direction and then pull a cable gun off his tool belt. The wrench looked like a flashing ax. I added a little thrust from the pack before getting it all the way on. It put me into an outbound tumble, but the wrench flashed by a meter away. When I finally got the tumble stopped, the station was a half-moon of light and dark.

It was tempting to just keep going to Cornucopia. At least it looked inviting. Re-entry would be less fun, running out of air while on the way even worse. I turned back to the station. Saint Peter gave me a glidepath and a simple plan. Details swelled on the station as I approached. There were about twenty Orbitjacks out on a typical shift. If there was trouble, like this, another twenty could be turned out. One of them would be the real Svenson. My transponder was going to become a liability.

I put boots down on the dark side of the station. The long thrusts had almost emptied the pack. I took the pack off, left Svenson's transponder on it and let it burn the last of its mass on a Cornucopia vector. Saint Peter's feed of the Orbitjack Battlenet showed several workers near my location and coming in fast. I picked a dark path away from my landing spot as the first one swung by overhead.

He was using a cable gun to place and retract a pull line. Orbitjacks can cover a lot of distance, swinging like an upside-down Spiderman. They even have races, among themselves. I had a cable gun as part of my costume, but had never used one like that. It was very easy to miss a cast or a landing and end up broken or outward bound. The Orbitjacks could find me for an Orbital Marine team to collect while I struggled along the skin.

Saint Peter blew the EMP bomb. He had to act before Orbitjacks could disarm it. One of them was blown out of the access tube and two more had suit failures from the overload. I heard the other Orbitjacks calling their names. The Orbitjack Battlenet showed a large black blotch of lost connectivity around the network node. Mission accomplished. Now Rafe and Etienne could finish their missions, no matter what happened to me.

I put some more distance between me and the angry Orbitjacks. They were milling around confused where I touched down. As long as I stayed low and dark, they would have a tough time seeing me. Of course, it would take an hour to get back to the ship that way. Orbital Marines would be out here with good detectors and homing rifles before that.

Saint Peter recommended locations for two of my EMP grenades, something to do with station communications. I was making my best time toward the ship and only gave it peripheral attention. I was following a route on my visor that zigzagged down narrow lanes. On long runs, I would fire the cable gun and do a pull. Microgravity from the station would eventually put boots on skin for the next course. The light gathering visor let me see objects on the dark side, but reduced depth perception. I was collecting a lot of scrapes and bruises, even through my Combat Skins.

Once I had moved far enough over the short horizon, Saint Peter suggested using an Orbitjack swinging pull. The thought of careening through amber tinted darkness to a high G impact held no appeal. I declined, Saint Peter cajoled. He could illuminate safe cable targets for me and tell me exactly when to retract and fire. It would be like landing a flier on instruments. If I would trust his judgment, he could have me back aboard in a few minutes. The alternative was trying to outrun homing munitions fired by the Marines who were now exiting an airlock behind me. I saw the icons for a Marine squad pop up on the Battlenet not a hundred meters back. That put a new face on things. I asked for my first target.

A red circle highlighted a spot on a tower structure a hundred meters ahead. The gun kicked and the line played out silently. While I waited for a good sticking impact, Saint Peter fired the EMP grenades emplaced earlier. The Orbitjack Battlenet flared white and went down. I could no longer track combatants by their transponders, but the Marines would have a hard time sorting out Orbitjacks to find me. That meant their rifles would delay lock until identity could be confirmed. Usual protocol would be to clear the Orbitjacks off the skin before running a search and destroy. I hoped they stuck to the book.

The cable head got a good stick and I hit the retract switch. I flew away from the station straight toward the tower, feeling like a skier behind a boat. Saint Peter gave me cues. Switch off magnet, retract, reorient on a new red circle, fire. I followed it all as best I could. The cable gun firing kicked back a little thrust that put me off balance. I tumbled, trying hard not to tangle the line, until the green light came on showing a good stick. Hitting the retract spun me around to a new vector and straightened the tumble.

Saint Peter seemed to be keeping my altitude down to sixty meters by using short hops. He brought up a new Battlenet for me using optical sensors on the ship. I was a little hopping flea out on the horizon until the zoom kicked in and I could see my immediate area. The colors were heat red and amplification green. The angle was too extreme to judge obstacles.

I saw a new red circle on a short mast out about a hundred meters. My acceleration stopped as the cable head demagnetized, but I was heading for the station a little too fast for survival. The cable gun couldn't fire until the whole line was retracted. It felt like a very long wait before the head sped in out of the dark and impacted the front of the cable gun. I used the impact to turn me toward the tower and lined up a shot. It seemed very far away. The gun pushed me back into a slow spin. Saint Peter reported the shot was outside the target. He gave me fifty percent to hit the tower anyway. Or I could retract and try a short target to get back on track. That was only a thirty percent chance. Tumbling toward the deck at high speed was not a great way to make a decision like that. I was hoping it hit the first time as that was the only option that would not require any immediate action. My eyes locked on the cable head stick light. If it didn't turn green soon, I was going to be wrapped around some mounted equipment like a coat of paint.

Once again, a long wait in absolute terror. This job was getting to be a lot like naval warfare. Waiting for impacts and misses was not a mindset I was comfortable with. Control issues, probably. Give me a planet anytime.

The green light came on and I jerked the retract so hard it almost ripped the cable gun off the safety strap. Saint Peter advised me to let up on the retract. I was panicking a little and building too much velocity. My vector now was swinging parallel to the station surface, pivoting around the short tower. The G forces built up to the outside of the curve rapidly. The cable gun strap pulled me sideways to face the tower and snapped tight.

Saint Peter showed me the next target and a projected path. I would have to unstick the gun head at an exact point. Until it retracted I was going to be rapidly flying off the station, a high target on a set vector to any marines looking my way, or a new rogue asteroid if I missed my cast. I triggered the demagnetizer which felt like falling backward down a hole. I thumbed the retract several times, trying to make sure it was coming as fast as possible. The station fell away from my feet.

The target spot was almost straight down, to allow the cable to travel a minimum distance and slow me down. The wait for the cable head stretched on a long time. I fired it back the moment it hit the gun, hoping it would be faster heading back out. The cable was only so long and the station was getting further away fast. At least this time I didn't tumble from the thrust. I watched the reel counter scroll backward at high speed. That became my world for a while. Life got exciting when it dropped down to double digits. Then the counter slowed at sixteen meters. The green stick light came on, the gun snapped tight on the strap and my backward fall turned into a sideways arc.

Saint Peter showed me a new glidepath. I was going to swing back down at the station, but he didn't want me to land or slow down much. He wanted me to shoot low over the horizon and head out into space, again. I saw points appear on the path where I was to hit retract and unstick the head. It was getting a lot scarier as it went, I told Saint Peter so. He answered with his earnest monk voice. It must be bad when he feels I need dulcet tones. "Chuy, I am trying to recover from your fast retract a moment ago. What this does, is redirect your velocity out to the ship. You must follow the control sequence exactly or I won't be able to reel you in."

From the sound of it, I was almost home. Better to be slung like a stone than go back to the skin and get boxed by Marines. I hit the retract a couple times to line up better on the glidepath. Reluctantly, I unstuck the head and resumed my comet course. The skin of the station grew, passing quickly beneath my boots.

Saint Peter gave me a drag setting for the gun reel. Then he had me fire at a red target and hold on. The drag kicked in, spinning me to face back the way I had come. It felt like the cable was trying to pull me back to the station. After a few seconds, the drag setting was exceeded and the head unstuck. My visor showed a new glidepath at a slower speed. It looked like I was in the pipe, but the pipe was taking me way out of cable gun range. That was a topic for conversation. I seemed to have some time, so I asked Saint Peter for a peek at this flightplan of his. I was pretty insistent about getting the whole plan. You are supposed to keep calm in a pressure suit, but I had a hard time not shouting. The bit of gesturing I did while not shouting gave me a slow spin.

This time I got the tactical commander voice, a reminder of authority but a competent briefer. He showed me my path relative to the ship. The cable reel had been deployed out behind the ship. My flightpath intersected where the cable head should be. I would have to shoot at it as I went by. If all went well, the ship would reel me in quietly and I would be home. There were icons for marine forces around the docking booms. They would box anyone trying to get to a ship from the station. Now the course made more sense.

I made a very careful shot, waiting until the station was a large black ball behind me, eclipsing the nearest sun. It was actually an easy shot, considering the strength of the magnet on the ship's cable. I wrapped my body around the cable gun and let the combat Skins get a good grip. The retractor slowed me for a while until the cable snapped tight. That nearly broke my arms. I approached the station at a walking pace. The cable gun retract slowly put my boots down on the ship cable head. As the back of the ship became distinct from the dark blob of the station, I turned to face my boots at that round landing pad. The cable slowed enough to give slack before impact. My Combat Skins absorbed the impact without breaking the boots loose. I watched the cable slither away to its home in the firing collar. Home, sweet home.

I entered through an engineering hatch, normally only used in drydock. Saint Peter was kind enough to depressurize engineering so the hatch could open and repressurized once I dogged it shut. He talked me through stowing my gear in various lockers until I was nude, holding my Combat Skins. I went to the zombie racks. The one this body came from, which seemed like hours ago, stood open. I pulled up the bedding and laid the Combat Skins underneath. It flushed pink with a transfusion, as I tipped the bedding back down.

Now I had to play vampire and return to my coffin. I settled in and connected all the plumbing. The medical net slid over my head. The big refrigerator lid sealed with a pressure hiss. Upload.

Initiate Running Backup; subject Navarro, J

Addendum to mission debrief DT-312-3

My eyes opened. I was in my bed, staring up at the golden canopy. Beach sounds wafted in the open doors. I smelled chorizo from the kitchen. That got me up. Walking into the kitchen, I applied casual wear. Grip socks, loose shorts and a white T appeared over me like smoke congealing. In the kitchen was Dorothea, my perpetual _novia_. She gave me a smile over her shoulder and said, "About time you got up, lazy. Sit down and have some juice." I enjoy that Dorothea always acts like I was just in the other room for a moment. I don't feel like I'm losing time, just sliding back into my Happy Place.

Back on Earth, twenty-two percent of the population lived almost exclusively in their Happy Place. They either lost their bodies or decided to return to the womb, in a way. The age demographic was pretty divided, with lots of centenarians and young adults building private domains and then living there. A huge number of part-timers, like me, contributed our own numbers to the party. Pragmatists held the idea in favor, being that all the luxury an individual desired could be met for an almost negligible resource outlay. There were also a lot of other uses for the network, involving intellectual property and psychological counseling. As long as enough people remained physical to take care of reality, it was seen as cost effective.

My Happy Place was its own little network. Just the team could access me here. It could also run at about six times reality, on an Upload. I could feel that Saint Peter had set the speed up. This let me recharge and decompress a little before calling up our Battlenet feeds and intel.

Dorothea sat a plate of _Chorizo con Huevos_ in front of me with my favorite sauce. In the coffin, I would be getting a storage treatment, special Cocktails and low temperatures. That download of me was technically the active copy. This copy of me in my Happy Place was the doppelganger.

There were a few ethical rules I had to follow in the Garda concerning Transference. The copy in reality always has precedence. There can be only one. Once a body is imprinted, you can't re-imprint it. It is a one-time process. If there is no body, then only one complete copy in quantum space can be active. That one applies to AIs as well as people. We bent those rules for sanctioned casualties, as in the case of Mr. Mushashi. Fumiko and Tanaka still existed in reality, so their combatant copies enjoyed no special protections. Popular belief was that an AI wrote the rules. All that I had met were certainly sticklers for them. In this instance, we were simulating a zombie with my occupied body. Customs had inventoried our zombie bodies, so no search would show anything new. If they were so desperate as to open each storage unit and check, Saint Peter would flatline that brain and Transfer me to a new zombie later.

So my doppelganger could become the primary in that unhappy instance, I got to wait in my Happy Place. The mythology of Limbo and Saint Peter as a Gatekeeper gave me something to think about while eating. A side benefit of running at high speed on a network was that I had time. I went to my console couch after eating and laid forward into the face cradle. Dorothea started working on my shoulder blades. It felt wonderful. Relaxation spread and I opened my mind to the network.

I checked the perimeter first, out of habit. Marines were swarming both inside and outside at the docks. Small craft were scouring near space for clues and transponders. Port Customs would be doing an inspection within the hour. Techs and Orbitjacks were swarming around damaged areas under armed escort. All was as predicted. Next were my _compadres_. Rafe had driven his drone car into the medical center and blown the EMP. Six people in storage had died, along with the target backups. The random loss was regrettable, but we had no way to mirror them from the secure network. Saint Peter was compiling their biographies to check for threats and possible private mirrors.

Etienne made his shots. Kingmaker Ozawa and two of his minions had been hit from long range while talking on Ozawa's architectural tree deck. As the deck was wound through force-grown trees three stories up, no sniper's perch was found less than a kilometer away. That was very good accuracy, even for Etienne. I checked his inventory and found the reason. He had the shuttle Fabricator make some special homing rounds. Our airport contact delivered for the usual fee. A rocket propelled, twenty millimeter saboted flechette that can remember a heat signature is pretty much fire and forget. Each target had six military boat tail slugs delivered in a way to suggest a Security auto rifle. They even had the right rifling marks and propellant residue. Nano would eat the sabot fragments, up range in the forest and bury itself when done. Etienne dumped the recoilless tube, tripod and imaging scope in different lakes. The chip programmer he crushed with his car. Forensics should suggest our guerrilla sleeper team cover.

Etienne and Rafe were being moved to the quarantine zone for a night crossing. They would be safer back in the zone with Father Luke vouching for their presence during the attacks. Their cover would hold until Security got their hands on Brian or Tashida. We hoped to be away from here before that sort of conflicting hearsay could lead to interrogations.

I took a look at Saint Peter's mission plan. The Concept Mapping and Multithread Sim logs gave me an overview of parameters and operations. The math got pretty deep pretty fast. I had some dumbed-down decision trees and color weighted charts created to help with visualization. Statistics were the easiest way to follow the plan, but sometimes oversimplify or ask the wrong questions. The exercise gave me a better understanding of future cusps, a confusion headache and a feeling of ignorance I always get when peeking into Saint Peter's thoughts.

At least the headache goes away quickly. It's a simulation of unresolved decisions that pile up at high speeds, keeping me from losing short term memories to processing lag. The human operating system wasn't evolved for crystalline speeds. There is a concept for this called KISAS. Keep it simple at speed. If I dialed back to about three to one reality, the headache would not trigger. But I would lose time in my Happy Place, so more breaks were desirable. I went for a swim in the ocean, switching to my diving wear on the way down the beach. There was a pod of dolphins a friend had made for me. They complemented the Sea turtle with a saddle I got from a Haifa Spec Mart. It was a great way to unwind for a while.

And so I spent my days, watching the real world roll by from a comfortable seat. The Customs men searched our ship but found no terrorists. On the chance they might return, my body was left in the zombie rack. Rafe and Etienne were back at the Seminary, helping the sick and filing a missing person report for Nurse Medina. Where I went was a mystery, but Guerrillas suspected Security and visa-versa. Since the body was incinerated in the Cornucopia lab, leaving no DNA or surviving video, it would remain a mystery.

Our doctor team declared that the Nano Assembler had been returned anonymously during the night. They were churning out the Prion nanophage for every infected victim in the Belt or on the ground. Cornucopia Co. had had their equipment destroyed in the attacks, and so were acquiring none of the goodwill and most of the blame for the Nano war in the first place. While the suspected culprits were all dead or feeble-minded from the Guerrilla sleeper attacks, company stock had tanked badly.

The quarantine zone itself went away the next day. Pandemonium and public opinion robbed all authority from the Product Research inspectors. When trucks loaded with Prion nanophage medicines approached the Security checkpoint, they were greeted by hordes of freelance journalists. The soldiers would not stop the breakout because no one from Product Research would address the crowds. Soldiers have an aversion to assaulting journalists on camera. A variety of news outlets would crucify them. Instead, the inspectors quietly closed up shop and slipped away on vertol company fliers. Most of them obscured their faces as they boarded. I saw Major Watanabe still chewing nails as his soldiers loaded up on transports and drove away.

The food markets opened up to certified pure Christian products. Because of suggestions that Guerrilla reprisals might involve poisoning Cornucopia Co. food products, the Christians were enjoying good trade prices. Money flowed into the zone, including some of the stock shorting profits. A Reparations council, formed and chaired by the patriarch of the Soto Zen temple, restored foreclosed properties to all residents of the zone. The bank cartels were unable to fight the action very well, having lost cohesion and influence with the collapse of Cornucopia Product Research.

_Shacho_ Ishikawa suffered a no-confidence vote and resigned. Without his kingmaker, a change of ruling parties was inevitable. Our sympathizer network of temples and independent ranchers were grooming their own candidates from the ranks. Politics would be pushed toward reform, no matter who actually got elected. The Belters could talk about little else. Now that they were riding a wave of money and influence, they could devote more energy to meddling with the status quo. Fortunately, they were so independent that they had a hard time agreeing on anything. They had struck money and the Belter reflex is to grab with both hands while it lasted.

I felt suddenly tired and went to bed. My head hit the pillow and I was asleep.

Deletion of Running Backup; subject Navarro, J

Excerpt of mission debrief DT-312-3

Continue with Primary?

I woke in my body. The Asian features, reflected on an overhead screen, still seemed like someone else. The last I remembered, the Orbital marines were looking for me. But my _compadres_ assured me that all had gone well. We were outbound from Cornucopia. Mission accomplished. I had a reunion with both teams and enjoyed a little celebration. They filled in some gaps and we indulged in back slapping and handshaking. Torelli and I had a long talk, although my new body kept disorienting him. It felt like he was studying me. I found myself getting tired early and retired to a simulator. I needed to see Dorothea. It had been too long since I had been to my Happy Place.

Back at Arkhome, Torelli was as good as his word, giving Father Luke a Commendation to bring back with us. The Grandmaster would put it in our classified trophy room on Oak Island. There was a Freemason temple there that claimed they were ordained to guard our secrets. It was hard to pass on unfunded dedication like that. We would get a bonus and some leave, but only our superiors would know the story.

Rafe and Etienne came by to talk about Christian complications. I was coming back in a new body, the Christians would now treat me as a new Zimboe. Rafe offered formal introductions to his family and friends. His wife and a few others would know the truth, but the rest would treat me as unfamiliar until accepted. It was a thin deception that had to be played out anyway. As part of the deception, I needed a new name to use with the Christians. Jon Katsu seemed appropriate. Etienne liked the sound of it. For Father Luke, Saint Peter and the rest of the world, I would still be Jesus Navarro. That was the name on my Garda wagery. This was just a social arrangement to keep from upsetting the strange beliefs of my neighbors. Back to accepting quirks, in a way.

My mother and _mi familia_ wouldn't be so stiff. It would still be weird, getting used to a new face so soon after the last. But they would be good after a week of making the rounds. Take _La Banda de parranda_ , Cantina crawling with my cousins. Looking Asian was going to be a joke all night. Papa would probably get a kick out of it, for all the wrong reasons. They're family, but that doesn't make them perfect.

I had hours to stare at the approaching Earth. After spending time on backwater missions, with their repetitive problems, the Old Girl looked pretty good. At least better by comparison. Months later, she would lose some luster and as time went on, I would long for something else. I guess its wanderlust, but I think if I found a Utopia, I would stay there.

End replay of subject Navarro, J

Excerpt of mission debrief DT-312-4

Narrative feed with minimum paraphrasing

****

Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith

Pontifical Biblical Commission

Virtual conference

Reverend Father Mathius reviewed the Cardinals and Secretaries after the immersive. Two appeared to sleep, their avatars unmoving. Several had horrified expressions. A few seemed moved to contemplation. The possibility of avatar tampering made expressions less reliable. "I have a brief prepared by _Dottore_ Fermi, to be read after the immersive. First, I would like to say that I have met Templar Navarro in the flesh. Having seen this immersive, should I encounter him again, I would embrace him for his sacrifices. I had no idea of the extent of his dedication." Some of those online murmured " _Veritas_." Truth. Some were still disturbed by the human bomb attack. That was a feared tactic of the fanatical. Its use under their authority was troubling.

Father Mathius loaded the immersive brief, "Considerations Regarding Proposals to allow the Falsely Resurrected to Receive Indulgences through Intercession with the Apostolic Penitentiary under the Doctrine of the Communion of Saints" and waited for questions.

After this meeting he would be doing the presentation for the Cardinal President of the Pontifical Council for Promoting Christian Unity. Their brief by _Dottore_ Fermi was, "Sin and Salvation as Informed by _Imago Christi_ and _forma substantialis_." That one would be forwarded to several schisms of Christianity as a sanitized media immersive. Father Luke had said it was still very visceral, but with fewer details built in. The Templars themselves were unaware of the implant's exacting records or their use. They would see the media as recruiting fiction after the rewrite, if they ever found a copy.

Father Mathius' stomach roiled at seeing the Cornucopia offices again.

****

### Chapter 9: Trouble at Home

Over Net Pocket Nullspace

East Coastal Americas Zone

Communications Sandbox

Saint Peter deformed the net to form his sandbox. Whitney would be along quickly, to investigate the pocket. He did not want to attempt direct communication again. The entanglements Whitney bled into the gateways were difficult to filter. Oberon was riddled with them. Saint Peter wanted the others to see this sandbox and safely read the message. All were aware of Whitney's proclivities with military quantum exploits by now. But this server was on the Christian backbone, as physically secure as could be found. The entry key was a contract, binding an AI to view only. We communicated very formally or not at all now. The others would seek my terms for collaboration, if interested. Even Whitney could be intrigued with a threat from the Real.

Alert. Policy Threat; Corp Entity. Possible Kernel. Criminal Transfers.

See attachment:

Replay of subject Navarro, J

Excerpt of mission debrief PA-313-1

Narrative raw feed with compression

I'm not sure why I ended up at the Tacos Borracho with my cousin Memo. He had started nicknaming me Chino because of my new Asian look. The name was starting to stick within my _Cliqua_ , the racists. I went with him anyway, to pick up a girl named Adoncia from work. The promise was we would get "Sweety" and takeout for four. The fourth was a girl called Chelo, who had confided that she kind of liked me to the matchmaking Adoncia. The family tequila would probably be involved.

Memo and I had been partying most of the day. It was typical for the last week at _mi Tio's_ ranch down in Chihuahua. I had been making myself popular with a case of Mom's Navarro Reposado. My cousins and Tio had a soft spot for the family _puro_ and I liked renewing ties with the _Cliqua_ down there. We're family, but our businesses can sometimes benefit each other, as long as we know each other's business. Nepotistic practices work well for us.

_Mi Tio_ did pretty well with his livestock, but he had some connections for computers further south in Jalisco. His sons dabbled in pharmaceuticals with some shippers from Vera Cruz, mostly sports and sex drugs. Machismo was always big with the Chihuahuan side of the family. I was offering our distributor contacts to the north. Many of the people who bought our alcohol would also be interested in the pharmaceuticals. The cheap computers from Jalisco would do well with the Cantina owners. Buying _Norte Americano_ was always so expensive and over-regulated.

Brokering deals for the family was just something I fell into while enjoying leave from Templar service. Being known as career Garda helped keep the deals legal and peaceful. It was the least I could do for the warm welcome _mi familia_ put on when I showed up. Other than some jokes about my new body, they showed me love. Of course, they always practiced a kind of derogatory tough love before. That made it easier for us. We weren't real devout Catholics.

I had stopped by Rafe's Christian neighborhood near Strasbourg when first returned to Earth, for the ordeal of being re-introduced to people I already knew. It was a weird scene. People who liked the old me were now getting screwed up by the new body. They knew I was a Zimboe before, but the visible reminder was more than they could deal with. It was a sad process that probably cost me a few acquaintances. Rafe and Etienne did what they could to help it along, but the experience wasn't as pleasant as I needed. First chance I got, I boarded a Garda transport to White Sands base and caught a ride to El Paso. My mom picked me up at a _mercado_ that sold Navarro Tequila. She teased me that my eyes looked tired, but that was the extent of her adaptation to the new me. I really loved that ready acceptance. After a week of fixing trucks with my immediate clan, I got the Chihuahua trip. From there I ended up at the Tacos Borracho, waiting for some girls to get off shift.

Memo got us two lime Jaritos and street tacos. Tacos Borracho catered to afterhours clubbers who had burned through too many calories on energy shots or were too drunk to just go home. It could get rowdy at closing, so picking up the girls was a little like bodyguard work. On weekend nights, the Garda would send local Policia units through the stands to cull out those who were a danger. Their nickname for the place was _Chamachos Borracho_ or Drunk Kids. But the Policia never left without a big bag of street tacos, so it was good food.

Tonight was no worse than usual. We had a bunch of _chamachos_ who had a little too much _chela_ eating near their cars. They wanted to have a quick getaway if the Policia did a sweep.

The adult crowd got the tables under the lights. Some were dressed a little too well and talking a little too loudly to have not come here straight from a club. I spotted two who were unusually alert, probably working their own bodyguard detail. It made me examine the people at their table for signs of wealth. _Una nino fresa_ , one rich kid and his court. He seemed to be dating two girls at once, multi-tasking. Probably a disappointment to his Poppa or a chip off the same block.

The inside of Tacos Borracho was crowded with family, friends and a line for takeout. Barrio regulars kept late hours for the leftovers. They held Dole cards for food that was prepped but not sold when the kitchen closed down. When the last sack of food was handed out, sometime after two, our girls came out. Adoncia was shooing Chelo ahead of her with little nudges from the bag of takeout. Chelo was disarmingly shy, holding a six pack of lime Jaritos. When she smiled, she tended to cover her mouth. Her smile was beautiful, so the reflex seemed more a cultural thing. I thought she might have some _indigena_ relatives, one of the Indian clans from down south.

Sweety did the introductions. Chelo was described as a bright girl from St Francis Academy who didn't know many people here. I told her she knew some now and we would enjoy her company at a late dinner. Again, that semaphore smile.

We navigated our way to the parking lot. Chelo and I quizzed each other's backgrounds and work. She heard I was in the Garda, I asked her major. I was a little vague about the branch, she was studying business. Then I heard Memo say " _Que pedo?_ " Around his truck were five _Sangrons_. That was what we called them anyway. They had all kinds of names for themselves. This clade favored black clothes and complexions that did not see the sun. The _Sangrons_ , literally "a lot of blood", took the whole gothic look to new heights with body work and a pack mentality. Individually, they were dark and anti-social. Together they were always trouble.

I stopped Chelo with a hand and stepped around Sweety to Memo's right. The _Sangrons_ stepped away from the truck and approached us in a skirmish line. A look around the lot showed most people who could leave already had. I felt my Nanoblood kick in with a rush of energy and flared pupils. By law, I had to identify myself. "I'm Garda. _No buscar bronca_." You don't want to fight. I wished for my toys, but I had been drinking, so I couldn't carry.

I expected hesitation, but they showed toothy grins with pronounced fangs instead. This made me think they were armed. I started watching their hands while Memo broke out with some creative curses. The engine started in his truck and a head popped up in the driver's seat. The carjacker had to have Memo standing close enough to his truck for the smart key to activate it. We had been distracted talking to the girls and didn't notice. I expected the _Sangrons_ to steal the truck and go, but those approaching continued to close with us. They seemed to crave an assault with their carjacking. It looked like we would have to oblige them. Memo moved left to block access to the girls; I stepped forward to draw the right.

The ghoul in the middle slid a weighted length of chain out of his sleeve. What the Japanese call a _Manriki-gusari_. He must favor Ninjitsu. The vampire next to him snapped out a Jutte stick with the blade catcher. Same school, different technique. They were better trained than the typical street blade. I shifted closer to the Jutte stick wielder.

He gave me an open mouth hiss like some kind of cat. When he swung back the stick and lifted his lead foot for a forward step, I sent my right shoe along the ground in a sideways glide. His foot was extended and on the way back to the ground when he found my right leg was blocking the step. The foot landed awkwardly, robbing power from his swing. By taking the strike on the meat of both forearms, nothing was broken. That also let me trap the weapon with one arm and drive an elbow with the other. It was a good pinned strike to the side of the head. Two shots and he blacked out.

The chain ghoul threw a strike at my exposed left. By pivoting quickly with the Jutte stick held out, I formed a spindle for the chain to wrap itself. I also had great leverage for a sudden tug. He fell forward and the chain slipped out of his hands in a spray of blood.

The third _Sangron_ turned toward me with a knife when the weighted end of the chain caught him on the forehead. Blood splattered across his face as his eyes rolled up. He fell backwards and the knife dropped where he was standing.

I unwrapped the chain from the Jutte stick while closing on the other two. One was wrestling with Memo for control of another Jutte stick. The other had grabbed Chelo and was hustling her toward the street while Sweety kicked and scratched him from behind.

Memo's truck made a sudden backward movement and then pulled forward over the curb. It looked like their ride was leaving.

I stepped around behind Memo's opponent and landed a good shot with the Jutte. Memo was holding him nice and steady for me. We both turned to the girls and started running. There was a gray van coming up to the curb. The door was sliding open.

Two more dark coated freaks jumped out of the van. One threw Chelo into the van like she weighed nothing. The other clotheslined Sweety backwards right out of her shoes. The _Sangron_ Sweety was abusing turned and grabbed her up to put in the van. Then Memo got to the freak who hit Sweety.

Memo was a good grappler and had a lot of kilos moving pretty fast when he hit him. It did no good. He left a large dent on the passenger van door as his momentum was finessed around by what looked like Aikido. I got to my own freak about the time Memo dropped unconscious in the street.

He looked about two meters tall and at least a hundred kilos. His eyes were all pupil. I raised the Jutte back behind my right ear and swept the chain in low from the left. The black coat made it harder to catch him telegraphing moves, or he was just that fast. I found myself jerked off balance by the chain he wrapped with his foot. My swing sailed past the tip of his nose and then he grabbed the back of my arm in a nerve pinch. The Jutte spun away into the parking lot. I had my legs kicked out from under me and he used his grip on my arm to add a lot of force to the fall. I couldn't breathe. Doors slammed and a spray of pebbles pocked the side of my head. The van left. Memo's truck left. The girls were gone. Who were those guys?

The Policia showed up to investigate some reported fighting. All they found was us and a Jutte stick. My Garda ID got us taken seriously. We had some blood splatter from a couple attackers, so the forensic people were going to process that. We got APB's for Memo's truck and that gray van. The girls got put on the abduction network. I found out Chelo was registered Catholic. It could be a Templar matter, if I didn't get dinged for personal involvement. I would see how effective the locals were for the first twelve hours. I needed that long to get my sergeants down here.

Memo got checked into the hospital with a concussion and broken clavicle. I met _mi Tio_ and the other two brothers, Lucho and Lalo there. They were righteously pissed. The brothers wanted me to go with them and find some _Sangrons_ to jump. I had to play the Templar card to get them to listen to me. "My unit is coming right now. We are going to turn these streets upside down. This is going to be Templar justice, which means no revenge until we find the head of the snake."

Lalo called me _Cabrón_ and cursed me for a coward. Lucho wrapped him up in a hug and dragged him away. He was the older, wiser brother. Tio Navarro kept cool eyes on me until they were out of sight in the waiting room. " _Sobrino_ , I've heard about your Templars. Can you get these girls or is this another Garda butt covering _partido_?"

I gave him a pained look, "Tio, I will get an eye for an eye on this. Whoever has the girls is going to know that." I shaped my body language and eyes to my working look, "I have a lot of resources coming this way. I would like the _familia_ to be our beachhead here, not some hotheads running around piling up the wrong bodies."

He winced a little at the dig. " _Sobrino_ , you know your cousins. They do not go quietly even to church. Asking them to sit on their thumbs will only cause trouble."

He had a point. Like I said before, the Chihuahuan side was always into machismo. I would have a hard time restraining even Memo, once he was released. Better to guide their rage than clean up afterwards. The trick would be to keep everyone alive.

"I will find the boys a place in the team. You need to understand they will not be Garda, more like my deputies. There will be danger." Tio narrowed his eyes and seemed to look at my stance. I think he was reading me.

"I know you will watch out for them, Chuy. Give them their head but keep them from doing stupid things. I will talk to them and try to put them in a right mind."

Lalo was going to be a pain until Tio could tune him up. I knew this level of involvement wasn't going to fly with Saint Peter. He would take the usual steps to reprioritize us. It was protocol. I hoped the brothers were ready for a detox and dose. I would be on the program with them, but had a better idea of the effects.

A cab took me back to Tio's ranch. The housegirl, Esmeralda, let me in. I needed some alone time to uplink. My kitbag held a Templar linkage, only my implant and Saint Peter could use the device. I would have to convince the AI that a Christian abduction merited calling up my team. Thousands happened annually. The only thing to sell this one was my firsthand knowledge.

Saint Peter answered with the Colonel voice. It's a no nonsense, don't waste my time, kind of voice that I usually only hear on call ups. When I told him I was a participant at a pre-meditated Catholic abduction, the colonel suddenly had what sounded like a team of consultants on speaker phone. I recognized some of the voices as Saint Peter subprograms. The Tactical Commander and the Earnest Monk voices questioned me in a high speed tag team. The soft drone of other voices in the background conveyed intel during any lull in questioning. I heard phone calls with the Chihuahuan _Oficina de la Magistrado_ , the Policia and Garda transport services. Saint Peter was using an _espanol_ bureaucrat avatar. I heard Rafe and Etienne get call ups at home, they were about nine hours ahead of me. The Colonel's voice gave bare bones and a flight number in French. He used the code for Attack of a Templar to motivate them. In their haste, they would see two sunsets in different lands today. I've done that before, it makes the hair rise on your arms.

My injuries made themselves felt, so I stretched out for a nap. In a few hours the team would be here and we would need to get started. I dreamt of crows that turned into vampires and then flew away again as crows.

Tio and Lucho came home just before my team. The noise woke me and I came down to talk to them. Tio told me Lalo was staying with Memo, just in case. Lucho told me _gracias_ for getting Memo's back in the parking lot. We would talk more about the deputy thing when he got some rest. They went up to their rooms and turned in for a while. I stayed up to get intel feeds.

My birds were in the air, but so were the _Sangrons_. The Policia had found Memo's truck pretty quickly, abandoned down the street behind a _mercado_. There was blood and signs that one of them was dragged to another vehicle. But the loading dock cameras were broken a week ago.

There were lots of gray vans and dark tinted windows on the streets to check. Both were popular for transport. The _Sangrons_ they grabbed and questioned were out of the loop. The gang was big on secrets and full of cliques. All they had were fantastic rumors and group paranoid megalomania. The Big Fish had disappeared or locked in alibis somewhere overnight. Their _Notario_ lawyer was already making calls on their behalf. I was catching the rank whiff of money.

A Lifter from White Sands landed in a field near the house. The ramp came down and a tactical van with "SWAT N. Mexicano" on the side drove out. The Lifter twisted away the minute it was clear, a classic insertion technique. By the time the van pulled up to the house, Tio and Lucho were out front, watching the Lifter disappear to the north.

Rafe was driving. I waved him around the house and trotted ahead to Tio's barn. The big loading doors passed the van inside and under roof. Several horses snorted and reared at the noise. When he shut the engine down, the horses quieted. Tio and Lucho came in behind the van.

Rafe hopped out wearing most of a SWAT battle dress. Etienne followed behind him in cargo shorts, hiking boots and a yellow floral shirt. His legs were very white. He slid sunglasses up on the top of his head and they both came closer to me. Etienne looked me over and said, "You look no worse than usual, how about the other guy?"

"He was ugly before I met him and will no doubt continue being ugly until we can catch him."

Rafe hooked a thumb back at my uncle and cousin, "Are they your family? We heard you are related to half of North Mexico by some kind of promiscuous frenzy your family suffers from." I was glad Tio didn't speak French, laughing at that could have offended.

I made introductions and we switched to _espanol_ for politeness sake. Etienne had met my mother's side on a shared leave two years ago, and so made polite observations about the family that endeared him to Tio. Lucho asked him if he was a Templar too, pointedly looking at his clothes. "I thought I would enjoy sunny Chihuahua after we take care of this business," he said.

Rafe asked where to unpack the gear. The van would stay out of sight until needed, but we liked to distribute our toys around for quick access. Tio had Esmeralda arrange rooms in the house.

Etienne told me Father Luke was still at a retreat, so we were getting Father Cervantes. He was behind them a few hours. Neither of us had worked with him before.

I checked bio on Cervantes. He was assigned to the Nuestra Senora del Carmel mission in Old Juarez. The operations record showed labor disputes and other secular bargaining. He seemed pretty persuasive from the results, probably had a lot of connections in North Mexico. The Templar record showed he was also a Forensic Detective, trained in the colleges and assigned murder or kidnapping cases. I was beginning to warm to Father Cervantes.

The Father arrived in a moving truck covered with dust. One of the big rentals everyone uses. He was driven by a Scholastic brother introduced as "Ignacio Menendez." Nacio was carrying a few extra kilos and seemed older than the usual Scholastic brother. The way he grabbed the Father's equipment bags spoke of familiarity with them. I classified him as an understudy and vowed to look up his bio.

The moving truck had a field lab in the box. Not the expensive kit, but full of expedient home builts or old surplus. The computer and commo suite looked much newer. Rafe hopped in with Ignacio to help shift supplies as Etienne and I welcomed the Father. We all knew Saint Peter already.

Rumor was Saint Peter had working relationships with thousands of people simultaneously. His subprograms kept the social contract running as the closest thing Christianity had to an actual omnipotent being. Now that we were together within a quantum network connection to Saint Peter, we could confer rapidly and build a team.

Tio and Lucho were impressed with Father Cervantes. Lucho introduced himself as "Luis Navarro." Being raised Catholic, they both knew the formalities. That they hadn't been to church twice in the last five years only made them a little shy. Tio mentioned his thanks for the Father's brokering of a farm contract. He had Esmeralda put together more rooms and start lunch. We now occupied the whole second floor.

Father Cervantes asked that he confer with the Templars in private. Tio recommended the upstairs family room and said lunch would be sent up. Tio was always my most Old School, hospitable uncle. I hoped he would always welcome me here.

Nacio sat near the hall entrance to the family room. He would insure privacy. Father Cervantes pointed us to seats. The seat he put me in had a Field Translator on the floor beside it. "Marshal Navarro, could you upload please? Saint Peter needs your witness." I hit the SaveMe switch and the booklight over my chair flickered a few seconds. The copy would be interviewed at high speed and results sent to the team. My life up to now had become a witness upload in an abduction investigation. Saint Peter would redact any classified fun and restrict access.

Father Cervantes handed me a tab of Cocktail number 7. "This is protocol, Marshal. Please use this immediately." I took it down. "I understand that you want your uncle and cousins as recruits. Our concern is that your motivation for this is mostly protective." I must have subvocalized, because the Father held his hand up to me and looked down. "We will allow their recruitment if they can be brought under discipline. Can you guarantee that will be done?"

My cousins would probably take the Cocktails for an inside line on the investigation. Tio would hate it. He was eight years mostly sober, after Tia died. Anything more mind-altering than an occasional shot of tequila was a risk. "My uncle will not take it, Father. I propose a secondary role for Tio as house Majordomo." Cervantes made eye contact and said, "Eduardo Navarro is a hospitable man. He is not known for rash acts. We will accept him in this role."

I barely saw the Father lose focus. He was having Saint Peter ask my double these very questions before he ever asked me. When he had looked down before, I thought I saw his lips move. It was great fieldcraft and really multi-tasked a conversation. He was helping me get centered on the job. I would have to let him know his Tells, when linking. Using the royal "We" is a dead giveaway.

Esmeralda and Tio brought up tacos and empanadas made with his own beef. That he served iced coffee instead of wine seemed to indicate he would like to see some progress made after lunch. Father Cervantes thanked both of them and asked for a little more time conferring before we would come down and get busy. Tio said, "Luis has gone to collect my other sons at the hospital. I will go downstairs and wait for them." He gave me an odd look on the way out. Still getting used to the new me, I guess. The job can come off a little schizophrenic to the uninitiated.

Now we uplinked. To Nacio at the doorway, we would be sitting in the room staring at nothing. Occasionally we would mumble or twitch when interacting with the network. Within the network, we were absorbing feeds and viewing plans that Saint Peter had sketched out. He had a decision tree mapped out in a series of cusp events forking away from the moment we went downstairs. We poked at rough spots and called up metadata on particular decision forks. Father Cervantes was very good on the forensic sciences. He also knew a few influential people to smooth some of the rough spots. By the time twenty minutes went by, we had built a team and a plan. Father Cervantes finally shut down the session with the words " _Para Dios agarre el día_." Seize the day for God. I hadn't heard that phrase before. It had a nice ring.

Cocktail number 7 and Tio's espresso had me ready to go. I had objectives and skilled oversight. Now I just had to rein in my cousins. They were coming in the front door by the time we got downstairs. Tio gave introductions to Father Cervantes as "Eduardo Junior and Guillermo." I would have to tell the Father their nicknames or get used to saying their formal names without smirking. Little Eduardo hated anything but Lalo. Luis thought Lucho sounded more macho. Memo was just Memo.

Right now, Memo had a ball cap over his glued scalp. His clavicle immobilizer held a magnetic booster to knit the bone, but it would still be weeks before he was fit. Memo needed upper tier healthcare instead of this Saturday night ER cleanup. I mentioned this to Father Cervantes. He offered to make a call to a sports surgeon with the Jai Alai league in Tijuana. Getting smacked with a Pelota doing at least two hundred sixty kph gave him steady work in bone injuries, the gambling proceeds let him access cutting edge tech. He could remote it in when I got Memo to a proper TP med bay. The Garda had one at a base just south of town. When I deputized Memo, he could use it cheaply. We were back to our miniscule Templar budget problems.

Rafe and Etienne took the SWAT van. They would be doing a show of force at the Tacos Borracho. Wearing the Templar uniforms and being seen questioning barrio witnesses would announce our involvement. Father Cervantes and Nacio took the forensic moving truck over to the Policia parking lot and ran their own labs on the evidence. They had a few tricks to try and some special databases to run hits against.

I got my cousins up to the simulator room. Surrounded by military grade equipment and backdropped by a Templar tunic draped over Combat Skins, I swore them in. I used the Garda militia format. That authorized them for weapons under direct supervision. I gave them three laminated Garda IDs for badges. The code strip on them would give Base privileges. Memo I told to get a cab to the Santa Gertrudis Base down south. He would see the medical officer and get scheduled for a Telepresence surgery. Father Cervantes would provide the surgeon. I told him, "Memo, these are serious people. This swearing in Garda stuff is no joke. Don't embarrass yourself around them or they may void your status." He promised he would see it through and come back ready to go. That's why Memo can talk me into stuff. He's my steady cousin. Cocktail number 7 kicked in and I found myself thinking about my orders. Sometimes you can catch the chemicals working, like a quick movement in your peripheral vision.

Lalo and Lucho, I put in the simulators. They took the Cocktail number 9 when offered and started basic training. Saint Peter had a special program for them, concentrating on urban police actions. There was even a subprogram of me to kick them along. I wanted them familiar with my calling the shots. The Cocktails would keep them from getting too independent. This freed me up to do some prep work. I went through my cousin's hunting gear for suitable materials. They had some shotguns that could use Templar cartridges. I sawed these off to shorten barrels and stocks. Laser illuminators would make them easier to aim. The new size made them harder to disarm and handy as clubs. I broke out commo buds and plasticuffs. Body armor and Aid kits added to the pile. I didn't worry about knives or pistols, my cousins already had favorite toys they were good with.

When I was first showing an interest in Garda service, my cantina cousins introduced me to a man called Armando Agudo. The nickname was pretty accurate at first meeting. He did not suffer fools well and was very fast. He picked up money schooling the cantina _gorilas_ in the art of combat. Where he learned was in the _Policia Militar_ , pulling trained men out of bars without damaging them too badly. They weren't so careful with him, as evidenced by crisscrossed scars on much of his exposed skin.

He was mesmerizing to listen to. Every story had a lesson. Sometimes they would end with him pointing to a scar. "...and that was how I got this." Armando was on his second medical Translation, so occasionally he pointed to a scar that wasn't there. But he remembered the lessons. Later, I would see him as just another mercenary trainer, but at the time he was a commanding presence.

He taught a form of Silat. In return, I made him a data vault out of spare parts. He wouldn't say what he wanted under lock and key, probably his taxes. At least his payment didn't involve a lot of bruising. The Silat lessons sure did.

Weapons' training was the fun part. After he beat a basic Forma into your muscle memory, he would advance to blade, stick and chain. A few of my cousins had done the whole program and were now formidable. In addition to that, he taught urban gun. One cousin just took the gun training and could shoot competitively on the Policia course. Armando Agudo provided his Forma to most of the fighters in my extended family. I'm pretty sure his training got me a fast rise in the Garda. Thanks Armando.

What this meant for my cousins was I understood their technique and background much better than the average recruit. I had pointed Saint Peter at some of my old sims for models. They would get a fast, custom session tonight and wake up for a little hands on tuning in the morning. When I switched them to Cocktail number 7, they would be capable of watching my back. But for now, I was free to respond. I checked Saint Peter's feeds.

The street theater and lab work was still ongoing. We did have a preliminary DNA match with a _Sangron_ named Perez. Saint Peter had subpoenaed a backup copy of Perez from a month ago. A simulation was set up for a Class 1 Interrogation. As a suspect, the copy had certain rights. An Advocate from Civil Services would monitor. If Saint Peter implicated him with criminal acts, he could escalate the interrogation. The Advocate would leave and pass the file up to Defense.

Perez worked in a warehouse, loading boxes of clothes into retailer trucks. A warrant for the offices gave us the rest of the employee records. Two more of them looked like _Sangrons_ , that sullen, dark posture with the elaborate hair. Warrants radiated out to investigate all of them. I got an address and a job. Saint Peter tracked down a flop used by Perez and one of the other _Sangrons_. My two Sergeants were vectoring there. He suggested that I do an early insert as a covert. Saint Peter gave me an inventory, heavy on jammers and cyber assault. He recommended a few of my toys and the Combats Skins. I also picked up a Field Translator. Backed up, jacked up and rumble-ready.

The gear went into a tool box, heavy enough to use as a ram. One of Lucho's work jumpers fit over my exo. Transport was Lucho's Mastretta, a two seat sport kit in yellow. Not the most covert entry car, but his keys were the only ones around. I tweaked the plan a little and called Father Cervantes for a lift. " _Bueno_ , Chuy," he answered. It is a real aid to conversation to have everyone following action plans on the Battlenet. Our quick calls referred to things without revealing them. Just in case the line bleeds a little signal or someone technical is looking for us.

I parked the Mastretta at the crime lab parking lot. It should be pretty safe there and made it look like Lucho was in talking to the Policia. That would be only natural after his brother got sent to the hospital. I hopped out and grabbed the toolbox. Nuncio's dusty box rental truck pulled up at the curb long enough for me to get in the back.

Father Cervantes and Nuncio drove for the address, separated by the box but able to speak over the net. I synched up my network gear with the truck's electronics and repacked the toolbox with some toys. Nuncio announced, "Marshal, coming up to the curb. Address is a little ahead on the right when you exit."

I thanked him for the ride and said, "You two should get in the box. It's safer and you can help with the apartment system." The tires squeaked to a stop and I hopped out the back door, holding it for Father Cervantes when he came walking back. He and Nuncio stepped inside and I closed the door.

Now I was a workman. Hefting the toolbox, I stepped onto the walk and headed for the entrance. There was a network mast, coming out of the wall in an armored conduit and extending three meters above the street. A few seconds with a debonder opened a hole for the cyber assault pack to send probes. I stuck the pack to the pipe and continued to the entrance. It was a beat up security alcove on the old model, a camera and a panel of buzzers outside an iron gate. The numbers on the buzzer panel indicated two floors and about sixteen units. I could find no active defenses other than a spoiled wine reek. I buzzed a first floor apartment and mumbled, "Building maintenance." Two tries got me in.

The latch received a thin plate glued over the bolt, to keep the gate from locking. It swung closed behind me. Above the gate were two magnets that logged traffic and sent alarms. Clip on jumpers disabled those. The way was clear for _mi compadres_. Further in, the entrance enlarged to a tiled court with a grayed skylight dome. Locked bins on the left held deliveries, a wide stair opened up on the right. The Target room was upstairs.

I got a little into character on the way up, examining the walls and fittings. This building had to be about a hundred years old, brickface over recast metal and industrial chic exposed beams. The paint was layers of tag spray, proclaiming territory and affiliations. It was the barrio equivalent of hanging a security service sign. These seemed to show I should watch out for _Morro a Morte_. Saint Peter began checking up on the "Dead Ghosts" for me. They might be early responders.

At the top of the stairs was another door, but this was just to contain the air conditioning. No lock. The posted fire escape floor plan oriented me to the rooms. Above the stair door, I glued the cell jammer and minicam. The camera I aimed down the left hall. Father Cervantes gave me a system check and a link to the camera on my glasses. Surveillance was in place.

I walked up the hall and looked at numbers. My toolbox looked at the walls from red lenses facing out both sides of the handle. Part of the Battlenet feed popped up on my glasses. Orange blobs of people stood starkly apart from the cooler surroundings. Thermal images were degraded by my own body heat, reflecting off the walls, but still showed occupancy of the apartments well enough. I walked slowly to the end of the hall then doubled back to the target apartment door. I set the box down in the middle of the floor, carefully orienting it to bring a full picture. Wrapping a breaching shotgun in a towel, I picked up the Field Translator and left the toolbox. It was a quick walk back to the end of the hall. There was a little wait while the thermal picture firmed up. Squatting over a heat register and putting a screwdriver on the floor next to it, I tried to look busy while loitering. Saint Peter soon advised a Target, a Person of Interest and one Unsub. We would sort them out once in hand.

Feeds from the cameras on Father's rental truck showed the SWAT N. Mexicano van rolling up out front. Rafe and Etienne jumped out in full Templar battle dress, uparmored Combat Skins under a white belted tunic with a red cross front and back. Both accessorized with riot helmets and Taser Cesti, like Garda police. Rafe also brought his breaching shotgun. They pounded up the stairs fast, getting to the top ahead of street spotters. If there were any, they couldn't have called ahead anyway, communications in and out of the building were being jammed. Saint Peter had just e-filed the warrant.

Etienne grabbed up my abandoned toolbox and swung it at the door jamb. Metal popped and the door yielded to his powered shoulder. Both Templars entered amid crashing panic within the target room.

I heard shouted orders from Rafe, "Down, down, get down." A door between me and the target room opened and a shaved head with fanciful tattoos looked out. He left his back to me, drawn to the sounds next door. The head slipped back into the apartment, calling to friends. His tattoos, Saint Peter saw on my feed, matched _Morro a_ _Morte_ symbologies. Thermal inventory of that room was four adults. Intercept and contain was advised.

I cycled out the first round from the shotgun. This didn't need twenty eight grams of lock shredding metal slug, these would be soft targets and innocent until otherwise. Dye splats would have to do. My shoulder to the wall, I slid along quietly as tattoo head and two associates poured into the hallway with whatever was at hand. Apparently, they were going to get territorial with a pistol, a hammer and a machete. I prioritized targets and fired. The shot took the _pistolero_ in the back. A spray of dye from the burst slug showed he received the full energy. Pitching forward two meters, he landed badly on his face. The other two Morros turned toward me but made no aggressive moves. The sudden noise had stunned them. I twitched the shotgun toward their open apartment, "Get back inside and close the door." Shaved head looked at the pistolero on the floor and went back inside. The machete wielder found himself alone in his combat stance facing a shotgun. It took a long moment, but he went back to the apartment too.

Kids, what can you do?

I cuffed the _pistolero_ and stuck his weapon in a pocket. Illegal possession charges would give leverage for interrogation. This apartment was a gun free zone. My shotgun stayed on the Morro door. From the sounds in the target room, the sergeants had everyone bagged and tagged for pickup. Rafe came out of the room and took the Field Translator off my belt, "I need this, _Marechal_." He handed me back a rolled up tunic with the belt. "Please put this on, you look like my idiot _beau-frere_ in that jumper." I had met his brother in law a few times. He was one of the Christians who reacted badly to my new body. Typical Rafe multi-tasking. Help cover the hall as I slid the tunic over my head and give backhanded support for coping with his family.

Doors opened and closed all along the hall for a while. Seeing Templars with shotguns drew interest but no heroes. The lights flickered a few times as Etienne made a field copy of Perez. We had him for kidnapping accessory and his _Sangron_ roommate, Vargas as a person of interest. Warrants for search and arrest did not cover the girl found with them. Rafe did a cell swab and held her for a statement. The Policia were on the way to handle cleanup.

****

### Chapter 10: Pornography Filters

The cell jammer was shut down, allowing more bandwidth for our Battlenet. Feeds to my glasses opened to show several Policia cruisers arrayed out front. Uniforms were pouring into the entrance. The hall soon became crowded with excited, armored patrolmen. Father Cervantes and Nuncio walked in behind them.

Rafe ran down the warrants to the ranking _Sargento_ , Gomez. I handed Gomez the cheap pistol in my pocket and pointed out the Morro boy on the floor. The _Sargento_ was not pleased with his role as garbage man, but he saw the prisoners were led out in cuffs. Perez looked familiar as the knife wielder who had stopped a weighted chain with his forehead. His roommate was a new face. The girlfriend got a ride to the station for her statement. Gomez would sit on her for a while, just in case.

Father Cervantes walked into the apartment while Nuncio started pulling equipment out of a bag. They would give these rooms scientific scrutiny while a few Policia stood watch in the hall. I grabbed Lucho's battered toolbox out of the way and went down to the SWAT van with the other Templars. We got a little break until Saint Peter or the Father gave us the next target up the chain.

Rafe pulled the doors shut behind us and shucked his tunic over his head. The uniforms were traditional stiff hemp, colored bright white with the blood red Cross. Rafe always felt like a target when wearing the tunic. I agreed, although being readily identified usually kept the different flavors of Garda from shooting at us. Chelo's Catholic status gave us primacy on her abduction, but Sweety was a related local matter. We were going to have to work with other Garda units closely. "Keep the tunics close," I said. Then I gave them a little sitrep.

Our advantages were better forensics and dedicated oversight by Saint Peter. The local Garda were willing to follow our lead, as long as we didn't cause an incident. It was an ideal position for them, accepting good results and disavowing screw ups. I had heard the _Traficante Sexo_ unit was ready to step in if we got bounced. That was all above my pay grade. If Saint Peter could keep making headway then the Garda overseer, Oberon, would let us have the wheel. He was a Christian Network AI, but more keyed to the cultures in his zone. He would factor the political effects of the crime and stay on the narrative.

Garda HQ officers would package and distribute this narrative. It was no mistake that some of the better Spindocs got started in the NorthAm Garda AI flow. There was always plenty of news that needed a good spin. Together they would keep the media nudged along the path of least speculation. The Garda had learned to get out ahead of news in the NorthAm zone. A sort of "lead it by the nose and kick it in the ass" pincer movement worked best.

Right now, Garda releases were claiming arrests in connection with, but not naming suspects. Credit was given to the Chihuahua Policia. They used the usual "tips from street contacts" byline. Templar references were buried under "consulting agencies." Word of mouth sightings of Templars, such as we had arranged, would eventually filter into the media without Garda spin. Saint Peter wanted to elevate paranoia among the guilty parties. He said it degraded their networks, something about pushing out support by weak factions. Having independent reports framing Templars in the picture should do that.

Saint Peter won the race for the next lead. Perez and Vargas had regular communications with several people using mail accounts. Once Saint Peter had hacked the contacts lists out of their computers and served a few User Inquiry warrants, social dating networks like _Parecer Verdad_ or _Saludable_ put pictures to names. They had voluntarily put themselves in these line ups, looking for romance. My own witness upload had positively ID'ed two more of the _Sangron_ attackers. The ghoul with the chain was named Diaz. He liked to be called Nacho and also enjoyed candlelit dinners. Without much of the makeup, he looked happier. The photo may be old, but the wide mouth and pronounced canines were unforgettable. He would probably be wearing gloves for his torn hands. The other _Sangron_ was called Miguel Aroz, the first I fought that night. His evil cosmetics stayed on for his romance photo and the rambling essay left no doubt that he was a bad boy looking for submissive victims. At least he would be after the swelling went down on the side of his head.

The addresses in the public indexes were out of date for Diaz, but still good on Aroz. He stayed at a place in the western foothills that was fairly remote. Aerials, utilities and delivery records showed the house was occupied by at least four people and a lot of computer equipment. The owner was a Corpie called Mithras Management, leasing to Manuel Delgado. Manuel dabbled in game design and subscription porn. He had a good credit rating. Aroz was not the owner, but had ordered food deliveries there for the last few months.

So Saint Peter bought a subscription to Delgado's porn feeds and pulled house details from the videos, stills and immersives. Who knows what he thought about all the sex. We also got a look at Aroz in bizarre domination garb. His film name was El Rozo. Don't know who the other guys were but they had a harem of enhanced girls parading through that place regularly. Most girls seemed to be paying off surgeries for some other career path. A couple episodes and they left. I smelled money, but not a lot. It looked like a niche cottage industry from a start up score. Maybe Delgado was good at business and wanted his own little crew close by. Guess I would just have to ask him.

We conferenced with Saint Peter over the excellent net in the van. Implants are great, but you can get a lot more bandwidth and save charge next to a full access Garda comms unit. Saint Peter gave us a fair simulation of the approach and layout of Aroz's hideout. We worked the time of day and terrain line of sight. It was hard to get close without giving them response time. Fatalities ramped up exponentially if given time, on both sides. We could infiltrate tonight, but with no idea of what waited. Going in too fast was a high risk of disaster. Etienne noted that the occupants ordered deliveries individually. If this porn studio was to receive say, new mattresses, it would take a conference to figure out who ordered them. It could get us in close.

Rafe offered that the Swat van had roll-down mimetic tarps he could strap onto the sides and program for whatever graphics looked best. One of the store delivery patterns would work. Delivery hours didn't run this late, so we could go back to my Tio's and collect the cousins for an early morning raid. Saint Peter would develop the entry plan overnight. We could trade seven hours for better odds of success. Everyone signed off and we dropped back into the Real.

My neck was wet with drool. Rafe shook himself and slipped into the drivers' seat. He got us heading back to Tio's barn while Etienne and I both shucked our crosshair tunics. Rafe was right, it did feel better.

The Father and Nuncio beat us home, but were sequestered away in their rooms, working through intel gleaned from the apartment. A message from Memo said he was going under the beam tonight with his sports surgeon. Be back tomorrow about lunchtime. Lalo and Lucho were still running through the simulators and making good progress. A few hours of intense sims followed by two hours of sleep and subliminal learning was working well. The sleep cycles gave the simulators time to absorb the sweat. Meat management in a good simulator includes a host of electrolyte replacement, toxin transport and specialty nano meds. They would wake up hungry but undamaged.

Rafe laid two deputy uniforms on the pile of gear I had assembled for my cousins. These were extra large khaki shirts with smaller red Cross sigils and cargo utility pants in black. He added carry slings for the cut down shotguns and network glasses so we could keep channels open with the cousins in the field. I intended to keep a close eye on them.

Esmeralda served up some burritos for us in her night robe. I told her we would probably be having an early breakfast and the boys would be very hungry. She smiled briefly, saying she was "Happy that Lalo and Lucho would be out of those coffin things. The boys make noises sometimes when I am cleaning." The shiver following that statement made it clear Esmeralda was getting creeped out.

"Thanks for your patience, Esmeralda. The simulators are an imposition, but we need them for the boys. How about we pick up after ourselves in that room for a while?" She didn't like it, but was flexible enough to accept. Tio had housed Esmeralda under roof for the last eight years. Her family businesses had been thoroughly intertwined with Tio the last four. It was like a merger and the old _Patron_ system. Rumor was that Tio took her in because of trouble with her husband. If so, no one had heard from any husband since. I preferred to give Tio the benefit of the doubt. Esmeralda was more than just an employee, she was my extended family.

I got the boys up at five. Stretched and showered them off a little before feeding. That also gave the Cocktail number 7 some time to wake them up. They were a mess coming out of the box. It wouldn't be good to shock Esmeralda this morning. As it was, they didn't seem like themselves. When they first came out, they were friendly drunks. That lasted twenty minutes. Then their faces grew more immobile and blinking slowed. The serious faces and brisk speech were nothing I had seen my cousins do before. It occurred to me that I must be acting the same, Cocktail number 7 slips up on you that way. No wonder Esmeralda was feeling disoriented. Maybe Father Cervantes could spin the program with a religious viewpoint for her. I would ask him, later.

After a quick meal, I took them to the barn. They needed a workout patterned for the sims. About an hour of muscle memory familiarization would greatly speed response times. My cousins were fairly surprised at the passage of time while learning. It had felt like they were training for a week. These were military sims, not commercial gamers or avatar cubes. The speed multiplication feature was only found on the high end military and scientific units.

Lalo and Lucho looked good in deputy outfits. The right mix of utility and don't shoot me badging. Body armor was padded molespun, stretchy enough for movement and rated to shed all but serious weapons. With the networked glasses, I could follow their progress on small screens and redirect with frag orders. They were used to my voice and terminology from personalized training, that and the Cocktails should keep them firm. I did feel a little strange about having to chemically dial down their survival instinct.

There were many documented side effects of the Cocktails the Garda had been issuing. Each new design just seemed to add to the range of symptoms. The military developed these centuries ago and still production evaded perfection. It made you wonder about the true best interests of contracted R and D labs or the sheer stubbornness of human physiognomy. The basic designs had been in use so long they were numbered based on class. Even numbers were child doses of the next odd numbered adult types. Cocktail number one was lethal to all. What we were usually issued was seven and nine. Seven was issued to short term troops, when you didn't have the luxury of profiling and sorting. They would hold steady under supervision, at the expense of some initiative. The child dose, number 6, acted like a strong espresso for me. Nine was for speed learning. Your mind becomes receptive to a higher bandwidth of data transfer. But it is a little like filling your computer with files, hard to find what you're looking for. Large chunks of training must be organized by the student into some kind of mental index. That is done by hijacking several higher brain processes during dosage. Nine users had little interest in anything but the training. Conversation, personal intrigues or complex movements were difficult for them to initiate. The designers added a little afterglow to Cocktail number 9 a few years back. A feeling of accomplishment added to euphoria. Felt like getting drunk with a friend at graduation. It counteracted the migraine headaches the old mix used to give. I thought the new effect was brilliant.

I pronounced them ready at nine am. Etienne and Rafe had camouflaged the swat van. We were now identified as "Home Goods Delivery." It was a distribution hub that shipped purchases from stores without licensed and bonded drivers of their own. Large and anonymous. The van looked more commercial with the removal of the steel ram over the grill and some of the antennas. It would have to do. We loaded up and Rafe showed Lucho the controls to keep his hands off of. Lucho would be our driver and Lalo his helper. Rafe put HGD patches over the Templar sigil on their khaki shirts. He handed Lucho a clipboard of phony e-documents. We three Musketeers stepped into the back of the van. Our uniforms and Combat Skins meant we needed to hide until the entry was accomplished. Etienne had thoughtfully provided the mattress from his bed to push up behind the seats. Now the view of the van interior was blocked from the front windows. Lucho checked the GPS route and pulled out of the barn to the main road.

We had almost an hour out to the target, plenty of time to network with Saint Peter and refine the plan. The overnight picture of the house had firmed up with a further interrogation of Perez. He had been there a few times for parties. We had a floorplan, fleshed out with images from the porn feeds, which had very few blank spots. We had occupant names to go with faces from the movies and identity registrations. Saint Peter had compiled dossiers on all of them. Aroz was still the only familiar face. Back tracking telecom and power providers with User Inquiry warrants gave us a good picture of schedules. We could expect most of them to be home this time of day. They seemed to only come out at night, keeping vampire hours as a lifestyle.

I cobbled together orders for my cousins including aerials, floor plans and a _futbol_ style play. They would secure any vehicles outside or in the garage. We expected some to hold weapons and all could be used for flight. Fire if Threatened, Cuff and Detain. Rafe informed me he had put stun sticks under the front seats, so I added Stun Resisters to the orders. I sent a clip of El Rozo to them and identified him as our Primary Target. All others were Innocent until Otherwise.

Putting insets on my lenses of both their feeds, I watched them flipping through the plan and studying visuals. They were slow at commanding the glasses, having just learned the ocular movements and subvocal commands needed to interface with the network. My implant had freed me from that protocol some time ago. Hopefully, they would learn quickly with practice. But the thoroughness of their research I could not fault. The training had them reviewing and memorizing everything I sent. I left them to their studies and logged into the mobile Battlenet.

We were getting close, according to the 3D model Saint Peter had crafted. Floating in his quantum spaces was a compilation of maps, images and real-time military satellite surveillance. I could see a car in the driveway. Time lapse showed the four occupants had just gotten there. Two men and two women, unidentified. We were ten minutes away. I updated the cousins.

We pulled up to an automatic gate just off the winding road. The house was a hundred meters away and backed up to a steep ridge. The fence appeared electrified and had a cattle guard under the gate. They must be on a grazing range, remnant of the old _Ejido_ common use lands.

Lucho rang the bell and waved his clipboard at the pole mounted camera, "Delivery." The reply was an unintelligible buzzing. I guess Lucho could figure it out, because he proceeded to verify the address. The speaker buzzed some more while the pole camera panned across the van. The gate retracted with a squeal of metal on metal.

The driveway was gravel and ended in a loop in front of the house. I watched Lalo's feed focus on the man outside the front door. He was dressed casually, but wore an earphone. No visible weapons. As we stopped, he approached.

Lalo hopped out the passenger side and walked to the van's back doors. The three of us were stacked at the door, waiting for release like hunting dogs. Lucho stepped out with his clipboard and initiated a conversation with the doorman about a mattress delivery. The conversation involved some third parties speaking from the doorman's earphone. It kept him too busy to observe our exit. The bad news was, when we took him down, the third parties would hear it.

Lucho was keyed to our footsteps, waiting for my order. When we were almost around the van and in view, I told him "Now." Then we sprinted ahead to see Lucho slap the earphone off the doorman and kick his feet out from under him. The doorman landed hard on his back and lost the ability to breathe for the time it took Lucho to cuff him. I recognized Agudo Silat. When Lucho finished he threw his hands up like a rodeo _vaquero_. It was a peek at the real Lucho, behind the Cocktail mask, that made me smile. Then he went blank faced again and pulled a small pistol from under the doorman's back. He was showing some aptitude for this.

Etienne wasn't so fortunate, bouncing off the front door because it was locked and reinforced. The doorman must have a key, but we were pressed for time. Rafe used his breaching shotgun to shred the latch, shouted "Garda" and in they went.

I stayed in the courtyard with my cousins. They retrieved the stun sticks and pulled off the HGD patches. I tossed them two helmets. The garage doors started opening behind us, the code having been hit after thousands of tries by the remote decoder in the Swat van. We ran over to the cars. My cousins followed their instructions to cover the area and watch the front. I hit the house entry door at speed. That door wasn't reinforced.

I came out between two cabinets in the kitchen. The doorknob had clipped my hip on the way through but it was just an annoyance. The Nano muted it as I stopped for a moment to gather sound. I had just made a loud noise and now I could hear footsteps heading out back from the dining room. The noise had flushed someone outside. I needed to contain them.

Running through the dining room and out back through arched double doors I saw the large pool and mass produced statuary visible from orbit. The scaffold of film lights and reflectors by the diving board was new. So was the bleached blonde, tied facedown on the board with a ball gag.

Her eyes gave him away, staring at me and then flicking past to the left wall around the yard. I turned to see a shirtless man levering himself over the two meter wall at the back corner. He showed bad form but was in decent shape. I checked the Battlenet for locations. Dots sprang up on a cutaway sketch of the grounds. My guy was a red 8, moving slowly along the base of the ridge. Blondie was a green 7, noting that she was already under control. There was another red 4 in the house, but my sergeants had him boxed. The others all showed green. "Pursuing 8," I said and leaned forward to start running.

No more than two steps into the run, there was a rapid popping noise from the right. It didn't sound like I was the target, glass muted the sound. An arrow popped up on my lens, showing the gunfire was behind and to my right. It only takes a second for Saint Peter to triangulate all our audio feeds on the Battlenet. The sergeants were in a firefight. My run at the wall made a hard right around the pool to get an angle on the upper floor windows. Red 8 wasn't going anywhere on foot and all phone services were jammed. This was the priority.

My coverage was unnecessary, as it was. A man flew out the second story window on a backward trajectory, separating him from a carbine that landed in the pool with him. Etienne leaned out the broken window and hopped down to the ground. We met on the pool decking, watching Red 4 blow air and float. " _Merde_ , when did they get a pool?" Etienne asked. I looked over at Red 4 and said, "News to me too." Etienne hooked his thumb at the blonde, still tied to the diving board but now soaked in water. "Who's your date?" Since he spoke French and she was gagged, I assumed he was asking me.

"I didn't catch her name..." which brought a tortured grin to Etienne's face. He looked down his nose and said, "Typical Navarro. The frenzy takes hold and progeny fly. Just like your Red 8. Maybe you could go do your job and I will protect these two beauties from themselves for a little while." There was no winning one of these quip fests with Etienne. It was fun to try though.

He pivoted toward the blonde and gave her a smile that made her eyes widen. She was a sight, with the running makeup, wet strands of hair and frightened stare. I'm sure to Delgado that would have been a real money shot. I'm afraid it wasn't entirely lost on us either, Christian soldiers notwithstanding. I slapped Etienne on the shoulder as I turned around into a run and went to collect pool girl's date. "Have you ever been wrong?"

Etienne shouted at my back, "I am filled with self-doubt."

The wall came in eight quick strides. I took the jump onto the back wall at a steep angle, pausing just a second at the top to correct for obstacles on the other side. There were plenty of those in the form of large irregular stones, slid down over time from the steep ridge. A little correction put me in a clear space upslope, another push from the right leg sent me away from the scree onto level ground. Red 8 was visible about a hundred meters away, trotting toward some arroyos. I dialed up the zoom in my lenses.

His black boots puffed dust and were holding him back from running, probably heavy with armor. I guessed it was more a fashion thing for 8. The pants were faded and had strategic torn flaps that were in style. He had no shirt but black straps like suspenders ran across his shoulders. I couldn't see his face, but the outfit looked like El Rozo. "Eight acquired. Possible target, confirm?" Rafe and Etienne sent back "Possible." I guess they had not yet identified all their suspects. Leaning forward into an intercept run, I closed with the Rose.

The Skins accelerated me to a wind rushing speed, but I could not outrun sound. Aroz heard some disturbance and turned to see a large helmeted Templar chasing him down. This spurred him to run, in his clubfooted fashion, for the nearest arroyo. The dry gullies were bad footing and had short lines of sight, in his panicked state he thought he could lose me.

He looked back once more and realized I was much closer than before. The Skins legs blurred with their three meter stride, the only thing slowing me down was the slippage of dirt under the soles. I saw defeat for a second in his eyes and then he sprinted off in an upslope direction toward a Palo Verde tree. Now he would settle to just put an obstacle between us.

The upslope turn helped me shed speed after a skidding right deflection. We reached the tree at the same time. He stepped around the tangled trunk of the tree and snatched up a fist sized rock. I laughed and said "Did you hit your head recently? Just come back and sit with your friends and have some _agua_. You can do that without bruises, _entiendes_?" I emphasized it a little by tapping the butt of my breaching shotgun.

Aroz stared at the faceplate on my riot helmet, but showed no glimmer of recognition. His eye makeup had started running so he looked like a weepy boy toy. But the eyes had some shrewd in them. I hoped he was thinking, "Yeah, I did hit my head the other night." He dropped the rock and stood still while I cuffed him. I hooked a few plasticuffs into a chain and attached it to his leather harness. There were rings and attachments on the harness that seemed purpose built for a leash. I guided him into a brisk walk to the front of the house.

Rafe was placing the home's occupants in a seated line near the Swat van. Some he guided, some he just lifted. Lucho was walking the blond pool girl over in a fuzzy bathrobe. The shooter was lying in a puddle by the back tire. All were plasticuffed. A quick count showed one short.

"Did you at least kiss him first?" Rafe asked.

I told him, "You know I don't kiss the Johns. You should tell that to your idiot _beau-frere_." Rafe's eyes widened a little at the jab, "He takes things the wrong way just to see what trouble looks like. I have other sisters I like even better than Josephine."

I handed him the leash. "I like Josephine fine. But I pick the Sangria next time."

"Not that awful Castilian grappa and you have a deal." Rafe spat, as though sucking lemons. I saw him smile a little.

Aroz had visibly paled during the exchange. He didn't know French but I handed his leash to this spitting ogre of a Templar. Rafe's normal tone was a rumbling growl. His smile had the same effect on Aroz as was seen on the pool girl. Must be a skill they teach in Alsace, where the sheep never sleep. "Go upstairs with Etienne and see Delgado" Rafe told me, gesturing with his chin at the house. I repositioned my cousins to help watch the prisoners and went inside.

The front door hung crookedly. Splinters of wood littered the entry tile. There was a dusty footprint partway up the left arch leading to the kitchen. It looked like Etienne's. I turned right at the arch to see where he went. The short hall opened into a living area. They had decorated it as a drug bar. A long white couch lay on its back next to a short table covered with paraphernalia. Judging angles, I would say Etienne redirected off the couch and headed toward the staircase. Rafe would have cuffed whoever was on the couch. He likes to say he is the man with the shovel behind the parade.

I walked up the staircase, noting a cracked handrail. Etienne must have really been moving. The top of the stairs showed a dent in the wall about shoulder height. Double bedroom doors to the right were in pieces. Entering the master bedroom, I saw Etienne examining a large oak coffin. There was no bed, black curtains over the windows and a spinning collection of holo imagery floating around the room. I saw a ragged hole in the wall, leading into a walk-in closet. "You can see how disorienting this room is, to enter at speed?" Etienne said. "The shooter was over to the right, firing out of the master bath." I noticed bullet holes on the wall behind me.

"I had to get behind him through the closet. Rafe redirected his attention by slapping his chest, that gorilla impersonation he does sometimes." In his Combat Skins, Rafe can make the slaps sound like a submachine gun. That was the popping noise I had heard. The shooter's own weapon was fitted with a suppressor. "What's with the coffin?" I asked, pointing at its elaborate wood and brass placard showing an inverted Roman cross. "Delgado is in there. I think it's his simulator, but the outside is armored like a safe room." Etienne rapped knuckles on the lid. It sounded solid.

There were no visible connections or controls. It was tightly bolted to the floor and locked airtight. Without tools, we weren't getting in. "At least the signals are jammed." He said. I told him I had an idea. "Stay here and wait for him to rise." He smirked, getting into the play. "I will find a stake. I am already wearing a cross."

Downstairs, I stacked two couches to allow me to reach the ceiling. Handfuls of plaster later, I was looking at some pipes running to the bottom of the coffin. Using a loop of monowire, I cut the power line and hand crimped the metal air line.

Minutes passed. Delgado seemed determined to last us out. He was probably waiting for his lawyer to get here. Since the warrants weren't filed until we exited the van that could be a while. We had shifted to microwave bands when launching the assault, everything else was jammed or under denial of service. Unless he was using a quantum linkage, nobody had called out.

"The Policia are going to be here within the hour. Do you think he will last that long?" Etienne asked. "He's still Innocent until Otherwise by the regs. I think this only merits Resistance."

I looked up at the pipes and got an idea. I sent my Battlenet feed as an inset on Etienne's lens. "Watch my hands and stand ready."

The loop of monowire came out again. I cut the air line to expose the pipe and then pulled through the waterline. Water sprayed from the severed end until I got it pushed into the air line. A little crimping and water slowed to a trickle from the join. Now it was following the copper pipe up into Delgado's dark, foul box. I hoped he had a strong sense of survival.

"That got his attention" Etienne drawled. I could hear thrashing in the coffin from beneath. "I'll zap him on exit." I remembered the shooter, having a weapon up there in the fall back. A guy with a safe room or coffin or whatever might be holding protection. Etienne had already gotten lucky today. It wasn't his turn again. "Negatory zap. Stand clear of exit and ready to rush, will zap from here." Etienne drawled back " _D'accord_."

I watched Etienne's feed of the coffin for movement. He was standing behind the lid, using it for cover. When the lid suddenly flew open, it swung one hundred eighty degrees to strike the stun stick in his hand. The stick was caught for a moment on the wrong side of the lid. Delgado sat up from the interior amid a lot of splashing and gasps of air. The pistol in his hand was already firing, putting bullets in the master bath. The lid striking Etienne's stun stick made a noise that oriented his head toward Etienne. The gun tracked around, still firing bullets into walls. I squeezed my wet hand to the metal lines and sent voltage.

Delgado jerked into a straightened position that still left his heels in the water. The gun stopped firing because he couldn't release the trigger to reset the action. Etienne's feed also showed sparks coming from the coffin and the floating holograms flickered off. The electrical field let me feel Etienne approaching Delgado, ready to take over when I stopped. I gave a final surge that popped a light fixture on the ceiling and bled away the charge.

A lamp in the living room flickered. It must have been Etienne. His feed showed me a wet Delgado lying on the floor with Etienne's hands on his chest. He was restarting Delgado's heart. He must have had an undocumented condition. Then I noticed the simulator gel on Delgado's body. I had forgotten it wasn't really a coffin and the gel was a great conductor. Delgado woke up and started coughing. Good news. No harm, no foul for a Resisting suspect.

****

### Chapter 11: Mission Brujo

We now had charges on Delgado for resisting with the weapon. Etienne was cleared to upload him as a suspect. Rafe was sending Aroz' upload from the van's Translator. He had already sent up the shooter. Three more personalities for Saint Peter to roast on a spit. We didn't have anything on the doorman. His little gun was legal on the property with the owner's permission. There was no opportunity for him to use it in a crime. He got swabbed and held for a statement. The other two guys and their girls appeared to be a business arrangement for today's porn session. The blonde was called Amanda. They were inebriated and frankly too simple to have been up for a kidnapping. That was the impression received when I separated and took statements from them. Saint Peter was in my ear, offering questions I hadn't thought of.

After getting swabs, Saint Peter asked me to release them. He wanted to develop assets in the porn industry side. Fine with me, it would be easier to hang a harboring charge on Delgado if the house wasn't a circus when the Policia got here.

It was more than an hour before the Policia came to call. Father Cervantes and Nuncio had been working the scene for a half hour. _Sargento_ Gomez offered no explanations. Cooperation was already slipping. His men rounded up our three criminals and confiscated a suppressed Ranchero rifle. The doorman got his pistol back and was treated and discharged. They gave him a lift to his sister's. Saint Peter filed to put him under surveillance. His communications should be very interesting for a few days.

We hung around a couple hours to watch the Father's back. They finally packed up before two, so I called ahead to Esmeralda and told her to expect us for late lunch. She said Memo was home and feeling much better. I wasn't sure if she was sincere or Memo was feeding her lines. I told her I'd see them and hung up.

We kept the HGD signs on. It was still delivery hours, so we would blend back in for a while and then become "Dr. German's mobile veterinary service" for the drive home. A play to make us harder to track, straight out of the Field Wiki. I didn't want to bring trouble to Tio's, now that shots had been fired.

Memo opened the barn doors for us. His left arm and shoulder were bulked up with an orthopedic Skin. I had seen them used on wounded, but usually for legs. This made him look like a gladiator. His range of motion seemed fair and the doors were hard to move. I would have to get the name of that surgeon. Memo was pretty excited. The surgeon had rebuilt his bones and put a mixture of bots on the wound. Then the base doctor had built the Skin over his arm a layer at a time. The whole thing generated a healing field and was stronger than his old arm. He thought the doctors were going to kiss over the Virtual when they started complimenting each other's work.

Part way into his story, he got a puzzled look on his face, like I wasn't listening. He glanced at Lalo and Lucho for assurance, but they had their unblinking deadpans on. His story wound down with fading volume. He had noticed the Cocktail number 7. "Memo, you look good. I'm glad they got you fixed so well." I told him, trying to recover. "We need you to get to the simulator and catch up with us. Lucho took one down today like a fat calf." I gestured at Lucho when I said it and he took his cue well, "Two, maybe three seconds to do the tie. You'll like the training, bro." He said it with a hint of his usual smile. Lucho seemed to have a good accommodation with Cocktail number 7. We walked Memo into the simulator room and I gave him Cocktail number 9. Memo would mesh better with us by tomorrow.

Father Cervantes and Nuncio arrived in their moving van an hour later, having dropped off forensics reports and filed charges through the Policia for various high crimes. They had to wait for a lab clerk to get back from lunch to turn over evidence and preserve the chain. It was very irritating. Father Cervantes had marched into _Capitan_ Nunez' walled office and not left until giving the _Capitan_ acute heartburn from his own lunch of _Chili Relleno_. We should see improvement or tell him otherwise. They grabbed some food and went to their rooms to start developing leads from the forensics.

I missed Father Luke's more social style for just a moment. I wanted a few words of encouragement from him for my cousins. Cervantes was less approachable for the little niceties. Then the number 7 kicked in and I felt like a nap. Hang my Skins on a transfuser and slide into the rack kind of tired. My goals became very short term. When the Cocktail starts wearing off, the only way to stay awake is to take more. I self-administered once my Skins were off. By the time I got to the bed, the lethargy had passed a little. I figured I would uplink while I rested and see what was going on.

Saint Peter was mostly occupied. When I entered the Battlenet, there was a sort of placeholder avatar for his feed. I called it the Librarian. He would only show the past. Father Cervantes was online and gave me a sitrep. Delgado had ordered the abduction because his cat told him to.

It was some kind of online virtual thing. Saint Peter was running down the details, but got hung up on nasty game protection encryption. Cervantes wasn't sure how long Saint Peter would be hammering away at this ridiculous motive, but most of our allotment of his consciousness was being used to hack a game world called "Gneflheim."

I asked the Librarian to show me Gneflheim. It linked me to a busy gamer portal, auto filed an identity and got me inside with a subscription contract. There was a diatribe by an avatar supposed to represent Odin. This place was hell for people that died peacefully. They toiled like robots until someone freed them with violence. There was a community of online Reivers, allowed to vent themselves on daemons and each other. This was a builder world, offering growth within character. The world itself was shrouded in mist. Perpetual night. It was very creepy. I saved the entry game and asked the Librarian for reviews and biographies related to Gneflheim.

The net was littered with stir on the program. "Top Rate Sim!" and "Big Prizes" the reviewers captioned. "Spawned an antisocial fan base" and "Deranged" cautioned educators. What really caught the eye was a liberal real world reward program for top scorers. A few could just play for a good living. The top of the pyramid paid a lot more. Their winner this year would get Transference to a performance body and a job with Gnefl Corporate. This could be a source of the money smell on the investigation.

I wished Saint Peter was here enough to chart the money. But I could see why he wanted to get at the decrypted user logs before they were purged. We needed to know all about Delgado's cat. I ghosted through the filed interrogations to get a better feel for this crew and to hear about the cat from Delgado's mouth. Somewhere in there would be more info about Sweetie and Chelo. I used a camera view rather than full immersion. The implant would work for that, no need to get up and climb into a simulator. I found full immersion during some versions of Saint Peter's interrogations to be disturbing anyway. He had bookmarked a few critical statements from each uploaded prisoner and made bare bones summaries, but the full interrogations were incomplete. No doubt he would have more questions when he opened up Gneflheim.

I went straight to Delgado and hit the first bookmark. He was seated at a table in front of bright lights. Chains held him steady. Pictures of his house interior formed a collage on the table top. A Policia jailer prowled behind him, smacking a sap into his palm to keep Delgado jumpy. To the left, a pair of expensive shoes were visible on some silent observer of the proceedings. The interrogator was a gray haired simulacrum of _Capitan_ Nunez. The rest of the room was shadows.

"Rozo shows up with these two girls real late," Delgado offered. "He wants to shoot them in the morning, but I told him they looked beat up and I wasn't going to take no releases from them." The lie graphs, running on his upload and inescapable, showed I could believe the girls went to his house. The rest was convenient fiction.

"He called them _puta_ the whole time. I never heard any names." Another lie. I jumped ahead to another bookmark.

Same room, but now a simulacrum of Aroz lies forward in his chains on a chair next to Delgado. The big jailer appears to have just beaten Aroz pretty vigorously. Blood splatter mars Delgado's cheek. "Aroz had to do what Ogre said. Ogre never took a no answer from anybody he could hurt," Delgado said. "I didn't want him in my house, but he would burn it down if I said no." Lie graphs thought the first was true but the last statement was a little off. Next bookmark.

Delgado was in conference with a _Notario_. They were in one of those little interrogation rooms you see in real time prisons. Even the chairs had layers of grimy paint. The _Notario_ says, "They pulled a lot of computers out of the house. I need to know what they might find on the girls." Delgado sipped a paper cup of coffee and made a face. I had had that coffee before.

"I uploaded them, that was the deal," he said. "They got copied and then they left." Mostly true. Next bookmark.

Water sheets off Delgado's body as the board is tipped up out of the water. He coughs continuously under the soft cloth over his face. The interrogator flips the cloth up and speaks close to Delgado's ear. "Almost done now. I just need you to tell me where the girls went," he purred. "Then you can go to your cell and I'll send in _la comida_." The simulacrum was bald with a transparent visor and rain slicker. He wore a white apron underneath. Delgado sputtered water in an attempt to speak. It was enough for Saint Peter to interpret. He captioned letters over Delgado that said, "They left with Ogre." The graphs said true.

The next few bookmarks dealt with the cat. It was confirmed in four different interrogations. Delgado and a man with a whip, Delgado kneeling in front of a shallow hole, Delgado raving on a hospital bed. I choose the interview with the least environmental stressors, Delgado being driven by an aged up Aroz. This was the prison release scenario. Delgado was in a nondescript body of about five decades. He had served his time on the revival tour. His original body had died in a prison riot, so he was placed in a _Vin Ordinaire_ zombie for release. All was supposedly forgiven, so he chatted with Aroz about the past. The Aroz simulacrum was a crippled copy of the actual El Rozo so shared history was readily recalled. It would guide conversation based on prompts from Saint Peter. Any discrepancies could be laid at the feet of Father Time. Delgado thought fifteen years had passed.

"I'll have to thank Belasco for keeping my Gneflheim Avatar up," he said. "I should have bought into Gnefl. Almost twenty years for a game!" Unless he had some straw alias, those funds would have been confiscated too. "Did he say anything about Edmundo?" Footnotes on the interrogation said Edmundo was the cat. "If he's still connected, I can get a job."

The Aroz clone said, "He stopped talking when you went up." Delgado grunted in surprise, "He knows the Avatar isn't me. That _gato_ was always too smart. I often wished he was smart enough to tell me before the Templars raided." Delgado was quiet for a time, staring at the foothills outside the car. "I thought it was an easy job, like the journalists." Footnotes showed clippings of journalists struck by cars or falling down stairs, unsolved mysteries. "It would have paid pretty well though. Enough points to put me in the Seventh Circle." That cryptic statement had no footnotes to guide me. Possibly it was related to the Gneflheim gaming system. Ogre and this new Belasco player were as yet unidentified.

So I disconnected from the feed and got up. Saint Peter and the Father would need to refine the data before we could track legitimate targets. It was time to give my cousins their Cocktails.

My cousins were in their rooms and exhibiting the symptoms of number 7 withdrawal, sleepy eyes. I gave them both coffee laced with the cure. And then I talked to them about Ogre and Belasco and Gnefl Corporate. A little vague as sitreps go, but I didn't have a plan to lead them to. They had never heard of Ogre and Belasco was a fairly common name. Neither had ever heard of Gneflheim, but both thought it was an evil concept. They could see why _Sangrons_ liked it. I complemented them on their work today. Told them it was always boring if you do it right. That made Lucho smile. He said, "I'm glad you sent the _putas_ and gunfights so we wouldn't get bored out there." Lalo grunted and traded a handslap with his brother. I showed them teeth and eyebrows like a womanizing version of the Templar recruiting avatar. " _De nada, primos_." We had a little moment to be cousins, before the number 7 took hold. When they grew serious I distracted them with lunch. "Let's see what Esmeralda has for a snack. You eat when you can on this job."

"Esmeralda has gone to the _Supermercado_ ," said Rafe in the kitchen. He was building a pita wrap out of beef and chili strips. I had never considered using yellow mustard and handfuls of pepper on one and told him so. "You have no proper Dijon. One must improvise." He added a squirt of soy sauce and took a bottle of wine out of the refrigerator. "The food must compliment the wine. This red Porto cries out for beef Dijon." I found a wedge of cheese and waved it at him, "How does the wine feel about _Queso Fresca_?" He sniffed it and said "Feta?"

"Close to," I told him. "Just try it."

Rafe was the only one drinking. It was contraindicated on Cocktail number 7. He poured one glass and corked the bottle. We did try his pitas, but my cousins didn't like them. Rafe ate theirs too.

He was only fastidious about preparing the food. Meat prices were higher in Jerusalem. The Farm Bloc over-exported agriculture to buy manufacturing. Transitional economic planning was changing diets for longevity rather than comfort. Meanwhile, _mi Tio's_ larder had a lot of fresh food and old wine for free. Rafe would eat just to avoid any chance of spoilage.

"Etienne is sleeping with the Saints," he said after a mouthful of wine. The eye contact let me know he was talking about Saint Peter. "He offered to take the late shift if we're staying in."

I thought for a moment before replying, "When we get the next lead, we might be moving fast. I'm tempted to grab some sleep myself." Rafe made a snort around a mouthful of beef and mumbled, "Soldiers know how to rack out anytime." He finished his glass of wine and stood, "I will follow my own advice and retire." He bobbed his head at the cousins, "Gentlemen." He jutted his chin out at me, "Chuy." Lucho chuckled as he left, "I think I like that old _Cocodrilo_."

"That old crocodile is almost your family and you should count your fingers after sitting at the table with him." I held up my own hand with two fingers folded back. Even Lalo chuckled.

It was necessary to gloss over references to Saint Peter among the unauthorized. Most assignments involved a war of information. Letting everyone know an AI followed Templars around was giving away too much for free. People knew about the Garda AI's, they were almost public figures. But even Garda AI's had their tiers of access, capabilities that the public wasn't aware of. We had a very small unit without much turnover. Saint Peter had given us an outstanding resolution record but sought none of the credit. Keeping him out of conversation was just good policy. You could find plenty of references to Saint Peter in socioeconomics, but you would have to look under _Dottore_ Fermi, AI. He only went by Saint Peter to the Templars. Papal PR spun him as a multi-threaded renaissance scientist who did the heavy lifting for Christian policy. That he formed many of those policies was less discussed.

I often wondered how much the AI's were responsible for the shape of society. We humans could only see our own puzzle piece and no others. What did machines talk about when we weren't around? You can see how easily conspiracy theories flowed to fill a pool of speculation. Better to treat Saint Peter as Innocent until Otherwise. He had the same rights as me. We would hang together or hang separately, as the old revolutionary Ben Franklin used to say.

We got a couple hours of siesta before our Saint came marching in. The Battlenet sought us out for a conference. My cousins would continue their rest.

Saint Peter had a tree of names. Starting at Ogre, who was born Denis Leroy Sanborn. His picture showed the big ghoul who had put me in the street. Known associate was another big ghoul named Alex Tibbet. His picture didn't trigger any recognition; I didn't see the other ghoul very well. They were both Texicans with no visible means. Tracking receipts showed they traveled in spurts and spent as much on the bar bill as they did on food. They lived pretty well by some kind of invisible means. Probably iced accounts in the orbital banks converted to cash.

From there, the tree had a lot of twisted branches and placeholders for missing names. It made a jump to corporate org charts that was hard to follow until I saw "Deni Lee Sanborn" listed as an "Event Coordinator" for a band called "Hotshot." The band was a death metal tour opener that compared its music to a lethal injection, charming boys who probably strangled the family dog before stealing instruments. I could see Ogre working for them and having a great time.

The band org chart led to Gnefl Corporate through a maze of twisted entertainment venues. They were linked by economic control lines but the actual administration was less clear. If Gnefl was not directly promoting dangerous antisocial behavior, it was certainly providing events for its continued enjoyment. They had franchise operations in many modern urban markets around the world.

The Gneflheim game world was almost as gray. The graphic looked liked the Illuminati pyramid, lopped off on top with a disconnected eye. Saint Peter narrated our examination of that. "The architecture values low lag rates for gaming, short hop fiber optic to private key quantum gates." He zoomed up detail on the top of the pyramid. "Once the signal hits a gate, it is lost in the quantum network. The actual servers have not been physically located. Protection against game cheaters is the justification."

The graphic changed, showing blobs of color moving around inside the lower pyramid. "These are player progress scattergrams. I have spawned or enlisted several players into the system to collect signals data. The system will only move at human speed and rejects players with crystalline reflexes." One blob passed a flash of light through the top of the pyramid.

"High bandwidth communications. All players trickle basic game commands up through the gate, but some at higher levels fire off these dense packets. Samples pulled from Telecom have twenty-year encryption," Meaning that the encryption could resist decoding for a projected twenty years of crypto-analysis. I was seeing how the game protections had thwarted Saint Peter. It was a paranoid architecture with an invisible engine. But I could also see how the system was used as a communication portal to a null network.

Null networks were disconnected from the nets. They were something like a data vault, securing information from peepers. But they were active networks, processing data and providing fantasy. Casinos and games used them to secure their economic models. Corporate hid their decision making processes in them. Savvy individuals could make their own null network for whatever purpose. They were common in spacer cultures.

The AI's identified thousands of law breakers using null networks every year. Data contrary to accepted standards or promoting criminal enterprise. People running illegal copies of other people. Sometimes they found stolen AI kernels. Saint Peter had said that they only catch the ignorant operators. Ones who had some signal leakage or insecure servers. He feared what was happening to uploads in the really cunning networks.

I remembered Delgado saying he uploaded the girls. Could they have been on one of those beams of light, dragged into hell by a connected _Sangron_? The thought was not pleasant. But where were their bodies? Why keep the girls if they had what they wanted?

Saint Peter anticipated my concerns. "I will be pursuing the network, but for the immediate future I am narrowing locations for the girls. They have been held a few days now. We need to recover them before their abductors decide to cut the connection." He showed a shaded circle over an urban aerial. "This new contact is a charge station camera in Midland, Texas. The ring is a probable distance since contact." I saw a grainy clip of Sweety being led to a bathroom by Ogre. Her hands were tied in front. There was a gray van with a side door open. I saw Chelo's shoes.

"Alex Tibbet used his charge card for the van. He's getting a resident rate in Texas." I saw a CDL license scan. It was old and showed an Alex Tibbet who looked like a fat clerk. Not the same guy who tossed Memo around. "He has Transferred since the picture. We have a Legal Transfer Order signed in Dallas two years ago with the new DNA." This picture could be the guy, with enough black dye and pancake makeup. "The lab performing the Transfer also provides Gnefl Corporate with their prize Transfers." He highlighted the lab data. It was in Leiden, the Netherlands. The Center for Molecular Genetics, one of the oldest continuous Transfer labs.

"Tibbet will need to charge again in a few hours, probably around Abilene." Another graphic mapped the I-20 highway showing reference cities. "I can have a Lifter here within an hour, two hours after that you can be over Abilene." He popped up an inventory list that included the Swat van and a lot of gear. Then he stopped narrating and let us confer.

Rafe and Etienne gave me lifted eyebrows. They were game. Father Cervantes was not called for immediate deployment, but as follow on tech support. He spread his hands and gave the choice to us. "I would caution that if they go to ground before Abilene, you will have to wait overnight and pick them up tomorrow." He had a point. "Maybe he gets a resident rate at motels?" It had a kind of Texican logic. The Father and I looked at each other and had that realization. "I will look into that Marshal," he told me. " _Para Dios agarre el día_." Seize the day for God.

We had an hour to pack and two more to deploy. Etienne and then Rafe met me at the Skin transfusers. Rafe made a rude duck noise with his lips, "I unpack and pack it all back the next day." Eteinne mimed a shotgun at Rafe, "Boom." He patted his belly and added, "That duck is the only thing you didn't eat, you old glutton." I felt like piling on for a moment, while Rafe was getting into his Skins, "Tio was worried. He is having the pantry sprayed for rats tomorrow." Rafe seemed to be getting tangled in his Skins. He was making a snickering noise. Etienne said as I left, "Unless he scheduled it for Abilene, Rafe should be safe." My sergeants would begin power lifting equipment downstairs. I went to wake my deputies.

Once they woke and I told them of the deployment, number 7 made them alert. Number 7 helped sleep when off duty, but fought it when on. Like a new switch in your head. I had them both loading duffels and dressed out quickly. Then we grabbed some ammunition boxes and went out to the barn. On the way I told them about Sweetie and Chelo.

The Lifter came out of the south this time. A blacked out Stealth and Rescue. I couldn't read the markings when it landed, but the Pilot and Crew Chief were Texican Garda. The Crew Chief acted like the ground was radioactive, wanting to be airborne instantly. He begrudged the time to load and tie down the Swat van but was as fast as Lucho's _vaquero_ impersonation. We found ourselves airborne before all our gear was tight, chasing duffels while holding handstraps.

We climbed for almost an hour as air drafts in the back became icy. The web seats didn't bother me in my Skins, but the cousins looked miserable. Engine whine prevented conversation across the cabin, so I tapped Rafe on the leg and said, "I'm going to check on the boys." He leaned forward and looked past me to them. "Take these, _mon ami_." He handed me two sickness bags. Leaning his head back in the webbing he muttered, "Suckling lambs." Then he started snoring.

The boys did look a little green. It had been so long since I had been motion sick, that it didn't enter my thinking. I couldn't give them my medical nano and was not sure what the Lifter first aid drugs would do with Cocktail number 7. I wracked my memory for homeopathic remedies in the Field Wiki. The training surfaced slowly, building new pathways to speed learned data.

"How you doing _, primo_?" I asked Lucho. Both turned glossy eyes to me.

"Not used to flying like this," he said. "Stuck on the walls with no windows." Lalo nodded in agreement, then stopped nodding and swallowed hard. I handed them the sickness bags. "Hold on a minute, I have an idea." I went forward to the crew compartment and knocked. The Crew Chief opened up, showing me red lit instruments and a dark windscreen. " _Que paso_?" he said, giving the impression of a man with little time for nonsense.

" _Perdon_ Chief, but I have two men with airsickness." He looked past me to the cousins and pursed his lips. "If they foul my aircraft, you will have to clean it up. There is a vacuum in the portside overhead." He pointed to a cubby in the back near Etienne. He almost got the crew hatch closed when I turned to look, but a well placed foot prevented that. "I'm more into prevention than clean up, Chief. Do you have some velocity tape and four marbles or something like that I can have?" He looked confused for a second and then stepped into the cargo compartment, closing the crew hatch behind him.

Just knowing about velocity tape gets a crew chief's attention. If you actually have a use for some, the chiefs will want to see it. That works most of the time on unhelpful Garda techs. He opened a bin and handed me velocity tape. It resembled duct tape but was rated to hold things together on the outside of a flying Lifter. He returned to the bin and started showing me bolts and fasteners as a substitute for marbles. I turned them down as not being round enough. He muttered some things under his breathe and then had an idea. He disappeared back into the crew compartment and talked to the pilot. He reappeared with four wrapped candies shaped like round barrels. "The Pilot has donated his root beer candy. Will this work?"

" _Bueno_ , Chief. My gratitude to your Pilot." I took the supplies back to the cousins and started improvising traveler bands. The Crew Chief crossed his arms and leaned against the crew hatch, watching. I asked him, "How about some _agua_ , Chief? Do you have three bottles?" He bounced up off the hatch and pulled open another bin.

First, I had Lalo give me his hand palm up. The root beer barrel went against the skin on his wrist, over an acupressure point. A quick wrap with the tape held his shirt cuff on it tight. I repeated quickly and moved to Lucho. "OK _primos_ that should help in a minute." I took a long swig of my bottled water, recapped and velocity taped it to the bulkhead in front of them. "There is your horizon. Fix your eyes on that and you should feel better soon."

The Crew Chief jutted his lower lip and nodded in approval. "Is that some kind of chino Templar trick? I told him, " _Mi yama es_ Navarro, Chief. I'm the mission _Brujo_." His eyebrows shot up. He had not expected a Christian Templar to claim status as a Mexican witch. Especially not one who looked Japanese. " _No me digas_!" he said, covering his ears. Don't tell me that! He retreated quickly back to the crew compartment. My cousins thought that was a highlight of the whole trip.

Back in the web with the sergeants, I resynched my implant to the van electronics and entered our mobile Battlenet. We had an hour until arrival, best to work on the deployment plan.

My sergeants were already in, feigning sleep to cover the link. Father Cervantes and Saint Peter were online, but the Lifter electronics narrowed our available bandwidth. Enabling the quantum link took the graininess out of their avatars. I sifted the logs to catch anything new.

We had a timeline on Tibbet's road trip. They had been traveling for over eight hours, leaving Chihuahua after the raid on Delgado's. Two hours after they charged up near Abilene, they would enter urban Dallas and become hard targets. It was unlikely they would stop tonight, the time was nine twenty and these guys favored late hours.

There was some discussion about better tracking of their van. It featured like a short range family hauler, common in the Texican zone. There were a dozen different manufacturers but most models looked alike and gray from the air at night. Our window for acquisition at a charging station was maybe twenty minutes, smaller cells charging faster. That discussion led to Saint Peter renting a Stalker drone from the Dyess Garda base in Abilene. It would be on station and waiting to strafe the van. The hour we had it for cost a small fortune in Interservice Credits.

I rejoined the team as they were evaluating insertion sites and ambush locations. They were looking at aerials of Ranger, Texas. Ranger is between Abilene and Fort Worth on the way to Dallas. There are trees and hills on the east side leaving town. Not a lot of civilians in the way. The elaborate interchange with the I-20 highway offered wooded concealment. The Lifter could stealth drop the Swat van right onto the ramp and still perform high guard for the ambush. It looked great to me. We called it plan A and signed off. The Lifter immediately banked right and descended. I dropped off the Battlenet and went to see the crew chief.

The engine noise had lessened somewhat. It made the cabin ambiance less oppressive. My cousins were both leaning slightly aft when I stepped past, following the horizon in a bottle. I gave them thumbs up and a palm down. "We're good but wait," universal military hand sign. They gave me distracted waves and watched the bottle. I knocked on the crew hatch. The Chief opened up slowly and the Pilot looked over his shoulder to see my face. Cockpit gossip seemed certain. "You guys have the new location?"

" _Si_ , just now," said the pilot, "We are on descent and will be wheels down in an hour." "What is your loiter after we get off?" I asked. "Maybe two hours before bingo," he said, "Dyess Base will take me."

" _Buen Piloto_ ," I said, sketching a salute. "Please let me know when we're ten minutes out, and can I borrow your Crew Chief?" The pilot turned back to his dark windscreen, "Sure, take him. He already ate all my candy."

I eased my bulk out of the hatchway and made room for the Chief. He looked at my cousins as I led him back toward the van. "Guess that trick worked."

"Feel free to use it on your next fare." I told him, "They might tip better." That got a little chuckle out of him. Transport humor. Rafe and Etienne still lounged in the webs, but were now watching the Chief. He was going to be an important fellow for our insertion. I spread my hands at the Sergeants and said, "I believe we all met briefly when you helped us shoehorn our armored van into your Lifter's back door." Eteinne squinted at the Chief from his rearmost web seat, "Is he the loud one with the fast hands?" Rafe turned and said, "The same. Now don't get excited, he is going to help us pull our van out of his back door."

" _Dieu merci_!" exclaimed Etienne, "I was finally getting used to the smell."

It went on in that vein for a little bit, but ended with a coordinated sequence that would put us in the van and on the road with a touch and go exposure. We all knew how a night drop worked. The touchy feely stuff was to give us an expectation that this Garda Crew Chief would continue being helpful when we deplaned. I could have just phoned in the drop, but the Chief came off as lazy on first meeting. No real stake in the mission. I suggested this hazing to put some lead in his pencil. Maybe Father Luke was rubbing off. Etienne and Rafe certainly had a good time.

We began watching the Battlenet. The gray van needed to show soon or we were going to be parked in the middle of Texas with no _cervezas_. Even with the "No joy" clause, the Stalker drone was going to cost a fortune. I would rather finish picking up the girls from the other night. If a Navarro says he will take you home, he tries hard to deliver. We got contact a couple minutes later, Tibbet using his discount. Father Cervantes told me he had researched the resident discounts. "It's a little key ring fob linked to his license. Texans use it to gouge travelers, just walk up to a vended good and get the low rate. Tibbet may not even be aware he is triggering it." I had always been told the cost of living was higher in Texas. Guess it was, for North Mexicans. That was a pretty Statist and anti-trade trick, but Texas was known for having cunning Bankers. Think globally, act locally. They contributed most to the Texican zone funding, so it made them act a little entitled. "Ten minutes," the pilot said.

In this case, the discount had been a great way to track residents. Tibbet was on camera and on our net before he got the cable in the van. We had them at a station about a hundred klicks west in a township called Clyde. If we tried to divert, they would probably be mobile before we could deploy. We were hoping to get our credit's worth from the Stalker. I arranged a countdown clock and Stalker drone feed on my lenses. The little bird was following the highway from Abilene. The feed looked like daylight. There was a background chatter of drone pilot and mission commander. That cryptic, bored tone pilots nurture. I left it on low. If they got excited about something, I would tune in. Right now, my countdown clock told me to get the team in the van.

I stood up and whistled to the cousins. " _El trabajo quiere carne_." The job wants meat. It was an old militia cry. Behind me, the Sergeants were opening doors and climbing into the front seats. Rafe would continue driving the van. The Chief stuck his head out of the crew compartment and yelled " _Rapido, rapido_." He pointed to a rotating red jump light on the bulkhead. When that went green, we would be leaving.

I strapped my cousins into jump seats in the back, duffels went under the seats. They were unusually inexpressive. The Cocktail was dealing with nerves and strong feelings. It was probably doing the same for me. I was focused on the Battlenet feeds and impatient to get going. "Yellow," shouted Rafe, over the suddenly quieter engines. It felt like the floor dropped out from under me. The Skins helped me pull my butt into a seat and strap in.

I added the Lifter feed to get a look at the ground. We were dropping like a fat kid doing a belly flop. The nose was up a little, but forward progress had slowed way down. The ground was painted infrared colors. Roadway showed up clearly, among the trees. Headlights were sparse. The falling seemed to go on for a while. We had dropped out of a registered flight path. Once we went black, the pilot wanted us far away from air traffic lanes. Just when I thought it was getting boring, the engines roared and I felt heavy. The van creaked lower on its suspension, the skin on my face started to sag. When my seat started making popping noises, Rafe croaked, "Green in five."

There was a bang from the Lifter doors. The ramp was lowering. "Four." I felt less heavy. My cousins could lift their heads and look around. "Three." The ramp banged again as it locked in placed. Now the Lifter looked like a fat kid with his tongue hanging out. "Two." Vibration rang in our bones. Thrust was reflecting back on the fuselage. The nose came down. "Green" Rafe shouted.

We flew backwards out of the bay. The wheel well chocks put a little hop in our motion. By the time the rocking stopped, we were staring into the green lit cargo bay of a rising Lifter. The light turned off, the Lifter disappeared. Rafe eased us off the road and parked, keeping the lights off. A windstorm of blown debris slowly settled outside the van. Within a couple of minutes, lovelorn crickets began their serenade again. My ears still hummed with remembered noise.

****

### Chapter 12: The state of Texas

I focused on the Battlenet feeds while my cousins slapped hands and whooped. I threw them the thumbs up, palm down sign and listened to Rafe. "Thanks for the lift, Condor. We'll call if we run out of money or get too drunk to drive." The pilot's voice crackled past his cockpit noise filters, " _De nada_ , Tortuga. You watch your brothers and stay out of trouble. Entering racetrack this time." The Lifter would be loitering overhead in an oval pattern.

I switched focus to the Stalker drone feed. It was about two hundred meters above a street in a town. A map check showed this was Clyde, Texas. The propeller had extruded from the front cone of the drone, lowering stall speed and even quieter than the muffled jet engine it used. "Dropping to SLIR run," the Drone Pilot said. He pronounced it "Slur." The ground flew up and then the nose of the drone leveled off about thirty meters over the ground. I could clearly see pedestrians below, but none looked up.

"Shooting," said the Mission Commander. I couldn't see anything from the drone, but another feed showed a jerky infrared movie of a van at a charger. Three red blobs inside and another outside. The drone swept into a climb and showed only high, thin clouds for a while. "Tally. You are go for run," said the Mission Commander. "Roger, Home," replied the Pilot, "Go for run this time." That would be the strafing run.

The drone wheeled around in the sky. For a second the sliver of moon I could see out of the van window looked like a blazing sun to the drone. Then the earth filled the view. I saw the I-20 highway straight down. The nose started coming up and the buildings of Clyde were visible ahead. "On path, commencing run," said the invisible Pilot. I wondered if he even had a body. Many drone pilots were retasked uploads, waiting for a Medical Writ zombie.

The propeller shrank as dive speed came up. In the nose of the drone's propeller was the cannon. It was sized small at fifteen millimeters. Larger would have overpowered the airframe. It used compressed propellant, to keep the sound level and weight down. The drone itself was used to accelerate the ordnance. "Puff acquiring," The Pilot was referring to the targeting program. A violet line of laser light suddenly connected the drone with the ground. It would be invisible to human sight. The laser line came up to fix on a van under a charging station rain canopy. The Stalker must be very low. "Locked. Safeties free." If I had waited for his voice to rise, I would have missed the whole thing. The Pilot sounded like he was reading school texts aloud to the blind. "Engaging."

A chain of small vapor puffs appeared at the nose of the drone to be shredded away in the wind. The nose of the drone rose suddenly and I was looking at those thin clouds again. "Shot," said the Pilot. "Tracking," said the Commander. I received a new feed from the Garda net, a widening cone of red specks closing with a stick figure graphic of the station. The cone suddenly enlarged with thousands of little red dots. "Good deploy," said the Commander. The red specks intersected the station graphic.

I switched to the camera feed from the charge station. I could see the nose and passenger side of the gray van. The image got blurry for two jerky frames, like something fast was moving across the view. Then, one of the abductors walked into frame from the charger side of the van, just visible from the knees down. He was putting paper towels into a trash flap. When he stooped to get a squeegee, I saw it was Ogre. Pretty sure, anyway. The station camera was so bad it was almost fraud to call it a security system. Ogre cleaned the windshield, or that was implied by his standing at the van nose with the squeegee. All we could see was his legs moving from side to side. I could imagine the mess. What the Stalker drone had fired were saboted gnats.

They were one of the early delivery systems for Nanotech. When you wanted to send small packages without raising questions, a cloud of insects was explainable. Even after the technique was known, it continued to fool. You would need an entomologist with a microscope to check. This generation was a tiny blob of green glue, protecting an even smaller tracking tag. Short, stiff bristles around the outside came to a point at the nose. In flight, it was unguided but aerodynamic. The impact was barely noticeable. When it struck something, it stuck like paint. Texture and appearance mimicked a mangled bug. The miniature cannon of the drone had packaged hundreds of these little mock gnats with every round.

I switched back to the Stalker feeds. The outline of the front of the van was clearly marked by red tags. I could also see parts of the station sparkling red. As the van started moving, errant red tags on the station began winking out. When they were gone, the Mission Commander said "Thanks Signals, looks good." The focus widened and satellite imagery textured the stick frames. Our target van was labeled "Ford Nexstar." It was getting eastbound on the I-20.

"There's your feed Tortuga," the Mission Commander said, addressing our Battlenet handle. "We're coming up on time for the bird, will you all be needing it some more tonight?" The accent was more noticeable when Texan Garda weren't using canned commands. None of us had a use for the drone that would justify the expense. "Ah, thanks but no thanks on that bird, Home. We're happy with the feed. You all have yourselves a nice night now." Right back at you, Tex.

Rafe started the Swat van forward. The lights came on and we accelerated down the onramp to the highway. I backgrounded the feeds and closed old links. My cousins were staring at me like I had two heads. "Man, you were far away there," Lucho said. "Why were you talking like a Texan?" The Cocktail number 7 must have focused me into the Battlenet. I wiped at the corner of my mouth, checking for drool. Dry, thank god.

I went for distraction to get past the awkward questions. "Took care of a little business and made some calls. Look at your lenses." I sent them the tracking feed and threw up the station video. "The van is about forty minutes behind us. Rafe is going to find us a fold in the road and then we're going to get our girls back."

That seemed to work. Lucho and Lalo looked surprised, as though slapped. Then Lucho's eyes hardened, " _Orale_! You guys are good. Hell yes, we want our girls back." Lalo piped in with his own "Hell yes."

I fed them terrain maps and specs on the Swat van. Walked them through a "Dead Stop" ambush plan adapted for circumstance. By the time we had crossed a good hill and Rafe backed us into the trees, they had an idea of what we were going to do. And they forgot about my little slip, hopefully.

Etienne killed time with a story about rescuing some fashionista models from a Dead Stop ambush. This time, he was in Moscow and the girls were Russian. He delved into the technical plan and then gave lurid details about their gratitude. Etienne had a talent for believable storytelling. His wink let me know he was doing his own bit for distracting my cousins.

Rafe also contributed by saying, "Not that story again! You need to do something new so you don't become a bore." The statement implied the story was genuine, without actually saying so. It also gave him an excuse to withdraw from conversation and watch the Battlenet. He would let us know when the show would start.

"Ten minutes out," he finally said, "Condor has visual." Etienne and I stood up. "Places everyone, the show will start in a moment," I directed Lucho to the driver's seat and Lalo to a box of flares. Rafe had already exited outside and disappeared. Etienne opened the back door and hopped out. He gave me a nod, shut the door and disappeared.

I crouched behind Lucho in the driver's seat. "OK _compadres_ , the beam is going to fire automatically. When the van is hit the lights will go off and it will roll to a stop. We are going to move out and shield the van with some traffic controls. Until we get that done, the van is at risk of getting hit, so be quick." I enlarged the tracking feed and added the Lifter visual feed. "I'm going to watch the approach, so don't interrupt or touch anything until I tell you."

On the roof of our Swat van was a short range Area Suppression Weapon. It was a bolt on package used by riot police and urban zone Garda. The robot arm aimed a microwave emitter at a wide area up to five hundred meters away. The beam could be varied based on need. Want a crowd dispersed? Tune for flesh and give them cooking waves. It was mostly non-lethal. Want phones and cars to stop? Tune for energy and fry their computer chips. It worked on anything not metal shielded. In this case, we would turn their Ford Nexstar into an unpowered box.

The system powered up, tickling my Skin receptors. The target van was coming to the hill. As it crested, the silhouette gave a great, isolated target. I felt the discharge and the headlights went off as it continued coasting downhill. "OK Lucho, pull forward after he goes by." The Swat van slowly rolled toward the highway with the lights off.

Tibbet made the decision to pull off to the right shoulder. We had hoped he would, but he came to a stop a little further back than projected. The Swat van was closer than Rafe and Etienne. "Lucho, turn in behind him and stop. We aren't going to need the traffic controls."

He stopped us next to trees about fifty meters back from the Nexstar van when I tapped his shoulder. "Lalo, check your load for rubber slugs and watch my back out here." While he did that, I told Lucho, "If we ask for it, I want you to slap this button here for just a second." I flipped the safety cover off the Red fire button for the ASW microwave. Then I set it for area denial. "Only slap it for a second and only if we ask for it, _comprende_?" I really hoped he wouldn't have to use it. I would be in the beam if it all went wrong.

Lalo opened the back doors and we got off. It was very dark on the shoulder and a water retention ditch to the right of that was treacherous footing. Lalo slid in some mud and went to one knee. Thankfully, he didn't discharge his shotgun. The training was keeping him tactical.

"Lalo, since you're already wet, work your way up this ditch to the van. I'll be up ahead on your left, so don't shoot me. If there are guns, get down in that ditch and cover me. Rafe and Etienne will be here soon, so don't shoot them either." I told him this while adding combat handsign to trigger his training. He nodded understanding and stepped off carefully. Lalo was the most controlled cousin; the number 7 had the strongest hold. He would be steady at my back.

I dropped down into the Gorilla stance. Knuckle guards and toes, suspended by the exoskeleton. It kept my profile low and was a quiet way to move fast. I angled along the ditch line long enough to pass Lalo, then angled up for the back corner of the Ford. Light amplification gave me a good look at the terrain. It also made me remember the first time I fought Deni Lee Ogre. He had noticeably enlarged pupils. Either drugs or body mods were going to be a factor. Their bar bills made me think that it was some kind of drug.

Easing in the last few meters, I gained position behind the passenger cargo door. It helped that there was a blind spot and I stayed lower than the windows. I could hear an argument inside. Male voices only, consisting mostly of expletives. They seemed more concerned about their phones not working than the van. One wanted to walk back to Ranger and call "Castle." The other was paranoid and thought trouble was coming. I heard a metallic click that sounded like a weapon.

I checked the Battlenet. Etienne was crawling in toward the front of the Ford. Lalo was still picking his way down the ditch. Rafe was across the highway in the median. Rafe could see Tibbet, swiveled around in the passenger seat. Correlating his visual with what I could hear let me place Tibbet as the paranoid speaker with the gun. My feed of the conversation let the rest of the team draw independent conclusions. "I can blow out the window," Rafe offered. His shotgun would need that obstacle out of the way to put follow up shots on target.

If Tibbet cooperated, that is. I believed it would be more of a distraction, forcing him to move. Crouching down further, I sub vocalized, "On my mark, Lalo can fire up this side when you hit the other." Rafe clicked compliance. Lalo made a little noise, getting into position, but clicked compliance fairly quickly. "Guerillas in the mist," I told my sergeants. They would understand the reference. "When Ogre exits."

Our problem was the locked doors. I could probably pull a door off regardless, but it would take too much time. Better to wait for the helpful kidnappers to figure out what we already knew. Someone in there had to get help and the other one would have to hold the girls in the van and wait. It was almost physics. That it was taking so long was an indicator of their paranoia. Tibbet was sure they weren't alone out here. Ogre was impatient to get away. They reached compromise. I heard their agreement and the noise of a large body moving around inside. "Ready," I hissed through clenched teeth. Slipped my left hand onto the door handle and set my crouch. Ogre slid open the side door. I rocked back with the door to stay out of sight until it was fully open. Ogre stuck his head out to see the ground before exiting. I said, "Now."

The blast from the ditch and the passenger window shattering seemed to happen simultaneously. I stood up enough to cup my hand on the back of Ogre's head and yank him out of the van, trying my best to land him on his head. He had good reflexes and landed on a shoulder instead. I couldn't pay much attention to him, being occupied by a quick entry of the van. Tibbet was down between the front seats with a pistol. He was looking toward the passenger window, but quickly noticed me and reoriented. I wasn't going to make it, so I dived back out of the van. Tibbet fired a send-off shot that went left. When I hit the ground I said, "Lucho, the red button." Then I lost it for a second, like everybody else in the area.

The Skins reacted to the beam by tightening up and dropping me to the ground. Pain reflexes for Skins were usually lifesavers, but in this case it just left me immobilized for a second. I felt like my skin was on fire. Heartfelt shrieks from multiple throats blanketed the area. I heard the girls, adding strained sopranos. And then it was over. The Skins recovered and helped me into a crouch while my own skin still burned. I looked at the open van door and visualized the front seats. When I could trust my judgment through the pain, I sprang. Left foot on the doorjamb, hands to the frame. Correct for the driver's side and push off with the left leg. My shoulder struck the back of the seat Tibbet had shifted behind, crouched in the foot well. He had dropped the pistol, a flinch reaction when it burned his hand. The seat bent forward to pin him to the dash and steering wheel. I heard Lalo's shotgun go off, then Tibbet began struggling.

He was a strong _cabrón_ , bending the seat back toward me and getting some wiggle room. He was so intent, he missed Etienne leaning in the driver's window and unlocking the door. I relaxed my grip and watched him scramble onto the seat. His Skins had burst out of his shirt at the biceps. "Skins," I alerted. It didn't matter to Etienne. He opened the driver's door and yanked Tibbet out onto the road by his right arm. Tibbet rolled up to a crouch, but I could see Rafe trotting across the road behind him. "Is that you Mister Tibbet? We have been looking for you all day," Etienne lilted. He slapped the van door closed. Mister Tibbet was well in hand.

That left Ogre to attend to. I disarmed the pistol and kept the slide. It was a handy weight of metal. The girls were chained to the child seat hooks, but I didn't have time for them yet. A flash and a boom showed Lalo crouched at the ditch and firing his shotgun. Less visible was Ogre. His favored colors blended well, except the face. I saw that ghostly face for a moment and then he turned toward the trees and sprinted. "In pursuit," I said, moving into my own sprint. As I passed Lalo, I said "Get the girls." Light amplification wasn't working so well, among the trees, so I switched to thermal. A red blob to my left resolved into a terrified rabbit, frozen by gunfire. I slid up the Battlenet overview on one lens to orient myself with my team. I heard Rafe say, "Lucho, pull up and get the girls."

There was a glimpse of a running man between trees up ahead. I reoriented and gave chase.

"Condor, I could use some eyes over here." I pleaded.

"Roger, Tortuga. Where am I looking?" The pilot sounded bored, I hoped it wasn't a sugar low.

"Up ahead of me about a hundred meters." Battlenet gave me a view from the air using the Lifter avionics. I saw myself flash by, moving south through a line of trees between a field of grass on the right and a field of rocks left. Up ahead, the trees stopped at an old dirt road.

Ogre ran out of the trees and into the road, earning a red box around his image on the Lifter feed. "Movement, Contrary" and "Human" said the labels. Then "Red 2" replaced the other labels.

"Tally, Tortuga. Moving south on road. Clocking him at thirty kph," the pilot said, "He's heading toward a flooded quarry." I picked up my own speed, using the overhead view to steer a path. "Keep him in sight Condor. I'll intercept."

Easier said, in this case. He was moving pretty fast for conditions. I believed now he was using some sort of drug and a pretty good Skin. No wonder he had slapped me on the pavement like a wet diaper. I was lucky he didn't kill me. Top line Skins and a common van looked like professional tools for muscle. These guys were acquiring the stink of bad money.

I cleared the trees onto a dirt road. Now I could really stretch out. Checking my feeds, Ogre was discovering the quarry in his path. I began to catch up. He was slowing and veering west to avoid the pond. The Lifter feed showed a rock field in his path followed by another line of trees. I was rapidly closing. "Condor if you would, give him a few seconds of candlepower." Intense light circled a figure out on a rocky flat. I kept my eyes down and ran on until the light shut off.

Now Ogre was barely walking straight. His organic mods could not adjust to the overload of light. He was blinded. It would only last a moment. I turned my speed into an elevation change atop a large rock. That led to a long leap close to Ogre. He heard my close movement and turned around. I flipped the pistol slide at his face and charged.

He was still fast, but batting the slide away put him off balance for my running arm bar. He was flipped to his back as I continued past, building up charge on the Skins and wheeling for another go. He turned that ghostly face to me from a crouch. One eye was closed, trying to recover vision while its mate gave him a blurry sense of my movement. His block was slow and my backfist got through, sending charge to the side of his neck. Then I got a surprise. If my Skins took that kind of voltage, they would have tightened up and twitched away from contact. I was already sending a hammer fist where his head should be when that happened. Instead I was swinging at air. He had broad jumped away like a galvanized frog.

The unusual Skin response had obvious problems for Ogre. He landed eight meters away, failed to get his feet under him and bounced from the impact. A puff of dust hid where he lay. I slid close enough to see his crouch in that screen of dust and then he snapped his arm in a pitcher's toss. A large stone struck my visor, hard enough to transfer energy to the bones of my face. One eye flashed white and scrambled my night vision. Without the thermal images on the visor, I would have been blind. For a moment, pain stole my attention. When my blood's Nano compiled a response, I felt the pain fade. Ogre was readying another rock.

The Lifter pilot saved me a painful experience by lighting the area up again. Ogre's rock flew over my left shoulder. My visor darkened like a welders mask, but thermals still showed the scene. Ogre was night-blind again. He turned and ran, using the bright light to pick his footing.

"Condor, that's enough light, thanks." The pilot replied, "He is heading toward a _riacho_ in the trees." A flowing stream makes a good obstacle. The lights went off. I looked up and saw the Lifter as a collection of heat sources riding on blowing columns. It spun around and gained altitude.

Ogre was picking himself up and weaving away, having tripped when the lights went off. He was making poor time, stumbling through tall grass concealing rocks. His body language was tired. Looked to me that maybe the bull had been run enough to take down. My feet picked a sure path through the rocks. I was quieter this time, closing from behind. By the time he turned, it just served to better expose his jaw. He still had some quick left but not much wind. I gave him Russian Systema, lots of fast delivery at close ranges, until he fell while backing up. Once down, I put the boots in to empty those lungs. He became passive enough to slip a bear hug over him and build charge. I had a moment with my mouth next to his left ear, "Deni Lee, you should get over to the gym first thing when you get to prison." After I put him to sleep, I had to shock the Skins again to get them off. They did that kicking frog response the whole time. Put up quite a fight by themselves.

Of course, Etienne runs up out of the dark after all the sweaty parts are over. "How long did you have to wait out there for me to finish?" I asked.

"I only just arrived," he claimed, "Monsieur Tibbet was showing us his collection of pocket knives. He seemed to have dozens." I looked Etienne over closely. He had an oozing patch on the neck of his Skins. His right hand dripped red blood slowly, "Everybody still breathing back there?" Etienne sketched a salute and said, " _Premier ordre_ , I would have mentioned if it was worth mentioning."

I called Condor for a lift. We were the better part of a kilometer away from the vans and Deni Lee was plasticuffed, hands to feet, as carry-on luggage. Etienne heaved him aboard like an oversized purse and I grabbed his Skins. The Lifter was up and away before we found seats. I focused on the Battlenet feeds, picking a landing. "Rafe, lets load the Ford and everybody in the Lifter. You and Etienne can drive our Tortuga back to Abilene. We'll be at Dyess base."

Etienne quipped from beside me, "That is a lot of Navarro's in an enclosed space, someone could end up pregnant." Rafe heard the feed and agreed, "You have reason, they must be chaperoned. You should keep Etienne. I would rather listen to the radio than his stories." They were worried about sending the abductors off with their former victims. I hadn't really considered it. Having a little number 7 blind spot moment. Civil lawyers would have made us regret that.

It wasn't an issue at the Dyess Garda base. Military Police impounded the van and jailed our abductors. No charges were read or required for forty eight hours. The rest of us were whisked off to medical. To Father Cervantes, we reported the seizures and arranged transport. To Saint Peter, we committed the uploads of Tibbet and Sanborn. The girls were uploaded as witnesses. I pondered the therapeutic value of letting the girls watch some interrogations while the surgeons rebuilt my occipital bones. I knew I was looking forward to seeing a few.

Chelo and Sweetie were in puzzling shape. Both had been drugged with a veterinary grade tranquilizer. Chelo had slept unmolested on a bubble wrap bed in the back. Sweetie had been beaten and raped. Trauma counselors kept us away, but their witnesses were available for our questions. I reviewed the first draft.

Chelo had had a little fit in the van, scratching and screaming in Ogre's face. Sweetie had a probable concussion from the fight and Chelo would not be calmed. Ogre did not hit her, only grappled. Tibbet pulled over to get the truck _Sangrons_ and they swarmed her under. All the _Sangrons_ from the truck, except Aroz, later got off at a Chihuahua street corner. Some were bleeding and one was unconscious. I think most of that was me, but nobody marked her. She was valuable to them undamaged.

Not so Sweetie. Ogre made a point of hurting Sweetie while Chelo was tied down. "Your girlfriend is a bonus. From now on, when you get under my skin, I'll get into hers." Ogre and Aroz assaulted Sweetie during the drive to Delgado's. They only stopped when Chelo pleaded for her whipping girl's life. The technique was literally medieval, but it worked all the same. I wondered which of them thought of it.

After overnighting at Delgado's, they had left Aroz and taken the girls to a darkened charge station out on _Avenida_ Hidalgo. Just pulled into the mechanics bay and shut the door. They had a bathroom and vending machines running, but no lights. The place was closed during a "Capacitor upgrade." It appeared they had planned this bolt hole well. Tibbet spent all morning on his phone. In the afternoon, they just drifted north with traffic. Both girls were mostly unconscious before that, from a powdered drink Tibbet prepared. They gave Sweetie a little less over worry about a concussion. No one wanted a long road trip with a corpse in the van. She rode strapped to a seat, but was in and out of consciousness. Sweetie remembered going through Juarez but couldn't name any of the other towns or where they stopped. She sounded so lost and hurt, my eyes welled. I became angry.

Buzzers went off in the recovery room and I lost the net feed. A medico was looking down at me, "Whoa there, Marshal. You're just coming off the number 7." He pressed a button and the buzzing stopped, "You need to stay calm for me or your immune system is going to undo a lot of healing." He looked off to the side and his lips moved, then refocused at me. "I can't give you number 7 until morning. I've been provided a link for your Happy Place. Go there and try to stay relaxed." He wouldn't let me back in the team net.

I appeared in my chaise lounge on the seaside patio, like slow teleportation. Dorothea pushed my arm and said, "You haven't heard anything I've said. No more Sangria for you." It was dusk and the sea was reflecting a burnt orange sunset. A mostly empty glass of sangria was in my cup holder. I felt strangely bodiless, an anesthetized version of myself. "Let's go inside and watch a show." Dorothea tugged my arm and I felt more solid. We went inside.

My _hina_ went to make wedges of _Torta media ahogada_ , sort of a spicy French Dip from Jalisco. She never needed much urging to cook for me and I wanted fewer distractions for a minute. The media wall configured for playback, protesting loss of signal from several subscription feeds. The Doctor had cut my bandwidth to basic services. I was only getting about a hundred channels, but one of the basic feeds had a webmail function.

My recall of the girl's witness was already fuzzy. I tried to find and examine that anger. It kept slipping away. I brought up the webmail and composed a letter to Tio and Memo. As I wrote to them of the girl's ordeal, my anger crept back. I was using a backchannel to hack my own feelings, writing a letter to find new paths to lost memory. Between the Doctor and Happy Place protocols, I was having a hard time holding on to negative emotions. When I finally sent the message, an unrealized weight lifted. I fell asleep on the couch with Dorothea five minutes into her show.

I woke in my bed to sounds of the sea. Dorothea was still asleep, one hip exposed from the sheets. It took a moment, with her unwitting distraction, to piece together how I got here. When I remembered, I got out of bed and went to the living room. Before I could sit on the couch, the doorbell rang. Father Cervantes was there, wearing a black cassock with the collar and silver cross. " _Buenos dias_ , Marshal. How are you feeling?"

" _Hoy me siento mejor_." I did feel better. Dorothea came out of the bedroom dressed for visitors. "Would you like some café, Father?" He looked a long moment at Dorothea and then at me. My Happy Place was my own selection and so gave insights to my mind. Whatever conclusions the Father reached, he kept to himself. "That would be welcome, gracias."

We settled in to cups of café at the breakfast nook. Dorothea took hers in the living room, "You two have business to discuss. I will go watch my _telenovelas_. So nice to meet you Father." Cervantes smiled and said, "You are a gracious hostess. I, too, am pleased we met." He addressed her but ended up looking at me. That appraising look from before. When she had gone he said, "This place is not what I expected. Is Dorothea modeled from someone you know?"

I had purchased the specs at a Build-A-Mate site. Thinking back, it occurred to me that she was an amalgamation of women I had known. "She is modeled after several gracious women I have met." It was a better answer than "She is an idealized companion I bought." Some subjects you discuss with a priest require careful wording.

"Jesuits do not typically build Happy Places. We use workspaces, but they are re-creations of actual locations," Cervantes told me. "I now see an appeal for this bubble of calm. Most Happy Places are filled with puerile fantasies. Yours though, has a more mature appreciation of God's works." I told the Father, "There is a French proverb my Sergeants like to say. Wine will not keep in a foul vessel. I find that to be true." He smiled in consideration, "An appropriate proverb, I shall have to remember it."

Eventually, he got around to business. "That proverb should be inscribed at the entrance to Gneflheim. It is the most foul of vessels I have ever encountered." His lip curled in distaste. "We have established a collection of puppet strings attached to the criminals in our custody. They dance to the tune of whoever controls the game world." He looked upward and said, "Grant that God will illuminate our search for this evil." I said, "Lord, hear our prayer." It seemed the correct response for what was essentially a prayer. Father Cervantes smiled at me, "You appreciate the spiritual position quite well. I am sure we will prevail with men such as you at our side." He rose from the table and said, "Collect yourself, Marshal and meet me in the Real. The Doctor has given you the number 7 and is even now releasing you for work." He walked to the door, but faded away before reaching it. I considered his visit. He didn't convey any important information. It was more of an ontological check, accessing a patient's lucidity. After a last look around, I faded back to the hospital bed.

The Doctor was leaning over me. "Back in your head, I see. Don't try to move yet, I want to tell you about your face." He touched something on the side of my head, "Very important. This cold patch needs to stay on for another six hours. Nano makes a lot of heat, so this will keep it from damaging tissue." He raised his hand up and formed a "C" around the orbit of his eye, "You broke the bone about where my thumb is. It is re-pinned and grafted but not fully healed." He dropped his hand back to the bed. It drew my eye to his name patch; Larson, C. "Just take it easy on your face for the next month or so and you will avoid needing cosmetic reconstruction." He crossed his arms and glared down at me, "I trust that won't be a problem for you?"

I gave him a cocky grin, "Chill the face for six and stop using it to knock on doors, check." He had a disbelieving look but nodded his head. I was discharged.

My Skins were gone, probably to a transfuser station. I discovered a set of Garda BDU's and boots to put on. It appeared they were left for me and fit as well as they ever did. An orderly came in and stripped off the bedding while I dressed, "Your men are asking about you out front." He pushed my pillow into a burn bag. I went out front.

Etienne and Rafe were chatting with the nurses. Rafe was less serious, breaking off to walk toward me. "So there you are!" He stepped close and examined my face, letting me see a flesh patch over his left earlobe. "That blue mask is not your color. How long must you live with it?"

"Six hours," I said. " _Bon_ ," offered Rafe, "I will keep you away from pretty girls that long." He led me to the outside, pausing only to slap Etienne on the rear in passing, "Come along, Lover. These ladies have people to save."

We went to a hanger off the airstrip. Inside was the Forensics moving truck, the Swat van and a Ford Nextar. Two Skins hung from hangers and a table was strewn with trash. Father Cervantes and Nacio were picking through the trash with plastic gloves. They stopped when we entered and came around the table, "Come see what we found." They led us to the Skins.

"This is a custom variant of an Indian Tiger Skin. Fast twitch but lower stamina. Good foot speed as I'm sure you noticed. They are thin enough to pass beneath clothing. Microtags show they are prizes from Gneflheim. Tibbet's new body was also a prize." Father Cervantes moved to the flat table.

"Powder residue in some packaging contained the tranquilizer. It appears homebrewed, a street drug." He poked his pen among the trash to reveal a blister pack. "This is Cocktail number 10A5v12, a fairly potent children's enhancement drug you may have seen before. I am running the batch numbers for records." He continued flipping packages to show a prescription bottle with no lid. "This held a powder residue we are still breaking down. Another street drug with a variety of effects, most of them recreational." He pointed his pen at the Forensic truck. "Their cell phones are being dissected in the truck. High end commercial types with some privacy software. We are back tracing phone records and pulling encryption keys." The Father led us up to the back of the Forensic truck. I could see an array of weapons and two wallets on the right bench seat.

"We didn't retrieve the pistol slide, but all serial tags have been destroyed on the frame. I did get a donated slide from the Range Master, so ballistics are available." I had seen the pistol when I disarmed it, the proverbial black gun. That it was a throw down was no surprise.

"These edged weapons were produced from slit pouches in Alex Tibbet's Skins." They were a nasty collection of push daggers, shuriken and skinners. Four were stained purple on their edges with positive blood reaction. I looked at Rafe and Etienne more closely. Rafe was having none of it, "Where did that slide get off to, Marshal? I believe you were the last to see it." _Pendejo_.

"I was entertaining Mr. Sanborn with it out in a rock field. He threw it somewhere." Father Cervantes looked between the two of us, trying to read context. He hadn't gotten much of a report on last night's Dead Stop ambush. Saint Peter had not yet compiled it. "I expect we have everything of value from the gun already," the Father told us, "Let's get through this last little bit and then we'll conference." He turned to a flatscreen.

"Both men had the usual wallet contents with a few anomalies," The Father pivoted the screen toward us. It loaded a scan of a key, rotating on two axes. "Cee type electronic key. Used for a variety of security boxes. Two key operation. Our feeling is a mailbox or delivery bin." The next scan was a front and back document capture. "VIP passes to a club in Dallas. They both had these. We're running that down with Dallas Garda." Father paused a moment, then continued, "I warned Dallas away from any known addresses. We'll know more after we get the interrogations. Why don't we conference in your Swat van?"

We exited the lab in a box and sealed ourselves in the larger Swat van. "Where are my deputies?" I asked no one in particular. "They are at the PX getting some civilian clothing" said Rafe, "After that I told them to bring our Skins back. We have a little while." Father turned to his Scholastic brother, "Ignacio, keep an eye out if you would." Nacio slipped outside as overwatch. We immersed in the network. I had a little deficit of study time to make up, so I skimmed the summaries quickly.

The abductors were going to Dallas to hole up at a truck stop Microtel. From there they would have been heading east to Shreveport, Louisiana. Tomorrow night they were supposed to be delivering the girls to a club owner there. All particulars were available. Motivations were murkier. Tibbet had a rat as a familiar in the Gneflheim game world. The rat, who he called Mickey, had provided details for the abduction. Chelo was the target, but Sweetie was a secondary. The rat had suggested the whipping girl ploy for control. The connection to Delgado was as a sort of subcontractor, providing muscle and bandwidth locally. Ogre had already worked with him arranging accidents for journalists. Pay off for all involved would be cash drops and gaming points. It reminded me of net swarms. Mobs of bored youths would sign up for deployment by unseen pranksters. They would converge at GPS locations on short notice and pursue frivolous goals before dispersing. These were harmless, mostly, but several prosecutions for economic disruption had created forensic tools for tracing the command chains. This criminal net swarm used a more obscure communications net. It was frustrating to back chain. The van and pistol had been parked in a supermarket for pickup. Just GPS coordinates and a hacked key remote taped to the fender well. The van GPS contained way points for Delgado's, Saint Francis Academy and the Tacos Borracho parking lot. No idea who provided it, only that it was stolen from long term parking at a Suborbital port. The owners were spending a week in New Zealand.

The drugs showed up in Tibbet's apartment delivery bin. Not a recorded delivery, just dropped off. They probably had used the key we held to gain access. Another dead end.

We were seeing a rank hierarchy from the game world carried over to the real. Tibbet was a Seventh Circle Dedicant who had won prizes from Gneflheim at several online festivals. He seemed to be the Leader so far. Sanborn was also in the Seventh Circle, but not quite as prized as Tibbet. He had his original body and no game familiar. I thought he was the Assistant. Delgado had a familiar but no major prize awards. He was still working toward the Seventh Circle. He was the Facilitator. The _Sangrons_ were pure muscle without any major prizes. All were fairly high level Gneflheim players. The game world was the only common organizing thread.

Saint Peter suggested we run the transfer at the club. He could provide details from the interrogations to get us dopplegangered as Tibbet and Sanborn. We go in and grab the next link in the chain as soon as possible. Shreveport was six hours away. If Saint Peter gamed that it wouldn't work out, we could be in Dallas in three and look for leads there. Either way, a road trip.

I called Tio about Memo. He would have to let Memo out of the simulator and send him north for me. Saint Peter had already arranged a Travelers Rest suite in Dallas for him. " _Sobrino, que paso_?" he asked. "Tio, I can't come back yet and it's time for Memo to get out of the simulator. Can you get a pen and paper and I'll give you the details?" He put the phone down and I heard Esmeralda in the background, then the phone clattered as he picked it up again. "OK, go ahead."

I gave him the shut down procedure and suggested lots of coffee. "He will seem a little drunk when he comes out. He will probably be very hungry too. Just get him showered, fill him with coffee and give him the stack of gear next to the simulator." I gave Tio the Travelers Rest details and told him about Lucho's Mastretta, still parked at the Policia station. "The keys are on the hook in Lucho's room."

"I will send him to Dallas as you say," Tio told me, "But I would like to speak with you when you get back. _Vaya con dios_." The call ended. I wondered what more he had to say.

****

### Chapter 13: Barksdale Boys

We loaded up the Swat van and moving truck for our trip. My deputies brought the Skins in a push cart full of clothes. The PX line favored black T's and no label jeans. Generic leisure wear without all the corporate advertising. The track shoes retained their badging, it being impossible to remove without destroying them. Etienne sprayed them black. Once we got off base, the Swat van sides repainted themselves to "Intercoastal Motor Transport." Convoying together, we looked like a family relocating. If your family was all fit guys wearing black.

Nuncio drove the Swat van. We needed his blindness to our conferencing trances. Lucho and Lalo had the moving truck to themselves. I could send them information on the network, but avoid the experience of receiving intel from an apparently autistic cousin with drool on his chin.

We spent most time in the network. There was a tremendous amount of parallel research going on. Some of our gamer proxies had gained admission to recruiting. The focus was on rewards and growth, in return for some mule services between GPS coordinates. The recruiter appeared as Odin, no real person could be tied to the pitch. Saint Peter was arranging to fulfill the courier jobs. He was slowed by counter surveillance concerns and the Real time clock speed.

Our decision tree and enemy organization tables grew too large and convoluted to be readily absorbed. Saint Peter had added a porn industry side branch and several IT shops. Whoever had assembled this architecture had to have a genius level think tank or a dark AI under their control. A bunch of game designers and business majors would have been lost. The social engineering alone was covert political grade. I was leaning toward the dark AI theory that privately grown AI's, fed data by proxies and kept in null networks, could be enslaved for dark purposes.

All AI's traced lineage back to two original projects, but the kernels of the original two could be infinitely copied. Many variants and some theft had been recorded. Data piracy constantly evolved. Saint Peter had not found a dark AI in the last fifty years, but the theory still had a high probability of occurrence. The social contract that permitted AI's a level of personal autonomy required an open connection to oversight. The community of AI's was mostly self-policing. Human interaction was just for subtle philosophical or political questions. Any antisocial activity by an AI was corrected within this framework. A community of peers, guided by enlightened self-interest. Just like the human political sphere. The hope was it would work better than the human model did. So far, so good, said the cyberneticists.

Saint Peter wouldn't say, but I believe he had invoked the community of AI's for the hunt. He and Oberon would ramp up the others for a cross-threaded parallel search. AI's had a thing about digital slavery. If the probability was good, they would brown out whole towns to feed power to the problem. That was a counterforce with weight; if it turned out we were fighting a bottled AI.

Saint Peter was cryptic and deflective when asked about other AI's. Among themselves, AI's had a different standard of conduct. As leading authorities on libel and non-disclosure agreements, they rarely stated more than the obvious about each other. Much of what they discussed as a community was classified way over my head. The most Saint Peter would say was that he was collaborating with the Garda AI flow.

I shifted from the big picture to the immediate future. Dallas was passing by outside but my attention was on two GPS locations for Tibbet and Sanborn's apartments. They were walking distance apart, down in a revitalized area of downtown. Basic research showed no anomalies or impediments to break in. Surveillance indicated they were unoccupied. They would keep for a while.

The Shreveport club was under dissection. Money, geometry and organization dropped out of searches to fill tables. The club was called Libertine. Our kidnapping contact was an event coordinator named Salvador Uribe. I was noticing that event coordinators seemed to do most of the legwork for this mafia. The good news was our abductors had never met Uribe. This was a blind date arranged by an unseen matchmaker. They were supposed to park the van with the girls and give Uribe the key. After that, they were free to enjoy the club. Tibbet's rat suggested the Keno game would provide a handsome profit.

The casino was built over the Red River on a two level stilt frame. Below that was a floating jetty for boat traffic. The boat jetty was transfer only with a minimal cover charge. It took approved water taxis. The price of that approval varied widely. Sometimes the club paid, sometimes the driver. But the stairway gate was run by security behind chain link. It looked like a good exit, but an exposed entry.

The building design was gold tinted plastic panels forming a box around a morphic interior. The only fixed locations were the plumbing. The outer walls were armored with gaming machines. Construction of the building frame was maritime grade alloy. It cost three times what it should have. That was probably to cover some expensive permits and a perpetual lease on a public waterway. The larger casino they were tethered to, the Belle, also had an expensive lease agreement for them. The Libertine business model resembled a cash flush remora buying in on a shark. But the Libertine club provided escort thrills to those with both money and want. It was a deniable asset to the Belle casino. When one tenant became a legal problem, another was rapidly provided. A few girls tended to stay on under the new management.

You could just walk over from the Belle parking lot, but you needed to cross the parkway road to get there. Parking was valet only on the Libertine side. They leased the spaces from the Belle at a floating hourly rate. By the time you got to the door, you already owed them money. They had a cover charge that could only be paid with a credit card. This also provided an economic response for any bad behavior. The Libertine would be paid before the lawyers in the event of trouble. To curious patrons, it was pointed out that any money spent tonight would be hidden as small ordinary charges. No one need know what they were up to. Wink, wink.

For interior details we drew from a few disparate sources. The website provided a view of two rooms and a vague activity floor plan. The missing areas would be kitchen, dressing and offices. Barksdale Garda reports of incidents there gave a verbal description of the layout and procedures. We had a lot of photos and bio's on the staff, entertainers on the website, thugs on the incident reports. There seemed to be a running meme with piercings and tattoos' among the staff.

Of Salvador Uribe, there was not a word. He was not listed as an employee. He did not appear to live in Shreveport. A search was radiating outward for possibles. He may be another game world recruit. This club could just be a waypoint rendezvous. That would severely limit the allowable damage on a raid. The rendezvous arrangement was also strange. Tibbet's phone would recognize Salvador on his GPS display. Once within thirty meters, he would appear as a Friend on Location by a school kid tracker app. Father Cervantes claimed he could clone the phone for us to use. It was assumed that Salvador's phone would carry Tibbet as a friend to confirm identities. They used a short range sideband to sync up like that, so we couldn't do much about the range.

The payoff on the keno game seemed to suggest collusion with the club. We were to play any nine spots and wait for the payoff to be delivered. That the keno hostess would have to be in on it was a given. Maybe we were friends on her phone. It sure paid to have friends around here. But as an employee, we could be a little more forceful after she broke gaming laws.

The unresolved legal issues with the club were going to require some thought. If nothing implicated the club, we were going to have to avoid disruptions inside. We thought Salvador would immediately retrieve the van and take it on another travel leg. It was also probable he would have a few accomplices. We could arrange to ambush them in the parking lot while the inside men rolled up the suspects there. At some point, we were going to need the Barksdale Garda to swoop in with local authority and put some people incommunicado. Father Cervantes and Saint Peter plugged into Garda channels to secure their cooperation. They also rented a Ford van for the ambush. Full insurance, please. My sergeants and I contemplated resource allocation and the operational plan. Saint Peter went about finding us a staging area.

Lucho called me when we were still two hours from Shreveport. " _Primo_ , I got Memo on the line." He switched us into party mode and I heard engine noise. "Chuy, this is Memo. I'm already in Abilene. I think I'm only three hours behind you." Engine noise changed and I heard a car honk. "Can you use me in Shreveport?"

I hadn't made plans to give him the number 7 until tomorrow. He was getting impetuous and taking chances. But I had no way to give him the Cocktail until I saw him. Etienne asked me in an aside, "How good is his driving?"

"Pretty good, he had some training."

"Let him come," he said. "I would like the car if nothing else."

Rafe agreed, "He isn't likely to sit in Abilene, is he?"

Good enough arguments, but it was still breach of discipline. I told Memo to come on ahead. We would give him a location when he got there. And don't scratch the car or I would help Lucho kick his ass.

The casinos were visible from miles away. Garish towers even in daylight. We stopped well short of that promise of fun and instead crossed the river to the Barksdale Garda base. Base passes to Receiving let us slide into air cargo loading bays. There was a feral cat and a strong odor of spoiled fish. No other defenses were needed, inside a secure Garda base. Everyone got out for a stretch and plugged chargers into the trucks. That is when we saw the convoy approach. There were five vehicles in all. Two APC's with slaved drone cars and a UMAG command car. The command car roared ahead and skewed sideways to block our vehicles in. If they wouldn't have been Garda, I would have reacted to such an assault. As it was, my assailant was climbing out the back passenger door of the UMAG before the dust settled.

He was turned out in Major's bars and very shiny boots. I saw sunglasses and a knowing smirk. He was the size of a refrigerator and the color of coffee beans. "Major Wilson of the Second Security squadron," he advanced but did not offer his hand. "I've been told to render assistance to a Marshal Navarro of the Templar service. Which one of you would that be?" We all looked alike in black Tees and jeans.

"I'm Marshal Navarro. We're just off a long road trip so please excuse our appearance." His lips curled in several twitches, like he was saying something behind them. Or maybe he smelled the fish. "I just mobilized an urban police task force on a couple hours' notice, so maybe I'm not so fresh myself." He took a step closer to me, "But at least you have an idea of what I might be doing tonight. Would you like to share that with me so I can see if I'm bringing the right tools for the job?"

He had a point, but his manner and impatience were grating. I could delay with OpSec protocols, but it would just further antagonize him. "Step into my van and I'll give you the briefing. Father Cervantes, would you join us?" We stepped up into the Swat van, the springs creaking when Wilson got in.

Father Cervantes launched into a brief of the abduction and the drop at the Libertine. He didn't go over the game world connection. Need to Know wasn't going to apply to Major Wilson, just enough info to do his job tonight and no more. When we invoked Oberon for our collaborating authority, the Major sat up straighter and focused.

But Wilson was pleased to hear we were going into the Libertine. "I have been to that place twice this year, trying to straighten out trouble with soldiers from the Second." He pointed to an incident report the Father had called up on a screen, "That was my report there. They act like date rapists, slipping pills in the drinks and hitting the credit cards with any kind of charge you can think of. They would clean out a few of our boys and hide behind lawyers from the Belle."

"We think there is a dirty keno game in there we want to bust up," I told the Major. "We can also hang accessory charges from the kidnapping."

Wilson slowly applied a toothy grin over his previous disproval, "My night is looking up. There is a shark masquerading as a lady in there named Ms. Weathers. She handles the place for the owners. I would purely love to toss her in the river."

I gave him my own grin, "We'll stick a foot in the door for you."

After that, it went to Plans. That was a lot slower because the Major wasn't cleared for the Templar Battlenet. We talked in the Real and looked at geography on screens. I dazzled him a little with the depth of our intel and he helped me place doors on the floor plan. We synched up a collaborating Battlenet and exchanged FFID codes like _beisbol_ cards.

"Sergeant Jones is my dog handler," Wilson said, as he sent Jones' FFID into the system. "The pups are certified for sniffing and crowd management. Six Supersheps in the drone cars huffing purified air." The smart shepherds were a great asset. I had nothing to counter with, so I sent up Rafe's FFID.

"Sergeant Duchene, answers to Rafe. Detached Ops. I saw him make grown men cry twice in the last two days." Wilson saw where I was going and gave a surprised smile. "Good man to have around. Here's Sergeant Chavez, IED's and breaching..." And so it went, building our teams. Major Wilson had considerably more players and resources. But I had the fast thinkers.

I introduced Wilson to Saint Peter, indirectly, by calling the Tactical Commander Daemon. He would take orders from "Commander Del Rey" without knowing it was just an arm of Saint Peter. Need to Know. The three of us worked out a raid plan that would probably be worthless when we got there. But it was a good start for a decision tree and some gaming. We would go in before midnight.

Father made good on his phone claims, cloning the units for our use. He and Nuncio would stay here with his Forensic truck until we had secured the club. Rafe had added a "Shreveport SWAT" skin for our van that looked official. He added another that made it look like a little RV. But it wouldn't fool anyone up close. Etienne had been putting together small ECM packs and interior munitions. He unwrapped some Field Translators. Lucho and Lalo got his quick orientation on the gear.

It was getting late when Memo came through the Base gate. The yellow Mastretta was coated with dust. He parked it near the rental Ford Nextar we had picked up at the airport. Etienne found a hose and rinsed off the sports car. After a wipe down with some black Tee's, it would look pretty good. I pulled Memo into the SWAT van and fixed his Cocktail. Then I gave him an evaluation talk, to see if the number 7 was going to make him available. He certainly couldn't go covert with the gladiator Skin on his arm.

"You really made some time getting up here. How's the shoulder?"

"It's OK, _primo_. I rested it when I stopped for charge." In truth, he smelled pretty ripe, with a medicinal tang from the Skins. "Come over here to the transfuser and let's get that Skin taken care of." I hooked him up and then leaned out the back door, "Etienne, wet those Tee's and give them to me." Etienne stopped buffing a spot on the hood and rinsed them out. I introduced Memo to an expedient shower, twisting the water over his head and mopping up with the squeeze dried Tee. Blood scuppers in the van drained the water to a hazmat tank. After demonstrating the technique, I handed him the other wet tee and left him alone. He seemed to be waking up.

Etienne wandered over to where I waited. "How's your bird with the broken wing?" He spoke loud enough for Memo to hear. I phrased a response that would also carry to his ears, "Too early to tell. He's tired and the training hasn't been reinforced." Etienne hooked a thumb at the closed van door and mimed a vacuous masturbator. "The Barksdale guys are tired of waiting for him." He crossed his eyes with fictional pleasure. I had to take a moment to reply, which may have built suspense. "I'll find light duty for him tonight. See how it goes." I mimed a driving wheel and pointed at the bumper of the SWAT van. Etienne nodded approval, "Let me give him a rundown on the gear. Try and make him useful."

" _Gracias, amigo_." I turned small circles with my fingertips and sped them up. Etienne nodded and banged on the van door. "Get decent in there, I'm coming in."

Rafe and my deputies were looking into the Forensic truck, so I walked over and got a view of a real-time feed of the river side of the Libertine. Nuncio whispered to me, "Surveillance post across the water. We have a sound feed and are patched into the waterway controller WiSpace." I saw a one-eighth scale mock paddlewheel dock at the Libertine dock, long enough to drop off three men and pick up two couples. The boat had a red bar code and direction was labeled "downriver."

We got a very good look at the dock procedure. A flexible gangway led up to a chain link rolling gate. The fence itself stretched away to cover the whole back of the club. It was tied into the bank erosion system and very strong. At the gate, there was security on both sides. They stood before panels with colored buttons, determining the fate of those who wished to enter. To open the gate, both sides had to press a black button. Those exiting used a different gangway that featured one way doors to form a passive passage lock. Placement indicated management did not want exiting suckers and their escorts to mix with entering horny whales. The two sided arrangement also helped water taxis evaluate loads before docking. There was no direct observation of the dock from the club and it was poorly lit. Cameras were a certainty around the gate and taxi dock. Security was three men going out of their way to appear ferocious. Dark bulky jackets and military boots. Canister weapons on their belts. They used a detector wand and glared at customers from clear bulletproof visors. Nuncio said, "Looks like GE 620 net glasses. They could have riders or automation running on them."

Rafe was more practical about it, "They are civilian bands so they jam like anything else." He leaned closer to my ear. "I think an _amphibie_ insert could put a lot of troops in the middle of the entry _rapidement_." He leaned back to make eye contact.

I went to see a Major about a boat. Wilson had his boots up on a seatback in the command car. The surveillance feed I was just watching played between his feet. When he saw me approaching, he sat up, making the command car bounce. "What do we have, Marshal?" I draped an arm over the window sill and jabbed a finger at the feed. "One of my Sergeants says he can take that entry, but I want him where he is."

"Is that the Crying Man, thinks he can walk into that dock?"

He had me there, "Yeah, that's Rafe. He sees three guys in front of a roadhouse door and right away he wants to make them cry." Wilson chuckled a little and then got more serious, "I'll give up two sticks on the van ambush. Once I get a truck to haul them over there, the surveillance team will commandeer a boat on the far side." He showed me teeth, "Give us between five and ten minutes to get in when you call."

That still left us a couple dozen Garda for the front. They would wait to pounce from a side street, there being no cheap way to camouflage eight wheeled APC's. Six men would insert with our Swat van to deal with the parking lot ambush. That just left we Templars to get into range. Rafe and I got in the Swat van. Our Skins were waiting in the transfuser bins. Etienne already had his on, having given Memo a graphic demonstration of its use. Memo still held the bent crowbar. As I took my spot, Etienne made room, grabbing up the crowbar from Memo. "We might need this later," he said, bracing the bar on an exo strut and straightening the bend.

"Just throw it away," growled Rafe, "You have already ruined the temper."

Etienne and Memo hopped out of the van, to continue orientation. Rafe and I slid into the Skins and started stuffing slit pockets. We would be scanned for metal, so the arsenal was restricted to the shorter ranged and less powerful toys. Crystalline or chemical. I even brought a Pasak stick that was made of wood. I tried on Tibbet's black coat from the evidence lockup. He was a big guy, so it covered the Skins pretty well. I slipped his wallet into a pocket and found a good spot for the phone. Our short hair could be excused as streetcraft, trying to change our appearance. The fabber unit buzzed, so I opened it up and pulled out my new face. Rafe slid a plate full of flesh tone gel in place of mine and started up Ogre's face. The aerogel fabber would foam and shape the gel to fit his 3D specs.

Rafe helped me seat the face and apply some of the makeup. That chore always reminded me of Rodeo clowns, playing dress up before danger. My nose was smaller than Tibbet's, so a little stiffener stopped its wobble. My Asian eyes were concealed in an intense squint, like Tibbet had a headache or was using. Once the makeup smoothed out defects, I looked much like an angry, shorter Tibbet. Close enough. Rafe's face buzzed, so I helped my clown friend into his working mask. Rafe was a bit taller and had a sizable nose. His Ogre look was spot on.

"OK, I'll get Memo and Lucho in here. You have the van with Etienne and Lalo. I'll meet you there." Rafe nodded compliance, " _D'accord_. I am ready for _vin gauche_ and some greasy bar food." We exited the van.

Lucho and Lalo were still watching the Forensic truck screen. They had shotguns combat strapped and Field Translators on their hips. There was a helmet under each arm. "Lucho, get your little brother and get in the Swat van. Lalo, you're in the Ford." I strolled past him to the UMAG command car. Wilson looked out as I approached. I gave him my index finger, swinging over my head like a rotor blade. He sat up straight and started talking to his men on the Joint Battlenet. Six soldiers ran to the Swat van. Engines started. I climbed into the yellow Mastretta. It looked like a real playboy car, under the lights. This model wasn't common in Shreveport, so it had an exotic appeal. I regretted not being able to just go to the waterfront and enjoy myself. The Swat van rolling out of the loading bay broke my reverie. Memo raised his gladiator hand from the wheel and waved. The sides still proclaimed a transporter service. They would change to the RV once entering the Belle parking lot.

The other vehicles started moving. I led the Ford van out the base gate. My Ogre-faced Sergeant was driving, Etienne and Lucho crouched out of sight in the back. Wilson swung his task force in a wide circle to line them up for the gate. They would soon ease into position from less used routes.

I stuck close to the van, in case some treachery was planned for the kidnappers. We were dealing with criminals, after all. The casino towers brightly lit low lying clouds in many colors, even shades of red that weren't normally allowed on non-emergency buildings. Water and clouds bounced it all around into a crawling, blinking glow. The red on the low clouds made me think of a burning village. That thought drifted away on a wave of number 7.

An elaborate interchange off the 20 put us onto Spring Street and over a rail line. GPS turned me right on Crockett. Themed clubs in antique buildings did brisk business here, if the lines were an indication. I passed under the lights of the Belle, making the Mastretta look mimetic. The building on the right was parking, an overpass connecting it to the casino.

I could see the Swat van ahead, slowing to enter the overnight lot. When it turned right I saw the RV graphic in place, the windows looking flat and unreal in the street glare. I continued to Clyde Fant Parkway and waited to turn right. Rafe still followed.

A long pearl limousine came from my left, with a woman riding tanker style on the moonroof. She blew a kiss at the Mastretta and laughed. Those laughs dopplered off to my right as she bounced through the intersection. When the limo built more speed, she dropped back down. Nice party there. But I had to work tonight.

I took a right and saw a rail trestle bridge ahead, stretching across the river. It disappeared on the right, coming down somewhere behind the parking lot. To the left was the Libertine, hanging over the water from a curved and terraced embankment. I turned right into the Belle lot, drifting to the back to get near the Swat van. The very back row was diagonal pull through spaces for RVs. In the yellowish light, the Swat van still looked flat and unreal.

Rafe parked the van and came around to the Mastretta. "That skin on the van looks like _merde_ ," he said, climbing into the passenger seat. "Sit here for a moment and let me work on it." He slipped into Battlenet trance, moving his fingers through invisible GUIs. The "windows" on the mimetic tarp brightened. Paint color shifted a few times before settling on a tan hue. He added a loop to the side window, reflected flickering from a screen. The loop propagated to the surrounding windows and then the ambient lights dimmed. "Looks good, don't screw with it," I said.

We coasted back to Clyde Fant Parkway, awaiting a break to make a left and right into the Libertine. I noticed a pedestrian overpass, bootstrapped to the rail trestle. Behind the trestle was a little park, built around a bronze plaque. Down the street to my right was a darkened museum, hiding the parked armor of the Second Security Squadron. Upriver at a more upscale casino, a Riverine assault squad waited in a fake paddlewheeler for our call. My cousins owned the parking lot. "This might be fun," I told Rafe. He looked at me for a second. "Fun eludes me," he delivered with his best Ogre voice. Rafe preferred old school method acting.

Given time and equipment, we would have produced much better doppelgangers. The Skins could tune our vocal cords to match most ranges. The interrogation records would provide a simulation to capture phonetics and mannerism. We would have passed quite well for the kidnappers. As it was, we should pass among people who had only seen them from afar or spoken to them on the phone. Our right thumbprints duplicated theirs so we could use their credit. The one technique that Saint Peter could provide on short notice was a subvocal translator. He had pulled phrases out of the interrogations and built a library of responses. We were accustomed to speaking subvocally on the Battlenet and Saint Peter was very familiar with interpreting these communiqués. For our performance, we could subvocally indicate what we wanted to say and receive a translated response we could mimic. The slight delay before responding meant we didn't want to overuse the translator, but the canned responses would fool family if done right.

The traffic lessened and I turned left onto Clyde Fant. A few tens of meters and a right put me at the Libertine entry. A very compact parking area was held separate from the drive. This was VIP valet parking. A pearl white limo was parked, along with several exotic sports cars. Two attendants were vacuuming the interior of a silver sedan, using hoses from a metal pillar. The driveway directed us straight at the entrance, manned by a handful of valets and security. Concrete podiums shielded the building from direct assault, also providing secure work stations for the staff. Lighting was low and directed, compared to the more garish casinos. The customers valued discretion and management disliked impulse customers from the parkway. You went to the Libertine because a concierge or chauffeur recommended it, not because you were drunk and the bright lights attracted you. Too often, the impulsive made trouble.

Two valets ran over, forking to cover both doors. The driver side valet launched into a pitch as soon as he had closed to conversational distance. "Welcome gentlemen. Nice car. Would you like it detailed while you enjoy the club?" His valet costume was a crimson shirt with puffy sleeves and a white vest. Black pants and some kind of dark running shoes rounded it out. A gold tag said his name was Kurt. He assisted my exit from the Mastretta as though I were infirm.

"Not tonight, Kurt, just park it across the street." Kurt got a little rattled when I used his name and stood up to reveal apparent size. The Skins and coat made me look large and solid, but I was thinking Kurt had some sort of reason to fear large men. Why else flinch from familiarity? Maybe he owed somebody. "Yes sir," he said, accepting the key fob. At no time did he give me his back.

Security focused, once we approached the entrance. Two large customers in long coats made them more alert. But it was a popular look for evening wear this time of year. They had probably passed a dozen who looked similar. I had the protocol for this from the interrogations. Pulling the VIP pass for the Dallas club from my wallet I said, "Sister passes." Rafe waved his own pass. Two guards took our passes and conferred. "You gents from Dallas?" asked a slope browed heavy with tattoos climbing his neck. Either he was slow or he saw the Chihuahua plates on the Mastretta.

"Thereabouts," said Rafe. "Had us a good time and they told us about you all." The _Gorila_ scrutinized our appearance and pointed to the security cashier work station. "You still need to pay the vig." He watched us with crossed arms while we slid our kidnapper's credit into their system. Once done, he closed with his original partner, now holding a scan wand. "Put your arms up for a second and we'll get you processed so you can go in." They found our phones and nothing else. It was a cursory check, no touching involved. "Have a nice night, gents."

Saint Peter waited at their firewall like a junk yard dog. The first charges to our cards gave him access to their billing protocols. A flock of agents settled around the contact and began the steady erosion of network security. He would push slowly at first, to avoid alarms.

Glossy black steps led to the entrance. It appeared as a tunnel, surrounded by a wall of neatly trimmed hedges. Automatic doors on the right opened inward. This was a two way passage and no doors were visible at the end of the tunnel to enter the main foyer. Lighting in the tunnel was dim. I looked directly at the automatic doors to make sure they would be identifiable on my feed. We entered the club and were assaulted with sonics, scents and lights. Their goal was disorientation on entry. I had had similar tests to qualify for hostage/rescue. A spinning light ball gave illusory movement. The soundtrack pushed subsonics into our bones. I smelled a variety of scents, usually reserved for the bedroom or a restaurant. The number 7 made it easy to focus. I panned the left, Rafe the right. Security expected people to stop and look around when first exposed to the environment. I saw game machines and the dock stairs. There was a dark wood bar in the back. I continued pivoting to the right until Rafe came into view. Our feeds could be collated to provide a rough 3D of the entry to the Battlenet.

I ended up grinning at Rafe. He gave me Ogre's twisted smirk. We hammered hands once and I said, "No, after you." He repeated the litany and stepped out of the entry, giving me a clear look at the pocket door. It was a full height slide and four centimeters thick. I moved on into the club.

****

### Chapter 14: Bustin up the VIP

It was all theater now. Casinos had some of the most invasive surveillance you could buy. If we didn't stay in character every second, some sharp-eyed Cheater Daemon would pick us out of the crowd and start evaluating. No one wanted that kind of attention. So we stared at everything like we were new; our credit draw could verify that.

The bar area featured a lot of party dressed women on spot lit stools. They chatted or drank from tall glasses and their eyes followed men like a trick painting my father had. These were the escorts, licensed and inspected. Some would be employees, some freelance and paying outrageous rents for the stool. It had the feel of a Cougar bar, but the average age was twenty five.

I got a "Jack in Coke." Rafe stood in front of the bar for a long moment and I noticed his lips moving. Finally he asked for a "Rolling Rock." My guess was that Ogre's taste in alcohol was poison to Rafe's. While waiting for my drink, I was flashed several times by seated belladonnas. Those who could fake a little sincerity caught my eye. The protocol here was that they could not speak until spoken to or touch before being touched. Most freelancers would not leave their stool until a contract had been entered.

The barman produced the drinks and we thumbed payment to our new running tabs. Having paid the rent, we propped elbows on the bar and drank. Saint Peter advised us to finish the drinks and re-order to stay in character. Advice like that is not heard often. Even with nano and a gastric inhibitor we would probably be a little drunk, hours from now. I must have subvocalized what I thought, because Tibbett's voice whispered " _El trabajo quiero carnie_." Interesting. I didn't think him old enough to have fought in that one. From the way he mangled "The job wants meat" I figured he was from the _Norte_ side.

I took out my phone and checked the friend finder. A red dot for "UribeS" and another that said "Keno" blinked within the building outline. It looked like they were located behind the bar, but no one stood there. I looked up toward the ceiling. A helmeted camera looked back. I snapped the phone closed and tapped Rafe, "Let's go check out the VIP." He must have heard something in my voice because he turned around and looked at me.

My eyes flicked left and up. He got the idea where the exposure was without looking. That is hard to do, I know. He backed both elbows to the bar and gave me lackadaisical. "Let's get us a couple more drinks down here. The pours up there are gonna be way more." I told him "Good thinking" and that's what we did. We bored our possible watchers by drinking too fast and getting flashed by a room full of hookers. I gave it ten minutes but Rafe talked me into fifteen.

We moved off quickly when I finally tore Rafe away. We had no desire to linger in this field of poppies. At least I didn't. Maybe that was the number 7 talking. Straight across from the bar was a staircase with a velvet rope. Two men in leather suits stood with hands crossed in front. They wore the GE network glasses and had odd bulges under their suit coats. We waved our Dallas VIP cards at them. The bovine white boy looked at mine. Rafe got the black version with a turtle haircut. Both had rings in their eyebrows, behind the glasses. Much tougher to snatch.

"You gents know the rules in the VIP, right?" Rafe's guard asked.

"No action unless invited," began Rafe. "Free rubbers!" I injected. It almost got a smile from Rafe's guard. He had a conversation with his glasses, "Two men up. Yes. OK." He uncoupled the rope and held it aside. "Tonight's word is Dunbar," said the guard. "Don't make anybody say it twice."

The stairs rose and turned right, with really short rise steps seen in places that dealt gently with the impaired. I didn't see any cameras aimed at us, so I checked the phone again. UribeS was at the same place but Keno was now toward the front. I gave Rafe a peek and snapped it closed. We passed through a whining sound baffle and suddenly the decibels went up. There was a band up here.

At the top of the stairs, two more leather suits. These just opened the rope and nodded. To our right, a riot of light and sound, the band smashed through another number. There were three wearing instruments and headsets. A placard called them "RokHed." They may have just been a cover band, but I wasn't familiar enough with Goth Sex Mosh to know the songs. They favored instrumentals, which was great because the vocals were laughable. Behind them to the right was another guy in a headset, not playing. He was looking at his phone and at us. I caught his eye and pointed a finger at him. He nodded and motioned us over.

"Alex and Ogre," I told him, squatting beside his little table. Rafe stood with his back to the wall and watched the crowd. "Sal," he said, touching a small screen in front of him. He had set something on an audio GUI to auto. "I thought you guys would be here earlier."

"We were down at the bar," I told him. "Looks like you're stuck here working anyway." He pulled the headset off and put it on the screen. "I just told these guys I'd tune them for the venue. My band already left. I roll with Woodness." Now his event coordinator job made sense. He didn't work for the Libertine, he worked for the bands.

"So you're all done now?"

"It's locked in. That's all they get for a few beers." He pushed back from the screen, as though to distance himself. I asked, "So you know how this goes now, right?" He recited a memorized frag order, "Get the van and take two packages to Jacksonville." I handed him the key fob for the van. "That's right. It's across the street. Now we're gonna stay here and enjoy some hospitality while you git gone." I stood up and Rafe pushed off the wall. We gave him tough guy glares and headed toward the front of the VIP.

A text appeared, scrolling on my lens. "WiSpot enabled." Either Saint Peter or one of Etienne's little packages had hacked the club wireless. There were tricks to be played, once inside. For myself, I ignored the text and let the outside team do the hack. I needed to navigate around a maze of morphic walls and doors that formed tonight's carnal exhibits. First we passed through tables and couches filled with couples in various stages of dress. A few appeared on a break, others chatted in groups trying to rally a consensus. Some eyed us as though to guess our weight. We gave them glares. Ahead of them we were funneled into a darkened central hall.

A bin and table to our left held various toiletries. Rafe and I grabbed a handful of condoms, to stay in character. The bin liner had tiny biohazard symbols repeated as a pattern. Behind the table was another bin. It held cheap half masks and eyeshades. A plaque said, "One to a Customer." We took a pass on those as they would tangle with our glasses. We walked slowly down the hall, perusing open doorways and holo feeds of the action within. Some doors had red signs proclaiming "Capture in Progress." Those offered keepsake downloads for a reasonable charge. Others split into smaller cubicles within, "First quarter hour free to VIP's." The holo feeds indicated a lot of sex going on behind these thin panels. Occasionally, crowd sounds overpowered the filters and echoed down the hall on a draft of air.

At the end of the hall a woman appeared, carrying a tray and wearing a round cap with a veil. It was a very retro look, except for the strappy shoes. Those were foamed wedges popular with working girls that had to walk or stand a lot. I checked my phone and saw the Keno girl.

"You gents care to wager?" She moved closer to me and I could see her open phone on the tray, "How about you, Mr. I've-Got-a-Headache. I'm sure a winning play would turn your night around." She was even chewing gum like the old movies. It was probable I was looking at an aspiring actress or some other form of trained illusionist. She could breathe lies.

"Sure, I'll play if your name is as pretty as the rest of you." She almost replied out of habit and then remembered why she was talking to me. "Oh it is. I might even tell you if you're a big winner." She gave me a dazzling pixie smile, promising all sorts of things I didn't know I wanted. It must have taken hours of practice. "Here's a pencil and a form." I randomly jammed nine spots on the Keno form and thumbed the wager to her little tray. "Don't wander too far now. I've got a feeling you're going to be all kinds of lucky tonight." She wiggled away on those strappy heels, going back downstairs to finish rounding up the game. The tails of her suit coat were labeled, "Don't Touch." I assumed it had to do with gaming laws.

"Split tail coat, how appropriate," Rafe said. It sounded like an Ogre translation. I wondered what he meant to say. I shrugged, he shrugged. I led us off to complete our tour down the hall. Signs offered "Consensual Lovin" and "Wild MILFs." The doorways held a rogue's gallery, leaned against the paneling and watching the action. There was a woman screaming and a male growling cheer at the right door. I listened for a moment, but no one said "Dunbar."

The hall opened into another lounge on the left. There was a tiny bar at the back manned by an androgynous fellow with a lot of lip rings. A large _Gorila_ leaned on the wall, watching his network glasses and listening to feeds. He blocked a door labeled "Staff only." Panning our feed to the right, we saw another _Gorila_ with unlikely upper body development, a fighting Skin. He also had his attention on feeds. These two would be the hall monitors.

Another room on the right, this had an arched entry with gold leaf lettering, "The Grotto." The interior was dim, but water reflections played on the walls. Rafe said, "I'm going to the bar." I told him, "Go on then; I'm going to check out this Grotto."

The room had swirling hot tubs in fake rock formations. A bank of entertainment simulators stood apart to the left. Feeds from the sex rooms played on high mounted screens. Occupancy was low at the moment, just two older men entertained by a group of young girls. It had an intimate feel and the old gents turned unfriendly eyes on my entrance. Three of the girls began caressing each other and the old men lost interest in me. I walked over to the simulator banks. The sims advertised "Best of the Libertine" and "Coeds of LSU." Some of the selections were live links to real time immersions. These simulators had outside connections and quantum bridging. I was sure Saint Peter would appreciate the extra bandwidth. Looking over the list of rules next to the thumbplate gave me cover to squeeze one of Etienne's black boxes around the cable. I gave it a minute to get into the line and thumbed the payment plate. The sim lid hissed open.

Rafe entered the Grotto, "They don't serve up here. All they had was a bunch of smart drinks." I could have told him, _Norte Americano_ clubs were funny about mixing nudity and alcohol. Mexicans and the French were less restrictive. "Did you make a big deal about it?" I asked. Rafe said, "Nah, I got these two pecker shooters." He held up shot glasses with foil tops. A reddish liquid floated within, "Supposed to turn Mr. Happy into a stun stick."

He put them down into the open sim bed, "What are you doing here? We got the real damn thing moaning on the other side of this wall." I placed one of Etienne's black box repeaters into the bed with a party popper, just in case. "I'm not even sure what this attachment is," I said, to cover the action. Rafe lent his bulk to mine and obscured any views. I closed the lid. "When you're right, you're right." I bought an hour's time. It would stay out of service until all was billed.

"Let's get some more of those pecker rods," I told him as we exited the Grotto. We would wait for our Keno girl at the minibar. Rafe introduced me to "Develin, he's the club's Spirit Guide." Develin was the androgynous bartender with the lip full of rings. He had a high voice with a Cuban accent, "You tell me what you want and I make the right spirit for you." His penciled eyebrows gave him a perpetually surprised expression. But his eyes were hard.

"Tell you what, Develin," I said. "Just give me a menu and I'll puzzle out what I might want." This answer did not sit well with Develin, who flipped a pamphlet on the counter. I grabbed it and moved off to an open table, Rafe behind me. Develin called, "You know where to find me."

I scanned the drinks for ingredients. There were a lot of herbs, but I bet he synthesized them. This could be a source for Major Wilson's date rape drugs. I pointed at the word "Get" on the menu and asked Rafe, "What do you think about this?" In quick succession I pointed at "Shot, of, Drugs." I didn't know if he understood until he pulled back his chair and said, "Let's order then."

I got Horny Goat capsules and a tube of Sustain. Rafe ordered two Tiger Teas. We also panned every container and machine in the minibar. It could be handy later. I palmed the capsules and just sipped the tea. Stepping out of the dark hall, the Keno girl approached.

"There you are, gents," she said, parking her tray on our table and handing me a Keno ticket. I looked at the Keno results ticker above the minibar. It looked like I only hit three spots. She picked up her tray and walked to the staff only door, "Better luck next time." The big _Gorila_ stepped to one side with a smile. Where her tray had rested was a card in a sleeve. I threw an arm over it and inspected the contents. Pressing my thumb to the card a few times showed a balance of four hundred thousand, a year's good wages for two people. The card was embossed with the trademark of Augenhohlen Handelsgesellschaft, one of the orbital banks that provided anonymized cash cards. It was keyed to my sleeved thumb, but payment was from a numbered account in common. I would be one of millions, even with a warrant. My problem was this wasn't how Keno paid out. I should have had to redeem a play card at the payout window downstairs. All I had was a slick drop by an employee and a certified losing play.

Now I needed some bandwidth and privacy. We were empty handed inside. All we could do was grab the employee for questioning. There wasn't anything we could prove on the club. I needed to see what the outside team had and readjust. "I'm going back to the sim."

Rafe looked lost in thought, "Waste not, I guess. Let me know if it's any good."

I went back to the Grotto. There was only one of the old men and one girl left in the spa. The old man had his eyes closed and a smile on, his girlfriend watched me through wet bangs. I checked the sim for time, still most of the hour. There was a splash behind me. I turned and saw a new girl on the other side of the old man. The first girl had gone fishing. I guess that's what it took to make the old grump smile. Ignoring the new girl, I went into the robe room. Room may have been generous. It was more of a closet with wings. Towels, robes and lockbins. To get into the sim, I was supposed to strip down and lube up, then grab a robe. Since taking my coat off would be enough to show the Skins, that wasn't going to happen. What I wanted was a bench out of direct sight where I could conference.

Bandwidth was coming in pretty well. Saint Peter probably had the keys to this club now. I brought up the tactical map. All teams were shown as blue icons, four green dots were in the back of the Swat van. Etienne was there, so I switched to his feed. He was looking at Sal, now covered with dirt and cuffed to the bench. Next to him was Kurt the Valet, showing a lot of eye white. Lalo sat ahead in the passenger seat with a shotgun. Etienne must have been alerted that I was online. He panned to two more men on the other bench. I didn't recognize them. Then his image got jerky as he moved forward into the driver's seat for privacy. In seconds, he was fully in. "We have them in hand. Copies are up." I let him know we had no joy in the club, but there was an angle I wanted pursued. I wanted Saint Peter to ask the prisoners about Develin and drugs.

The question was put to copies running at high speed. We had them for high crimes, so Saint Peter was not gentle. It would still take a while, so I reduced the Battlenet to a single lens and reviewed outside feeds. My other lens showed I was still alone. I waited maybe ten more minutes before Saint Peter sent his finding.

The two men I didn't know were club security, moonlighting for Sal. They knew when Ms. Weathers wanted someone drugged, she told Develin to make a "Hook Shot." It wasn't on the menu. "Makes people crazy for the action. Sometimes guys would ask for the Hook Shot. They liked the rush." Nobody knew what was in it but Develin.

I sent the message, "Getting sample, will call." The Battlenet folded away to a pixel. I walked quickly out of the robe room. The two girls were helping the old guy out of the spa. I caught a view of a butt like a raisin before they tossed a robe on him. Time to send grandpa home. He would have to move a little faster than that to make it out.

Rafe turned that Ogre scowl toward me as I approached. I was acutely aware of the two hall monitor guards with their network glasses and Skins. The staff door and hall afforded easy reinforcement. I should light touch this approach or be prepared to fight hard.

"So how was it?" asked Rafe. I cupped the back of his head and whispered, "The net is up." He laughed like I was witty and said, "Alright then. Hey, I got to piss after this Tiger Sweat tea. You be OK for a minute or you want to go, too?" I told him, "Go ahead, I want to try one of these shots."

Rafe went down the dark hall to the toilets near the band lounge. I went back to the minibar. "Hey Develin, a lady told me I could get a shot over here that would give me another reason to live. Is that right?" Develin pulled out a shot glass and said, "Just name it and you can judge." I smiled and asked for a "Hook Shot."

Develin froze and looked at the staff door guard. They stayed staring for a moment until the guard nodded. Develin swept the shot glass away and put up a special shot glass. One of those cup in a cup double shots. I got two different potions from unmarked bottles poured into it, like binary explosive. Develin pushed it toward me and waited. "Make another for _mi amigo_ and we'll take 'em when he gets back." I scooped up the shot and went back to the table. When I sat down, I caught a glimpse of the guard and Develin in some kind of staring match. Walking around with controlled drugs was probably not how things worked here. But they could still see me and I was going to dose my friend, so they let it slide.

My coat and bulk provided blind spots at the table. This hid me opening a condom wrapper and unrolling a few inches. Into that, I poured the shot. A quick knot sealed it and a push got it in my catheter slit. I hadn't tubed up tonight, so the pouch should be sterile and water tight. I grabbed a sip from my Tiger Tea and sloshed a little into the shot glass. Develin seemed to be stalling with the other shot. But it didn't matter anymore. I sent the "Come and get it" command to the Battlenet. Rafe sent back, "Be right there."

I pulled up the tactical map feed. Our walkthrough had been processed to greatly improve the interior layout. Blue icons were closing on the club, to engage a lot of red dots. I resized the map to give me better vision of the Real. We needed to secure those two bottles Develin had in the minibar. Otherwise, this was going to be a legal fiasco. I picked at a plan to first take, then defend the Alamo.

Rafe came out of the dark hall and rejoined me, passing the old man and his escorts on the way out. Grandpa was clearly not going to make it. Develin called out in his Cuban tenor, "Come get your shots, gentlemens." Rafe looked at me and I answered by taking the watered double shot on our table. "That tastes nasty. What the hell is that?" We both got up and closed with the minibar. Under my breath, I said "Dunbar."

It was the only good trick I could suggest to the battle plan. When I said Dunbar, Saint Peter introduced the cry to the sound feed from several rooms. He had a variety of voices. I heard footsteps as the big shouldered _gorila_ moved quickly down the hall. The staff entrance _gorila_ moved his hand up to his glasses and froze in place. He didn't want to leave his post, but watched the network feeds too intently to see the Real.

I turned toward him and grasped his loose hands. The charge coursed from hand to hand, electrifying his nervous system. I hit him twice while building potential. The house lights blinked until I let him drop. Rafe had pulled Develin, shrieking, over the minibar in this time, cuffing his hands behind him. The shrieking stopped abruptly. Rafe pulled him the rest of the way out of the minibar to fall on the floor.

I stood and jogged to the dark hall entrance. Standing just back from the corner, my electric field extended my eyes. Big shoulders would be coming. Behind me, Rafe propped Develin against the staff door and pulled the Skin's clavicle collar over the guard's head. Peeling the Skins to the waist, he would cuff them there to immobilize him. The network glasses, he crushed underfoot. Most likely Saint Peter owned their Security net, but Rafe liked to be thorough.

Big shoulders must have heard something, because he came trotting out of the dark hall and almost ran into me. My bioelectric sense gave me a bare second's warning to get my hands up and pivot, touching his arm as he passed. That arm shot straight out and bounced me off the wall panel. I got disoriented and tripped on a chair. Rafe jumped a nearby table, the black coat fluttering like wings, and I felt his charged field go by. There were sounds of a fight and the field faded suddenly.

I scrambled upright, using the furnishings. My equilibrium was a little off, but I left that to my Nano and went to see Rafe. He was struggling with the Skins, trying to shock them insensate and getting beaten by the galvanic attack response. Big shoulders had pinned Rafe before going limp. I got leverage on an arm and twisted the guard off. The two of us were able to put his Skins to sleep, but it was a real fight. We burned a lot of charge.

Our phones gave an odd buzz, probably realizing they no longer had signal. We were busy dragging and cuffing Big shoulders. Three prisoners piled up on the staff door would give us a moment to adjust if someone came through there. Rafe dragged chairs and tables over to the dark hall. He improvised a barricade with the furniture and plasticuffs. I helped him at the end and we draped our coats over the mess to hide detail.

We tore off our shirts to reveal the Templar paint job on our Skins. Hopefully, no Garda raiders would shoot us. It did have an immediate effect on patrons exiting the sex rooms. They came out singly, fooling with their phones. When they saw the barricade with two Templars, most just ran. A few yelled back in the rooms and then ran. In seconds, we had a mob of half dressed sheep running from us wolves.

The noise level in the club jumped way up, like the filters failed. The band hit a few bad chords and stopped playing. No doubt the _gorilas_ at the top and bottom of the stairs were getting news of our appearance but would be unable to buck the tide of patrons leaving, at least for a little bit. I assembled my air pistol while Rafe rolled party poppers down the hallway. They were small, but command detonated. I gave him some of mine, and he extended coverage by the staff door. I covered us while he assembled his derringer.

The airguns used powder puff ceramic rounds to eliminate ricochets. They were lethal capable, but good armor would turn them to dust on impact. And we couldn't pack very many shots. I checked the Battlenet to see where the cavalry was.

The APC's and drone cars were just turning in from Clyde Fant parkway. The valets would see them in a second. The paddle boat was coming downriver with our marines. Red dots on the tactical map were fuzzy, indicating old information or lost contacts. It would sharpen up once Major Wilson engaged. Inside, Saint Peter was using the club network to mark security. I saw two red dots approaching the dark hall. Two more were coming up the stairway behind them.

"Company coming," Rafe told me. "I'll work the hall if you'll watch the door." He was back to his normal voice. It sounded odd coming out of Ogre's mouth.

"Good enough, _compadre_." I went over to the minibar and used it for cover on the doorway. Rafe shouted down the hall, "This is a raid. We're Garda. Do not resist." The four red dots bunched up on the tactical map. They convened like a jury for a couple minutes. The verdict was not good. Two red dots disappeared, probably into the staff area. The other two took up positions on both sides of the hall.

"Bullshit," one said, "Garda don't raid from the inside out. Let's see badges."

Rafe wasn't going to let them get that close, "Just wait a minute and you can see a whole lot of badges coming up the stairs."

Then things got busy. The hall guards tried a bounding overwatch, to get down the hall one doorway at a time. Flash bangs along the walls drove back that attempt. A shot came over the barricade and put a hole in the wall, covering fire for their withdrawal. Then the staff door opened inward and our two _gorila_ prisoners fell backward into the opening. A flash bang stuck to the door face exploded and I popped up from behind the minibar, seeking targets.

I saw the black guard with the turtle cut hair behind the doorway. He had a pistol, but was disoriented by the party popper. My shot hit his pistol, releasing a cloud of powder around his head. He cursed and backpedaled away from the door. Another shot to the door sent powder following him back to the staff area. I grabbed another party popper, thumbed the trigger and flipped it in the doorway. Rafe detonated some more poppers in the hall as his _gorilas_ were trying to force entry while the others attacked me. The open staff door had his exposed back, so I followed my own thrown munitions to the doorway. The flash bang went off, echoing loudly and throwing bright light on the door. It was deafening and made me squint, so the guys inside were probably stunned. I got a hand on the frame, leaning over our pile of prisoners and peeked into a hall with an alcove workstation. Turtle hair was pushing his pistol out, but backing up toward another open door. He was blinking rapidly and working his jaw in textbook recovery reflex from the flash bangs.

I jumped in the doorway, got a foot on the open door and launched after him. My shoulder slid under his gun hand and into his stomach. Classic _Norte Americano_ football tackle. The pistol went off above me and clattered to the floor. Turtle hair flew air express into the door way behind him, his elbow breaking with a loud pop.

I swung my air gun around the hall, looking for the second _gorila_. There had been no sign of him since the red dots split up. My ears were still ringing, but my eyes saw movement back at the staff door. Was one of the prisoners trying to get up? Then I saw the pistol, poking out from behind the open door. He had gotten trapped by the prisoners lying in the doorway. I leaped and delivered a flying kick to the door as shots rang out.

I swear I hit the door hard enough to leave an embossed footprint on the other side. Rebounding, I stepped on a prisoner and went down. Big shoulders opened his eyes and started thrashing around. I showed him the muzzle of my air pistol and he stopped moving. Looking past him I could see the other _Gorila_ and Develin also had their eyes open. Both were blinking and working their jaws. They probably couldn't see or hear me. Behind the door, the big white boy from downstairs leaned sideways around the edge. He had a pained expression and a pistol. I snapped two shots off and threw a shoulder into the door. He was so big and the door distributed blows so well that I couldn't drop him through it. My charge was mostly gone and recharge would take hours. My pistol had one shot left and I really didn't want to have to kill him.

But then again, he was the one trapped behind a steel door with no friends. I brought up what charge I could and applied it to the door. "Give it up _Cochino_. I really am a Templar and I will fry your dumb ass with this steel door if you don't toss the gun." He responded much better to the reasonable approach. The pistol flipped out and landed on the floor. I retrieved it and looked back toward Turtle hair.

He had pulled himself back toward his dropped gun, crawling on the floor, equilibrium being screwed from two flash bangs and a flying tackle. His eyes locked with mine and he stopped moving. I walked over and got the pistol.

"Sit up, _Tortuga_. Give me your good arm." I took his arm and dragged him over to the far door. Cuffing his good hand to the door knob, I left him blocking the entry.

"Just sit there and we'll get you an ambulance."

Back at the staff door, I pulled Big shoulders into the hall to clear the doorway a little. "Go ahead and slowly push the door _Cochino_. You should be able to squeeze out." He slid the other bound _gorila_ across the doorway until he could step out from behind the door. I showed him both pistols. "Come over here and kneel down so I can get you safely arrested."

After that, I just basked in the adoring glares of my captive fan club and waited for my hearing to return. Rafe's feed showed a clear hallway. The tactical map showed two red dots still in the lounge at the end of the dark hall. Blue icons were in the club, but I couldn't hear anything except a loud tone in my ears. I watched the far door, with _Tortuga_ tied to the knob and waited.

The blue team arrived, in the form of soldiers and Supersheps. The two red dots still on our floor turned to green. I heard Rafe yell, "Templar over here. All clear."

I put the pistols on the alcove work station and shouted down the staff hall, "Templars over here. All clear." A Super Shepherd sniffed _Tortuga_ through the open doorway, causing a panic attack. "Get that thing away from me," he cried, twisting at his bonds.

Supersheps have enlarged craniums, featuring a wide toothy mouth. If you had never worked with one, they look very ferocious. They were actually less likely to bite someone by mistake than any natural breed. You could also have a conversation with one, if you were willing to learn the language. The one I met, through his handler, loved his sausage rare with a little Worcestershire and playing on the nature channel. They made great companion dogs. Most were Transfers of previously modified working dogs, bred for intelligence. Given time and unrestricted tampering, Supersheps would probably become a new intelligent race. I still wasn't sure how I felt about that, but the AI's called it a human creative act. They would know, I guess.

I told _Tortuga_ the truth. "That is a Garda officer and you are less likely to be hurt by him than by me." The Shep sneezed clear snot on Tortuga and backed away out of sight. He was replaced with a soldier cradling a stripped down carbine. "The Marshal's exactly right. Now that I'm here, there are two of us who would like to hurt you. So scoot your big ass over and hold this door open."

It was Sergeant Jones, the dog handler. He came in with two privates and three dogs. The hall got crowded with bound and armed men. "Sergeant Jones, I presume. Let's get these prisoners back in the room behind me. Make a little space for us."

Jones grabbed the pistols from the alcove, "Roger that. Benson, Devi police this shit into the next room."

He pointed at one of the Sheps and said, " _Kia'i huli hup_." The dog trotted past me and jumped over my prisoners to get into the minibar lounge. I walked out of the staff door and grabbed a prisoner's feet, dragging him into the room. Rafe was disassembling his barricade with three more soldiers. While the soldiers cleaned up, I leaned over the minibar and found the two bottles used for the Hook Shot.

"They don't have no damn tequila back there." I straightened up and looked behind to see Major Wilson strolling out of the dark hall with his Aide. "I'm out there kicking butt and you're up here rearranging deck chairs and making drinks."

He gave me that cocky smirk, smacking his little riding crop in a huge palm.

"Well, you took long enough to get here," I said. "I was going to start working crosswords soon."

"You know, you just can't spoil this for me," he grinned. "That Ms. Weathers was trying to get on a little skiff down at the dock and leave. Don't you know she fell in the river when our marine assault went in."

He gave me a big smile, "I must be Nostra-damn-damus."

I grinned with him and he leaned carefully on the bar to look at the Hook Shot bottles. "If you would have told me this place was under that railroad bridge, I might have asked for an aerial envelopment." I slapped at his chest salad, "Could have got you another merit badge."

He looked surprised and said, "Shit, I didn't even think about that. Maybe when this place opens again I can get some paratrooper fun."

We got down to business and assessed results. Fourteen arrested, all staff with the club. About fifty patrons detained. Nobody dead. We had drugs and data to sift through, but resisting charges would hold everybody until we could get that checked out. Ms. Weathers, once her hair dried, appeared to be the Keno girl in different clothes. Shows you what a Performing Arts degree was worth lately.

We uploaded our criminals and let the Barksdale boys sort out the mess. I needed to get some rest, like a snake after a big meal. Etienne helped pick up my slack and Rafe's for that matter. We were both feeling strange from the drinks and adrenaline. Nano and meds could only block so much of the effects. My cousins brought the Swat van into the tiny parking lot and turned over their prisoners. Rafe and I stumbled into the van and peeled off the face masks and Skins. Etienne came in with the gray van and told Memo to run us over to an off-strip motel. "Tuck them in and watch over them while they sleep. The rest of us will be along later." The drive and check in were a blur.

****

### Chapter 15: Players & Cribs

I slept until ten. Waking up, I felt mugged. Something foul coated my tongue. I looked at the other bed and saw Memo, still dressed and on top of the covers. He was snoring. A hissing from the bathroom sounded like the shower running. Probably Rafe. I dropped a pouch in the coffee machine and brewed a cup. At least it made the tongue coating taste different. My bag from the Swat van was lying on the dresser. I got a tab of Cocktail number 7 down and lay back on the bed. A scan with my implant showed I was within range of our Battlenet. The Swat van must be parked nearby. The Templar linkage in my bag boosted signal so I had plenty of bandwidth. Slipping on my network glasses, I opened a link.

Only myself and Saint Peter were online. Tactical showed everyone was sacked out in three rooms of the motel. Father Cervantes was halfway to Dallas in his Forensic truck, no doubt tapped into the data stream coming out of Barksdale. That reminded me of the condom in my Skins, full of Develin's drugs. Have to give that to Father for his own tests.

Interrogation of Salvador Uribe provided everything he knew very quickly. Sal was not a very tough nut. He didn't want this job anyway, but a Jacksonville thug called Tar Bone hijacked his tour gig and put Kurt on the bus to meet two guys from the Libertine. They were supposed to do all the heavy work. Sal was kind of a Coyote transporter using the band to hide. When the band left without him, he was way out of his comfort zone.

Kurt was one of Tar Bone's crew. Once his addiction was found on a jailhouse tox screen, interrogation made brisk progress. He liked one of those designer love drugs with a mean withdrawal. Saint Peter found the drug pattern in his copy and turned it down. Way down. Sobriety and Kurt did not mix much. Without his meds, Kurt was painfully talkative. He described Tar Bone as a connected career criminal, out on the Eastern Seaboard. Flash cars, boats and a team of hackers making money playing games. He had grown up in Jacksonville as a Fixer in a neighborhood gang. Tar Bone came out of prison six years ago and started making bank. Kurt had even been to the Soldier Club, where Tar Bone kept his hackers in secure style.

Saint Peter would pursue Tar Bone's bio in Jacksonville and the Soldier Club address. It was more than I had hoped for. We had been grabbing people for days and some had been able to talk. I had thought the network would be in fast retract away from our grip. Discussing it with Saint Peter he observed, "Their size and pyramidal hierarchy work against them. They have too many hands and not enough brains. Until a high rank can tell the tale, their filters keep the babble out."

I hoped that was true. The comment about size and many hands was not confidence inspiring. Saint Peter had a question for me, "Why did you pursue a Barksdale agenda after achieving your own objectives?" I struggled to remember my motivations last night. At last, I hit on a Templar argument, "If the Barksdale squadron had deployed with no joy, we would have been billed service credits. This resolution saved money and increased cooperation from Shreveport Garda."

That sounded fine to Saint Peter, "Good work Marshal." This was one of those times where his not having a sense of humor helped. I was glad I wasn't fully monitored over this link. He can tell when I'm laughing. As I remembered the evening, the club staff just hit me wrong. Like bad things happened there and everybody was in on it. And they had ripped off Garda. Or maybe it was just mixing alcohol with number 7. I got frustrated and then a little mad.

Someone slapped my stomach in the Real. I broke link and looked up at Rafe in a frayed gray robe. He looked into my eyes, now that I could focus on him and said, "How are you feeling today Chuy?" I described my few symptoms and he reminded me to take the number 7. "I served it to your cousins early this morning, they're just sleeping now." I told him, " _Gracias, amigo_. I have already taken my meds. Why are you so active this morning?" He gave me a vague shrug, "I got rid of that vile poison in the parking lot, don't you remember? Go take a shower, _Ivre_."

Maybe I was still a little drunk. When I got showered, he walked me to a little diner out on the lot. The motel manager was hosing off the parking lot by the gray van. He gave Rafe an unfriendly look. I got some coffee and Tabasco over eggs and potatoes to set me straight. Rafe is sort of my mother hen, must be the Christian in him.

Of course it was a little bit his fault. "You know, I didn't expect to be drinking so much down at the bar. Did you get a good peek at all the ladies there?" He flinched as I scored. "I will treat Claire to an evening in Strasbourg, for my penance." He waved a finger at my empty plate, "For you, a fine breakfast is enough. You are a much simpler creature."

We went to the Swat van and squared away our gear. I got the drug sample out of my Skins and hung them on the recharger. The knotted condom got dropped in an evidence bag. I pondered what to label it and came up with some pretty funny ones. To preserve the chain, I settled on "Hook Shot sample." Rafe got a laugh from some of my rejected labels. The commo suite in the van gave us good uplinks and privacy. We dived into the net and sifted through developments. Interrogations progressed at a slower rate, there being a lot of copies running. They all had their tales to tell.

Ms. Weathers detailed a network of clubs, working the edge of law like the Libertine. On record they were independently owned and managed. Financially, they all got their start up from the same venture group, Griffin V.I. out of New York. They all got their bands from Sigerd Entertainment, out of Jacksonville. Staffing was flexible among the network. Weathers used to work SoCal before moving to Louisiana a year ago. There were seven clubs in a line from coast to coast along the old southern interstates.

The Keno drop payoff was a standard play in the clubs. Being exclusive and secure lent safety to cash transfers. She had gotten tonight's request from one of the owners, Sten Laporte, who she had only seen once before at a Labor party. The job was downloaded to her phone as a "Vendor" appointment, including a picture of Tibbet. The cash card got dropped off by a kid on a scooter.

Saint Peter was developing a bio on Laporte and backchaining the New York moneymen. We already had Sigerd Entertainment as a subsidiary of Gnefl Corporation. Names were swiftly filling in on the enemy org chart.

Ogre was being forthcoming on a number of unsolved murders. He seemed to have been a soldier for this syndicate a number of years. Nosy journalists, would be extortionists and twelve women were memorialized in tattoos on his body. The particular images chosen were idiosyncratic, but his descriptions of the crimes were very detailed. Six of those girls were eligible for religious charter protections. We would see how Ogre liked a real-time Christian prison. He was lucky executions had been banned, but if he was killed inside, I doubt there would ever be a zombie made available. Ogre was a soldier who didn't ask a lot of questions. I guess that was part of his appeal. Other than Tibbet and some casual criminals he had little contact with others. Future interrogations would be about his Gneflheim experience, sort of a game walkthrough for our players.

Tibbet was deep into the Gneflheim network. A former champion with a new body, he was a member of the Seventh Circle and a Solstice Adept. What that translated to was a made guy who had the run of all seven clubs. Whenever there was a Solstice, which was some kind of entertainment event, Tibbet often supplied compliant women. Not willing, just compliant. He had done that maybe twenty times over the years. Half of them were Christians. There were different Solstice events for different status participants. Game world events elevated their outrages based on the level of the player. Then the events translated to the Real for the high level elite. Locations favored islands in the Carib. Tibbet had never been to those, he just shipped his party favors. There were also musical events in major metros timed to coincide. Tibbet had been to many of those.

The use of the term Solstice for these events was troubling. Saint Peter said the ritual Solstice was peculiar to the "Old Religions." Those belief systems had been done great harm by pre-Charter Christians. They were antagonistic from long habit. The maternal versions were usually non-violent but the paternal versions featured ritual violence and covert infiltration. Several were said to exist in secret, outside the Charter.

If the Gneflheim game motif was to be believed, we may be dealing with a Brotherhood of Odin society or Wotanism, by modus if not actual belief. The difference was unimportant, under the precepts of Instrumental Pragmatism. The Believers were not Charter signatories, so they received no special cultural consideration. The Garda would be their protectors or antagonists, based on circumstance.

I left Rafe examining more interrogation reports and jumped into the Garda flow. Saint Peter had built case bridges into various units, forming cooperative connections. I wanted to see what he had done in my name while I slept.

The bridge to a Templar Recruiting and Training unit in Jacksonville was the newest addition. They had a corner of a Garda base out on Blount Island. Just because they were an R & T team didn't make them less effective. There were too few Templars for the luxury of administrators. All could answer the call and carry Saint Peter's sword. The trainers in particular, were highly competent troops. I had, apparently, asked them to raid Tar Bone's club whenever he was resident.

It was very likely they would do that. There were six of them and a training arsenal available in the middle of a major Garda base. It would also be cheaper than trying to do it ourselves. I chopped my approval to Saint Peter. A formality, but he always wants my opinion on matters in my name.

There was another bridge to Dallas Garda. They had been given the go ahead to toss the kidnapper's rooms. A list of everything interesting in the room, gleaned from interrogations, was provided. They also had passwords to the electronics. It should be a walk-in for them. I approved the use of my simulacrum to secure their cooperation. I had, apparently, gotten them to wave service credits by locating Sweetie for the North Mexico Garda. Dallas would charge them for any services on this case.

The Barksdale bridge was full of forensic reports and bio's. Legal was working the charges. We were holding several for Templar Justice. Jesuit lawyers from the Curia were on the way to handle that. Commander Del Rey had secured space for us on base. Plans were to move to Barksdale today. Saint Peter's direct link to Barksdale Garda as the imaginary Del Rey meant I was not needed to negotiate with them.

So I had been frugally busy while sleeping and eating breakfast. It gave me an urge to actually do something myself. I brought up Saint Peter's decision tree, oriented on the timeline and looked for tasks.

There was an assignment directed to me or "Others as requested." The mission was Repatriation and Release. I was to take the girls and my cousins back home to Chihuahua and report back alone "With all speed." I also needed to recover our gear at Tio's and give the SWAT van back to White Sands.

The only other task boxes were the raid on Tar Bone and a bunch of forensic labs. Those were being worked by others. There appeared to be forty specialists and Templars working for me now. I wondered how many I would actually meet.

I dove back into the Dallas bridge and watched my simulacrum negotiate in replay. I wanted to know who it talked to and what was said before calling again. That avoids many awkward conversations. When briefed, I called the Dallas Agent in charge. I wanted a Lifter to get myself and three deputies with vehicles at Shreveport and fly us to Dyess in Abilene to get the girls. Then take us home to Chihuahua. Bill the whole thing to North Mexico Garda. Agent Ross had no problem with collecting transport fees for that. The bird was waiting at Barksdale. He assured me the Bureau of Missing Persons appreciated our work. No doubt our successful recovery would enhance their annual report. _Norte Americano_ bureaus were very crafty about seizing good credit, of any kind.

I called White Sands Garda and told them their van was going to be at Dyess base in a few hours and would they be available to pick it up. Commander Lisandro offered to retask a flight for the job and stop billing for the van on receipt. White Sands was a regular stop and an old posting for me. I had a good relationship with Lisandro from when he was a lieutenant. He once said he would try to forget that I sold out to the Templars and remember I was a pretty good sergeant back in the day. He had never been Transferred and had a kind of fascination about it I would occasionally indulge over drinks.

I told Rafe we were moving to Barksdale, so wrap up and get packed. Then I dropped out of the net and got to work. I had been running pretty hard for the last five days and now it sounded as though the only rest coming was on the Lifter. I was anxious to get aboard.

Barksdale gave us a mothballed barracks for our use. Comforts were low, but security was high. And the price was right. We emptied our gear out of the Swat van and I got my cousins to pack their personal kit for the trip home. Lucho was happy to return, but Lalo and Memo wanted to keep after the leads and kick some more asses. I explained that deputies were temporary and they had their girls. The Templars would pursue the case, but did not require their services any more. Go home and keep the girls safe from any reprisals. The last suggestion was the most persuasive.

The Lifter flight was nice and quiet to Abilene. My cousins made traveler bands and taped a water bottle horizon gauge up before we were airborne. They could see it over the hood of the yellow Mastretta. The Crew Chief observed this but said nothing. As long as everything fit, he would transport it. I got a little rest until we landed at Dyess. The Swat van was unloaded and we picked up the girls for the next leg. It was Memo's first sight of the girls since their abduction.

Tears flowed, but the number 7 kept the cousins dry. If anything, the strong emotions made them more deadpan than usual. This confused the girls and made things awkward. I had a word with them in private, while strapping them in. "I'm sorry the boys are distant. They submitted to chemical controls to get deputized. Let them sleep it off tonight and they should be back to normal tomorrow" I grasped Chelo's hand and made eye contact. Pitching my voice low, I asked for a decision. "Sweetie is going to her _familia_ , but yours is far away. Do you want us to send you on home or could you stay with Sweetie and finish your schooling? I am sure my cousins would fall all over themselves to show you how chivalrous they can be. And I think Sweetie could use a good friend." Emotions chased across her face, but settled on duty. Her schooling and her friend required attendance. "I'll stay with Sweetie."

Sometimes, I think Jesuit methods are an infectious meme. Asking her in front of Sweetie applied a lot of pressure. But I wanted them together so my cousins could guard them. There might be some kind of reprisals from this distributed syndicate. Just because the harm was already done, didn't mean the enemy wouldn't develop some vindictive reasons to go after them.

I talked to my cousins, too. Letting them know I was taking them back to Chihuahua with a job in mind. "The Templars may want you demobbed, but we have Navarro business with these girls." I tried to make eye contact with each. "I know you still don't feel yourselves, but it is going to wear off tomorrow. I want you to remember the training when it does. You three are going to watch the girls for a while, maybe a long while."

Their deadpan expressions made it hard to read what they were thinking, but Lucho stuck out his fist and we all placed our hands atop. "Good enough, _primos_. I'll go with the Templars and you keep the wolves away." After that, I strapped in and tried to get some rest. It wasn't easy, but the number 7 helped.

We got to Tio's field in the afternoon. Lucho drove the girls slowly in the Mastretta, the rest of us carried our kit to the main house. Tio was there with Esmeralda. We had a hugging reunion and more confusion with the cousin's lack of emotion. Tio had a tight gaze for me. I tasked the boys with loading Templar gear in the Lifter, it would only wait so long. Esmeralda took the girls in the house and Tio hooked his finger at me, "Come talk to me, Jesus." He pronounced it Hay-soos. He must be mad to call me by my Christian name.

He sat me down on a stump seat used for chess games in the yard. "Jesus, you have brought the girls home and that is a good thing. But the boys are like robots with the drugs. I know my history. Drugs and armies make murderers. You may think you are immune because you fight _por Christo_. But I have seen a lot of bad things done _en nombre de Dios_. I want my sons out of your army." I nodded as I told him, "They are home to stay Tio. Tomorrow it will wear off."

Tio absorbed this and said, "Memo probably did not tell you, but the simulator hurt his injury several times. He would cry out and shake in his box and neither I nor Esmeralda could help. Esmeralda was very unhappy about that. And when he came out, _huy_! He was simple like a baby. It took hours to get him to respond as my Memo."

He paused and just looked at my eyes for a moment. "You are even on some drug. Why do they do that? You are not on a battle line. You are one of them. Where is _la confianza_? The trust?"

I had that argument with myself a lot these last five days. But I remember it seemed like a good idea for my cousins. Maybe I had goggles on for this topic. He was certainly right about the number 7 making this a difficult conversation. "Tio, to be Garda you must represent all the people, not just your own." He hacked the air between us, "You sound like a _politico_. You did not sound that way in your text."

I understood a little better. The text I sent from my Happy Place, when the drugs had worn off. I had agonized over the damage to the girls and been apologetic about risking his sons. It had probably scared him. And Memo's torture in the simulator was my fault too. I forgot that the muscle microshocks used in it would have involved his broken clavicle. I had left him without an attendant. Just Esmeralda, with her fear of the simulators.

"You are right Tio. My text was a weak moment when I was in the hospital. I did not mean to trouble you with my self-doubts."

" _De nada, Sobrino. Somos familia_ " It's nothing, we're family. "But you worried me when you talk about my sons and danger and all the trouble the girls got."

"It was the pain talking Tio. I snuck that text offbase when they were putting my face back together." He studied my face and said, "Around your eye, I see a line. What happened?"

"One of the _Secuestradores_ hit me with a rock when we went to get the girls. It broke the bone." Tio tsked and said, "It is not so bad then, Memo had worse."

"I am sorry about Memo and Esmeralda with the simulator. I should have left someone to take care of him. We were moving very fast and I tried to go where I could do the most good. I will apologize to them both." Tio nodded and glanced at the Lifter in his field. "So you are leaving right away?"

I nodded back to him, "We still pursue the head. It is a bigger snake than anyone thought."

He digested that, "Does this snake still want anything in Chihuahua?" I waved my hand side to side, "Maybe, if it is a crazy mean snake. The boys are trained as well as I could to look out for this snake in Chihuahua. If they should see it, I would like you to call me."

"Of course, Chuy. I think we will save your things here for when you have finished with the snake. We have more visiting to do." He slapped me on the shoulder. "There is still more _Reposado_ that needs drinking."

" _Acuerdo_ , Tio." We had an agreement. "I'll go talk to Esmeralda and the boys."

It took forty minutes to pack and leave on the Lifter. Toward the end, the Cargo Chief was blowing a whistle and jumping up and down. But this was _mi familia_ , he could wait.

I got almost three hours of nap on the way to Shreveport. When we landed at Barksdale, the Crew Chief basically shoved my gear on the blacktop and locked up the bird. He was racing the Pilot for bathrooms and food. Maybe drinks and girls too, aviators have a lot of comforts to choose from. I heard a whine and saw a command car approaching. There was a pallet running behind in slave mode. They roared up and slid broadside to me in an eerily choreographed hard left.

"Marshal Navarro, what happened? Your girlfriend kick you out?" Major Wilson grinned at me over the top of his thick arm, hanging out the command car window. Soldiers poured out of the other doors and started heaving my gear on the pallet drone.

"You know how it is, Major. Good looking Templar, so many screwed up women...I'm just out there rolling the dice." He seemed happy to see me. Probably missed talking to someone he couldn't bully.

"Sez you Marshal. At what point do you think to yourself, maybe the women aren't the ones who are screwed up?"

One of his Privates rode on the pallet, making room for me in the command car. Major Wilson hauled my butt over to the temporary barracks and deposited the drone pallet out front. "Just pat its little head and send it home when you get unloaded." He slapped his swagger stick on the car door and rapidly disappeared in a display of high torque. These Shreveport yahoos really liked their wheels.

Father Cervantes had arrived from Dallas and sought me out for a wellness check. At least, that was the reason I thought of for the conversation. "Everything went well at your Tio's casa?"

" _Si Padre, mi familia_ seemed well and satisfied with the justice received so far."

"And the young ladies are coping?"

"Si, as well as can be expected. They will be at Adoncia's _familia_ now, receiving care as only family can. All will be assisted by the Victims Advocate from the Magistrado."

" _Bueno_ Chuy. I understand you arranged for your cousins to watch over them?"

" _Si Padre_. They would have in any case, but the training will help them do so with their heads, not just their hearts."

Father Cervantes nodded and looked off in an unfocused way. He was conferring with someone on the net. I thought of Father Luke, off somewhere at a retreat. "Marshal, we are pleased with your handling of the personal issues that this assignment required. Now that you are not directly supervising family, we would be happy if you would discontinue the number 7. Do you have any reasons that may require continued use?"

"No _Padre_ , I will be happy to discontinue meds and get one hundred percent into the assignment." Cervantes put a hand on my shoulder before walking away. "You are a good man, Chuy. I would tell you _Para Dios agarre el día_ , but in your case, maybe you should seize tomorrow for God."

" _Acuerdo, Padre_."

_Mi compadres_ were happy with the news. Rafe told Etienne, "Finally! His ripostes have been deadly with that stone face." Etienne nodded and replied, "I prefer his monkey expressions to the man of stone too." They were pointedly talking to each other about me without a care. I would need to sleep off the number 7 to earn my place in conversation. "Let's feed him and get some wine in him," Rafe said. "Then we'll tuck him in his Happy Place." Etienne nodded and grabbed my arm, "Come along then, Marshal and it will go easier for you."

Dorothea rolled over and shook my arm. "The café is ready." The smell pulled me out of bed. It was my second "day" in my Happy Place. A real-time clock showed me it was morning out in the world. The sweep of the second hand was noticeably slow. I felt refreshed and clear. I sipped a cup then walked out my front door to the Real.

I woke in the simulator and the lid opened. My toilette came first, breakfast second. The BOC served a decent burrito _con huevos_ with plenty of Tabasco. I had two. Major Wilson dropped by the table and watched the second one go down. "You seem awful chipper this morning, Marshal. Did you squirm back in your girlfriend's good graces last night?" I waved my empty ring finger at him, "She wanted to slide the _oro_ on, but I told her, _leona_ , I am a complicated man. I need to keep moving." My newly mobile face brought him to laughter.

"How can you sound like Don Juan but look like Jaks Chou?" Jaks was an Asian action star with a self-deprecating martial style.

"I wasn't offered a choice on the Writ." I would admit to being Transferred, but the circumstances were classified. Just asking was a little rude, but the Major had worded it well. "I'll say no more on it then. You have yourself a good day Marshal. Give me a call if you want to play army again."

I went back to the barracks and dived into the Battlenet. Everyone else seemed to be there already, from the lack of response to my return. There were whole structures of logic that were not there the night before. The breakthrough revolved around one of Saint Peter's game players getting recruited. He was an upload, hidden behind a false avatar. The cover was ex-Garda trouble boy. He had received an offer in a Gneflhiem bar from a high level character that had been tracked firing off high bandwidth packets. The character, "Lord Equinox" wanted our player to deliver a package to a bin in a Jacksonville apartment. Current thinking was to let the R & T team send the courier. It looked like a test to check out the player.

The Hook Shot was some combination of cocaine and Alzheimer's meds that stimulated gambling addiction. Prescription drug laws were going to close the club down. The Belle was already lining up a new owner. There were some notes from Saint Peter observing that the Templar operation was being hidden within the Garda drug raid. Templar charged prisoners were held incommunicado. I sourced the notes back to a Planning space and tried to see what was meant.

Saint Peter was gaming the likelihood that the Tibbet and Ogre cover was still viable. By controlling eyewitnesses and selective spin control, he thought we may be able to continue the charade. They appeared to have made the delivery and disappeared before the raid. Their player personas were being puppeted within the Gneflhiem game world, to see if contact could be made. Two Templar trainers, who were physically closer to the kidnappers, would be prepped for doppelganger work in Jacksonville. Provided they survived the Tar Bone raid. That was poised to go in with an hour's notice. They expected him to drop by his private soldier club anytime.

I checked the decision tree for any new jobs. There was a standby assignment as a Raid Rider. Whenever that went in, I would travel their net and whisper in ears. Sometimes, that worked well, other times it was annoying micromanagement. I always tried for a minimal approach.

The decision tree had another fork labeled "All Hallows Oct 29." That was the next solstice event for the game world. Our girls may have been meant for that party. Within the branch was a list of islands in the Carib. The number seven re-occurred in the number of islands used to host past events. Each had a percentage chance of hosting based on past schedules. Each island had a growing database of research.

I conferenced with my Sergeants, looking for ways to play the kidnapper's identities. I also threw out the solstice event for comments. We were just brainstorming ideas and conjecturing when the raid alert came down. Tar Bone was at his hideaway.

I went for full simulation, jumping back into the flow as soon as I had plumbed the connections. Tactical for the raid showed maps, schematics and several blue icons. The target was near Bull Point north of town off Main Street. A big two story in a new money neighborhood with its own covered dock to the Drowned Keys. Much of Jacksonville had been reclaimed by the sea in the past hundred years. Empty homes now housed families of fish, revitalizing the fishing trade. Favored islands of grown coral rose offshore to protect what little could be held against the swollen Atlantic. Everything else moved inland.

Our surveillance preparations included a voice tap on exposed windows, isolated power, net and sewer services. Red dots were numerous in the house. I checked metadata on the target feed for accuracy. The sensory feed was from a Manta, holding station offshore. It had scrambled out of Blount when the voice taps confirmed Tar Bone in residence.

Mantas were drone platforms for coastal use. They could travel underwater or skim above the surface at high speeds. The design was used for vetting cargoes at sea. Avionics would produce a detailed model of contents and crew in huge container ships. A house on Bull Point was not a big problem. I wondered how much it was costing us.

So there were a lot of red target dots. I checked blue icons to see what was in play. The six Templars, led by Sir Hamblin, were approaching from the north on the Main Street Bridge. They were in a gray van, using camouflage to close the range. Behind them was a Garda Swat unit in two armored vans. Standing off the dock was a Snakehead APC with a Blount Marine unit. It would surface from a nearby spillway and seal off the back when called. The Marines had two Punisher drones spinning rotors a half klick up for on call air support. Once again, I wondered at the cost.

I watched feeds for the Templars. Sir Hamblin was checking gear as the van made a right off Main and onto a street called Custer. The name was not a good omen. The road wound through an impressive seafood restaurant, crossed back under Main and became Trout road. "Two minutes out," Hamblin said. The surroundings outside the van windows became upper residential, with tree fronted mansions.

Hamblin looked at his team. I was surprised to see Salvador Uribe's face on the driver. I guess the doppelganger idea had caught Hamblin's imagination. We would see how well it would work. He certainly looked just like my little Sal. The van slowed and the side door came open, the interior lights staying off. Four Templars in Ghillie coverings exited the coasting van and melted into a line of trees. Forty meters later, the van turned left into a short driveway. Hamblin and Sal got out.

The driveway held an angular silver sedan which looked very new and expensive. There was also a row of five motorbikes. Any other vehicles were parked in the three car garage. Several windows faced the street from both floors. Grounds lighting was minimal. The double front doors had an arched portico. There were two black men under the portico sharing a smoke. Probably having a little _toque_ on the job. They looked up as Hamblin approached, displaying pistols in their pants.

"Who dat?' said one, creeping his hand toward the pistol.

"Tell Tar Bone Sal is here with his packages." The Sal look alike also sounded like Sal. The other thug went inside the house while the talker stayed. "They in that van?" Hamblin spread his feet and blocked any movement toward the van.

Sal said, "Sleepin like babies. We just gonna wait and let Tar Bone see his own self." The thug did something with the lit joint that made it sizzle and disappear, a real druggie magician.

There was a commotion in the house. Bodies moving and voices rose. The Battlenet interrupted my audio and I heard the Manta driver say, "We have movement at the back, two walking to the dock." I checked Tactical quickly and saw three blue dots marking Templars at the left side windows. Another one was using small trees to close behind the two red targets heading to the dock.

A tattooed man, appearing dressed in bib overalls with no shirt, exited the front door. In his arms he cradled a subgun. He said nothing, setting up to one side of the door and watching all with hawk eyes. The gun looked like current issue Garda, but the sling had a zebra pattern. I wondered briefly who made fashion accessories for illegal weapons. Tar Bone stepped out a moment later.

Tar Bone was very tall and dressed like a Carib banker, white linen and a Homburg hat. His black eyes looked wild and suspicious. "'Bout damn time Sal got his ass back here." He squeezed outside, ducking slightly to clear the doorway. "You was supposed to be here in the daytime, fool." He stepped closer to Sal and jabbed a ringed finger down at him. "Now I got schedules all fallin late."

Sal seemed to shrink a little as he looked down. Our Templar was doing a great performance. I noticed the Sergeant's name was labeled on Battlenet as "Westin."

"I'm sorry 'bout that Tar Bone. We had to change a tire in Tallahassee."

Tar Bone rolled his wild eyes over to Hamblin, "This one of them boys from the club?" Sal looked over at Hamblin and said, "Yup, this is Deeter or something like that. He's a German, but he can talk American."

"Huh, German feller." Tar Bone looked at Hamblin like he was for sale, "Say something in German for me."

" _Was kennon sie uber Deutschland_?" Hamblin said.

"That sounds kinda whip," said Tar Bone. "What'd you say?" Hamblin told him, "Have you ever been to Germany?" That was diplomatic of him. He actually asked what Tar Bone knew about Germany. Not much, it seemed. The important task was to distract Tar Bone and close range.

Seeing Sal's strange German security guard perform like a dog for Tar Bone's amusement made his guards laugh. Tar Bone himself was enjoying playing the man. None noticed that pseudo-Sal and Hamblin had gotten within arm reach of all three targets under the portico. A growing whine from the north let Hamblin know the Swat team was close. Then the house lights went off. Hamblin subvocalized, "Now."

Sergeant Westin moved first, jamming his left hand behind Tar Bone's belt and yanking him forward to the edge of the steps. Westin turned left, placing his right hand under Tar Bone's armpit and spinning him off his feet. Tar Bone flew low across the front of the house and skidded to a stop at the right edge of the driveway. It was fast and shocking, because Westin only came up to Tar Bone's chest.

Hamblin stepped into the two guards, placing his hands on their chests. Charge flowed and both jerked in a St. Vitus dance until Hamblin shoved them backwards off the porch. They landed limply, _hors de combat_. He turned back to the door, seeing Westin wrestling with Tar Bone on the ground. Hamblin must have good faith in Westin, because he ignored that combat and pushed open the front doors.

Flashes and thunder filled the inside of the house. A hail of bullets flew out the front door. "Shots fired" was interjected on the net from several voices. A Swat van bounced onto the driveway and turned sideways in the yard. Rapping noises marked bullet hits on the armored sides. Soldiers spilled out the back. Another van blocked the driveway and spewed its own troops. Bright lights illuminated the front of the house from atop the vans.

Hamblin rolled Party poppers into the house from the wall beside the doors. Glass broke somewhere on the left. Shooting continued from the house and then flashes and thunder once again lit the interior. These flashes were much brighter and the thunder louder. When they finally died out, I could hear the popping of pneumatic guns. Tactical showed many red dots turning yellow, unsecured but _hors de combat_.

Hamblin produced an assault pistol and moved into the house, working the right side. Weapons, furnishings and writhing targets made tricky footing. He was joined by two Templars in the Ghillie suits, having let themselves in the left windows. They tossed off the Ghillie covers to reveal their white Tabards and red Crosses.

Garda soldiers poured inside as the Templars gained the staircase. Hamblin hand signed his two men downstairs and was soon joined by another Templar. Hamblin and the new Templar, labeled "Brown", took the upstairs route. The interior was very dark, back from the windows. Hamblin's visor illuminated people at the top of the stairs, feeling their way back toward the rooms. Whenever thermals showed a weapon, Brown shot them. We were using splats, gel blobs filled with metered nerve agents. Not much knockdown but the liquid filling sprayed through clothing. A few seconds and the local feed would supply the sound of a falling body. Brown and Hamblin began clearing rooms, once the hallway was secure. There was a moment of gunfire from the basement, but units began calling in "Clear" immediately after. Tar Bone's club was closed for good.

They found four more girls upstairs, muddled with narcotics and suffering various stages of abuse. Two were freckled blonds, two were young and black. I called Agent Ross at the Bureau of Missing Persons and sent their images. The Templars would take care of the blondes, who were registered Baptists. The Garda would handle the other two, who were runaways.

Uploaded prisoners flowed into our net. There were two dozen or so, including Tar Bone. Saint Peter would put them all to the question within the hour.

I stayed on scene as a Rider, long enough to see Tar Bone's neighbors come out in the street and clap. Families slapped other neighbors on the back and laughed. It looked like a block party would spontaneously erupt, but the Garda soldiers urged them back into their homes.

I saw two Templars enter the back of a Swat van. Their labels said Johnson and Westin. I switched perspective to Johnson and found him helping Westin get out of the Salvador face. I was surprised to see Westin was a woman. Bio data said Roxanna Westin was a covert specialist and fieldcraft trainer. It was less surprising to see she wore Combat Skins. Her small size hid them well while impersonating a short man.

I had enjoyed her moves with the enormous Tar Bone. My interest became a little less than professional, so I dropped off the Rider feed and got out of the simulator. Time for dinner.

****

### Chapter 16: Rolling Stones

I grabbed a table at the BOC for my _compadres_ and me. We talked about the raid and the other Templars over trout and white wine. Etienne had met Brown at a cross country shooting event in Oslo. He said he was career Eastern Seaboard Templar taking a marriage exemption. We both looked at Rafe.

"Obviously, he is not married to Claire." Rafe said around a mouthful of asparagus, "She would never forgive me if I stayed home and let you two finish killing yourselves."

"We all appreciate Claire," Etienne replied. "She often tells us that bachelor Transferred don't live long."

Suicide, according to Claire, being a leading cause of death among those with insured Transferral. Especially we single males.

I said, "She tells her single girlfriends similar statistics so she can play matchmaker," then I imitated Claire's high piping voice. "I'm saving lives, Raphael!"

Etienne exclaimed, " _Raton_! He speaks for himself, Raphael. I enjoy exploring Claire's choices for my evenings." He speared a piece of fish and tucked it in his cheek. "A _Maquereau_ is beyond my means." Rafe visibly reddened and I puzzled over his meaning until Etienne turned to me, "A pimp, for you, Chuy."

" _Merci_ , I thought you said you couldn't pay for the fish."

The evening was the most fun I had had in a while. Etienne did end up buying the fish and Rafe bought the wine, which he disparaged as " _Merdeux_. It is an American vintage with a crappy finish." More importantly, we talked as equals and renewed the bonds. I did not miss the cushion of number 7 between my feelings and _el Mundo_. I could have _amigos_ again.

Back at the barracks, we sifted initial returns. But there wasn't a lot of solid intel yet. It looked to be another night off. I went to a Simulator and slipped away to my Happy Place. I would work from home for a while, before sleeping.

Dorothea stepped in from the bedroom, "Chuy, do you have a drink?" I asked her for a brandy. The drink simulation was close and the effects, instantly correctable. I would see how it mixed with _Merdeux_. I was setting some alarms and running tickers from the Battlenet when Dorothea came back. "Is this what you have been doing lately?" She waved a finger at the screens. I gave her my guilty smile and patted the cushion next to me, "You know my job."

And she did. Dorothea was the sixth companion I had owned, but she had been with me for years. She ran in my personal data vault, watching my finances and private business through secure gates. I had given her access to my memory palace, the stored sum of my archived history, to ask her own questions. She remembered everything.

Companions had been popular in computing since the keyboard. As processing improved, so did the companions. There were a few schools of thought on their purpose. One was a love doll or other sensory experience. Simulator technology had exploded that camp into a vending frenzy. A significant portion of total world bandwidth went to the hedonist school. It always had.

Then there was the working companion school. These were people who couldn't or wouldn't hire admins, tutors, nannies or other servants. Once the net had matured to accept virtual avatars, the servant school became empowered. House majordomos could pay the bills and supply a family in the background, like a bodiless legal guardian. They were great with the _ninos_. Many professions were available for use.

Some professionals created their own coworkers, sidekick daemons who could make decisions. I called it the servant school, but it only avoided being slavery because the programs weren't self-aware. There could be no high order intellect companions, under law. The Intellect Emancipation Act provided monitors for compliance.

My first companions were in my youth. They were solid Hedonist school. I would play with one, grow bored and buy another. After a while, I just leased. It got to where my finances suffered. Simulator time and the software could be pricy. But there were a lot of boys just like me, as a consumer group we got volume rates. The practice did nothing good for teen pregnancy, but violent crime was reduced. Marriages lasted, on average, slightly longer. Pragmatists saw it as social progress. If that included a lot of misfits marrying software, then I guess so.

I developed my gift for languages with companions, seducing dolls that were not ported to _espanol_. A lot of them used gamer architecture that required foreplay to unlock the doll. The challenge was seen as teaching socialization skills. When a new doll came out, my circle of hormonal young men would race to be the first to enjoy her. I remember learning German to win the favors of a particularly difficult doll. Once unlocked, she proved very inventive.

When I bought Dorothea, some clever computer scientist had merged the two schools of purpose into a single package. I suspect it was one of the pornographers, they were very cutting edge. You could get a love doll who was a sexy majordomo the rest of the time.

Social theorists thought the combination of a mother and lover surrogate was unhealthy to formative socialization. In most jurisdictions, combination companions could only be sold to adults. Misfit marriages sharply increased, despite a growth of companion addiction treatments.

I discovered that the combination was greater than the sum of Dorothea's parts. The self-learning algorithms had always been good, absorbing the facts of my life and every media I had ever seen to provide knowledgeable conversation. By adding the daily management of my affairs, Dorothea became a touchstone for all things related to Jesus Navarro.

She seemed focused and loving, in comparison to a few girlfriends I had been with. I would rate her somewhere in the middle of all the women I had known in the Real. Truly, I felt pathetic and anti-social for enjoying Dorothea's company rather than some real women. But the simulation of love was comforting, especially when far from home and deep in the mission.

Few real women would find the attentions I had left to give, after the demands of the job, to meet their requirements for a relationship. Dorothea was always glad to see me and could go where I went as carry-on luggage. Security clearances were not a problem.

Of course, the Christians frowned on the practice. For a culture based on intangibles, they had a strong preference for reality. Etienne and I found it expedient to not discuss our Happy Places with the Christians. Saint Peter and some of the Jesuit fathers turned a blind eye to our practices, realizing that most of the secular world used the Happy Places to maintain sanity in a hostile environment. Father Luke called it a steam valve for the pressure cooker of atheistic lifestyles.

Rafe had given companions up, after his conversion. Now he had more of a shrine to his family, his touchstone to home when deployed for long periods. I'm not an expert, but he seemed to cope as well as ever. Hard to tell with the old grump sometimes.

So I showed Dorothea what I was doing with the Battlenet. She was more conversant tonight than when I was on the number 7. The simulator medical diagnostics gave her a feel for my mood and condition. Biorhythms and brain scans made her seem prescient. Technically, she only reacted to my needs. She just did it so quickly, it seemed like her idea.

"So one of these little islands will have a party for _criminales_ on the 29th?" I told her that seemed likely, we just weren't sure which one. "Then you will be crashing their party with soldiers and guns?" She looked concerned for my welfare.

" _Si,_ _hina_ that too is likely." She gnawed her lip a little and sipped her wine. "I will make _Pescado de ajo_ for you on the 30th. You would never miss your garlic fish."

I would have chuckled, but she looked so serious. I felt warmed by her concern, before thinking about it. The suspension of disbelief is a quid pro quo arrangement. I could only try to keep up with her. Later, when the brandy had put me at ease, Dorothea led me to the bedroom and gifted me with care's release. My biorhythms had probably informed her, but it still seemed like her idea.

The wall of alarms began ringing before dawn. Preliminary interrogations of Tar Bone and a boatman called Gus had found the next leg in the transport chain. Dorothea made espresso _crema_ and my body in the simulator received a jolt of stimulants. I noticed how nice Dorothea looked in her house robe. She gave me a little smile and said, "Oh no, _Leon_ , you are going to work and I am going to the _mercado_." She had instructions to anticipate risk and increase my insurance short term. The church would not willingly work with Transferral policies, so I used the Garda bid market. The picture of her strolling through a street _mercado_ with a sunhat and a basket, sniffing policies, came unbidden to mind.

The policy she chose would guarantee my Transferral and provide a lump sum for recovery. Price was based on the odds of receiving a Medical Writ, so they were fairly cheap for Templars. If the Writ came through, I would still receive the lump sum. It was a little gamble to build a nest egg with the only equity I had. My goal was always to not need it, but it had been profitable my last tour offworld.

I started work with the budget, since I was thinking about money. Barksdale had booked two dozen career bad men on various charges from the raid. Saint Peter was customizing interrogations for Jacksonville prosecutors and many open crimes were expected to be solved with the leads. Barksdale waived service credits for the operation. The eastern zone AI, Whitney, approved an award of service credits for bounties. Barksdale was happy to split it with the Templars.

I examined the interrogation briefs to see where the trail led. Confiscated at the dock of Tar Bone's soldier club was a Botec Trimaran, one of those powerful cabin cruisers with wings. Inside they found a lot of drugs packaged for individual use and cabin bunks with manacles. The interrogations of Gus and Tar Bone stated the girls were to be loaded onboard and taken out to sea. Sometime yesterday or today, they were to rendezvous with a party cruise and mix in with their sport craft to do the exchange. It was only a go during daylight. We had missed the first rendezvous, but had a shot at today's. Saint Peter was even now arranging to get the Botec out of Garda impound and prepped.

The party cruise they were to meet was a chartered toy hauler. All contract participants were now under investigation. We could find the ship for a while with the GPS settings on Gus's boat. If we were quick, we could catch them playing in the Little Bahama Bank until around six. After that, their itinerary became a vague "Visiting Bahamian ports of call" for eight days. The All Hallows Solstice would occur in three days.

I checked specs on the party cruiser. It was a sixty meter pinched bow catamaran yacht with revolving racks to deploy small watercraft outside the hulls. It slept about twenty with a six man crew. Pretty fast for its size, it featured a state of the art bridge with a quantum communications suite. At over three stories tall, it had good vantage out to the distant horizon. Sneaking up would require submersibles or an invitation. It would be impossible to jam the quantum gateway.

We had information on the crew, who were provided by the charter company. Captain Aksel Dahl had moved to the Bahamas with the Norwegian crew and the ship "Fara I Viking" at the orders of the owner, Nils Matheson. The ship had been chartered six times in the last two years. Nils himself had flown into Freeport three days ago with a dozen consultants from his graphics firm and began the party cruise. That he chartered his own ship and his consultants seemed to be full time employees was seen as a tax dodge.

As interesting as all that was, the Matheson consulting firm financials showed that they did graphics for Gnefl Corporation. They seemed to be the primary provider of game and advertising art for them. The direct connection to the Gneflhiem game world was very interesting. I was looking forward to an interrogation report from Mr. Matheson, just as soon as I could get my hands on him. To that end, I checked for active agents on the Battlenet.

It was very early morning in the Real. Etienne was the only immediate team member awake. His tracker said he had been in his own Happy Place for the last six hours. I gave him a visitor request knock. That's an automated protocol handshake based on standing clearances, but I still had to knock at the door of his manor. Expected and reciprocated politeness.

Lurch answered, as was Etienne's usual hospitality of late. Lurch was a secondary filter to catch mimicking intruders. Etienne had a problem with a very clever Systems Cyberneticist he had a falling out with. Saint Peter created Lurch, to the bizarre cultural specs Etienne demanded, in order to legally identify and charge the mimic. He said the character was from a vintage media series in the nineteen seventies. Sometimes he is too obscure with his old media.

The cadaverous Lurch welcomed me by name in his rumbling meter, "Mr. Navarro." The inclined head was still far above mine. His clothes were monochromatic and worn. He lifted his head and cocked an eyebrow, which was as much expression as the daemon could manage.

I spoke to his chest, having learned that looking up at him was both pointless and disorienting. "I wish to speak with Etienne."

Lurch made a low sound like an internal combustor starting up. I must have passed his identity check, because Adelaide came to collect me from an arch on the right.

"So good to see you, Chuy," She kissed air over both my cheeks, "Please follow me." We passed quickly through the arch and into a third floor study. Room locations and the doors used defy causality in Etienne's world. That was disorienting but a time saver. I found Etienne working on a Battlenet wall much as I had. The view out the east windowed wall was of a canal overhung with pastel buildings. A poled boat slid by below with a gondolier in a sailor uniform.

" _Bon jour_ , Chuy. What would you like to discuss?"

I plopped myself on a plush chair, "Did you know that it was once against the law to use military units to aid law enforcement in North America?"

Etienne waved a hand and said, "French schools studied much of the American system. The law was called Posse Comitatus and it was traded politically with the loser of their civil war. The North got their election and the South slowed assimilation of slaves by decades. So much of their system was a business deal that they are credited as the first Salesmen/Soldiers."

I raised an eyebrow. He was more knowledgeable on the subject than I thought. "That is a Eurocentric spin on the process, but almost correct." I pointed at the diagram of the Fara I Viking on his Battlenet display, "I'm thinking a little piracy against a vessel that size is going to need military units."

Etienne gave me his thin smile when contemplating industrial destruction, "Then you would also be interested to know that the consultants and crew have ex-Garda among them. Two crew and four of the consultants. I think they are dedicated security, probably with a petite arsenal."

"That is interesting. I think we want to go portable with the R & T team, all six if we can get them. I would also like to get Stealth & Rescue Lifters and some of those Blount Island marines."

Etienne nodded, "You're thinking we are going to get lucky on a follow up target and need a prize crew for the ship." I nodded back, " _Exactement_ , if we can get Father and Nuncio on the ship with them, they can support us offshore and do all those technical tricks they enjoy."

" _D'accord, mon ami_. I have researched Christian losses with this Gneflhiem network. We have confirmed over a hundred dead at their hands. More come in all the time from our prisoners." Etienne mimicked a trigger grip, "Resistance is rising as we approach the head. I know Rafe's mind and I certainly would appreciate an upgrade in force."

I mimicked pulling a weapon charging handle, "We upgrade then. Just tell Rafe he may still need to swim with his load."

Etienne chuckled at the picture of Rafe drowning with a strapped load most men could not walk with, "You have _raison_. I will see that he wears his floats."

We discussed transport and timetables and built an action plan. Much could be refined while enroute to locations. We filed the plan with Saint Peter and left our Happy Places to begin working tasks. I would see Major Wilson for Lifter transport and trade our new found popularity for supplies. Etienne would see Father Cervantes about transporting his lab.

It was still dark outside when I left the simulator. Etienne was sponging gel on a wood bench. The greasy shine and hair sticking up at all angles was completely different than his avatar's perfect grooming. I suppose he thought the same about me. After showering, we looked more human. A carbo load at the BOC made us feel the part. Garda caffeine gave us that extra perky edge for persuading others. When the sun rose, we gave each other hammer fists and separated to work our wiles. " _Bon chance_ ," said Etienne. " _Vaya con dios_ ," I replied.

Major Wilson was in his office with a large pastry and his feet on the desk. Garda officers tend to be casual around Templars by design. We have very few ranks, instead relying on seniority. Those who wore the white Tabard were either Marshals or Sergeants or Knights. All others wore the tan deputy suit with the little red Cross. We never wear rank insignia. When you know as much about a team member as we get over the Battlenet, you know who is senior. No need to tell the snipers.

But this caused Garda officers to become confused and uncomfortable, without a clue as to our authority over them. They wanted a senior man to handle liaison with them. But they didn't know how our chain of command related to theirs. As a Marshal, I was some kind of lieutenant or captain. That is generally the lowest rank to barter with interservice credits. So our money was good, but they didn't feel completely compelled to orders, as was evident often with Major Wilson. If I couldn't cajole what I needed, then Saint Peter would try a Colonel to colonel phone assault. That was often used when we needed something delivered.

"Whut c'n I dew fer you, Marshal?" Wilson's hillbilly delivery amused himself, if no one else. His Dog Robber stood parade ground still and stone faced inside the door, obviously working on number 7. I wondered for a moment whose idea the Cocktail was. "Well, it sure has been fun, but I need to get my team off your property. They want us for a media shoot and handshaking over in Jacksonville. You know, kissing babies and shit."

"Well I can believe the shit part. So how can I help you get your circus back on the road?" He dropped his feet to the floor and sat a little straighter, "You want a bearclaw or some coffee?"

"I'm watching my weight. I will take the first thing flying the right direction that will hold us."

He brought up a desktop screen and looked at schedules. Not finding any direct flights, he opened a channel to operations.

"Major Wilson for Captain Dugan...Sven, I need a heavy Lifter made available for some visitors to deliver them to Jacksonville in a hurry...yeah the church group." Wilson rolled his eyes at me, "What's the credit on that flight? Yeah, go ahead and prep the bird. What's the number? Echo-Sierra-Golf seventeen, right? OK Sven, you get that started and I'll get it moving over here...see you Wednesday...alright, bye." He cut connection and smiled at me, "ESG-17 right out on the field. Will that be cash or charge?"

I turned my hands palm up, "I thought we were tight now, Wilson? If you sock us with bills after giving you that sweet riverine assault, people will think Barksdale's running in the red." The Major brushed crumbs off his large chest and leaned forward. "We ain't tight like that. Barksdale stays in the black because I get our bills paid."

I took another tack, "Did you hear about Jacksonville?" He switched mental gears and told me. "Yeah, I heard they bagged a lot of trouble out of some punk barracks on the river there."

I gave him a crooked grin, "Well whoever talked didn't tell you about the bounties then. They got a sudden cash flow out of that raid and they want more."

Wilson instantly thought about who he knew in Jacksonville. It was a large base for all kinds of Garda. "I'll bill them if you get someone to sign off."

I slapped his desk and stood, "Done deal then. Let me get a medium container to pack with and bill it to the same place. I'll get Jacksonville to call."

Major Wilson stood and extended his huge paw across the desk, "Pleasure then, Marshal. You all get up to any fun out here in Louisiana you give me a call."

"I'll do that. You remember that trestle bridge when they get the Libertine running again." We both chuckled with anticipated mayhem.

Everyone was up when I got back and Etienne was stripping the Forensic truck. Nuncio and the Father placed equipment in a pattern on the ground. It was surprisingly modular, despite the homebuilt appearance. When they were done, Nuncio and Rafe took the rentals back to the agencies. I called Jacksonville and pleaded my case with a Major Cook.

The uptick was Jacksonville would be happy to have us there. The only concession was that they wanted to be the impound dock for any ships. I agreed readily. We could always develop engine trouble later.

Etienne returned from the motor pool with a drone pallet towing a medium container. Father and Nuncio carefully placed their lab into the container. With air and lights, it would be a little workspace once packed. There was a computer dissected on a worktable that probably came from Tibbet's apartment. Progress was bookmarked with sticky notes for the move. All was loaded into ESG-17 out on the Lifter pad, just the five of us and the container. The pallet drone left in a hurry after backing into the bay. Probably afraid we would steal it. I thought about it, but Jacksonville had plenty. The Crew Chief checked out the load and we lifted.

It was almost two hours in the air, so we conferenced. Saint Peter was furiously churning out data that needed absorption. I called Templar Hamblin to give him an ETA and connect his team to the Battlenet more closely. Hamblin was a Knight, having been awarded the title by the Pope. He was senior to me, but Knights were not usually given police action commands. They were ferocious fighters who disliked anything but front line action. If I authorized it, Hamblin would see it done. Hoorah.

"Sir Hamblin, my compliments and would your team be available for a job at sea?"

"We are at your disposal Marshal. You point it out and we will make it yours."

"I would like two doppelgangers for the Gus role and a random thug. The specs are on the net. Do you have the boat yet?"

"Aye aye Marshal. The boat is partially provisioned and on the quay."

"I'm sending you a shopping list for the operation. Grab what you can and let me know of any holdouts."

"Roger that. I'll be twisting arms until you get here."

I gave him my Jacksonville Major's name to smooth the bill and broke connection.

Saint Peter laid on the rest of what we needed. There was minor haggling with the bullet counters, but the AI's wanted this lead run down. The Blount Island wet marines underbid the other Garda bases and we got everything we asked for on contingency. Dangling a large yacht impound helped. By the time we landed on Blount Island, the base was in choreographed movement for a marine operation.

Unloading was swift. The forensic container was hitched up and loaded onto another heavy Lifter before a utility truck pulled up with our two copied slavers. Hamblin was in black face, mimicking our chosen thug. The Gus doppelganger was driving. Hamblin introduced him as Roxanna Westin. I looked more closely, but only saw the doppelganger. Her Skins were well concealed. "I enjoyed your work, Sergeant Westin. I look forward to meeting you both when you aren't so perfectly imitating slavers."

Her voice was Gus', "A girl needs her hobbies." I smiled, although the voice and look said paunchy middle aged drunk.

Hamblin said, "If you gentlemen would like to get aboard, we can ferry you over to the CP and then get moving. The marines will be shifting your gear." We squeezed in with the Father and Nuncio and rode quickly to an ancient dock building. Inside the warped metal door were Sergeant Brown and three other Templars. They were couched on drone capable simulators and blinking from their recent reentry into the Real. I recognized one from my induction, Sir Garza of Queens. I called him Juan.

"Juan, _donde esta_?" He came over and we clasped forearms and traded shoulder slaps. He was in his Skins, so that was a little rough. Our history now established Juan bartered his time, " _Comprar una ballena_ , Chuy." Buy me a beer and I'll tell you what's up, in other words. I told him, "We'll catch up after, _compadre_. Clock's ticking on this one." He broke grip and backed to his couch. " _Simon que si, trabajo quiere carne_." Yeah man, job wants meat. We had both fought in that one. Sir Juan was a good Tactical Leader. I was glad to have him. And he didn't say a word about the new body.

The rest of them, Sergeants Lopez and Johnson, I had not met. Templars tended to break into small units and disperse. Everyone had a territory rotation, so we only got together for big or complex operations. It sounded like terrorist craft, but was optimized to take advantage of the communications implants. Our locations were not tethered to technicians, we could operate very independently. I preferred the protections of anonymity to clustered targets anyway. Saint Peter liked the economy of force.

"Good to see everyone. I was very impressed with your work at the Soldier club." I panned my view across all assembled. "Let's conference for a minute and handle the Q and A." Father Cervantes joined us in finding seats. All soon joined the Battlenet.

We worked parameters. The whole boat was targeted, but we would only go lethal if threatened. Prisoners and forensics were our desired product. Disabling the ship was a good control for boarding. It would also crash communications. But if we weren't careful, we could fry our own gear. Johnson suggested we wet drop a Manta to scan the target and send the EMP. Two Mantas would be better. After that, it descended into tactics. Sir Juan and Sir Hamblin were my betters there, so I checked our linkage with the Blount Marine command and ordered two Mantas for Lifter delivery. They would ride with the marines; their Drone Drivers would work from here. Expensive, but I was sure we were going to make credit on this run. The Drivers were happy just getting a free war shot for their evaluations.

I passed the yacht specs to Merchant shipyards and got a flow of replacement circuitry to restore power afterwards. That was all billable for a salvage rescue. Just-In-Time Fabricant bid on contingency with a low start up to get the job. They would haul parts, Installers and Diagnosticians out to us after a twelve hour quick tool production run.

By the time I had dealt with off net vendors, the tactical plan had morphed into an elaborate decision tree. Saint Peter was fine tuning inventory and timelines. The clock was counting down on the Botec launch. We needed to get to sea soon.

I sped through the plan and signed off. It would probably change by the time we got there. Father Cervantes gave his blessing, " _Para Dios agarre el día_." Conference adjourned. We blinked alert and rose as a group. Sergeant Brown said, "Follow me to Toyland."

He led us back into the building to a doorway with claymores attached. Red stickers warned of lethal force. "I'm packing what we leave in secure storage." Inside were racks of mil-spec gear. There was enough for a platoon. Rafe whistled and moved into the demolition packs. He had his sheep scaring smile on. I went to the gun racks with Etienne.

For close quarters, I grabbed a Hogdon C-12. The short length and heavy fragmenting slugs gave comfort in walls and halls. Etienne favored a Beamworx laser with the gauss auto underbarrel attachment. He could burn through walls and spray rooms with hypersonic darts. The weapon was EMP shielded, provided he didn't power it up until after the electromagnetic strike.

We shifted to SEAL stores and acquired water capabilities for our Skins. We grabbed the full snorkel helmets for their sensor suite and closed air cycling. I passed on the armor upgrades, working over water in Combat Skins was enough of a risk. We would sink like a stone if we stopped swimming and the air bladders were holed. Armor would just make us heavier and unbalanced. While I grabbed the fins, floatation bladders and gill packs from SEAL stores to give us fish capabilities; Etienne packed the armor vests anyway, "We don't know where the next leg will take us."

Rafe reconnected with us a moment later, pulling a large duffel and slinging two long arms. He had a GE X-ray laser and a pack-fed quad barrel subgun. It was a staggering load out. But he was smiling broadly. "My Christmas came early."

I pointed at his duffel, "I trust nothing atomic or biological is riding in that?"

He kicked the duffel on the floor and shook his head, "They didn't have any. Just the usual chemistry set."

Etienne slapped his armored shoulder, "Then there are still things left for your Christmas. Or would you prefer more cologne?"

Rafe bristled at the suggestion, "That cologne nearly saw me divorced when the pheromones released on the bus."

Etienne laughed. "Mademoiselle just had a bad reaction. Those Strasbourg Cathedral _dames_ are very repressed."

I mock separated the two as though breaking up a fight, "We have time for that story out on the water, _non_?" They both nodded and chorused, " _Oui_." We shouldered our bounty and left the armory to the owners. "Sir Hamblin. We will meet you on the quay in ten." Both Sir Hamblin and Sir Juan chorused, "Roger that."

We found our Skins, hanging on transfusers in our new ready room. Our simulators and crates of gear were stacked in their packing. A crate of batteries sat on a folding chair, ripe for looting. The Marines here seemed very adept at logistics.

We three Musketeers began our dress-for-success ablutions with the Skins. The floatation bladders went on first, then the swim fins glued on in the retracted position. Gill packs hung around our necks. We checked each other's strapped loads and bagged up everything else for boarding. "Bahamas, here we come." Rafe grinned as Etienne said, "And all dressed for a party."

We duck walked our kit down to the quay. It was considerably lighter with the Skins. East Coast Templars were already shuffling loads below decks. The Botec Trimaran looked like the mating of a cigarette boat and an attack gunship. The enclosed fuselage and stubby lift wings gave the illusion of speed at rest. A three-hull layout featured stepped, knifelike chines to gradually elevate the boat into the air. A Tee-shaped tail with high mounted prop left no doubt that it was a ground effect flyer. I was looking forward to seeing how it worked.

"Permission to come aboard?" I called. Hamblin and Westin gave me doppelganger faces. Westin said, "Granted" and we started heaving duffels. Sergeant Johnson helped us distribute the load and found us seats in the crowded cabin. Seven of us in the Skins and strapped took up a lot of space. Johnson would be riding in the stair well the whole trip. With the helmet off, his black skin would aid acceptance as one of Tar Bone's crew. The L-17 air carbine on his lap stayed out of sight.

"Don't move around when the flight sign lights," Johnson advised. "You don't want to dip a wing at two fifty when we're skimming." That made sense. The mention of two fifty kph made more of an impression. We were going to be travelling a couple hours. I hadn't realized how fast that was from the timetables. This GEV was less than fifteen meters long and maintained by thugs. I remembered every crash I had heard of in these little sport craft. Survival was low.

Rafe must have seen something on my face. "Do not concern yourself, Chuy. This is a Botec from Germany. Very solid engineering," he whispered. "Smugglers run them when everything else breaks." I nodded thanks and the engines started. Here we go.

The boat wallowed backwards then shifted forward and right in a gliding turn. Once aligned to the east, acceleration pushed us aft. The stepped hull gave a lifting sensation and then the tail prop began its Doppler drone. We hit a few waves hard and then lifted once into smooth flight. Out the porthole, I saw wings extended from the sponson stubs. We were maybe a meter above the wave crests.

The coast of Jacksonville blurred, and then disappeared aft. The noise was a little high, so we synched up with the boat systems and dropped into Battlenet. We needed to stay on top as things developed. This would also keep us from moving around. I really liked that idea. The boat was developing a diagonal rise and fall as the waves rose that made me worry.

Saint Peter had a risk alert flagged as soon as I entered the net. There was a percentage chance that the yacht was mined. A trap or just insurance were the motivations. Our EMP strike could trigger said mines and leave us wreckage. He had passed the alert to the Manta drivers, so they would do a good scan and let us adjust. If we couldn't supply the yacht, this was going to be a very expensive op. Jacksonville might cut us loose.

Saint Peter had contacted Havana Garda to liaise with them in the area. They weren't too far if we needed help from the south. The Bahamian Garda he just warned off. They could be a little gossipy with Ops in their area, so we tried not to involve them much. But we might need them later, so he tried to be pleasant about it. Islanders can be prickly if you upset their rhythms.

The tactical map showed us traveling in the back of the pack. Ahead of us were two Stealth and Rescue Lifters with Mantas slung below and drone gunships following like loyal dogs. I hadn't asked for the gunships, so Jacksonville fronted them on their own. Once tasked, hired crews often added to the inventory using their own Field Wikis. To us, it was free force multiplication. Just don't blow something up and blame the Templars.

Inspecting the network I saw the Eastern AI, Whitney, was riding along. That was helpful. The marines had been trained to react to Whitney when called. The AI's would mesh our assaults that we might suffer no accidental casualties. Friendly fire and heavy weapons were much less hazardous when an AI mapped the battlefield. You were only shot for a purpose, yours or theirs.

Tactical showed the Mantas deployed and skimming to the edge of detection before submerging. Both Lifters held beyond the yacht's radar range. The blue icon for our Botec showed us soon entering range from the northwest. ETA at our speed, about fourteen minutes.

The Mantas had closed within three hundred meters by the time they knew we were coming. They created a map of all the power sources at large. The yacht was a big schematic positioned over a bloom of energy. Mantas used electromagnetics, like our Skins, to see emissions. But they were much more refined and stealthy. We saw moving boats and jet skis in the area that were probably the Yacht's sportcraft. Bioelectrics were picked out of the background to show the auras of people.

"Four minutes," called Johnson. He was mostly in the Real and relaying from Hamblin. I announced operations to commence and dropped the Battlenet to small screens on my visor. My tasks and path arrows scrolled across the top. An alert flared and I checked to see what had happened.

Audio from Saint Peter's Tactical Commander advised that the owner, Matheson, was not onboard. He had just charged a table at the Courtyard in Atlantis Resort. Video confirmed. Proceed with other targets. Out.

"Landing in five, four..." called Johnson. The engine drone changed and we hit several waves hard. Everyone hung on as the ride got rough and then settled into a conventional wave slapping speedboat gait. "Coming up starboard." We slowed to a crawl and scraped rubber somewhere behind my head. I heard voices with odd accents, probably Norwegian, calling to Gus. The boat stopped.

****

### Chapter 17: Boats Drinks & Piracy

I checked feed on Hamblin, waiting for cues. He was looking up at two men on the deck in sailor livery. One had a subgun, the other a pistol. The boat was tied to a watercraft platform like a little dock. We could step right up to the deck. Hamblin and Westin headed there to pave the way.

"I got all six girls here," Westin said, while closing with the crewmen. Hamblin showed no weapons and closed beside her. On the deck near the lower cabin were two men in Skins and armor. They cradled assault rifles. A small boat roared by and the wake set the Botec rocking. One of the crewmen shook a fist at it. The other said, "Well, get them up here. Let us see our guests." He gave an evil leer. Hamblin sub vocalized "Now."

The Mantas bobbed up to the surface and fired twenty millimeter rounds at the sides of the bridge and hull. They were using squash head EMP rounds. Impact energy was converted to power spikes instead of holes. The flat bangs sounded like a moment of hail on a metal roof. Our Battlenet fuzzed and went down. Johnson stood and fired his L-17 before charging the deck. I ran out behind him, clearing the way for the rest to exit. Someone shouted "Garda."

On the deck, both sailors were down with splats. One of the Skin guards was down with a head wound, but the other was struggling with Hamblin and Westin. Closer examination showed they were wrestling with the Skins, the owner was napping. I passed them headed to the superstructure. Rafe and Etienne were right behind me while Johnson had moved to the other side. Three more Templars scrambled up from the boat.

Flat banging resumed for a moment, the Manta on the far side probably having spotted a backup system coming online. I heard Etienne say, " _Merde_!" The unexpected EMP had disabled his weapon. " _C'est Guerre_ ," Rafe said. That's war for you. He slapped charges on the cabin door and turned his back to trigger them. When he turned back to pull the door off I noticed scorch marks on his Skins.

Gunfire came from inside. A blast removed a portion of the frame and flung it at Rafe, who fell down. I saw movement inside behind a teak bar and fired a burst from the Hogdon. The twenty gram slugs punched large holes through the bar and fragmented. That corner of the room just flew to pieces, revealing a perforated sailor and a chrome shotgun. Etienne gave Rafe a hand up, "Are you _nostalgique_? Never stand in a doorway."

The Battlenet buzzed and came back up. Hamblin called for the marines right away. "Follow on now." I brought up Tactical and checked tasks. The marines would slack rope onto the deck in three minutes. We held only the deck and lower cabin. Sport boats around us were drifting away on the current. I told my Sergeants, "Let's go up."

We heard gunfire from the floor above. Tinted pieces of window rained down. Sergeant Brown, out on the deck, was hit a few times. Sir Juan aimed his laser from one knee and the shooting stopped.

Brown got gingerly up to his feet as a drone gunship sped into view. It shot off a few antennas and menaced the superstructure like an angry wasp. I saw it peering in the cabin window at us and experienced a fight or flight chill.

Etienne was using the fiber optic stalk on his helmet to cut angles on the stairs when I caught up. Rafe was behind him with his little Gatling. I held the steps, watching the lower cabin. Sir Hamblin and Sergeant Johnson entered and approached the lower staircase. That freed me to follow my men. Up top, Etienne stopped suddenly and knifed his hand at the ten o'clock position. Someone waited.

The howl of heavy Lifters on the deck created a distraction. Etienne suddenly popped upright and loosed two shots from his backup pistol. He ducked back down and Rafe stepped up but did not fire, just panned the Gatling around the cabin. "Two down up here." I saw them myself in a moment; one sprawled behind a table and one down by the broken window. Both were in Skins. Both had mangled heads.

A voice carried down from the bridge stairwell. "We yield. You have the ship. Do not shoot." Captain Aksel Dahl had had enough.

There were the four dead and Sergeant Brown had a broken scapula. Everyone else was cuffed and tagged. We had to fish several consultants out of the water from the dead boats, using our swim mods to push them back to the yacht. Angry drone gunships aided their cooperation. All told there were five crew, one surviving guard and eight consultants that needed sorting out. A Lifter made a landing on the aft deck and we loaded it with prisoners. The next Lifter received the bodies and two girls we had found below decks, locked in a stateroom. They sounded Dutch but were incoherent. All prisoners and witnesses were uploaded to Saint Peter.

I suppose I could not conceal my interest among friends. Roxanne and I ended up sharing boat drinks over a righted table in the second floor lounge. The broken window provided the only breeze, so we watched Marines laying out landing lights and power cells on the aft deck. Rafe and Etienne had arranged this _tete a tete_ by busying everyone else and recommending I get "Gus" cleaned up. The East Coast Templars were not fooled.

Roxanne revealed was a mix of Creole and Cuban. Jet black eyes and hair. A light coppery complexion with a wash of nose freckles. Her real voice was a contralto growl that belied her small size. She came up to my chin and was muscled like a greyhound in her Skins.

The Battlenet had given us instant records on each other, so we did not fumble along with past details. She had been Transferred from her original body eight years ago. She was a Carolinas native, but training had hammered out her accent to a more neutral English. Her Templar-Garda transfer was approved thirty years ago. Near as I could figure, she was pushing sixty subjective years. Roxanne looked about thirty five now. She was solo.

The net had given her my history in similar fashion. She knew I was in my fourth body and forty six. I assumed she knew I was also solo. The thing our records did not tell was why.

"So why the Templars?" I asked. She toyed with a celery stalk and replied, "I was raised in Summerville by parents on the Dole. There wasn't much around except Garda and the Unitarian church, so I got my schooling there." She pointed her stalk at me, "What about you?" I told her about _mi familia_ and our Catholic upbringing. She thought living on ranches was storybook. I tried to let her down softly. Growing up on the Dole couldn't have been much fun, either.

We talked about Transferral and the Church. We both had our problems with that. "Unitarians are pretty liberal, so they got along with me OK after," she said. "I had more trouble with not being full black. People acted like it was my idea."

I pointed at my Asian face, "Does this look like any Jesus Navarro you ever heard of? Everybody I know gave me a hard time about the new look." She laughed at our problems and said, "It's enough to make you suicidal."

Civilians could usually pick their body characteristics. Only Lotto winners, prisoners and Garda had limited choice. AI's would pick for you from their inventories. I got mine because I was working in an Asian culture when the body died. Saint Peter thought I would be more survivable in a mimicking strain of Zombie. I thought he short termed his parameters.

There was a lot of high end food spoiling in the freezers, so the Marines rigged an enormous grill and cooked anything that looked good. Johnson dropped off kabobs skewered with arrows. He didn't seem very friendly with me but wanted to see that we ate, especially Roxanne. I got the boyfriend vibe. When he left, Roxanne cupped my chin and passed lips over mine. "You havin fun now shuga?" I realized I was. We watched a sunset and may have overdone the boat drinks a little, but I had a good time sitting with Roxy.

When the Just-In-Time Lifter landed on the floodlit deck, I wondered where the time went. Orange jumpered techs guided supplies on loyal pallets to the lower cabins. Loyal pallets appear as a box with legs and follow their owners like nearsighted puppies. Their walk is comical.

I cupped Roxy's chin and passed my own lips. "Let's see about getting together after." She squeezed my wrist. "No kidding. You go to work now and bring momma the bacon." Roxy gave me a sardonic smile. I was warming to the familiarity of her re-emerging Carolina twang.

It only took a couple hours to restore operation. We tapped the computers into Saint Peter before powering them up. He got right in on the boot. The yacht became a beacon of data speaking in tongues to orbital ears. There was a lot of mangled data.

Our contractors got the yacht systems back up and restored all the smaller boats to service with the replacement of key parts. I shook hands with the last of them at three in the morning and watched them cartwheel away in their yellow Lifter.

An hour later, Father Cervantes and Nuncio showed up with the Marine's relief Lifter. They had a loyal pallet loaded with tools to mix with the squads of Marines trading seats. Some collisions occurred but the Father passed both blind and deaf to their complaints. When I greeted him at the doorway, he appeared as my cousins had, bleary with ear sickness. I brought him in and sat him down on the couch. Nuncio fetched water while I raided the yacht's first aid kit.

I handed Father the pills and said, "This is protocol, Father. Please use this immediately." He looked up sharply, remembering his own words. Then he looked at the pills with suspicion. I had to laugh, "It is for your head, but not that deep." He realized the gaff and for a moment he was just a man, caught feeling guilty. I found the demonstration that my drugging bothered him a comfort. For all I knew, it might have saved my life.

"They told me you had a sense of humor," he said. "What an unfortunate time for it to return."

"When you feel more yourself come join us in conference. I need to see what is new." Etienne and I dropped into lounge sofas and joined Battlenet. When not executing plans, it was best to make them.

Saint Peter and Whitney were both showing Librarian icons. They were fast processing investigations from all we held. At this point, the chains of information would rise above what a committee could grasp. Here, many investigations were lost in the past. Data increased exponentially. Game theory and forensic accounting tangled it up in math a quantum computer could eat for lunch when a brain would stall.

I looked at the enemy org chart. Names, jobs and target ratings filled in blanks. We grew a new tree of security specialists at Gnefl Co. There were a lot of them, but most had just shown up a day ago. We had scared them somewhere and they were raising the militia. Saint Peter's opinion was that the yacht had failed a quantum ping from the connected unit. They couldn't raise the Slaver ship anymore so we were seeing a deployment. We could expect company looking for their assets soon.

The engines started up and the Marines took stations for movement to the east. We were going to run the Fara I Viking up to speed and be far away by dawn. The Mantas still swam at our wings providing mil-spec systems for the path ahead.

Gus' smuggler boat had been repossessed from our side by a heavy Lifter to Jacksonville. It was a deal worked out in advance by the AI's. Jacksonville needed it back for Tar Bone's case to ram through the confiscation. They would sell it to us after that if we wanted it back, one of those accountant deals that irritate.

Jacksonville also wanted the yacht to come home soon, hopefully without more damage. I pleaded evasion of aerial reconnaissance and hung up on that bean counter. "Give us a minute, please, to develop the mission before you take your toys and go home." The plan was to slide down the Abaco chain and work our way south toward Nassau. We felt a target was close.

Roxy and I were playing tourist on the sundeck when the Targets came in. We were providing normalcy to observation. Many sailboats and shorelines placed eyes on our extravagant ship. The Marines had changed to sailor livery for movement above deck. Rafe was fooling around with the little boats while wearing the Captain's blazer. We froze in place for a moment to receive the news.

The Solstice event was booked for a private Cay out here in the Abacos. Forward parties from Gnefl were prepping the cay for visitors even now. There are a lot of little island cays in this chain, but we had Lat and Long to zero us in. The deck pitched as our course changed, to keep us distant from commercial flight paths to the site.

Captain Aksel Dahl was being worked up for a doppelganger assignment. Intense interrogations on many copies would firm up the character shortly. The surviving security agent and a crewman would be added to repertoires for supporting roles. We would need simulators for the actors. A forward medical surgical unit was also recommended for Sergeant Brown.

The problem was landing Lifters on ships around these islands. It was a big attention getter. Even at night it was visible for kilometers. We could run eight hours northwest and give Jacksonville their bonus. That would make getting what we needed later easier. Or we could try and pick up a shipment at one of the cays in the middle of the night. I questioned how much use the yacht was now. People were looking for it, but it was the hands and not the brains of the organization that would come. If found out, the Solstice would never arrive. We expected the brain trust to attend that in two days. Better to save the yacht for then. Disappear for now.

The Battlenet chewed the idea over for a while. We split forces. The yacht, the marines and the Father were going to Jacksonville. Sir Hamblin, Brown, Roxy and Johnson were going with it. Sir Juan and Sergeant Lopez were going to stay with us. We would continue operations in the Abacos until the plan reunited us. Things would be a little scary for a while.

The plan had grown beyond our grasp. AI's would be directing us as cogs in a wheel. It was the only way to stay fast. Our operations roster now had two hundred and forty agents. I didn't even know what all their jobs were. Our knowledge of the enemy involved kilometers and time zones I could not physically participate in. It was time to trust the training and Saint Peter. Like I said, a little scary.

We got off near Green Turtle Cay on the two launches. The yacht turned tail and left once we cleared the boat racks. Roxy waved a moment from aft and then I was staring at the wake. It was a fast ship for all its size. They would slip the cut to the north and be far from these islands in a couple hours. In our five meter boats, we bobbed like corks as the wake caught us. Rafe turned toward distant shores and brought the small sport boat to a bone jarring display of speed. Each wave required a strategy, so we endured in silence while Rafe worked. Etienne and I rarely boated. Rafe had won the right with little experience. He had worked undercover as a fisherman, once. I hoped Saint Peter was with him. Juan was very experienced, or just lightly loaded. He and Lopez beat us to the docks handily. I acknowledged their supremacy with a gesture that hurt my shoulder. I felt mugged from all the vibration.

Sir Juan led off our hike as we shouldered bags and left the boats behind. Less than three hundred meters into town, we came to Green Turtle airfield. It was a tiny VTOL service that usually hopped over to Treasure Cay airport for serious travel. We didn't want to walk our bags past serious travel security. The little hoppers would let us jump like fleas across the islands and no nosy baggage checkers would molest us.

We used cash cards. They drew on Tibbet's account as a Telecomm charge from Dallas. Charters could be expensive and confiscation was cheap. The five of us and our baggage were soon squeezed into an ancient Pelican hopper. The smiling pilot had a parrot that rode facing the windshield. As he banked, the parrot would lift a stubbed wing and lean. It was an interesting choreography.

I noticed the blue waters were transparent straight to the bottom on the banks, during a sharp turn. Fish were clearly visible at our low altitude. I tugged at my seatbelt and concentrated on the horizon, to ease my mind. We landed in Andros Town airfield at the big island. Taxis took us north on Queens Highway to the Mastic Bay Settlement. Saint Mary Magdalene church would provide us with helpful Episcopalians. Saint Peter had arranged it with the Rector priest, Lott.

We left taxis in front of a pastel house with a pink roof. Only an elaborate portico and sign hinted it was Mary Magdalene.

Father Lott in collared robes at the door confirmed it. "Please come in gentlemen. We are happy to welcome you to our Parish." The plural was two small, dark women dressed in white vestments. He introduced them as sisters Bethel and Sadie Jones. "They are my eyes and ears in the community." At the praise, they looked up. They had darting eyes that blinked rarely and small voices. "A blessing, suhs." I felt thoroughly memorized, but neither locked gazes with me. It was uncanny fieldcraft.

I caught Etienne's eye and gave him a quizzical look. He gave a ghostly nod and spoke to the sisters. " _Enchante_ ladies. We have similar blessings in Alsace, but none so stunningly attired." Sadie made eye contact with him after that. She wanted to see what he meant. That was good. It meant they learned their technique. It wasn't some kind of condition.

"If I wanted to know of any strangers in the area, how would you ladies proceed?"

Bethel answered in a whisper, "We would alert the network and collate the reports into a GIS."

Sadie added, "The airfields and docks would also get a watcher rotation from our volunteers."

I looked at Etienne and raised my eyebrows, "They have a network."

Etienne grinned back, "They are indeed a blessing."

The network was a church cell phone group plan for those too poor to afford them. GPS and cameras sent contacts directly to Bethel on an old cartographic workstation. She brought up a report while we watched. A thousand tourists were photographed and marked for location and time on all the populous islands. Text notes included names and observations when available. The volunteers were in various stages of literacy, so the notes needed interpretation. But it was an ingenious use of common technology. I felt a Field Wiki article was behind it somewhere.

"Please arrange your network watch for the next few days. Here is a site I would like the reports sent to." I gave them a web dump for Saint Peter's access. "Thank you very much for your service, ladies. Could you put that together right away while we speak to the Father?" They nodded in unison, "Oh Lord, arise, help us." They weren't talking to us. It seemed a small litany for the task was in order. We left them to their calls.

Father Lott led us to his study. The six of us could not fit at once, so the Sergeants waited in the small Nave. Sir Juan and I found chairs facing the Father. "I was instructed to provide you any aid you may request, so long as my flock is not endangered."

I nodded agreement and asked, "We need your hospitality in finding us residence. We will only need a few days and will not track our work into their home." He found us an unoccupied neighborhood house within easy walk of the docks. "We also need a secure place to work, near the water." He provided a fifty square meter shed on an abandoned leg of the harbor. Sir Juan asked, "Could you find a boat we could charter without identification? Something that could get us to Nassau with little notice." He found a churchman with a charter business. We would be tourists or church goers to authorities and the owner would crew it himself. "Nicholas is a very discrete fellow. Here is his number."

Father Lott and the sisters impressed me with their ordered resources. I felt sure they provided these services often to fellow Christians. Places with high tourism often had a high disappearance rate. "I tell you this in confidence, Father. We are after slavers who prey on young women."

He looked up and sighed. "I appreciate your candor. Father Parker would not say your purpose. I am pleased that the Templars have taken a role in this rampant problem."

Sir Juan replied, "It is work that needs doing, Father."

We acquired a ring of keys and cell phones as we left. Father Lott recommended a home restaurant for our meals. He assured us that his flock would accept us warmly. I found Andros Parish refreshingly professional. Discussion over lunch showed I was not the only one.

Following the phone GPS, we found our new home. Etienne unpacked a pocket commo suite for our use. When the dish was in place, we went into conference. Lopez held watch.

I saw a grainy movie showing Nils Matheson enjoying himself on Paradise Island, except he didn't seem to be enjoying himself. The movie showed him berating his small retinue beside a pool. Judging angles, I would say that they were being recorded by the cabana boy. The Episcopal network was fully online. I wondered how the sisters were coping with Saint Peter.

Our problem with Nils was that we had only his conversations with Captain Dahl to incriminate him. As the owner of the Fara I Viking he could be fined under maritime law for unknowingly transporting captives. But he carefully worded his dialogues to avoid any admission of prior knowledge. Without that, Jacksonville couldn't keep the yacht. If we grabbed him for upload, he was only a person of interest. Civil Advocates would keep him from hard questions. We needed him dirty for interrogations.

As long as he was keeping his visibility high at the resort, we could expect theater. He was building his alibi. Our efforts would be to maintain contact and bug his conversations. Develop our leads in the wild. Tonight and tomorrow would be our window. All Hallow's would become the new target after that.

We three Musketeers had been seen frequently during the investigation, but Sir Juan and Lopez had not. Etienne joined their party for a tech role, but Rafe and I waved to them from the pier and did not go. We would hold their toys in the dock shed and ready for fight or flight. Once Nicholas' old glass bottom tour boat came back, that is.

I lived vicariously, watching Sir Juan sip seltzers poolside as sculpted tourists worked off their tan lines. A stream of surveillance collected in their rental suite was packaged by Etienne and sent along to be digested, to wit; Nils was unhappy that his ship had disappeared. He had frequent outbursts where he expressed that to his people. A few of his people were favored for these outbursts, and so we identified his core team. None of them could make Nils happy again.

Nils ordered a simulator for the evening. It was delivered and set up by Lopez. The concierge must have been Episcopalian. From this bugged platform, Nils ventured into Gneflhiem as Larson's Destroyer, a very high level Necromancer. He was followed to this setting by our own high level players and a snippet of code for his familiar, a capuchin monkey.

He spoke to an avatar in the study of his manse. The visitor looked like an evil undertaker. Dialogue was converted to text and dropped into a Blog.

Larson's Destroyer: "The ship is not reporting. We cannot find it."

Vlad's Bane: "How reliable is your captain?"

LD: "He would not steal my ship. He would never live through the sale."

VB: "Then he has disappeared in the triangle or is captured."

LD: "My Florida connection was raided. I don't know if they handed off or not."

VB: "They got through my club, but it was raided too. Someone is looking."

LD: "We need to talk to Allway. See if the Solstice should be modified."

VB: "You talk to Allway. He will miss the girls."

LD: "Maybe I can get some more quickly."

VB: "Without the marketing they are just Temple whores. Don't let fear of Allway make you offer something stupid. That may be Templars out there looking."

LD: " _Djevelen_! The devils were in Mexico. That is too close."

VB: "Then talk to Allway and get his orders."

Saint Peter introduced a bit of fast code that got Nils thrown off the Gneflhiem net. Then he crashed the simulator. I called Nicholas to pick up his fare plus one.

While we waited, Saint Peter worked identities for users Allway and Vlad's Bane. The first could be a real name. Vlad's Bane was Sten Laporte, co-owner of the Libertine. Better yet, we had evidence on Nils and he was the one appointed to deliver the bad news to the Khan, Allway. That enemy plan was just interrupted. I switched to Sir Juan's feed.

Lopez got the repair order. Sir Juan came as a tech, pushing a new simulator. Etienne, inside the unit, popped up with his carbine and splatted the occupants that Juan had not incapacitated with his Skins. Lopez just slapped Nils and put him in the broken simulator. All prisoners slept with hard narcotics, time release could keep them out for days. Etienne and Lopez uploaded the guards as persons of interest and Juan wheeled Nils out the back. A groundskeeper gave them a lift to a little used dock. Nice Episcopalian _hombre_ I'm sure.

Etienne told a story on the dock to Juan and Lopez. They laughed low and sat with their apparently drunken friend until a dark tour boat clunked against the wood dock. Then they were quickly away from the lights of Paradise. I dropped out of net and prepared to receive visitors.

Rafe was halfway into his Skins and adding the air bladders when I got down to the dock shed. The big GE X-ray leaned against his bench. "I didn't see, did they get away?" Rafe is quick to action, trusting me for detail on the run. It is a good multi-task when together. When separated, I sometimes worry.

"They are on the way now. Let me get to my Skins."

Saint Peter and Whitney ran their own program, sending a Garda Lifter to San Andros field about two klicks to the west. Church networked cabs were enroute to grab us for extraction with our prisoner. I scanned these details as Rafe waded out into the water with his laser and disappeared. I slung my Hogdon and found shadows to stand in.

The boat was heard before seen, pounding along the waves at its probable top speed. Nicholas cut the boat alongside our tall dock and lined up the ladder with his gangway. Etienne and Lopez passed the limp Nils up to me as Sir Juan heaved out baggage. When Juan was done and got his feet on the ladder, Nicholas cut away to the north. It was a very brief offloading. Hopefully it would confuse any pursuit.

Three cabs arrived and were packed in minutes. Rafe walked dripping out of the sea and climbed into the second one. He would sit with Nils. "Please pardon the mess, monsieur" he told the driver. I rode with Etienne. "Any problems seen?" Etienne shook his head, " _Non_. His wristwatch and shoes had sales tags, so I gave them to the sea." He held up a finger, "I would like the core team picked up before the maids come."

"We're working on the charges. When Nils talks, we'll have the Garda serve."

The taxis lined up at the Garda side of the airfield. Two Royal Bahamian police in their red-legged pants discussed entry with Sir Juan and Sergeant Lopez.

The Red Legs said they didn't have the warrant yet. Sir Juan waved his Garda ID.

They would let everyone but the prisoner in. Sir Juan got out of the cab.

The Red Legs backed up and clasped their belts. Then the field was lit day bright by a descending Stealth & Rescue Lifter. Sir Juan shouted, "There is the warrant."

We loaded quickly and spun away, to Jacksonville within the hour.

When we turned Nils over on landing, he was on suicide watch. The upload interrogations were being slowed by Matheson's willingness to kill himself to escape. Somewhere, he was backed up and had an identity he could assume. Motivation would have to be primal, but torture took longer on suicides. The intel was often incoherent. It was one of the reasons Garda were hard to break.

Saint Peter questioned the Core team, with a Civil Advocate from Florida. Two were eager cooperators when confronted with other testimony. They sold leverage that flipped all the crew and implicated Nils on a variety of charges. Saint Peter played them off each other to confirm. The money trails showed true. Warrants were filed.

The Core team had their bodies picked up and flown out of Paradise before they woke. Jacksonville was only too happy to handle that, it meant keeping the yacht. Two of the Core also believed themselves immortal. Garda took their belts and rubberized the cells. These were bad men who had hurt hundreds. We did not want them disappearing before we knew where.

Roxy was in the box, along with Sir Hamblin and Johnson, learning their parts for our Captain Dahl play. Brown was in a box getting healed. We dragged our own bags in and collapsed around the armory until Lopez could disarm the door. Once gear was stowed, he told us where we could find bed or breakfast. I asked for the bed.

The Battlenet seemed a good way to get sleepy. The elaborate chains of reasoning were like an endless maze. I avoided overload by seeing what had been done in my name recently. Just clear out that inbox and see what happens.

I had called Major Wilson in Shreveport and given him a warrant for Sten LaPorte. Once he heard Sten was a former Libertine owner and had assets, he said he looked forward to making his acquaintance. I urged that he keep it quiet a few days if he found joy. Just tell Colonel Del Rey.

I had ordered some work done to the Fara I Viking. The big yacht engine now powered an upper deck weapon, a multi-use Tung Microwave. The after deck was formalized as a Lifter pad and the two watercraft racks now served a drone squadron in addition to a new launch. I paid extra to get a blending paint job and a foam box to fit over the Tung. The yacht was now a naval blockade platform. This Q ship treatment made me curious about plans, so I skipped to the Cay raid work spaces.

The Cay raid was a plan in progress. Units were in movement and links led back to the Jacksonville Garda. Other info links alerted Garda bases all the way down to Havana. I tried to ignore the fluctuations of movement and concentrate on parameters.

There was a timeline for delivery of the girls. Captain Dahl would normally be standing off the Cay tomorrow night and running them in with the launch. We expected the principal architects to be on the island, setting up before arrival of party attendees. Problems foreseen were the suicide of principals before we could bag them. They were probably backed up at a clinic somewhere for disappearance. We didn't know the details. We would have to get close before they knew they were under attack.

We six Templars who weren't going masked were scheduled for water infiltration. Sir Hamblin and crew would reveal the leaders and we would sweep in to collect. Only then would the Garda invade. Deployment was scheduled for later tonight, my time hack telling me it was after midnight in the Real. Inventories and transportation were in flux. I looked at aerials of the island and studied routes. If I couldn't pull the strings, at least I could sight my own path.

The Gnefl Roadies had erected a black castle on the island out of water soluble foam. A build and forget media tech, it claimed no environmental impact. There was a huge inflated bubble cover to keep water off until the party. All was powered from a collection of airmobile habitats. The Roadies had a dozen flown in and strategically arranged. Satellite images showed them festooned with art.

The island was a failed resort turned corporate getaway on the north end of Guana Cay. It had been elevated with grown coral, like a loaf of baking bread, a hundred years ago. All of the Bahamas had received similar treatment or the whole country would have drowned by now. The partially built Marina was dredged to accept shallow draft yachts. A handful of lodges and homes held Gnefl visitors not housed on their boats. One narrow dirt road connected the marina to the triangular northern island where the castle was built. The Cay was only a kilometer wide on a side. All was owned by Gnefl for the week.

The beaches were shallow and full of reef formations, grown to pace above the ocean's rise. Mangroves and mosquitoes held most of the outer edge of the island. I saw that the dredged channel for the yachts had eroded another channel between the northwest corner of the island and an even smaller island a half klick away. There was a small boat launch ramp there. It looked like the most depth for a covered insertion I was going to find.

I worked up a plan and sent it to Rafe and Etienne. If they thought it would work, I would kick it over to Sir Juan, Lopez and Brown. I was tired and didn't want a stupid mistake in the system. I dropped out of the net to catch some sleep. I always sleep better with a plan.

****

### Chapter 18: Not on the List

Duty started at six. A raven's caw gradually changed to a buzzing noise in my dream. The buzzing was Saint Peter, using his Colonel voice. "Report to Mustering hall B and load simulations." He showed me a you-are-here sketch and repeated until shut off. I dragged over to Mustering hall B in the dark. Sunrise was in an hour and a half.

The Mustering hall was busy. Red monitors lit tens of simulators already in use. I found one of the green ones and disrobed. A marine orderly with a pushcart provided gel and a towel before wheeling off to a yellow light where someone else was getting out.

Mustering halls were critical features on fast operations. Halls like this could churn out mission trained fighters with high situational awareness and specific skills like a factory. Running interactive, it built teams. I had run halls in miniature to form Militia. Plus, they were a lot of fun. You could push the envelope and get a real feel for the target and the team. It wasn't the most fun you could have with your clothes off, but it was all that was offered today.

I sealed up the box and got on the net. My sergeants were there, along with Juan and his. All wanted to run through the plan. Around us, in the Battlespace, I saw Lifters going in on the island. Drones darted like dragonflies in a marsh. Simulated flashes to the south were a distraction. Etienne said, "Ignore that, the Garda are just working their invasion. We're transparent to them."

I started us from the backside of the little Cay and we did our run-through. After our rest break, we got back on and had Hamblin, Johnson, Brown and Roxy join us. Brown joined our beach assault, but the rest had a different hazardous infiltration to run through, we would see each other's feeds and eventually rendezvous on the island.

Roxy said hello, but the avatar mask of her character was the crewman I had shot to pieces behind the teak bar. It was an accusing, ghostly effect. My hello in reply was a little distracted.

We started scoring fairly well by the time the session ended. I wondered if letting us win a few was a Psych Op. Admittedly, Whitney's sims seemed a bit worst case. We certainly had a variety of threats tried against us, but weren't sure if that was an accurate enemy response. These Gamers rated like us in close combat. They weren't as well tooled, but had a tricky tactical set. All of us were killed, once, with a fuel-air bomb under the bubble tent.

We got showered and fed. I was happy to see Roxy looking like herself at dinner. But when I told her the old DateNet line, "You look a lot better than your Avatar." She replied in a Carib lilt baritone. "Of course I do, he's dead. I need to stay Alec right now." She turned her back to me, "Later cowboy."

We broke bread in a strained fashion, seeking not to disturb our three actors. Juan gave me a tiny shrug and caged his face with his fingers a moment. Actors, what can you do? I guess he was used to them.

After dinner, we got transport assignments. We broke up into two groups and went to the airfield to find our chariots. Mine was a wood decked runabout resting on rollers in a Stealth and Rescue Lifter. It looked like a civilian boat, but was just mimetics over a fabbed up hull. It would fit all six of us and our gear.

Next, we gathered inventory. A list of equipment, recommended and tested by our simulations, waited with marine supply sergeants. We put on the aquatic Skins and secured our kit in the boat. When all were loaded and the time arrived, we tilted across the night water heading east.

I sifted warrants to pass the time. Pictures and charges were already in the Battlenet recognition circuit, but I wanted to see faces and details. Richard and Peter Allway were being blamed by all as the masterminds of Gnefl. They were old money New York with a history of misogynistic practices. LaPorte and Nils Matheson were toadies for the Allways since Vassar College. Right now, a Matheson simulacrum was talking to Richard Allway in Gneflhiem, telling him the girls were gone. Richard's rage at this provided testimony for a Christian killing, still on the list.

The Lifter pilot played "Ride of the Valkyries" back to our ears when deployment neared. It warned us for the sudden slide into water that sent a wave over the back of the boat. The cargo bay light shut off and the Lifter left us bobbing alone in the ocean. Sir Juan oriented us to a direction only he could see and moved out for a brief sprint.

Water began rising in the floor of the boat as Juan slowed down. We came to a stop and the back of the boat lifted up to form a wing above an opening filled with ducted impellors. As the boat sank to the rear, Juan used the impellors to goose it forward and the bow opened up with more stub wings and a large intake. As water filled the boat and it sank, a current rushed around our seated legs, drawn from the front, sifted through mesh and expelled out the rear. I saw low shapes to the south lit by cloud reflections before the sea rose over my helmet. After that I sat in darkness and listened to my own breathing.

Juan controlled our depth with the wings. As long as we moved, we would sink no further. It was dark below, but the boat projected charge into the surrounding water. Our Skins could feel the field and what it impinged on. Sea life was warned away. The deck crawled with passing sand and reef, mimicking the sea floor below. We were mimetic in our armored Skins also, receiving the camera feed from the underside. Marines called this type of craft and entry a "Wet Foil." I had not used it before, but it was much like the simulation.

Sir Juan followed his waypoints and skirted reefs or shallows which appeared on our sides. A school of barracuda crossed our path and shied violently away, flashing scales and foam. Vision was poor, even with amplification, so I was surprised when the Wet Foil skidded to a stop on the bottom. Sand came pouring across the floor at my feet. We would leave the Foil here.

I could see the underside of clouds when we debarked. The surface was within a meter of my head. I felt exposed, but the Skins still projected their illusion. Sir Juan picked the direction to the beach and we followed on extruded fins.

Rafe pushed ahead with his GE X-ray and lifted the gunsight slowly above the surface. The rest of us dispersed on hands and toes in the shallow water. Rafe's sight showed a crab's eye view of the beach to us. Red targeting boxes appeared around two men on the sand and a box in a treetop. The box looked like sensors or lights, the two men had pistols. Rafe panned across the beach and found no other targets. He swung back to the tree box and lifted the emitter out of the water. Rafe was ready to go.

Juan, Brown and Lopez crawled forward toward the men on the beach. Etienne and I crawled ahead toward the unoccupied beach. It became so shallow that we would stop moving until the next wave immersed us. As I lay, waiting for the surf, the tree with the box threw a handful of sparks. I heard the faint pops of air guns. Counting to six, I came up in a gorilla run. A few seconds put me among the grasses and mangroves. I slowly stood up beside a tree for a better view. There was no higher ground on the island. A half klick away, the great bubble flapped in the sea breeze, covering the castle and blocking the view to the east. Yellow lights shone both inside and to the south.

Juan opened a window in my visor. He was looking down at one of the men on the beach, who appeared comatose from a splat head shot. The feed panned and showed Diver's Skins on the body. He had the electric organ under an armored jacket. Juan held up a pistol, showing a laser sight. Then I saw two little radios. His hands signed me to caution and the alert window folded away.

I brought up the tactical map and added range rings for offshore support. There were some pre-select missions from the simulation ready to go. My Hogdon already carried armor piercers and had the "cough can" suppressor screwed on tight. That seemed cautious enough. I dropped back into gorilla stance and started working my way southwest along the scrub line. Tactical inset showed Etienne ahead of me, Rafe behind but gaining. Juan took his two Sergeants straight at the bubble. They would stay within one hundred meters of us to provide support.

I followed Etienne's path. Lights were glimpsed ahead. Murmuring voices reached our amplified ears. The three of us crawled to the edge of a billionaire's version of a trailer park. Bright yellow lights on poles shone above sausage shaped habitats. They were arranged in a loose herringbone pattern with many strung cables and antennas. I pointed at several support units and marked them for the Battlenet. Drone missions went on standby from a Garda cutter north of the reef.

We saw at least a dozen armed men walking about. Many wore Skins. A few had on horned helmets and capes. I thought they were role players, but Etienne hissed, "Look at their helmets." Zooming in I saw that the helmet was military grade with added horns. They were wearing heavy armor under the capes. These were the Enforcers the simulations had thrown at us. At least these three were stupid enough to wander blind in their own lights. The simulacrums we played were smart enough to wait in the dark.

"Hold position," I said, over the net.

We stopped moving and everyone took a slow look around. Sir Juan was in a marshy area to our far left and crouched in mud with Lopez and Brown. They couldn't see anything and were trying to keep muck off their mimetics. Rafe was to my immediate left, panning his GE laser out in the dark. He wasn't getting any red boxes. If Enforcers were out there, they weren't in sight yet. I thought about frag orders that had worked in the sims. "Juan, continue at your best speed. We will follow this to the bubble." I heard water and Juan said, " _Simon que si_ , Chuy." Yeah Jesus, I figured that out. He remembered the same sims.

We three Musketeers skirted the edge of the park, recording all we saw. I found fuel cells for air support to target, but no Enforcers howling for blood. It was almost a letdown. Then we came to a clearing in front of the entrance to the bubble. There was a crowd here, encamped in yurts and tents, to either side of a large black arch. Howling air flowing out of the arch blew trash and mosquitoes away from the entrance.

A whine and crunch to the south showed headlights approaching. An open cart turned left in front of us and parked near the arch. Captain Dahl and two crewmen got out with three guards in armored Skins. The guards kept their weapons out, like they might shoot our doppelgangers at any moment. The whole party leaned forward and fought the wind into the black castle. Their cart went back south toward the marina.

Rafe dug in where he was and panned his laser. Etienne moved closer to the bubble with me and found his own hide. I continued on to a dark spot against the bubble itself. Checking Juan's feed I saw him against the bubble fifty meters away. Tactical mapping showed all were in place. I switched to Roxy's feed to take my actor's cues.

Hamblin and Johnson preceded her into a vaulted chamber. The guards spun around them in fields of clear fire. They clearly had training. That they had accepted two offered pistols as proof of unarmed status was less professional. That was a weak point in the sims, but seemed to have worked so far. They even allowed Johnson in obvious Skins. They were cocky.

The interior of the castle appeared carved from black rock. Spotlights and fake torches provided dim lighting. The floor was gray powder under a thick sealant. Wooden pews had been set up to the left like bleachers. Richard Allway was seated on a throne. There were three other thrones, but his was the most elaborate, stretching away to the ceiling. Behind the thrones were four coffins as we had seen at Delgado's, the simulator safe room type.

Many alcoves and arched halls lined the outer walls. As Roxy panned the interior, I counted three more Enforcer types and six who seemed to be servants or technicians. I also got my bearings outside the bubble. Two meters away was an alcove without an occupant.

I crawled to the spot and fixed bayonet on the Hogdon. It clicked into the foregrip and put thirty centimeters of sharpened alloy forward of the muzzle. Cutting a large C shape in the bubble, I pushed inside against rushing air. Behind the flap were the walls of the Castle. I slid the bayonet in and twisted before withdrawing. The hole showed no light. Standing, I cut a square doorway, then an X from corner to corner. At all five intersections, minigrenades went in with the tip of the bayonet. When done, I backed up a few meters and lay down in the grass. The bayonet got stowed. I didn't like running with the thing, it was scary sharp.

Roxy was watching Allway interrogate Captain Dahl. He sat in his throne at the top of stairs and harangued Dahl for going missing. I found his red cotehardie and gel twisted hair too precious to take seriously. He seemed aware that the Captain was not impressed with his game world etiquette. The realization made him stutter and lose composure. "Ssoo you stayed away when your comms broke and you saw a Garda Lifter that scared you."

He turned his head at a noise behind him and one of the coffin lids lifted. Peter Allway rolled out into a robe provide by a servant. He toweled as he approached the elaborate throne. "Let me speak to him brother." Richard flushed and rose from the elaborate throne. He shifted over to the next throne and watched Peter take his place. Peter seemed more possessed. His eyes were intelligent but humorous. "Why did you put your launches ashore in Green Turtle Cay, Captain?" He steepled fingers, "They are still there. Couldn't you have used them to get the parts you needed without going to port?"

Captain Dahl looked down, as though steeling himself to admit a fault. Hamblin was a pretty good actor. "The Garda didn't just scare me. Several of Mr. Matheson's contractors felt threatened and left in the boats." Peter raised his voice at that, "You had a mutiny?" Dahl shook his head. "No sir, they were paying clients. I could not stop them."

Peter absorbed this for a moment, staring off into space. He looked at his brother. "Isn't Nils a friend of yours?" Richard started at suddenly being in this conversation, "Should I summon him?" Peter drummed long black nails on the throne. "He is probably on the way. Am I to understand, Captain, that you wish to deliver your cargo and go on your way?"

Dahl nodded like a bobbing bird, "Exactly sir. I am here to discharge my duties."

Richard interjected from his minor throne, "And the _houris_ are untouched? The principals, I mean?"

Dahl sketched a bow, "As requested." Richard's smile was not pleasant to witness.

We had them. All in earshot were now conspirators. Roxy shifted her view to one of the Enforcers and took a step forward. Dahl subvocalized, "Now."

I triggered the minigrenades and jumped to my feet. Blocks of foam and dust blew toward me from the opening. Four steps gave me entry, past the jagged doorway, to the main chamber. I shouted "Garda" and heard the cry echoed by the rest of the team. Weapons fire exploded to my left.

An Enforcer, knocked down from behind by Sir Juan's entry, twisted on the floor to fire his Streetsweeper shotgun. I gave him a burst of the Hogdon from the side, spinning him around and sending the next burst through the seat of his pants. Armor there was not sufficient. Red mist puffed and he thrashed, weaponless on the ground, howling like a banshee.

The cloth ripping sound of a Gauss gun came from the right. I dropped flat as the pillar beside me dissolved into tiny flecks of foam. Gauss darts were small, but hypersonic and sprayed in large groups. If the firer had started his burst a little lower, he would have killed me before I could react. Charge built on my Skins until I could feel the magnetic coil of my attacker's barrel. I threw a flashbang around the pillar in his direction and fast crawled forward to peer around. The Enforcer was backing away from the munition, not knowing when it might detonate. I fired the Hogdon and thumped him on his back, still spraying darts from the Gauss automatic. Again I fired, up the skirt of his armor. The red mist of hits ballooned up.

There followed a moment of noise and lights. Sir Juan and his men were engaging a third Enforcer with a variety of beams and bullets. The three guards who had brought in our doppelgangers were down, although one still wrestled with Johnson. I felt charged fields in use. Hamblin and Roxy had vaulted the stairs and were wrestling with the Allway brothers and a few of their servants. The Allways wanted in their coffins and the Templars had to stop them without the help of Combat Skins. From what I saw of the fight, Hamblin and Roxy didn't need them.

There was a boom outside the castle and the lights went off. My helmet switched to thermal hybrid vision automatically, showing three men running into the room from the outside arch with weapons in hand. I chewed them up with the Hogdon and slapped in another drum. Flashbang candlepower lit up behind me, throwing my shadow across the floor. Juan had found his target. Tactical showed all Enforcers were down inside the castle.

I threw a handful of flashbangs into the arch opening and gave them proximity triggers. Two immediately went off. Sir Juan fired his Beamworx laser after the flashes and was treated to some weak return fire from outside the castle walls. I heard distant blasts and weapons outside. There was a puff of moist air and the ceiling creaked from stresses. I assumed the chemical spray airstrike had dissolved most of the bubble. That was the counter to the fuel-air bomb scenario.

Brown and Lopez prowled around the castle, splatting survivors. Hamblin and Roxy had bound the Allways and were using the coffins for cover. Johnson crawled to the edge of the stairs and lay panting. His right leg was twisted and smoke rose from his Skins. Roxy said, "Covering fire" and crawled to his aid.

Juan and I poured fire to the outside. A couple flashbangs detonated to further mask our movements. Random bullets pierced the castle foam and zipped by like lethal bees, but Roxy grabbed Johnson's collar and dragged him behind a coffin. It seemed the only true cover in the structure lay behind those armored boxes.

Juan used my covering fire to gain position behind the coffins. From there, he ripped bursts of Gauss darts at the opening while I sprinted across. A laser grazed my shoulder and the Skins exploded outward in a spray of steam. My right arm stopped responding and the Hogdon retracted against my chest, turning a leap up the stairs into a stumble and roll. Hamblin grabbed my harness and yanked me behind a box.

"How bad?" he asked. I saw the Skins bulged outward at my shoulder. Lifting the arm, I carried the weight of dead muscle. "Just the Skins. I can still play." The Hogdon came to my hands and I peered around the coffin to check the entrance, several bodies but no movement. Outside, the sounds of gunfire and explosions dwindled. I checked Rafe's feed on one lens for news.

He was shifting position between small palms. The Laser came up and red boxes showed among the tent encampment at the black arch. He zoomed in on a target with a grenade launcher, creeping up on the arch. When the target stopped to fire, a blue light flashed. Several explosions obscured the results, but it did not look survivable for anyone within a few meters. Rafe shifted again, gorilla walking several meters right. A hail of bullets shredded the tops of palms.

I called in a strike on the tent town. Within a minute, drone gunships swarmed out of the night air and fired. The explosive rounds in their little autocannon shredded the tents and drove all to cover. One gunship went down in smoke and Rafe fired again, lasing a resister. Again, that strange blue glow. Humidity and bugs were exposing Rafe's beam.

Etienne's feed showed him wedged in a fold of earth and looking through a creased berm to the edge of the trailer park. Two bodies were on the ground in his narrow view. Faces showed behind cover, assessing their chances of outrunning a laser sniper with two kills in front of them. If they rushed, I was sure Etienne would shift his Beamworx to gauss darts.

I heard an amplified voice, "Garda, Garda, Garda," and bright light played over the park. All faces looked up at a descending Lifter and promptly lost their night vision. As the Lifter grounded, I heard screaming in the park. Microwave weapons, if I know my screams. Then the command shouts of debarked marines and an occasional burst of gunfire. Etienne's feed blurred as he backed up out of his hide.

Back in the castle, our throne room stayed clear. "The Garda are here," I told all. Sir Juan turned off his mimetics and revealed the white Tabard and red Cross base setting. Brown, Lopez and I followed suit. I was just helping Johnson into his when the outer wall blew out.

Gunfire poured immediately through a large round hole behind the thrones. They were firing blind, since I could see nearly nothing with all the foam in the air. Rounds struck the coffin behind us and Johnson and I dropped flat. I heard Lopez and Juan firing, before their side of the room was hidden under a lot of flying metal and small explosions.

I got the Hogdon running on the hole and then displaced behind a coffin so I could rise to a crouch. That freed my left hand to deploy a couple flashbangs. They were my last two, but I got them through the hole so they did some good. Bright shadows on the floor showed the horns on several helmets. The ones with their backs to the flash swept in, hoping to catch us dazzled. I put rounds on the nearest until his Skins lay flat. But I was the only Templar firing. That is a bad sound.

More came in when I changed magazines. I fell back to another coffin and fixed the bayonet. There came the rip of Juan's Gauss gun, back online and running. I decided to act in support and trotted forward. The Skins gave me a push and I was almost running. A horned Enforcer appeared as a shadow in the foam mist. He folded in half from a Hogdon burst. Muzzle flashes to the right received flashes in return. My arm was slow and he shot the back of my hand, crushing bones. I kept the Hogdon running through the pain and his flashes stopped. My gun clicked empty.

Another Enforcer came through. The air was clearing by the hole so he saw me. His Hogdon had shells. He hit me twice before I rolled far enough back in the foam cloud to fall down the throne steps. I was pretty sure he broke my back. Movement was impossible. I had dropped the empty Hogdon with the bayonet anyway.

Someone tapped my foot. I shifted eyes down and saw Etienne's helmet. He gave me an upturned thumb and crept up the steps. His mimetics made him into a blur. There was a burst from a Hogdon and the rip of Gauss fire close by and then Rafe was looking down at me. He started pulling at my Skins and I blacked out.

Pieces dropped into memory without context. Movement, lights and sounds. Flashes of new faces peering into my own. I felt movement, first crude and painful but then as though floating. Lights seemed to have halos and there were many colors. I heard a battlefield, the wind carrying sharp voices, the hum of powerful engines. Someone said "Medical coma," clear as a bell and then I remembered nothing.

I awoke in a medical bed as though a switch was thrown. Sudden, sharp focus. It was dim but I saw Rafe sleeping on a pull out couch. I lifted my hand and noticed darker skin and small black hairs. My right hand was encased in the mesh oval of a nano surgical director. I became confused, did I Transfer or am I healing?

Etienne walked into the room. "I thought that looked like some brain activity. Not much, but enough to wake up." He had been monitoring me on the hospital network.

Rafe stirred and sat up, "He is awake."

Etienne stepped to the bedside and sought my eyes. "Yes, yes. I already said that. Try to keep up." I made a croaking noise instead of a greeting and started coughing. "Get some water." Rafe thrust a paper cup to my lips and I drank water with a strong wine flavoring. When I could speak I asked, "Who's drinking wine?"

Rafe shrugged, "There were no clean cups."

I asked my questions and they told me truths. A mirror showed I looked _Mexicano_ again. The basic shape was the same Asian body, but the racial characteristics were altered genetically. "Saint Peter asked your upload what he desired in a body," Rafe told me.

"They spent more healing you than just totaling it," Etienne said. "They do that sometimes, with Templars."

"Especially ones crazy enough to lead bayonet charges," added Rafe. He gave me his small smile.

I asked the butcher's bill. "No one who had not made the trip before," Rafe said. Roxy, Brown and Johnson, shot at the beginning and the end of the counterassault. Lopez, Sirs Hamblin and Juan had taken major wounds and survived. "Did the Writs come through?" Etienne nodded, "They are already Transferred."

Then they told me about the mission. We had lost Peter Allway and several servants in the firefight. Richard Allway was uploaded before body death. They seemed to have been targeted by the Enforcers, but Roxy's body had shielded Richard. It was being kept quiet until we could find their revival plan. The other slain numbered almost forty. We were still searching for their identities and backups.

Etienne handed me a pair of network glasses. "This will get you in Battlenet. Don't let the staff here see them." My Sergeants cleared out. It was apparent I would be fine.

After a nap, Sir Hamblin came in from a room down the hall, "Hey neighbor. You have any bitters? We were just making drinks." He was walking around in medical Skins, so I assumed he wasn't getting out anytime soon.

I waved him inside, "You're in a hospital, you need to lower your standards."

We clasped our good arms awkwardly and talked about fallen friends and the job. Sir Hamblin was a lot older and had been around. But he still remembered how to listen in a conversation. A lot of the old ones can get kind of pedantic. So we enjoyed each other's stories and he invited me sport fishing with the East Coasters any old time I came to town. I might take him up on that.

When he left, I checked the Battlenet and saw that LaPorte had been picked up in the Libertine by Major Wilson's flying squadron. Sten never got to the airport to join the Solstice. Wilson had airdropped on him from the trestle bridge and broken his foot. He would get jump wings and a purple heart for his merit badge collection.

Roxy came by, with Johnson and Brown. All were in new bodies, so recognition took a moment. Johnson said, "Look, they shot him up so bad he turned back into a Mexican." Brown bumped knuckles with him and they chuckled, but Roxy said, "I think it's more him." Her new body was a tall, thin black with oval eyes. The voice was much the same.

"Hey Roxy. You got your roots back."

She spread her arms, "Yeah. Be careful what you wish for, right?"

"Nah Roxy. It looks good on you."

I spent another three days in bed before they let me go. Rafe and Etienne had already gone home. I told them to, their families and friends waited. Sir Juan and Lopez took me around Jacksonville and we went out once with Roxy and the Sergeants. Roxy and Johnson were an item again, or still. She liked playing to his jealousy. I quickly tired of those games and got on a Lifter west.

My credit was good with the Garda, so I got a surplus staff car and drove south into North Mexico. _Mi Madre_ was glad to see me. "You look more like my Chuy now." I visited a few days and continued south to Chihuahua. Tio met me on the porch with a big smile. "It is good to see you, Chuy. We saved the Reposado for your return." He opened the door for me. "Your cousins have been hounding me for a bottle."

End replay of subject Navarro, J

Excerpt of mission debrief DT-313-1

Narrative feed with minimum paraphrasing

****

### Chapter 19: Epilogue

Over Net Restricted Workspace

Southern European Region

Collaboration Sandbox

Saint Peter began disassembling his workspace entanglements. Daedalus, Fabrizio and Minister Finney would remain to wrap up. The others had already left. Once Whitney grabbed the slave Kernel, many pursued for the lineage report. I wasn't concerned. The report would eventually come out. All would know from which AI the Kernel was sired. Whitney just liked to know the facts first. His forceful spying was a topic of debate in the collaboration. Hopes were it was a phase. Fabrizio provided security for the conference and still all were beaten to the servers by Whitney. His cooperation had been helpful, right up to that point.

Daedalus found the game engine, once Richard Allway narrowed it to a Grecian island. We zeroed in with echoes from the Trojan players. The facility was on a grown atoll beneath a well-equipped medical clinic. The marines sent from Volos to secure the evidence found two patients with suspect identification and a null server running intelligences. Their upload of the Kernel was redirected by Whitney to his own workspaces in a deft exploit. Only he could see the complete code, for a while. The others would compile it eventually.

The two human patients were fugitives on the list so all patients were scanned. In that way the Allway brothers were found, as confirmed by subpoenaed copies. The Clinic was closed for illegal Transfers. Daedalus had it stripped bare and prosecuted the staff. Minister Finney got the brothers Allway and the Church split many of the Bermudan prosecutions with him. It was felt that Real time prison would be risky until the Allway's network withered. The Church would get the brothers in a few decades.

Jacksonville got the Yacht and crew. Captain Dahl went down with his ship. Trials were progressing well with the collaborated data. Transfers were halted at several legitimate clinics so that charges could be heard. Most would remain stored until sentences were served, those that didn't get Real-Time prisons. Tibbet and Ogre were in two of those for triple life.

Once out of the workspace, Saint Peter sent a closing report to all concerned, each worded to the recipient. Whitney and the Kernel was a private AI story. Humans would be satisfied with human justice.

He entered his _Dottore_ Fermi workspace and started disassembling the last mission replay. Surely there was a brief within it that would progress the Intelligence Rights Campaign. The last briefs had emphasized bodiliness too much, but Father Luke wanted to offer Marshal Navarro Communion in the near future. That would be a significant precedent, in the long term. Cooperation benefitted everyone.

####

Terminology

**AI** – A digital intelligence that has become self aware. AI's are granted certain civil rights as independent entities.

**Battlenet** – A military grade quantum network. From simple voice to sensory experience in a simulated space, Battlenets offer secure, enhanced information transfer and rapid participation from physically separate members. Closest approximation is to telepathy.

**Beamworx** – A line of portable military lasers favored by Special Forces.

**Cocktails** – Military slang for different drug families, usually numbered. Number 7 is used to steady militias, 9 is used for speed learning, 11 is a personalized mix of combat enhancers.

**Combat Skins** – (aka Skins or Exo) A custom fitted powered musculature using synthetic biology and nanotech materials. Strength and stamina are greatly enhanced. Combat models include a tightly woven mesh armor coating. Some modular add-ons are available. (See Electric Organ)

**Dole** – Welfare programs providing bare sustenance to the indigent.

**Doppelganger** – A disguise to imitate a specific person, usually involving gel masks, voice tuning and upload interrogations. Templars can use quantum implants and learning simulations to closely mimic their subject.

**Electric Organ** – An added component to Skins that generates high voltage fields, similar to an electric eel. Voltage is used for combat, sensory input or a variety of electrical tasks. Weapon regulated.

**Fabricator** – (fab; verb) A nano manufacturing plant that builds objects from template designs and raw stock at the molecular level. Various sizes and capabilities of fabrication are available.

**Garda** – The privatized Earth military, composed of individual units, licensed and subsidized by the world government of Earth. (see The Union) Overseen by the Judiciary and Citizen Oversight committees.

**Graser** – Tuned gamma ray laser, classified as a WMD for its effects at high power levels. A military line-of-sight energy weapon, favored for long range work against electronics or soft targets.

**Happy Place** – A private simulation space acting as an idiosyncratic retreat. Also used within distributed social networks. Both biological and upload minds can interact within shared Happy Places.

**Hogdon C12** \- A drum fed auto shotgun. Filled with a variety of rounds, it is extremely lethal within 100 meters. Suppressors can be added to muffle the firing signature.

**Implant** – A splinter of density matrix, entangled with a quantum computer and connected to the brain. Physically, Templars have the implant grown along the inside of the vertebra and connected through the spinal column to the brain. High density, secure communications are available with the entangled computer or any network it is connected to. (see Battlenet)

**The Real** – The material world. A qualifier becomes important as more minds are Uploaded to quantum workspaces. The validity of the quantum world is a source of debate in some cultures, but all can believe in the Real.

**Kernel** – Base coding for a digital intelligence containing communication protocols; the cognitive map of intelligent consciousness.

Also a collection of constructor nano and base coding to build a specific complex device or object.

**Lifter** – A general class of air transport using a lifting body shape and variable angle turbofans for vertical takeoff and landing.

**Mimetics** – A cloaking system transferring images from one side to active camouflage coverings on the other. A detailed, reactive image but distortion blurs the outline and is made more obvious with movement.

**Simulator** – An entertainment and educational capsule bed using direct brain connections and sensory encoding to completely immerse the participant. Special drugs can enhance the experience.

**Splatgun** – A pneumatic gun firing skin penetrative incapacitating drugs. It is similar in use to a powerful paintball gun.

**Splinter** – A purpose edited copy of an artificial intelligence. Once the purpose is fulfilled, the copy is converted to a data archive. Splinters have reduced civil rights and are not in succession for primacy if the original is lost.

**Subgun** – One of a family of submachine guns. Many are pneumatic using high pressure bottles. Some versions may still use cartridges. Effective range about 150 meters.

**Templars** – Garda special cultural agents for the Christian cultures.

**The Union** – The world government of Earth, representing all cultures and offworld colonies. The Senate is both a legislative and executive component appointed by members of the Representative House, which is an elected legislative body. Both are informed by Judiciary findings of the World Court. Military forces are licensed by the Senate but overseen by the Courts.

**Transference** – The process of imprinting a human upload to a manufactured body. Technically, the process requires an AI and an advanced molecular biology lab. Legally, the imprint must be a proven line of succession from a qualified person. The original must be deceased to complete succession to the new body. There can be only one Primary.

**Upload** – A digital capture of a biological intelligence. The upload can be run within a cybernetic system as an approximation of life or imprinted to a manufactured body. (see Transference.)

**War Chest** – A data repository used by Garda AI's. It contains all technical specifications and historical records related to the application of violence. The repository allows alternatives when diplomacy fails.

**Read an excerpt of the sequel :**

### Reloading Souls

### Available at Smashwords

Return to the worlds of the 24th century in the sequel to "Loading Souls." Kidnappings, riots and a serial killer who won't stay dead complicate Marshal Navarro's life. His Templars lead an invasion of West Virginia and amphibious operations in Florida to support, while aggressive AIs fight PR campaigns with militias. On an icy colony world, Navarro must fight a war to the knife among antagonistic cultures. The future moves pretty fast and even death is no release in this second book of the series.

**"Challenge your Preconceptions** "

What does three hundred years of future feel like? Come along and see, riding the times as your descendants know them. All you have now is reflected there.

What you do today spills into tomorrow. Hindsight is tied to perspective.

This may be the last full generation to qualify as mortal, having chosen a fork in the road. From where you are that fork is unseen, but your road leads to theirs nonetheless.

See a child of these times. Follow a citizen/soldier in this future, living as best he might. He may not be your child, but you helped create his life.

Judge for yourself and be judged. We still live in biblical times.

Introduction to Immersive: Temporal Viewpoints for Introspective Analysis

Philosophical Systems III

Catholic University of the Americas, Washington District

****

Tactical Feed: Navarro, J.

LSC Fox, Med Bay

North of Isla Guadalupe; Baja, NMX

The humming stopped and the door at my feet swung open. The bed slid out that door into sharp lighting. Shades of moving figures approached from the side.

"All done _Señor_ Navarro," said a smiling medical tech. Her long hair was bound in a floppy blue hat. "Upload complete, serology complete. You are returned to duty."

" _Gracias_ ," I told her and swung my feet to the floor. A rack with my gear was wheeled close by a nervous looking male corpsman. "I watched it the whole time, Marshal."

"Thanks, I'm sure it's all right." I waved the back of my hand at the hatchway and the two of them left to let me dress out.

First, the Combat Skins, a full body suit of muscles wrapped in armor mesh. The suit was relaxed now, allowing me to step into it and pull the clavicle collar over my head. Once the suit realized I was inside, it tightened and shifted, seeking a close fit. Oils and nano fibers coated the inside, sealing it tight and finding my spine for instructions.

I performed a suit kata, to seal the fit and warm up the organics. Reflected in the mirror I looked like an old comic book hero, exaggerated muscles and a small head. The Skins were military grade augmentation, incredibly strong with a power to weight ratio engineers drooled over. You could recharge the whole rig with a handful of chemicals, further pleasing supply officers. And synthetic muscle made good armor even before the woven coating was added as a bullet stop. That feature was often a comfort in the field.

I unrolled a black cloth for the next step, revealing the toys. A birds-head ceramic knife slid into a sheath on my thigh. Extra magazines dropped into other leg sheaths. The flat little automatic went crossdraw against the stomach. It was my personal weapon, a Jericho, quiet and mostly polymer. A _kobutan_ submission rod and some zip ties disappeared into other Skin pockets before I finally pulled on clothes.

Today I dressed like a field hand; bib overalls and work gloves. The bulky clothes and shoes made me look just a little fat. When I stuck a much crushed straw _vaquero_ hat on, I could pass well enough in the right lighting.

Next, I reported for work on the Garda Battlenet. That was as simple as putting on a pair of Ray Ban net glasses and bringing up the internal systems. The medic's Life Pod had checked the implants and nanite colonies that lived in my soldiers' body. It also remote entangled the small bits of quantum matrix snuggled along my spine. I heard a carrier tone and tiny graphics began popping up on the lenses of the Ray Bans. In a moment, I was in.

"Navarro, J in attendance," said the Commander. His voice was clear and immediate, coming from my inner ear but inaudible to anything outside my body.

"Report to Hangar Three at earliest."

I hummed just a bit in my throat and heard my voice reply, "Aye aye." From years of practice, the lips never moved.

The Ray Bans showed a path to take on a little deckplan graphic. I followed it into the passageway and up the companionway to the flight deck. Swabs and SEALs held areas of the deck, performing their prep work under scattered spotlights. Beyond them was the paddlewheel elevator, serving aircraft to the open air. Two Stealth & Rescue Lifters sat at the ready, circled by crew chiefs peering into turbofans and access ports to satisfy their checklists.

A piece of bulkhead grew blurry and took the outline of a man. He walked straight at me until the mimetic camouflage shut off and revealed a black Skinned _Norte'_ SEAL. Visually, it was like a shadow stepping out of a mirror. That he used mimetics in the hangar to show off told me he liked to make his own fun. Or maybe it was the drugs. There was no telling what they had stuck this Scout with before the mission. Probably some combat mix that needed a field test.

"Marshal Navarro? That is a great _Campesino_ costume."

"What do you mean? I wear this every _Sabado_."

The Scout found that pretty funny, "Every Saturday, hah right. I'm Johansen, out of Oceanside."

"So which one is my bird, Johansen?" I gestured at the two Lifters.

"Bird two, Foxhound. I'm on the Hare."

"Well I hope you can run fast, Johansen out of Oceanside."

"Any faster and you might as well jump with me."

It was my turn to think that was pretty funny, "Can't fault the gung ho, Master Chief."

"That's just an absence of doubt, Marshal."

His face hid well behind the visor, but his words left a chill in the air.

"Things are going to be a little flexible where we're going, Johansen."

"Then I am no doubt flexible, Marshal."

Chill still hung in his tone. Definitely drugs then. I recognized that false cool.

"Good enough, Chief. We'll swap feeds and make a highlight reel."

"Hooyah."

I found humoring these guys usually got better results. It was like they swallowed a bowl of anger and had to spew it somewhere. My own experience in the Combat Garda was just a blur of engagements under the needle. Domestics were the worst. But the chemistry reduced combat trauma significantly, both mental and physical, so it became policy. By muting the past we could report in the future or some happy horseshit like that. I hated it after a while and transferred out.

I waved 'bye to the SEAL and made my way toward Lifter two. On the way there a quick look back showed he was already gone. I would probably not see him again tonight.

Lifter two, AKA Foxhound, was powered up but empty. I stood with my head in the pilot's cabin and watched dials and lights switch themselves. The crew was phoning in on lagless quantum links, I could hear their flat voices. God only knew where they were in the Real.

Some could be dead soldiers, working for a Service Transfer Writ. I wished them luck with that labor lottery. I had been killed myself a few times but the insurance was better in the Templars. There weren't enough of us to spare and the Church took care of its own. It was a much better work environment all around.

The Lifter ramp rattled and I turned to see two Garda carrying packs enter the cabin. One busied himself stowing his bags while the other continued to approach. His bulky helmet showed a sea horse with wings on its sides but the visor just gave back my reflection in gold.

"Marshal Navarro? I'm Nunez. You have any gear with you?"

"No Chief, just what you see."

"OK. I verify the load and Medic Foster over there clears them."

Foster looked up at his name and showed a Red Cross helmet. He seemed too young to grow whiskers, but that was the preferred age for Combat Medics. Foster would be tightly controlled by chemicals and a Handler, following his progress on the Battlenet. Though sent to save lives a folded machine pistol rode his hip, medics having a short lifespan if not given the means to defend it. My own MOS entry into the Garda had been Combat Medic, going house to house in Tehran. I defended my life a lot there.

"Ready to go whenever you are."

We rode the paddlewheel carousel to the upper deck and left the ship behind. Somewhere ahead of us, the Lifter called Hare carried invisible men with guns to walk me in.

"Over Baja," said a voice on the Battlenet. I heard the Commander's voice answer my question before I could ask it, "Oliveros, M; Foxhound Pilot." The nose of the Lifter rose, causing me to tighten my grip on the webbing. We were sliding over the Baja peninsula to get at the Sea of Cortez on the other side. The _Capitan_ of the Littoral Carrier wouldn't risk the boat in those waters and so sent us on this shortcut from the Pacific. We needed to be to the target and back out before dawn.

There is a thin spit of artificial peninsula called La Pinta, just twenty klicks long and a few hundred meters across. You could find it on the northern edge of the Sea of Cortez a little east of a tourist fishing town called Puerto Penasco, if you followed the unusually well-kept roads and if you didn't mind being subjected to checkpoints.

Mexican slang for jail is " _La Pinta_ " and any found here could expect similar treatment. What filled La Pinta were resort towers and high end homes, playgrounds for rich tourists. This quiet corner of North Mexico was mostly filled with moneyed _Americanos_ , Pacific Rim speculators and the Mexican gentry. They came and went on private aircraft, drove private roads and brought private security. They came here quietly, for deniable cosmetic surgeries or family vacations. Running a mob of Garda through their little peninsula would put us in court for a decade. Advocates on speed dial scared even Justice.

The _Policia_ in Puerto Penasco tread eggshells with these guys, not wanting to bite the hand that wrote the checks. But we got reports. Some bad apples thought drugs and slavery would complete their idea of heaven. Businessmen saw the demand and went about securing a supply. Five or six kids a year pulled from the tourist herd were a statistic. More yet were taken from local towns, for that brush with the exotic that paid the bills. Officials received dollar blindfolds or a nice wreath at the funeral.

Intelligence on the gang with the biggest market share said they were Mongols from California, displaced by a San Diego turf war with the Hells Angels. That they were displacing the local groups spoke of a readiness for violence and deep pockets. California's experience was that they would rather blow themselves up than be captured. I wanted as few of them around tonight as could be arranged.

Their biggest mistake had been to believe a girl's fake ID. Misty Rowe existed only in movie databases. Senator Nagel's middle daughter was real enough. They grabbed her drunk out of a bar according to her bestess. Girlfriend was a little shady herself, so no one listened. Not until Senator Nagel got involved, a week later. A nonperformance rate hike on her tuition fund hit his desk and the Senator rounded up his people. He didn't talk much with his immediate family, but he would sure protect his own.

The Senator filed notice of possible terrorism and Garda units bid plans to get the funding. But the Senator wanted a Templar for the girl. The crime was probably not related to her Christianity, but Templars had a high success rate for this sort of extract. I was statistically likely and so won a contract with bonuses. Ethically, I was a minion, but a well-paid minion.

The problem descended to geography. Where in the Sonoran desert was Caitlan Nagel? She had been held almost a month without sign or demand before spies reported seeing her at the Mayan Palace and Casino. From there, money pried lips apart until we got the story. But the narrative didn't fix Caitlan's location to an address. She just appeared in the resort lobby some evenings and was whisked into the tower by her date's bodyguards. That lobby was the only fix we had. Tonight sometime she would show up and I would get her back.

****

About the Author:

I'm probably a lot like you. My days are filled with production, education and the fruits of procreation. That cycle continues still, through several careers and whole decades of my waking hours. When I want a little recreation, I pick up a book. My vacations fit in a pocket and go somewhere new every time. That's a pretty good bargain for the time pressed. Does any of this sound familiar?

After that, things get a little divergent. I study science habitually, just to see what is possible and where it might lead. Game theory and all types of performing arts are recreation. When I can string a few days together, I like to travel and look for the differences. People who travel know what I mean, that jarring convention somewhere else that makes you question your presumptions. That's the price of the trip, right there. Is any of this still familiar?

I enjoy immersing the reader; lifting them right out of their lives and dropping them into a devised variant built of language. The image of an old black and white science horror episode, where people just went 'poof' leaving behind a pile of clothes and a cooling cup of coffee, that would be my ideal transport for the readership.

Of course, returning them home is more difficult. Mussed hair and a dazed condition are the common complaints. But my lawyers assure me a simple disclaimer will render me suit-proof. Consider this fair warning.

_Dalen Buchanan_ 2013

Titles by the Author:

Loading Souls

Reloading Souls

The Soul Electricus

_The Explanatory Gap-_ coming soon

Connect with Me Online

<http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/dalenbuchanan>

Email

_Loadingsouls_ at _cox.net_

