#  
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`THE 18TH SHADOW`

`_Phases 01 > 03_`

`Jon Lee Grafton`

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**_DAWN OF THE COURTEZAN_**

**THE 18TH SHADOW – PHASE 01**

Jon Lee Grafton

Copyright © 2017 Jon Lee Grafton Books

All Rights Reserved.

**_VOICES IN THE STREAM_**

**THE 18TH SHADOW – PHASE 02**

Jon Lee Grafton

Copyright © 2017 Jon Lee Grafton Books

All Rights Reserved.

**_ABSORPTION_**

**THE 18TH SHADOW – PHASE 03**

Jon Lee Grafton

Copyright © 2017 Jon Lee Grafton Books

All Rights Reserved.

# AUTHOR'S NOTE

These novels are works of fiction. Names, characters and events are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual events which may take place in, during or around the year 2082, as well as any resemblance to persons, alive now or long since gone to the stars, is purely coincidental.

Digital piracy of copyrighted literature is illegal and punishable by law. In general, it's just not cool. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

You can contact Jon Lee Grafton via e-mail at jonlee@jonleegraftonbooks.com; visit us on the holostream at jonleegraftonbooks.com or on Facebook.

# CONTENTS

**_DAWN OF THE COURTEZAN_**

Chapter 1.1 – The Hunted

Chapter 1.2 – Only Coyotes Know

Chapter 1.3 – My Name is Tara Dean

Chapter 1.4 – The Slaughterhouse Rules

Chapter 1.5 – Why Don't the Eyes Work?

Chapter 1.6 – Flight Risk

Chapter 1.7 – Live Free or Die

Chapter 1.8 – You Just Met the Boss

Chapter 1.9 – Abner Family Pumpkin & Gourd

Chapter 1.10 – The Prophet of War

Chapter 1.11 – The Puzzle Master

**_VOICES IN THE STREAM_**

Chapter 2.1 – Orientation

Chapter 2.2 – The Courtezans

Chapter 2.3 – Meanwhile in Downtown Lawrence

Chapter 2.4 – The Tether

Chapter 2.5 – Fractures in the Daydream

Chapter 2.6 – The Gauntlet

Chapter 2.7 – Voices in the Stream

**_ABSORPTION_**

Chapter 3.1 – The Very Best Among Us

Chapter 3.2 – The Turbine Spools

Chapter 3.3 – Upon the River's Edge

Chapter 3.4 – The Precipice

Chapter 3.5 – The Catalyst Reacts

Chapter 3.6 – Enlightenment

Chapter 3.7 – The Great Still in the Sky

Chapter 3.8 – Secondcity

Epilogue

Chapter 4.1 (Intro) – Who Are You?

A glossary of terms and acronyms can be accessed HERE for reference.

# Acknowledgments

These books are dedicated to the smokers. The outcasts forced to search for lighters and Buddha in cold alleys, the back end programmers busy separating church from state, the busted painter, the Mountain Dew addict and musician, dreamer and dancer alike, the disaffected and forgotten artists who ply their trade in rented rooms for the sake of their hearts, forsaking all else. These books are dedicated to the wandering soul burners of a thousand masks who feel most lonesome in a room full of friends. These books are dedicated to the brewmasters and the stillmasters and the vinters and the barstool outlaws who gotta have their whiskey just to turn down the noise. And lastly, to the ones that never made it, who died in a manner they did not choose trying to break free, these books are dedicated to you.

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`DAWN OF THE COURTEZAN`

`THE 18TH SHADOW`

`PHASE 01`

`Jon Lee Grafton`

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`Somewhere on this planet lies the fossilized carbon imprint of a single biological cell. This is the 4.5 billion year old ancestor from which every form of life as we know it originated. Including you.`

`anonymous black dolphin stream`

# `Chapter 1.1 – The Hunted`

`From the Cloud Diary of Dax Abner – June 3, 2074 1:13 am – Eight Years Four Months Before Event.`

`"I am archiving this initial entry on my combud local. The cloud stream is not yet established. Nothing is. The farmhouse is a disaster. We paid a fond digidollar for this.`

`Outside, an American thunderstorm rages, walls of purple clouds 100 km tall, thunder cracking, lightning burning. The rain will not relent. Kansas is humid, like New Miami in summer, yet here the oceans are built of tallgrass, wheat and jane. There is no sound but my dictation, the patter of rain. And the bizarre yipping of feral dogs somewhere by the river.`

`I have to return soon. I have been waiting 18 hours, all streams dark. Eva instructed me to keep this diary, to leave a part of myself for the Secondcity team. Firstcity doesn't even have a relay to the solar grid! But the legacy is now mine. So I will continue waiting for this Israeli.`

`I have walked the 600 acre piece of land thrice, end to end, dodging storms and a couple of nasty looking wood possums. Mother said to find the poet? Poets, much like the possum, continue to persevere. So shall I.`

`You are reading entry one, day one. Whoever you are, Secondcity must now be spooling, so there is I hope reason to celebrate. I think I hear the peal of an airship. 1:27 am."`

Salina, Kansas, November 2086 – Four Years One Month After Event.

CNED Director, Franklin Fhelps was a company man, a creature who found comfort in regulation. The mud and clouds disgusted him, and he was regretting bringing Saxon along. It was a hunt in the countryside for actual shiners! The boy should be thrilled, but he loped down field like a churlish ape.

_What other foster parent would let their teenager carry a lightning gun?_

It was his wife's fault, the boy's sullen attitude. Fhelps would have to discipline Bao-Yu for this when he returned home.

He raised his hairless, alabaster chin to the horizon and licked the slivers of his lips, studying the world through eyes the color of wet stone. There had to be signs. Recent intel from his DEA mole had led him to these Dogforsaken hemp fields. The plantations lay fallow for winter, and it had rained the night before, a long, Kansas drizzler. He did not appreciate the way the mud caked his boots, nor the bite of damp, westward wind howling at them across the cruel abdomen of the land.

A rage headache was rising. Saxon's lack of enthusiasm for law enforcement was the root of this ill. It made Fhelps' toes itch in his boots to think of it. He didn't dare lay a hand on the child, a complication that made the migraines feel downright lethal.

The relentless _zoom-voom-voom_ of wind turbines spinning at the nearby Saline County power gen farm was not helping either.

Vaporizing a little jane might fix all that.

_No. The 'noias._

If a particle cannon had to be fired, it was a violation of protocol to be blended. He angrily ripped off a glove and popped a Pleasium tablet into his mouth instead.

A flock of starlings a thousand strong roiled through the wispy winter clouds. The birds flashed and swooned unpredictably like a school of airborne sea fish. Fhelps started trudging again, watching the birds. It would be enjoyable to incinerate half the flock, but that would be a waste of valuable ammo. The birds were too far away to hit with a sidearm. His foster son's footsteps sloshed rhythmically a hundred meters ahead. Everything irritated.

_The Pleasium will kick in soon._

Saxon was young. He had been taught how to stroll a proper recon, but did it wrong. Gunpowder or particle weapon, he was the best shot in the city. Probably the state. But he showed no enthusiasm for such talents.

When Saxon was unsealed seventeen years earlier, Fhelps had lifted the squealing infant from his gestation cradle and examined him as though he were a slice of petri-veal at the deli. Saxon's squirming, pink body was smeared with synthamneotic fluid. Fhelps had grimaced and placed the child back in its growth medium, promptly immersing his hands in a sonic wash.

The Mighty Sky Dog of Circumstance had chosen him for this.

_But why? Because Saxon will grow up to be the greatest CNED agent the Union has ever seen._

Of that, Fhelps was sure. What he was not sure of was the means by which the child came into his life. It had been seventeen years, and not a word since.

Back in 2069 Fhelps was still just a CNED volunteer, paying back the IRS for his own visit to the slaughterhouse. In the basement of CNED HQ, he had a volunteer's office with a heavy wooden door surrounded by stone walls that smelled of damp plasticrete. Here, day after day, he perched on the edge of his chair, voraciously studying the city drone streams, waiting for a citizen to commit an alcohol infraction.

The last thing on Fhelps' mind that morning was unsealing a child.

It was early, no one else about. He had just sat down behind his desk when the door opened and an enormous, hooded man in a beige robe brazenly entered. The man looked like a Bedouin nomad. Fhelps' calculating eyes dashed to his holoscreen projection. Oddly, the building computer had dimmed the lights as soon as the man entered. No unauthorized entry klaxon had sounded.

As Fhelps trudged through the mud, he tried to remember the basics of the encounter, but the details were fuzzy.

The Bedouin man had not introduced himself or asked questions. His face was blackness, paired with a synthetic voice that held no mercy. He informed Fhelps that he was paying him 5,000,000 digidollars to adopt a specific child at the hospital.

Fhelps was incredulous. He rose from his desk, not a small figure himself, astonished as he checked, then re-checked the banking widget on his holotab.

His anxious voice whined like a damaged trumpet, "I don't know if I can accept this. Is this IRS verified? How..."

The Bedouin raised a white gloved hand, "Silence. The IRS is not your concern." The voice deepened grimly, "You have ten hours to take custody of child #20821016, or the money will vanish. If any harm comes to this child by your hand, you will vanish."

The hooded man reached into his burlap robe. An odor of burnt leaves filled the small office. Fhelps remembered instinctively activating the emergency transponder hidden beneath his desk. All he could make out beneath the sandy, tough-wove hood were two glowing, emerald eyes.

He shivered as those emerald eyes turned on him now with a predatory focus, "Notifying the police of my presence will not be necessary." Without averting his gaze, the Bedouin produced a tiny silver device from his pocket and tapped its glass face. Fhelps' holotab chimed a receipt tone. "That is your cloud key for scanning clear at Salina General. The child is ready to be unsealed. You are now its legal guardian."

Fhelps had then made a calculated mistake he flushed to think of. The CNED intimidation regimen had trained him to respond with authority when threatened, however.

He cleared his throat and began to contentiously challenge the Bedouin, "Sir, let _me_ be clear! The only thing I'm going to do is ping the proper authority! Bribing a public official is against the law and I have certainly _not_ agreed..."

The Bedouin stepped forward and pounded a mammoth fist into Fhelps' desk. The metal surface squealed, crushing down like foam. Fhelps backed away in shock. The odor of incinerated leaves grew stronger.

The slow-spoken words, bottomless now, resonated from every corner, "I am the proper authority, Franklin." The Bedouin tilted his head to one side and leaned closer, making the desk's metal frame buckle under the punishing force of his fist, "I see from your bio-rhythms you still have questions. The answer is everyone. We watch everyone, Franklin. We watch everything. All the time. You _will_ adopt infant #20821016 from Salina Regional Health Center. You will do it today." The man stood again to his full height, consuming the tiny office, "Be grateful. If it was up to me that desk would be your skull, Mr. Fhelps. In eighteen years, we will speak again. Listen to the voice in your dreams."

_How does he know...?_ Fhelps gasped.

The Bedouin turned and partially crushed the antique doorknob as he exited. Unlike his silent arrival, the man's boot steps now clanged densely as they receded down the hall. Fhelps remained frozen, sweating, eyes and fingers running over the indentions on his wrecked desk.

_I'm going to have to give up the booze._

Could he survive without booze? The slaughterhouse had not abated his addiction. It was his dirtiest secret. The treatment gave him the rages, though, and the headaches. He had kept a delicious sipper of closet whiskey under the kitchen sink for years. But those days were gone. He had to obey.

_We watch everyone, Franklin. We watch everything. All the time._

Fhelps had heard what happened to a person in the lunar work camps. It wasn't simply fear of the horrifying hooded man that compelled. His brain _told him_ it was the right thing to do.

_I'll have to learn to like jane._

But marijuana made him paranoid. Maybe if he popped a Pleasium before vaporizing, he'd like getting stoned better? Everyone at CNED swore by the red Federal pills.

_Everyone. Everything. All the time._

A short month after Saxon's unsealing, Fhelps trailed a drinker to a speakeasy in the basement of a private home. He put twelve college students in magcuffs in a single day. The promotion to Salaried Enforcement Agent came quickly. He floated through the ranks, soon building repute for his successful yet cruel manner of field work. There was something stimulating about watching a citizen's eyes as he bound their wrists and poured their pricey shine down the loo. Especially lady violators, their anxiety pheromones made him salivate. Discovering a sex toy among private things was in fact his _favorite_ high.

Fhelps would smack his glossy lips within tickling distance of a female boozebum's ear and speak his words with a pasty tongue, "You going to learn to love swallowing Pleasium."

Fhelps shook himself, realizing he had become slightly aroused.

_Never in front of the boy._

Those were long gone days anyway. He had since sent 1,842 citizens to the Bmod facilities. Other CNED agents called him _The Digidime Sheriff_ because the majority of his arrests were small-time possession hits.

_The dixies are just jealous._

He had busted fourteen solar stills in his career as well.

_No one mentions that._

The citizenry called microbrewers and still operators _shiners._ Musicians wrote them songs. Poets pushed shiner haiku to their holoblogs, oft uncensored.

_Poets. Traditionalist pawns. Drug dealers deserve no songs!_

Nothing gave Fhelps more joy than sending a shiner to the slaughterhouse.

Fhelps returned his attention to the present as his HUD chimed. A data packet had arrived; groundwater numbers from a DEA hack he had paid the mole some high digis for.

_Buried centibots detect a 12,000 liter hydrologic friction anomaly every 168 hours... science, blah!_

Fhelps immediately lost interest. He didn't want to read. He wanted to shoot something! The civilian class Mantis lightning cannon was getting heavy. He gripped its rubbery stock tighter with chilled, well fed fingers and looked ahead at Saxon. The boy had activated his holoflage suit. Only the contrastic edges of his legs were visible as he walked. If he stopped moving, he would become a ghost.

Saxon was brilliant with a rifle. Even Fhelps had to admit. It enraged him that the boy had no interest in this gift for guns. _Nor_ the CNED Youth Initiative. The child spent too much time in the basement, obsessed with smoking hand rolled, antique joints of the like no one had smoked in half a century. Music thudded constantly from his room. The boy seemed to accomplish little besides playing hologames and streaming with friends about their next telepathic DJ set.

_They call it Dub n' Drop. I call it an attitude problem._

That very morning, Fhelps had been forced to listen to Saxon whine over the hempcakes Bao-Yu made them for breakfast, "CNED Youth kids are damaged, yo! And I'm sick of walking around in the cold! It's one Saturday a month vaporized while Reggie and Prab are at The Solarium hoverboarding! I just wanna chill, amigo."

Whenever the boy used the word _chill,_ Fhelps would close his eyes and take a deep breath, imagining that he was strangling Saxon violently and shoving a blade through his eye. This fantasy always improved his spirits.

_The child desperately needs the sort of behavioral structuring Bao-Yu receives. But I can't... I never have._

The wife came to heel nicely after the slaughterhouse. Fhelps felt lucky, because unlike most women who saw the drill, Bao-Yu still liked to cry.

The Pleasium had begun to work its magic on his nerves. The present drifted back, featureless gray clouds, dirt rows and mud puddles, stripped, hollow hemp stalks and a line of trees in the distance, stretching out like a chorus line of skeletal gallows. This was all the present offered. Fhelps turned his head as a drone whizzed past on the nearby county hovroad. 15,000 meters overhead, a co2 scrubber raked its giant, black tentacles through a break in the somber clouds, then vanished once more.

Fhelps reengaged the holoflage filters on his HUD and Saxon snapped into view, a green stroke outlining the boy's form. Saxon held his lightning gun too languidly. Its fat, silver barrel was pointed towards the earth. He simply didn't care.

Fhelps knew from purchasing a black market hack into the boy's holodiary that his foster son was fixated on four things: betties, marijuana, music and holosims. Of course he had not tried alcohol! Though, he had lost his virginity.

Fhelps had not told Bao-Yu. As a woman, she wouldn't understand.

Fhelps tapped his combud irritably, "What's our numbers, child?"

Saxon answered quickly, "03:41 on the ground, still progressing south towards the grid four terminus."

"Fine, fine."

Fhelps dialed up the magnification on his HUD. They were getting closer to the row of trees marking the next property, a private farm, Gaeveinn Hemp & Jane, LLC. He and Saxon presently stood on the sprawling fields of the Federally subsidized Peoples' Hemp Plantation.

"Computer, scroll profile on adjacent farm."

Fhelps mumbled and licked his lips as he skimmed the text that began scrolling before his eyes. James Gaeveinn and his wife had purchased the property six years ago.

_The old Nichols' place. Good riddance._

The new owners began planting a strain of affordable, mid-grade indica under a private gene patent. The farm also rotated a hectare of textile grade hemp for a boutique women's clothier downtown... as Fhelps scanned the holo, he realized he had met the man. Gaeveinn was a CNED donor, came out to the quarterly citizen briefings at the Mason's Hall. The farmer sat in the back. His questions were industry related, perfunctory. His handshake was callused and firm.

_A typical hemp cowboy tossing his digis on the legal side, wants to keep booze off the hovstreets. That's good._

Fhelps blinked twice. His HUD flipped to the next page in the file. Gaeveinn's wife was 29, originally from Florida. Kansas resident since 2081. Public records indicated the woman was pregnant in her second trimester and had forgone fetal transfer. The child was queued for a vaginal birth.

_Disgusting._

Only nineteen percent of women gave birth corporeally. It was the _only_ odd detail Fhelps could see, but it wasn't unusual for farmers to be antique about things.

Fhelps blinked and scanned the remaining data. All Gaeveinn land use permits... in order. Criminal background(s) and known associations... clear and cross-referenced. Water draw... below allocation. The Gaeveinns ran an efficient, zero impact marijuana farm. Aside from the gyno-birth plans, they were painfully normal.

_The land, however..._

Fhelps wiggled his toes, hunting the elastic chasms of his mind. The early winter wind was as cold as the situation was vexing. Somewhere in this sector was a subterranean still!

_Buried on the farmer's property without his knowledge?_

The answer lay in the water. Only a fusion based system could reprocess and jet pump 12,000 liters in such a short period of time. The nearest purification factory was 326 km west, in Colby. That purifier provided two thirds of Kansas with clean drinking water, along with a portion of southwest Nebraska and eastern Colorado.

Examining the flurry of details made the migraine return, rage not far behind, he knew. He could feel the pulsing behind his eyes.

_Has it gotten colder?_

He thought about weather and his HUD automatically displayed the current forecast. Temperature had dropped three degrees. Sun, 132 minutes from setting. They would have to conclude this hunt within the hour. Despite a life in the gym, Fhelps' quadriceps ached from stepping over four kilometers of mud.

He puffed his cheeks and sneered at the wind. Every CNED agent worth a digicent had busted a closet solar still. But only thirteen fusion stills had ever been discovered. They were massive operations, with power cores the size of beach balls at their center. They were the stuff of legend. And Fhelps wasn't going to find one. At least not today. He had been so certain when Bao-Yu was preparing them breakfast.

_It's a shame. Saxon and I checked out some of the division's priciest gear._

Their holoflage suits were calibrated to confirm subterranean fusion at 800 meters. The tree line was only a kilometer away now.

_Perhaps we will uncover something there._

All he needed was a sliver of exposed BioPex moving unregistered water and he could ping a squadron of drones.

_Or electrical broadcasts from a camouflaged solar array. Mighty Sky Dog, just give me..._

Ahead, Saxon suddenly paused, "Sir! You get that? Motion there... no, there! The base of the hill!" Saxon had leveled his gun along a firing vector. "Can I release a case of micros?" he asked excitedly.

"Calm down, not yet."

Fhelps stopped walking. The treed hill in the distance was half-obscured by low hanging clouds. He scanned up, back down, goggles moving over the rows of jagged farmland.

Satisfied, he quipped, "What exactly do you think you're seeing, child?"

Saxon said, "I think there's..."

Fhelps jumped as his own kinesis klaxon cut the stream. A female deer had emerged from the tree line and bolted across the field. The animal was running for its life straight at them!

_Why did our IR scanners not detect her?_

There was nothing but open ground all around, no predator in sight. Fhelps magnified and expanded scans across all composite frequencies. Nothing! If a duck hunter had been camouflaged in a blind...

_We would have picked up the citizen's Ipv7 two kilometers back._

The deer continued its panicked dash across the open field. Before Fhelps could stop him, Saxon had knelt and taken aim.

The boy fired. A round of jade-toned particle energy spat down field and popped the fleeing doe like an overfed tick. Only the spindly legs remained. The shattered stalks galloped two more halting steps before collapsing in a slosh pile of guts and scorched fur.

Fhelps yelled at his foster son hysterically, "Sax! You're off range, non-emergency! Why shoot a deer? There's a reason we got holoflage on! _Child?_ You listening to me?"

Saxon grimaced and turned down his com. The number of times the man had spoken those same words, _Child? You listening to me?_ He could not bear it.

_I'm not your child._

Pretending his false dad did not exist was the best way to ignore his utter lameness.

Saxon re-centered his HUD's tracking matrix. There _was_ something else out there, he could sense it. The feelings were coming more often now.

He shook off the sensation and raised his fist in the universal _hold_ sign, breath rapid but steady, "Sir, I'm telling you, I gotta light on the seismic. Just for a second. It wasn't the deer. Can I release the birds?"

Fhelps sighed. Best to let the boy have his fun.

"Go ahead."

"Sweet!"

Saxon reached into a pocket and withdrew a black case containing four hunting assist drones. Each was the size of a gray ping pong ball. He dumped the drones into the palm of his hand and tapped his combud. They instantly illuminated, red first, then green, and Saxon threw them into the air. He smiled as the drones spun in a coherent orbit, established antigrav, then flew towards the location where the doe had emerged from the line of hickories.

"We should begin receiving telemetry in three, two, one... shit!"

"Watch your mouth!" snapped Fhelps, glowering, "What is it?"

He watched the tiny drones, not yet fifty meters away, suddenly go black and drop from the sky, plopping into the mud one by one.

"Saxon! That's CNED tech!"

"It's not me!" cried the boy. "They just died! I think we got hacked!"

_No one is fast enough to hack a moving drone._

Despite his underlying desire to run over and beat the boy with his rifle, Fhelps knew it wasn't Saxon's fault. The kid was a code whiz. He could pilot an autodrone at three years old, so the situation _was_ odd. Fhelps despised oddness. Oddness bred unpredictable things, and unpredictability was a gateway to unacceptable outcomes.

"Child, you're giving me the nerves. What are your stats on..."

An articulated _BOOM_ shook the air. They both ducked. Looking up, the engines of a transorbital passenger jet turned from red to violet, pushing the plane across the sound barrier on its way to a standard mach 3 cruise. The jet left a vertical halo in its contrail at the point where it went supersonic before slipping into the clouds.

Fhelps exhaled with relief and re-moistened his lips, speaking in a pesky timbre, "You got me jumping at airplanes, Sax! How do you think that makes me feel? Go retrieve your dead drones! First lower that particle rifle, and repeat stats!"

Saxon lowered the barrel of his Mantis.

His breath was still hurried, "I apologize, _sir._ But I really think..."

"Just shut your mouth," snipped Fhelps. "Numbers."

The boy was more than 100 meters ahead. It was unlikely, but possible his sensors were picking up something else.

Saxon swallowed nervously.

_Those drones didn't just fall out of the sky._

The day's light appeared to be growing brighter though the sun stayed hidden. It wasn't just the premonitions. Something was changing with his eyes also.

A bead of cold sweat ran down Saxon's forehead, "Okay, okay. I see .02 kinetic ripples, non-linear sequencing."

Fhelps had instructed Saxon to never trust his gut, to let computers do the thinking.

He spoke with confidence, "Sax, windy day, that readout could be yawn and tug on tree roots. It could be a deer fawn. That doe was probably trying to distract us before you blasted her." He tried to deepen his voice, "I want you to advance, all right then? Gather those drones, and don't you dare fire that gun without my permission!"

They would go as far as the base of the hill, drop a couple new centibots, call it a day. It was going to be a long hike back to the Lexus.

Saxon turned back and glared at his foster father as they again began marching.

_I hate you. More than you will ever know._

The bald, old man was always trying to school him. He enjoyed telling Saxon things like, _Throughout history, the smallest pieces of data have exposed the greatest of criminals... Sax._ Crap, all crap. The nickname, _Sax_ was crap. The CNED Youth Initiative was crap!

Saxon brushed a strand of blonde hair from his eyes as he continued, unable to ignore what he knew to be true, "Sir, I'm telling you."

"Trees and wind, Sax," said Fhelps. "Trees and wind."

"It wasn't geo yawn and tug! I'm not stupid. We're a kilometer away! Something _big_ moved in that dirt."

Fhelps smiled pompously and checked his own array, "First of all, watch your tone. Second of all, what are your stats now?"

Saxon loved rolling his eyes, "My sensors are flat line. It was just a feeling."

"The world doesn't run on feelings, child. It runs on..."

" _Numbers,_ I know, sir, Jeezus, numbers! Can we get this over with? I'm starving."

Saxon trudged ahead faster, boots splashing mud between the rows of dead hemp. He made it eleven meters before his combud klaxoned again, this time louder. He was 114.26 meters ahead of Fhelps.

Saxon's heart jumped, "2.1 verified ripples, 38.7 x 97.8. Something has to be spooling, and it's no baby deer! I mean, 2.1, that's fusion, right?"

Fhelps was seeing similar readings, "Hold position, com silent."

Fhelps knelt to the ground and activated the binocular stabilizers on his HUD, magnifying a view of the tree line. He could see rusted barbed wire nailed into the hickories, one trunk after the next. Lumpy warts of scarred bark showed where the trees had absorbed the strands of metal fencing. He scanned carefully, pretending it was a hidden image puzzle like at the bottom of the Sunday holocomics. Fhelps flipped his HUD to standard. Nothing. He returned it to a 5,000 mm digital magnification.

There.

_A baby deer rustling in the underbrush?_

This was ridiculous! He was too far out to get the same gravotemp readings the boy was. Nonetheless, 2.1 verified ripples was enough to make Fhelps boot his own lightning cannon.

Per regulations outlined in the 2086 CNED Field Operations Manual, much of which Fhelps himself had authored, now was the time to ping a security drone for backup.

_Protocol._

There was no reason. Not yet. Sax was right. They were onto something. The automated defenses around a fusion still? If so, their holoflage suits would make them invisible to standard motion scanners. Mega stills were automated. Warehouse bots did the heavy lifting. They oft had skeleton crews. Or so he had read. If he could surprise the shiners and bring them down alone, he would be...

Fhelps said the word salaciously, "Famous," letting it drift from the tip of his tongue.

He didn't realize it then, but his toes had stopped itching.

"Sax, I want you to retreat to my left flank, twenty meters parallel. I'm holding position until you're back here. Activating hypersense array now."

The suit's array could scan at full spectrum for fifteen seconds, but a four second sweep would pick up any micro-wormhole activity. If there _was_ anything in those trees larger than a rabbit running on fusion power, he would find it instantly.

His voice trembled lightly, "Activate hypersense, authorization Fhelps 29."

A small green diode on the suit's shoulder pack illuminated. There was a momentary vibration.

_Just like sim._

He felt good as he waited.

_Readings will be negative._

He steadied his breath, one second, two, three... his combud gave a truncated chirp.

Fhelps looked at the information and blinked. He read the holocast twice. Then he read it a third time. A dry ball of terror formed in his throat.

He whispered slowly, "Computer, encrypted stream."

His combud responded smoothly, "Encrypted stream initiated."

"Cross reference and verify onscreen data."

Saxon's voice cut in, tinged with fear, "Sir, something dark is out here."

Fhelps flipped streams, scowling, "Shut up and retreat like I say, child!"

He switched off the open stream, "Computer, verify HUD data."

The Human Biosync Processing Drive surgically implanted beneath his left temple reiterated the information succinctly in a computerized female voice only he could hear, "Verification complete. Dual independent wormholes maintaining stabilized orbit at 916.4 meters distance on a south by southwest trajectory. Targets are 2.32 meters beneath the soil surface, 2.02 meters, 1.76 meters."

Fhelps felt goosebumps rise. He heard the sound coming from the tree line. It really _was_ just like a training sim. His suit's directional microphones began transmitting a low, pulsing hum through his combud. The decibel meter indicated the hum was growing stronger, originating at the base of the hill. It was auto-streamed to both holoflage suits.

"Sir, are you hearing that!?" asked Saxon.

Fhelps' head swirled. The audio sounded like a hovsemi spooling, levfan rotors spinning faster and faster. Visual alerts blinked rapidly across their HUD's as the suits' auto-alert klaxons began to chime.

The computerized female voice was bright but devoid of emotion, "Detecting 47.8 harmonic ripples, 67.9 harmonic ripples, 113.0 harmonic ripples. Alert threshold achieved. Please cross verify any known gravotemporal sources. Civilian auto-alert in twenty seconds, nineteen, eighteen, seventeen..."

Saxon was running as fast as he could away from the trees. His boots slogged laboriously.

"Believe me now, _dad?!"_ I _told_ you there was something else out there! Shit!" the boy was shouting as he ran.

Suddenly, in a fit of panic, Saxon turned and knelt. He aimed and fired a second particle round. An enormous hickory tree at the base of the hill exploded. Yellow, late autumn leaves and splintered branches fluttered down like snowflakes as the huge tree toppled.

Saxon was out of ammo.

"Noooo!" Fhelps yelled so loudly his combud squealed, "You'll alert them to our position!"

"I think they've been alerted. I can hear..."

"Just run, you ridiculous child!" cut Fhelps. "Run!"

"But sir!" protested Saxon as he turned and again began to flee.

"What _is_ it, child?! I swear! Now is not the t..."

"No, sir... Frank, _dad!_ They just _told me_ what you did!" yelled Saxon between breaths. "I won't forget."

Fhelps scowled with a fresh rush of paranoia, "What are you speakin'..." A piercing klaxon vibrated his inner ear. "Just run, boy!" Fhelps snipped, "and no more of your foolish babble! _Move!"_

He muted the klaxon with a blink and restabilized his magnified view of the hickory stand.

"Great Dog in the Sky..." he whispered.

Two large mounds of fresh dug soil dusted with leaves began collapsing in. Something was rising from the Earth. Fhelps tried to speak, but his throat was parched. His mind raced, normally ordered thoughts turning frantically back to the Bedouin.

_It's not my fault the boy died! I took a bribe, your honor! I never wanted the sniveling brat in the first place... it was that man in the hood!_

Fhelps slapped his own cheek, needing the pain.

_Pull it together! What uses fusion? Power grid. Auto-turrets? Cyborgs?_

The closest military base was Fort Riley. They had cyborgs.

_Stream DEA! Why haven't CNED drones confirmed our auto-ping?_

A DEA com driver would know how to shut down these robotic perimeter guns. Or whatever was spooling.

He swallowed to wet his throat and squeaked, "Com, patch CNED control / cc DEA Gencom: Agent 29 authorization – Amend 21, repeat _Amend 21!_ Reporting unregistered fusion activity, sector nine, quadrant four, Saline County, Kansas. Experiencing com irregularities. Manually streaming our pin!"

He glanced at the mag view and bit his tongue. Before the barbed wire fence, a four-pronged, mechanical paw the size of a basketball broke the surface. Each toe on the robotic paw bore a twelve cm metal claw. Fhelps' eyelids began to flutter.

_War cyborgs._

A trickle of unnoticed tongue blood made its way over his lip. His back was damp with sweat. Fingers of winter wind cut through his holoflage suit.

He dialed back the magnification 5%. Two robotic paws had broken the surface, pulling the full torso of a cybernetic DOGS unit into view. The huge, silver-toned automaton shook side to side, ridding itself of clinging dirt and leaves. Fhelps had only seen these creatures in war museums or in the holoflix. Such monsters had also been reported at the battle for the Lawrence Pumpkin Still.

_But those are urban myths!_

Following the first, a second DOGS unit began emerging from the Earth. The trunk of the hickory tree Saxon had felled lay on top of this one's resting place. Once on all fours, obviously irritated by the obstruction, the creature seized the hickory in its jaws and hurled the tree into the open field. The beast again stood still.

Beads of disbelief stung Fhelps' eyes. From what he knew, the big ones with no BIOSKIN© had been outlawed to all except the highest echelons of the military.

_If they're military, they're on my side._

Fhelps felt an illogical sense of relief.

_I just have to send over our Ipv7's and the driver operating these borgs will see we're CNED!_

Now out of the ground, the identical DOGS units were each the size of a hovlimo. They had elevated themselves from their hiding place under two meters of wet soil with the ease of birds preparing for flight. Their red eyes glowed as they swung their massive, silver and black titanalum heads back and forth, scanning. Fhelps could see their fortified joint gears spinning, making micro adjustments to their limbs. Their mechanical bodies were covered with armored scales arranged in complex geometric patterns, but they moved... like biologicals! Fhelps understood enough fusion 101 to know that the cyborgs had been lying dormant to evade detection. Their reactors were still spooling. In the afternoon's waning gloom, a faint blue light emanated visibly from the independent cores mounted in their chest cavities.

_Two of them! Impossible!_

Fhelps tapped his combud, desperate for a response to his outgoing pings.

The Govcloud's default female voice was secretarial and prim, "Hello, Agent Fhelps, we are experiencing network difficulty. Your communications to..." the computer hesitated while it processed the message recipient, "CNED Control and DEA General cannot be broadcast at this time. We are experiencing network difficulty. Please try again later."

_Nooo!_

Fhelps exhaled a foggy breath, trying to contain the fright and rage. The cyborgs had not yet moved. It was not to worry. Once they were fully functional, the creatures would scan his Ipv7 and immediately stand down.

_That makes no sense!_

His holoflage suit klaxoned, relaying seismic vibrations from the impact of the cyborgs' first steps. The animals were fully powered. Fhelps watched one of the DOGS units raise its head to the clouds and open its nacreous mouth, displaying a full set of carbide tipped teeth complete with 25 cm fangs. The beast then howled, a sound so loud their directional mics auto-muted. They could hear it perfectly a kilometer away, like the horn of a maglev train bred with the haunted song of a timber wolf.

The second DOGS unit joined in, producing an even more fearsome call.

Both cyborgs then reared back and launched, clearing thirty meters before touching down side by side in a crush of mud. Fhelps frantically checked his suit's holointerface. His Ipv7 was pushing on all streams, verification green.

_They've wonked my Ipv7... but aren't stopping!_

He had to mute his holoflage suit's gravotemporal klaxons. The creatures landed and leapt into the air again, gaining incredible momentum across the fields. Their steps thundered, _boom-boom... boom-boom..._ displacing waves of mud a half meter high.

There was no choice. Fhelps would have to incinerate them.

_If Saxon can hit a deer..._

He knelt and took aim with his lightning cannon, auto-locking into his tracking matrix.

_NOT like the simulations!_

He blasted off two contiguous particle streams, one directed at each cyborg. Lightning rifle rounds were ionically charged to gravitate towards metal objects, and they curved fluidly towards their targets.

_Direct hits!_

Nothing. The jade-toned energy streams distributed over the DOGS units' bodies, then fizzled harmlessly away. The cyborgs merely snarled and increased the pace of their charge.

His combud spoke flatly into his ear, "Targets 400 meters from Saxon, 300..."

Fhelps tapped his com furiously, "Computer! Resend Ipv7! Friendly, friendly, friendly!"

The com replied succinctly again, "Your Ipv7 has been confirmed, thank you. Enjoy the rest of your weekend."

In the hapless, final moments of his life, events seemed to happen in slow motion for Franklin Fhelps. He watched one of the massive cybernetic canines slide to a halt, snarling brutishly at Sax, yet fifty meters off. It was so strange. The boy had stopped calling for help! In fact, he was kneeling, looking straight at the monster with his hand extended, as though he intended to touch its gigantic muzzle.

The second cyborg continued closing. It was on him.

Fhelps hurled his lightning rifle at the monstrosity, flailing his arms as he screamed, "Waaaiiit! My name is Franklin Fhelps! I'm on the board of...!"

The second DOGS unit, unconcerned with board membership, flashed its head sideways and snapped its jaws around Fhelps' rib cage, causing the man's torso to explode in a confetti of splintered bone and guts. The animal dug its saber-like claws into the earth and shook its head savagely, rendering loose the dangling sections of spine and hip until the two body halves dropped to the soil with a bloody _twook_ and a _twack_. The creature's alloy muzzle was red, yellow, dripping with bile. It growled, circling the severed halves of its quarry, crushing Fhelps' skull with a single step. As an afterthought, it flicked a rear leg and sent the top half of the carcass tumbling away across the field. Satisfied, the cyborg turned and faced its sister, the one now protectively circling Saxon. Both DOGS units locked vidorbs, exchanged data, then raised their heads to the gray clouds and howled in furious unison.

It was the sign the man on the hill had been waiting for.

The hunt was over.

`Excerpt from the 2071 holopamphlet, "Parents: Get Smart About Alcohol" sponsored by CNED.holo:`

`_In 2060, 47% of North Americans reported drinking alcohol more than once in their lives. 71% of North Americans reported seeing alcohol used at a social function. Alcohol! When it comes to alcohol use and abuse, there is so much at stake for your family and your children. If your combud is vibrating and you are worried about your child floating with the wrong crew and making the wrong decisions, you are not alone._`

`_Swipe your holotab to CNED.holo_`

`_Identifying alcohol and potential alcohol use and abuse is no easy task. There are many threats: black market liquors, such as vodka and rye whiskey, black market beers and wines, and well-camouflaged drug paraphernalia. Even your teen's social and visual cues. Finding an empty mason jar in the closet in your child's room, or hearing your child stammering about what went on at their visit to the holosim theater earlier that night with friends might be your first sign of drug use. Don't make assumptions. But don't ignore a dark sky too long. Remember: all alcohol is black market alcohol. There is no Federal oversight of production, so your child could literally be drinking ANYTHING. Continue scrolling to learn more about the types of things teens are confronted with these days, from pressure on social networks to avoiding and reporting alcohol use in high school._`

`_Swipe your holotab to CNED.holo_`

`_We can help! The Get Smart About Alcohol section of the CNED Page will give you information to improve your recognition skills for the liquid drug, covering the visual cues and signs of alcohol use, as well as identifying different popular forms and types of alcohol. The information in this section can also help you and your child navigate today's dark social waters when it comes to alcohol and popularity._`

`_Swipe your holotab to CNED.holo_`

# `Chapter 1.2 – Only Coyotes Know`

Salina, Kansas – November 2086 – Four Years One Month After Event.

The thin man sat against the trunk of the great leafless tree. A tattered straw cowboy hat covered his face. Two Rottweilers lay in the yellowed grass to either side of him, each black as coal. All three figures were still.

After a few seconds, the man raised the brim of his hat. The blue, bionic vidorb that had replaced his left eye glowed, scrutinizing the valley below. He quickly scanned the green holotext being projected before his field of vision. The CNED agents were 1.7 kilometers out, stepping loud and careless between the furrowed rows of dead winter hemp as if they owned the very sky. Each hunter was equipped with a holoflage suit and a Mantis 8.0 series particle rifle.

"Birds and lies hide behind dying eyes, gentlemen," the thin man said quietly.

His expression was devoid of emotion.

High above, a co2 scrubbing blimp emerged through a break in the clouds, 300 meters long from nose to tail. The high atmosphere dirigible's enormous ionizing engines trailed below it like black nipples dangling off the tips of its belly tentacles. Both Rottweilers looked up at the same time the man did. All three followed the scrubber's progress with their eyes until it faded again behind the clouds.

Spinning wind turbines dotted the horizon, a flock of distant starlings roiled and swirled over the plantations below. A drone flew down the hovroad precisely on schedule. His HUD alerted him via text readout that a subspace airliner would break the sound barrier above their location in 16 minutes. The man noted these variables and yawned.

He folded his cowboy boots beneath him, stood, stretching willowy arms overhead. He was a tenth of a meter short of two tall. The hemp blue jeans he favored and a white t-shirt hugged his lean frame. He had added a flannel to his normal attire due to the November chill.

When he stood, the smaller of the two Rottweilers sat up with him. The animal had its mouth partially open, oriented towards the man. A red glow, difficult to see in daylight, emanated from its jaws. The man scratched his three day old whiskers, the flat, afternoon light highlighting new strands of gray that had asserted themselves since his early days in the industry. The gray had even scattered to his thick, brown sideburns.

The man took a tin box the size of a deck of cards from his pocket and sat back down, once more resting against the trunk of the shingle oak.

He extracted a hand rolled, antique tobacco cigarette from the box, stuck it between his lips and nodded at the larger Rottweiler, "Light me up."

The big dog rolled playfully onto its back and narrowed its jaws, focusing. A slender line of red laser light ignited the cigarette's tip. The man took a drag and exhaled, watching the wisps of smoke curve up from the burning end with pleasure, as though he were observing a ballerina dancing upon the wind.

Behind them, a blonde woman came into view, walking slowly towards them up a gravel path. She was dressed in work-worn overalls, a hempyarn sweater she had knitted the Christmas before and faded, red Chuck Taylors. She was not tall, nor beautiful in the standard sense, but was nonetheless captivating. Her eyes were vivid blue, and her body maintained a strong posture as she approached. She had high cheek bones and the soft, pale skin of a porcelain doll.

When the woman got close, the larger Rottweiler whimpered dramatically and threw herself to the ground at her feet, rolling over to solicit a belly rub. The blonde woman knelt and smiled, scratching the animal's fur with long, generous strokes. She warmed a hand at the edge of the creature's mouth then stood, one hand massaging the ache in her lower back.

Her tone was placid yet firm, "Gunsheye and Fat Girl are dug in and dark. Hugo's got the deer tied up and ready. Poor animal's terrified."

"Understandable," said the man.

"You shouldn't let the girls toy with the wildlife."

"Dogs will be dogs."

She came closer, removed the man's cowboy hat and tossed it aside in the surrounding grass that near matched its color, then took his hand and studied his face. She saw blackness beneath his eyes, new lines. He looked older, leaner, harder.

The Rottweilers smiled like all dogs smile, doing their best to dilute the concern that lingered behind her careful gaze. The big one licked her hand repeatedly until at last she grinned. Like the man, the woman was no fool. She was the first to feel it in her bones. The dark skies were returning.

The man whistled low, drawing her gaze, "I won't let it happen again. Danny is with us now. We know everything," he said.

"Do we?" she asked pensively. "Only Coyotes know everything."

"It won't start today. Nothing _will_ start until we find him." The thin man kept the cigarette in the corner of his mouth as he took her cold hands in his, "Do you think the kid can really do what they say?"

The woman forced a weak smile, "I don't know. All I know is this is our home. I don't want to run again."

The man was resolute, "They think it's him."

She took her hands back, rubbed her protruding belly and squinted, her bright gaze darting over details in the vast, forlorn fields, "So does Danny. Maybe, maybe not. Either way, we've got at least one more mouth coming on payroll for sure."

The man closed his single human eye, "I know." Even as he spoke, the bionic vidorb in his opposite eye socket mechanically scanned the far horizon with a lifeless shine, "No one's gonna harm my little girl." He traced a finger down the back of her hand, "Either of them."

She turned away, "Don't. I'll cry. I've puked twice this morning already." She smacked her palms practically on her rump, "There's work to be done. I'm not going to waste my time out here in a heat bubble watching the wind blow." She looked down at the Rottweilers, "Your daddy's cray-cray."

The smaller dog rolled over and yipped in agreement.

The man sighed, "I promise to ping as soon as I know. If these humdroids get much closer, the dolphins are going to release the deer."

The woman was already walking away down the hill. The Rottweilers watched her leave with obvious dismay. Her bright blonde hair flowed behind her like trails of November smoke.

She said the words over her shoulder without looking back, "I hope it doesn't come to releasing the deer. I really, really hope that."

`Fragmented Remains from the Cloud Diary of Daxane Julius Abner – March 2077 – Five Years Seven Months Before Event.`

`"...the Hadassa system's maximum output is 6,000 MW h. Time compresses in the core room. 24 hours seems to pass in seconds.`

`Conclusion: In terms of human psychology, the manipulation of linear time is no more than a parlor trick. Religion, paranormal experience, shamanic breath work, astrology; all illusions turned to reality by virtue of our irresistible need for something greater in which to believe. Gravity? Evolution? Thermodynamics 2? By contrast, each an empirically measurable law substantiated by quantum mechanics. Like the spooling of a gravotemporal fusion matrix.`

`Yet our feeble minds flood with doubt the moment perception is manipulated! Peoples' behavior is far less affected by the actual laws of physics than it is by the _expectation_ of what those laws mean to our individual lives.`

`Physics lesson number one; there are no individuals!`

`After Hugo installed the artwork, he and the Israeli departed. It was then, and only then, that I played _The Black Danube_. I waltzed alone. The dolphin stared at me from the far side of the glass thinking, _Pathetic, emotionally distracted humanoid, fresh on your feet from the tree limbs..._`

`I know that is what she was thinking. Because she told me.`

`I've left the old farm's original wind turbine in place for appearances. Along with the solar array, whatever flies over will scan a standard generator. From the sky we appear as a registered, specialty micro-plantation. Zucchini and watermelons in the summer, field pumpkins in autumn. Inspectors, human and robotic alike, now welcome.`

`Both 2,000 liter fractionating columns are onstream. 26,000 liter (potential) monthly output. The Salina distributors can dilute that into another 180,000 liters. No one's missing water from a half-kilometer wide river. Output is now only limited by manpower, ingenuity and time.`

`Regarding manpower – security specifically; I hired the individual referenced earlier. Gathering intel on this one, no easy task.`

`William Thomas Angevine, 27 years old. He's a quiet, cowboy drifter, body tech-free. One of the 7%. An examination of known holohistory shows the only device he's ever owned is a standard 2.5d holotab, free fifty gig down 1 up citizen account.`

`For the last three years, Angevine was a trail guide at Cyberstalk©, the 5,000 acre cyborg hunting preserve outside Enid, Oklahoma. Unlike the hunting ranges on Luna, Cyberstalk© is a laser contact only preserve. The animals still go dark instantly when shot, tumbling where and how they fall to the delight of patrons. None are getting ripped apart by harpoons though. So there's that.`

`Employment records indicate Angevine has strong experience correlation with borgs.`

`A colleague is quoted; "Bill whispers to them."`

`And before the last three years? Maybe a mystery to be solved another day.`

`So how did I come to acquire this drifter?`

`Here is the rest of what is known. Angevine is a high functioning amnesiac, the result of a beating at the hands of Enid CNED agents. He retains his sense of identity, but has turned his back on whatever life he lived before his mother's murder. That was six weeks hence.`

`Mother, a Marilyn Angevine, owned a janebev convenience float-through. She also scanned a little shine on the side. Angevine kept an apartment in the back, along with a small kennel for his organic short-haired pointers.`

`Angevine was at work, leading a hunt. An alcohol transaction at the float-through went south. Marilyn Angevine is found dead, uncoded sonic shotgun blast to the head pulverized the bones of her face, suspects escape. The case is given low priority because the woman was pre-tagged _black market affiliate._`

`Translation; the murder will never be solved.`

`Understandably drowning his sorrows, Angevine seeks out a speakeasy and is stopped by three CNED agents as he is stumbling home down an alley. Angevine resists, is beaten unconscious, inducing aforementioned amnesia. Before succumbing to the attack, Angevine blinded one of the agents with his thumb and fractured the man's wrist.`

`In retribution, the other agents hogtied him, threw him in the back of their hovtruck and floated him to his mother's shuttered janebev shop. Once there, the agents sat Angevine up in the bed of the hovtruck, broke an aerosol stym-pak under his nose and made him watch as they burn his mother's store, and Angevine's apartment, to the ground. With all his guns and dogs still locked inside.`

`Then they arrested him.`

`Per Federal benevolence guidelines, over-crowding at Bmod hospitals is not permitted. Accordingly, Angevine was transferred to the next closest Federal facility, _Greystone Behavioral_ here in Lawrence.`

`That is how I came to acquire this drifter.`

`I'm afraid the memories that Mr. William Angevine has left are none too pleasant. All the same, he is willing, doesn't ask questions. He also displays transhuman abilities with a rifle. But of greatest import, I believe he has the ability to tether. Tricyclic Summit Theory. It is possible. Dolphin-kind know it. Marvin Adler died for it.`

`Joan will make the final determination, though I can already say with certainty, from a glance behind his eyes, the man is no white mole. He comes from the motel in the morning.`

`On a more practical note, Hugo and I must soon float to the Israeli's warehouse and allocate a flat of potato pow... UNSCHEDULED HARDWARE DESTRUCT / DATA COMPROMISE / INITIATE BACKUP.EXE FOR REINTEGRATION FORMA... LOSS. LOSS. LOSS."`

# `Chapter 1.3 – My Name Is Tara Dean`

`Wikipedia.holo Excerpt (Last Updated 2077.09.11) Regarding 21st Century Alcohol Addiction:`

`...third time offenders scheduled for SAMCL surgery will be housed on a secure wing or hospital floor. These areas are called _slaughterhouses_ by the pro-alcohol subculture.`

`This slanderous term was popularized in The North American United States Union by members of the antique substance abuse organizations, Alcoholics Anonymous and Alanon. Members of AA/Alanon stand by their long held position that alcoholism is best treated through a voluntary request for assistance initiated by the addict.`

`The Architect disagrees. Marijuana is more socially just.`

`Following four weeks of psychological reform treatment with a VCSW (or isolation, should the patient waive their constitutional right to psychological reform), patients are taken to the SAMCL operation chamber. A team of orderlies secures the patient's head with a contour adaptive bio-brace. The optic nerve is first deadened with a local anesthetic and then the eyelid is temporarily wired open. A twelve centimeter, nanographene drill bit connected to a vibratory emitter bores into the roof of the eye socket until the microscopic speaker at the drill's tip is embedded within the frontal cortex of the brain. The computer then finalizes placement of the drill by nanosourcing coordinates containing the highest levels of the neurotransmitter dopamine. The vibratory emitter releases a five second burst of low frequency sound, rupturing that portion of the neural structure responsible for alcohol addiction.`

`Short term side effects may include debilitating headaches and blurred vision (non-gender specific). Male SAMCL patients may report an increase in violent tendencies, social anxiety and memory loss. Female SAMCL patients may report chronic depression, lack of motivation, listlessness and mood swings specific to libido.`

`SAMCL advocates quote an 89.4% median reduction in post-surgical alcoholic urges across all demographics. Numerous independent studies funded by the Compassionate Reforms Division of the IRS indicate that all minor side effects of SAMCL surgery previously listed in this article can be adequately treated with pain killers, flibanserin, sldenafil citrate, SSRI's, Ativan, Pleasium, Ritalin, donepezil and tacrine psychopharmacologic therapy.`

`For mainstream advocates, SAMCL treatment is the final step on the road to Vision. It creates a more socially integrated and benevolent North American United States citizen.`

Lawrence, Kansas – January 2080 – Two Years Nine Months Before Event.

Tara Dean was not fond of such statistics. She was not fond of doctors with hair in their ears who smelled of last night's janebeer, nor mathematics, logic studies, genital implants, poly-hemp products, shoe wearing and confined spaces. There was also little use in her world for the color pink, insect protein or owning a holotablet. Regarding the computerized smooth jazz that played 24/7 over the hospital com...

She asked a female orderly the first night she was admitted, "Is it possible to turn down the music in my room?"

The orderly responded with a prismatic smile, "The music is carefully selected as a part of our mandatory calming regimen. Perhaps a tablet of Pleasium would help you to find it more soothing?"

Tara Dean rolled her eyes, "Pleasium or no, I'd rather tickle a Komodo dragon's face with a used tampon than listen to this shit."

Her relationship with the hospital staff deteriorated from there. It deteriorated so far, in fact, that two months later she found herself physically restrained to her bed with less than five hours remaining before she was scheduled to enter a slaughterhouse chamber. Even as the clock ticked away, Tara's attitude remained outwardly blasé. She had spent the creeping days waiting on a thousand turns of the moon, bored in the formless dark of each night's passing. The dogforsaken muzak was constantly piped into her room, minute after hour after day after week.

However, on this final night she was listening for other sounds. Specifically, the clumsy bellow of Spencer Hotshine's voice beyond her door.

_Poor, sweet, fairly handsome Spencer._

If she was caught, Spencer could immediately return to being of absolutely zero value. She would forget half her life, get a real job, purchase beige clogs and a fat, orange and blue, striped Felix. Maybe two Felixes? Perhaps a drill to the eye wouldn't be so bad.

Yet if her plan worked?

_Poor, sweet Spencer._

But Spencer's voice did not come. Her shoulder restraints were painfully tight. The smooth jazz raked her skull. Her long, brunette hair was fastened behind her head, pinned so tautly under the bio-brace that it yanked at her scalp no matter which direction she tried to move. Nurse Fossbender had constricted the brace to a child's setting.

If Tara did not escape, Marlene Fossbender would be there in the morning. She would watch the drill go in. Tara could visualize the woman's gaping face, jowls flapping sadistically.

_No. I would rather die._

But her plan had not failed.

_Not yet!_

She breathed... in through her nose... out through her mouth. Someone would come. Either a surgical-security escort, the nurse or Spencer Hotshine. In the meantime, she had the company of her own breath.

Each exhalation was filled with more hate than the last.

`**2069 – Eleven Years Earlier. Excerpt from the Non-Clinical Notes on Patient 373-A by Neil Young, RN/VCSW:**`

`When asked to state her complete name for the record, subject's first words were, and I quote: "My name is Tara Dean, old man, _Tar-a_ like a tar pit, not _Terra_ like we ain't livin' on the moon. And I swear to Dog if you try and hook me up to some kind of brain scanner, I'll punch you in the nuts."`

`Our therapist-patient relationship has since improved. That said, attempts at modifying subject's cultural perspectives have so far been unsuccessful. _Recidivism probable._`

`I believe historical summary of this individual's upbringing bears examination.`

`Subject is an only child. Father died when subject was age seven, circumstances unknown. Mother, Asteria Dean, abruptly relocated family to New Riverside, California, following her husband's death. Within four months, mother remarries holovision producer, Howard Dean (Any citizen who watches _Holovision Weekly_ is familiar with the infamous adult-themed parties at the Dean Mansion in New Bel-Aire).`

`Subject reports "no knowledge" of these events. Polygraph not required.`

`Per Federal holoscript records, mother is Pleasium dependent, citing chronic social anxiety disorder. According to the subject's own account, most interpersonal care from ages seven to fourteen was provided by the family administrator, a Carlyle Johnson, whose tenure in this position preceded the family's relocation to California. Six months ago, Mr. Johnson was run down in the hovstreet in front of the Dean Mansion by a CNED agent's speeding hovtruck. The agent was allegedly pursuing an intoxicated boozebum when the manslaughter occurred. No criminal charges filed.`

`It is this event (death of the family administrator) that I believe catalyzed this subject's decision to use alcohol for the first time. Subject obtained a two liter jar of potato vodka from an adult employed by the Dean family as a security guard. The security guard was subsequently arrested and sentenced to immediate L3 SAMCL treatment for providing a minor with narcotics, a decision which the subject states she vehemently protested.`

`Before expulsion (school policy for a drug related offense), subject was enrolled at New Riverside Academy for Girls and had perfect marks in all courses. Subject exhibits exceptional intelligence, though instructor histories indicate an established pattern of disciplinary issues beginning at the onset of puberty.`

`When I inquired, subject rolled her eyes (her favorite form of non-verbal communication) and stated that she is able to "...hear the answers in a teacher's head." It is far more likely that she has a hyper-evolved capacity for learning a/o a transhuman photographic memory. The North American Psychiatric Association's official position is that there is no evidence to substantiate human precognition. I am in agreement. Still, it is noteworthy that this particular subject has a documented history of educators citing headaches and dizziness in her presence – again coinciding with the onset of puberty.`

`When asked about her views on marijuana use as an alternative to alcohol, subject confided that she experimented socially, using jane lifted from her mother and stepfather's humidor. Subject states that marijuana does not "do the same thing" as alcohol.`

`I quote directly, "I liked vaping the jane, fine, okay? I didn't see any sights or whatever. We were blending in the park, like after Layla hacked the hall drones so we could play hooky, remember? Layla's good with computers like that, we just walked right by the COD's! I hate computers. I think I was born in the wrong century, say? Anyway, we skipped campus and got hella-blended. It was fun. Layla's my only real friend. I guess that makes me a loner. Is it okay to say that? You aren't gonna, like, lock me up longer for saying I'm a loner, are you? You know that _First-Timer's Holopamphlet to Enjoying Marijuana_ the Office of the Architect puts out, doc? You get an access code for it at sixteen when you get your pilot's license, you know? I've read it. It's totes lame! They say that it's, getting stoned, gonna feel like time slows and the clouds are some kinda environmental inspiration statement about our interconnectedness or whatever? Totally lame BS, doc..."`

`Note; it is this same classmate, Layla, who was present at the time of the subject's arrest. Microdrone surveillance provided by The New Riverside Academy for Girls shows subject consuming alcohol and engaging in light sexuality (heavy petting, kissing, etc.) with Layla in a bathroom stall in the women's restroom. Layla realizes they are being recorded, alerts subject. Subject throws mason jar half filled with potato vodka at microdrone, misses target and the glass jar shatters on the tile floor. Another student enters moments later wearing sandals, lacerates her foot, arrest ensues.`

`[FOR APPENDIX] _Subject's sexual orientation classified as standard bisexual per 3D genetic cartograph._`

`Final observation for this date stamp; per instructions in her father's will, subject is not permitted to have a combud installation until she turns 21. Implication? Immediate is the fact that we of course cannot sync subject's routine biodata. Therefore, standard observations on cardiovascular efficiency, plasma-chem content, immune system stability, neurotransmitter levels and frontal cortex signal quotients correlating to behavioral standards; none are available. All neurophysiologic data must be gathered the antique way, through manual testing and entry. I anticipate the length and number of entries, both clinical and non-clinical, shall be extensive.`

`At age fourteen (now fifteen – subject had birthday three days prior), this is subject 373-A's first time in a Vision reeducation hospital. Final L1 treatment efficacy ratio tbd. Date stamp August 4, 2069 Neil Young, RN/CVSW`

`**Excerpt taken from The Peoples' Progressive Encyclopedia 2071 Edition 23 Volume 8 Letter Frames 301 – 302:**`

`The FCAPA or 33rd amendment to the North American United States Constitution was voted into law and signed by President Rubicon _Ruby_ Jamiroquai on January 16, 2043. The 33rd Amendment effectively banned _the production, distribution, sale, possession or use of alcohol in any form_.`

`The sweeping FCAPA laws are considered to be one of the final byproducts of changes in American social values following the San Andreas Geological Disaster of 2041 (see Volume 19 Letter Frames 118 – 147). The event is commonly known as _1.9 Day_ to signify the loss of 1.9% of the antique United States population in a matter of 42 minutes. 1.9 Day is also recognized as the unofficial beginning point of The Progressive Revolution or _PR._`

`The PR was the indirect result of an evolution of social norms towards environmentally sustainable energy sources, culminating in Amendment 31 (see Progressive Revolution), which banned the non military use of all carbon based fuels, year 2042. Sociologists and historians say the roots of the progressive movement began in the early 00's due to the increasingly deleterious impacts of anthropogenic global warming.`

`Related historical statistics: A) The remainder of The Ross Ice Shelf, a body of frozen water the size of France, separated from the Antarctic land mass in March 2029, bringing sea levels 2.3 meters higher than those recorded prior to The Kyoto Protocol of 1997. B) Hurricanes, tornadoes and earthquakes claimed 19,487 lives in the antique United States alone between January 1, 2020, and December 31, 2039.`

`Feeding on this already established momentum, the unexpected loss of 7.62 million lives in the San Andreas Geological Disaster created an unprecedented social response at the dawn of the 4th decade. Within 48 hours of the SAGD, President Donald Cain (R) (see "Donald Cain") is impeached by an emergency congressional panel for authorizing the suppression of EPA data that (five months prior to the SAGD) conclusively proved that the process of hydraulic fracturing or _fracking_ for natural gas (see Industrial Gas Drilling) and shale oil was catalyzing the collapse of structural integrity along the San Andreas (and subsidiary) California fault lines.`

`Vermont senator Rubicon _Ruby_ Jamiroquai was sworn in as interim president (reelected by popular vote in 2044) and is the first high ranking politician on record to officially change party affiliation from antique Democrat to Progressive, signing Amendments 31 and 32 into law during her first year in office.`

`Citing independent environmental science correlations between the livestock industry and Co2 emissions, the so called _Cage Free Law_ (see Amendment 32) banned Federal agricultural subsidies "...for any corporate entity, coop or individually owned farm that knowingly engages in the production of commercially processed meat or dairy products." All cattle, pigs, goats and related ungulates must be grazed by natural means and permitted to roam freely on parcels of land adequate to their respective carbon distribution quotient (see _Mammalian Carbon Distribution Index_ ). Amendment 32 effectively ended the North American cattle industry and radically shifted the food intake of the North American people to a vegetable and organic meat based diet (see _Sustainable Foods Revolt_ and/or _Petri-Meats – An Oral History_ ).`

`The resulting cultural shift in the common citizen's perception of global warming (see _Environmental Disasters & Adaptive Human Recovery_) is generally assumed to have been caused by these three factors: 1) The widespread use of fossil fuels. 2) The CO2 based pollution of natural habitats and water supplies necessary to supply the antique commercialized meat industry. 3) The Office of the Architect assisting in the societal shift towards healthier recreational drug choices that further the environmental harmony of our North American Union (see _Architectural Drug Philosophy)_.`

`For more in depth information on the passage of FCAPA laws and/or the 33rd Amendment in 2043 please visit holopage...`

# `Chapter 1.4 – The Slaughterhouse Rules`

January 2080 – Two Years Nine Months Before Event.

The green characters of the holoclock read 3:32 am. It was the time of night at Greystone Behavioral Modification Hospital when a band of yellow light cast by an LED streetlamp beyond the window reflected off the polished cement floor behind the nurses' station. The light made Marlene Fossbender's face look like a deflated basketball.

Were it not for the psychologically engineered jazz streaming over the com, the halls would have been quiet as an idling hovcar. Interior microdrones flitted past on an occasional ocean of bleeps, and the auto-jazz merged innocuously with the woeful, dull moans of that day's SAMCL patients.

Nurse Fossbender resented the moaning. It had been a long minute since she worked the night shift, but this evening's opportunity was too fond to pass up. She did not notice the jazz or any of the other sounds. Just the endless moaning.

It made her hungry.

Orderly Hotshine walked past, navigating his supply hovcart. The lanky, sheepishly handsome young man's hair was mud-brown, long in front and buzzed short in back, as was the style of the day.

He brushed it from his eyes and mumbled, "Hello, Nurse Fossbender."

Nurse Fossbender did not even look at him.

The pink rolls of flesh undulated beneath her chin when she spoke, "Spencer, there's urine and vomit on the floor in 12A. You're going to need to wax the cafeteria floor also. Gonna be a long night for you, looks like."

"I'll get it done soon as standards are complete, ma'am," said the custodian glumly as he ambled down the hall.

"Uh huh," said Nurse Fossbender.

She had the flicker of a thought that there was something different about the boy. In her eyes, this orderly, no, _custodian,_ did not really exist. Males were a product of function, an unfortunate but necessary means to an end.

Presently, she could hear three patients wailing loudly in their rooms on the far end of the wing. Nurse Fossbender considered the slaughterhouse headaches to be mythological, psychosomatic, the work of fringe groups and the Traditionalist media. Everyone had heard of "slaughterhouse headaches" on the holovision. They had been around since the procedure was invented. By the time a boozebum/shiner had offended their way to a Level 3 Bmod stint, they practically _knew_ to complain after surgery. The 48 hours of IRS funded, post-SAMCL recovery time L3 patients got to sip on orange juice and roll around whining like whipped cats before discharge was overly generous.

_Boozebums leach off the system._

If it was up to Nurse Fossbender, they'd be put back on the streets with a holoscript for some Pleasium soon as the drill was yanked from their eye. Besides, it was a statistical fact that the majority of L3 boozebums never even paid the IRS back for their treatment.

_All you people should be breaking rock at Hypatia 5 instead of lollygagging in a feather bed..._

She sneered and pinched her chubby fingers together across the glass surface of the holotab resting in her lap, collapsing a _21st Century Womyn_ holozine article on weight loss. The article recommended using a new hempbotox lotion to address cellulite. The topic made Nurse Fossbender irritable. She had purchased every weight loss salve available to no effect, though her OBGYN said it was within prevailing norms to be 35 kilos heavy after a cycle of pregnancy hormones.

_What about 185 kilos? If only Lucinda didn't have that hysterectomy..._

Marlene's physician recommended that she follow the same dietary regimen as a woman going through antique pregnancy over the nine months of extra-uterine lab gestation, this so her stem cells could be administered to the developing fetus to ward off genetic defects.

The thought of actually growing a baby _inside_ was...

_Foul._

Marlene sneered at the thought. She opened the desk drawer and snatched up a HempButterz bar in a gold foil wrapper. Her mouth flowed with saliva. Being honest, she knew she had only volunteered for the pregnancy cycle so she could have an excuse to eat more. It was not lost on Marlene that she had secretly maintained her gestation diet for the seven months _since_ their daughter had been born as well.

_The standard 2,100 calorie NAUS citizen diet is so... anorexic! I hate skinny bitches._

A trash can shaped Kleendroyd© hovered past. The polishers spinning on either side of the small bot made a high pitched whirring. Nurse Fossbender curled her lips at the droid like a possum caught in the act.

_This was why I never work nights, all the bots and simpleminded orderlies flitting about like gnats._

A female patient down the hall moaned loudly, almost a scream.

Fossbender lifted her rumpled chin and barked at the ceiling, "Computer, increase muzak volume station five."

The computerized jazz got louder. She could no longer hear the moaning, and the floor bot soon glided mechanically away down the hall, restoring relative peace. It was better. She devoured the HempButterz bar and smacked her lips. She let the last, oversized bite coagulate between the roof of her mouth and her tongue, then dropped the wrapper in the trash can, watching as the disintegrators fired and the wrapper vanished in a purple matrix of laser light. Sadly, even this wonderful little mouth party could not lift the fog of irritation that hung about.

Patient 373-C was to blame.

In addition to being the RN on Greystone's L3 slaughterhouse floor, Nurse Fossbender also functioned as a Vision Certified Social Worker for Level 1 and 2 alcohol offenders on the light security wings. She had taken advantage of the tax-deductible Behavioral Mod Certification offered to nurses by the IRS. The course took eight weeks to complete and was made available to anyone with a rudimentary understanding of Vision for D$999. It was taught in the community classroom at the Chinese Wal-Mart Consortium. It was easy therapy. If you didn't have an answer to an addict's specific problem, there was always the fallback response: _quit drinking alcohol / start vaping jane_.

Marlene had been a VCSW for three years. Her best patients acquiesced out of fear. They were usually first time offenders afraid of losing their job, afraid of losing their lovers, pets or children. There were a thousand ways to bend the will of every addict.

That is, until she met patient 373-C.

Four hours earlier, she had shuttered observation in 373-C's room after the last floor CVSW had completed his rounds and departed. Being a flight risk, the patient was restrained. The nurse labored her thick calves down the hall and scanned into the room, smiling lugubriously, dragging the tips of her orange false fingernails across the night-shined surface of the plastic, blue door. She locked it manually from the inside. She passed her holotab in front of the wall com to disable the room's dedicated microdrone.

In her heart, Nurse Fossbender believed the morning's SAMCL operation on this particular patient would be a victory for society at large. This moment, however, was personal.

The patient gazed at her venomously and spat like the snake she was, "Well, if it isn't _The Bookshelf_. Don't you know entering my room without notice breaks the rules, fatty? I think I'm gonna have to report you."

The nurse pulled a small, silver disc the size of a coat button from her pocket and dropped it on the girl's neck. The vocal inhibitor illuminated. Nanotentacles emerged from either side of the disc and plunged themselves into the patient's throat, paralyzing her vocal chords.

The girl's eyes grew wild with fear. She struggled to scream, terrified, doing her best to recoil. A teardrop rolled slowly, methodically down her freckled cheek as the nurse loomed over.

Nurse Fossbender grinned warmly and said, "Oh, you're not the first young troublemaker whose been chastened by my tongue. But you still have to be the stupidest betty I _ever_ met. You're on L3! The _only_ rules now are the slaughterhouse rules, cunt. You don't seriously think crying is going to make me feel sorry for you? I've been waiting two months for this."

She grabbed the control grip of the bio-brace that ran over the girl's rib cage and yanked it using her substantial body weight. Patient 373-C gasped from the pressure. Her bloodshot eyes darted back and forth, desperate, flickering between the nurse's approaching face and the blinded microdrone hovering innocuously in the corner.

"What? Can't talk?" continued the nurse. "Where's your smart mouth now? Oh, how sad! Does it bother you? See, I turned off observation so we could have a _private_ visit. You Traditionalists just cherish privacy, don't you?"

Nurse Fossbender grabbed the back of a metal folding chair and dragged it, screeching across the polished cement floor.

She sat and leaned in slow towards the bed, relishing in the girl's discomfort, nostrils flaring with stimulation, "Is it tough to breathe, dear?" she cooed. "You know why I'm here. _Don't you?_ The morning you were admitted I told you I'd find a way to pay you a special visit. Now it's just the two of us."

Patient 373-C turned her head away from the nurse and stared at the narrow, rectangular window in the door. There he was, at last. A figure stood in white hospital scrubs watching the two women.

Patient 373-C made eye contact and blinked, _Not yet, you moron_.

The figure nodded and melted into the shadows. This scene with the nurse had to be played out first or the plan would never work. Patient 373-C had known there would be a confrontation as soon as the fat woman showed up volunteering to sub the graveyard shift, so she was doing the best she could with what she had. Besides, it's not like there was a choice. The nurse came even closer. There was no one to help. This was the definite downside to spending your slaughterhouse prep in isolation.

Patient 373-C's breathing came in short bursts. She listened to the gargantuan woman's crowing, guttural voice. She felt light headed. She couldn't waste the oxygen to fight or she'd risk passing out. The straps were so tight.

If she passed out, life as she knew it would be over.

She decided to focus on immaterial things. Her blue hempjeans hung in the closet with a few other street clothes and the pair of black combat boots she had been arrested in. Patient 373-C noted how many different shades of blue actually made up a pair of blue jeans. They were all there, the full spectrum of her favorite color laid out in thousands of dyed hemp stitches ranging from cobalt to baby powder. Such a simple and beautiful thing. Her sweatshirt was a hemp-poly blend, pink in color. She hated pink! It didn't even go with blue. Why had she stolen _that_ sweatshirt from the thrift shop?

Because she was doing the best she could with what she had.

All the same, pink and blue garments had no business being in the same world together. Just like Marlene Fossbender and Tara Dean.

`**Excerpt taken from The Peoples' Progressive Encyclopedia 2073, Edition 27 Volume 2 Letter Frame 16:**`

`Alcohol addiction treatment programs at various IRS certified clinics around the country must follow standardized Federal Vision Protocols.`

`At the time of this article's publication, behavioral modification clinics funded solely by the IRS account for 51% of market share. 39% are funded primarily by corporations, though these private sector hospitals all (as required) receive secondary Federal grants. The remaining 10% of clinics are primarily non-profit in nature and are operated by community initiatives.`

`In 2072, the largest private sector sponsor of Behavioral Mod programs in the NAUS was the marijuana conglomerate, CannabiGene©. Smaller localized marijuana producers follow with third tier donations.`

`NOTE: As of January 1, 2070, 100% of contributions made to a Behavioral Mod hospital are tax deductible, assuming the hospital is Federally certified and receives at least 51% of its operating costs from the IRS Benevolence Fund...`

November 2079 – Two Years Eleven Months Before Event.

Adult participants in NAUS Visionary Reeducation (Behavioral Modification) are required to stand up on the first day of group therapy and make the following statement: "Hello, my name is John Doe, and I am an alcoholic."

As Nurse Fossbender prepared to lead therapy that morning, the day had so far been typical. Sixteen new patients were registered. Three had missed the first day due to illness, stubbornness or the fact that they were still intoxicated at the time of admission. She scanned their profiles on her holotab while waiting for the rest of the patients to arrive.

The first of the three absentees was Melky O'Brien, 36 years old, missed day one due to illness. Mr. O'Brien was a firefighter pulled over for manually floating through a red LED and destroying a pedestrian's Fido battborg. As was standard practice, the police pulled bloodchem data from O'Brien's combud and discovered he was floating while blended.

Nurse Fossbender shook her head. A citizen need only wait two hours after vaporizing their last hit before they could legally pilot a hovcar! If people couldn't wait two hours or use autopilot, they deserved an FUI, let them suffer.

It was boilerplate thinking like this that had garnered Nurse Fossbender her nickname, _The Bookshelf_.

In addition to the corroborating bloodchem data, Melky O'Brien was unable to recite the alphabet backwards, skipping every other letter within 59 seconds while standing on one leg. He failed the roadside sobriety test and was arrested. When the police searched his hovcar, they discovered a mason jar wrapped in a flannel shirt under the passenger seat containing 2.3 oz of persimmon rum.

O'Brien was charged with floating under the influence and possession of an illicit substance. The man had no prior drug record and was sentenced to the usual thirty days of L1 Inpatient Behavioral Modification. Nurse Fossbender blinked periodically, auto-scrolling through the holodata as the rest of the group shuffled glumly into the room.

O'Brien was put on Bmod leave without pay, however, the Lawrence Fire Department was picking up the cost of his rehabilitation. His wife had not divorced him, she noted.

_Foolish woman. Once a drunk, always a drunk._

Nurse Fossbender wasn't paid to tell people the obvious. She was paid to tell people how to build a better happy.

Mr. Melky O'Brien sat in the corner with a head full of red hair buried between his enormous Irish hands. The man looked like he was about to die from embarrassment. She noted this quickly in his file. The system was already doing its job.

The second tardy patient was a recent arrival to the North American United States on a work visa from Afghanistan. The man was a nuclear physicist, according to holorecords. Missed day one due to stubbornness, refusing to leave his room. They all got a free day to burn, though Marlene Fossbender had zero empathy for foreigners arrested on Union soil. Particularly those who violated drug laws.

_These people knew the rules before they came here to take advantage of our job market._

They could _not_ have their cake and eat it too. No economy in the world could compare with The Union's since the passage of Amendment 33.

Every time she got a foreigner, Nurse Fossbender realized how much the citizens of other barbaric, alcoholic nations would benefit from thirty days beneath her heel.

_If only Kansas was the world's capital..._

This rowdy Afghan didn't speak English. She would have to update her Afghan translator app. The man sat, sullen in the back of the room beside the boozebum firefighter, O'Brien. She would use him (and the pathetic state of the Afghan economy) to exemplify what happens when nations cling to outmoded, 20th century drug norms. She noted this opportunity in the Afghan's file and moved on to review admin notes on the third tardy patient.

This one was interesting. Patient 373-B. Missed day one due to intoxication. The subject somehow bribed an orderly to bring her a half pint of still vodka during the intake process! Tara A. Dean, age 25, employed as a tattoo illustrator at Doragon Skin Works – CA. The girl was sent here from New Riverside, California, by her family's attorney. All hospital fees were paid in advance by her nearest living relative, an Asteria Dean. This female was a second time offender. Nurse Fossbender felt goosebumps kindling on her arms as she scanned the lines of personal data.

First of all, this patient was extremely attractive. Nurse Fossbender looked around the meeting room on the off chance she had missed the betty walking in. She had not. The holotab projected two different images. One was a hospital file holo of Tara Dean at age fourteen when she was admitted to Greystone Behavioral for the _first_ time. Her hair in that holo was irritatingly long and natural, hanging down past her elbows in shining black waves. She had piercing green eyes, a button nose and flawless, olive skin.

_Too much eye liner and mascara for a teenager,_ thought Fossbender.

She looked frighteningly adult in the holo. Her NADI report indicated she was 66% Israeli, 31% British, with a scattering of French, German and Mexican comprising the last 3% of her heritage.

A typical American betty.

The second image was her California DMV pilot's holo, scanned at the time of renewal just a few months earlier. The contrast was stark. The patient's hair was cut shorter now, accentuating the curvature of her lips and mouth, puckered together in an irritated expression. The young woman had earrings in this image, two pewter cobras. Beneath her left ear was a tattoo of numerous green stars that cascaded down her sleek neck onto the line of her collar bone. The tattooed stars were big at the top and got smaller as they fell, condensing in a star pool universe at the bottom. Her eyes were still the same, bright and brash and blasé all at the same time, though their gaze was tempered by less make up. The girl looked only slightly older in the second holo. She had not gained weight over the years like most drug users. In fact, patient 373-B was in fantastic physical condition and had requested a yoga mat.

_Hmphh_.

Nurse Fossbender despised people who exercised voluntarily.

Tara Dean's primary care nurse at the time of her first arrest was Marlene Fossbender's predecessor, Neil Young, a notorious Traditionalist sympathizer who had retired two years earlier. Young departed Greystone with a reputation for leniency when it came to citizen alcohol violators.

_Nurse Young was a radical. That's all he was._

Not only would he deviate dangerously from Vision protocol by suggesting that it was _okay_ to like drinking, he would even go so far as to say that vaporizing marijuana and taking Pleasium was not for everyone. It was absurd. The nurse gurgled with exasperation and looked up. Her bulbous eyes found a static holoposter on the opposite wall that she had read a thousand times.

In a schlocky, green and black font, the holographic poster listed `**_THE TWELVE STEPS TO VISION:_**`

`1. The use of psychoactive substances for recreation by the NAUS Union citizens is normal and expected.`

`2. Any psychoactive substance used to alter consciousness must further _The citizen's essential harmony between mind, body, environment and economy; aka – Vision._`

`3. All legally approved psychoactive substances shall represent the will of the many over the desire of the few.`

`4. Any legally approved psychoactive substance must further the ecological balance between North American United States society and the natural world.`

`5. Psychoactive substances whose production place an undue burden on the Union's naturally occurring fresh water supplies shall not be permitted.`

`6. Psychoactive substances whose usage is toxic to the fabric of North American United States society shall not be permitted.`

`7. Psychoactive substances that elicit emotions of anger, hatred or violence shall not be permitted.`

`8. The Schedule One (1) Federally Controlled Substances; Alcohol, methamphetamine, heroin, cocaine, DMT, MDMA, LSD, or otherwise illicit pharmaceutical production, possession or use, in any form, outside of a Federally endorsed research facility – shall not be permitted.`

`9. All tobacco, tea, coffee and marijuana production facilities must comply with EPA regulations and prominently project their current IRS / MTF hololicenses in a visible locale at the dispensary's public entrance.`

`10. Unlicensed tea, coffee and tobacco production in a private residence or on privately owned land shall not be permitted.`

`11. Any individual or group caught producing tea, coffee or tobacco on private land shall be required to undergo standard outpatient behavioral modification treatment at a regional Vision clinic. Second (L2) and third (L3) time offenders shall be subject to thirty day inpatient hospital treatment; the same as a controlled substance violator.`

`12. Civilian applications for free government plots on which to grow marijuana may be uploaded at any DEA / EPA Registration Office or at the IRS payment kiosk located in your neighborhood police station.`

The words were benevolent, succinct, effective.

Neil Young had not believed in them. This was reflected in his treatment records. Nurse Young logged extensive non-clinical notes on every patient. The fact that he had not only spent 40 hours a week at the hospital working, but actually pretended to _care_ about these boozebums was flabbergasting to Marlene Fossbender.

She began skimming the non-clinical notes from patient 373-A's last visit, eleven years prior, and made it as far as, "My name is Tara Dean and if you..." before collapsing the file.

_So many words, so little time. I got a pair for you, missy. They aren't nuts._

Nurse Fossbender brushed over her holotab's glass surface, swiping through the file to the public information on Tara Dean's most recent arrest until she found the Riverside County, California, CNED report.

She paraphrased it quickly.

Subject was arrested in a vodka speakeasy in her hometown of New Riverside, California, by local CNED. She was charged on three criminal counts: 1) Possession and consumption of a controlled substance, alcohol. 2) Misrepresentation of Vision – this was a standard violation that every second and third time alcohol offender was charged with. 3) Financial support of a criminal enterprise (speakeasy).

The nurse raised her eyebrows. California CNED indicated the patient was able to walk past three agents by convincing them that she was undercover CNED _herself?_ The girl was only arrested after she accidentally tripped over a curb while, "...engaging in light conversation" with the CNED field commander outside the speakeasy in question! The officer realized she was intoxicated at that point and asked to scan her combud for CNED verification. There was no combud present. The girl's body was free of tech! When the field commander put his hand on the subject's forearm to restrain her, Ms. Dean delivered a swift kick to the man's testicles and bit him on the left forearm, drawing blood.

Nurse Fossbender's eyes grew wide. One agent's statement described Tara Dean as being "sexy."

At that, Nurse Fossbender activated her tablet's full holokeys and quickly typed her own entry in the notes; _"Day one (1) p373-B; The same agent who was bit and kicked still under impression the woman is "sexy" after the fact? Possible addicto-borderline tendencies? Why did CNED field commander not press charges? Following Ms. Dean's arrest, the family requested that she be treated in Kansas to avoid any potential embarrassment in their New Riverside community. After a detailed examination of the patient history, one thing is clear: this girl will require extensive attitude realignment. Marlene Fossbender, RN/VCSW._

She clicked her chubby fingers together. The projection diodes on her holotab blinked off and the keyboard vanished. A blink collapsed the patient holofiles completely. The nurse snorted, again looking around the room at the despondent, humiliated gaggle of boozebums that were her charge over the next thirty days.

The tide was never ending.

Between Level 1, Level 2 and Level 3 patients being prepped for slaughterhouse treatment, there were always up to sixty patients in her care alone. Every month, every year. What could one nurse do to help? If citizens' want for self destruction was stronger than their want for Vision?

The problem lay with people like Neil Young. Centrists, moderates, Traditionalist privacy advocates.

_The only people who value privacy are those with something to hide._

The days of Nurse Young and his belief in the inherent good of every patient were fortunately behind the hospital. Nurse Fossbender also believed people were inherently good, as long as they allowed themselves to be properly treated.

For those Traditionalists who insisted on promoting "normalized usage" of the world's most destructive drug... Nurse Fossbender would be there. The nurse was blessed with Sight. Whether through public shaming or a sonic drill to the eye, she had made it her life's conviction to stamp out the scourge of alcohol.

The digidollars weren't bad either.

Three minutes before the meeting was to commence, patient 373-B sauntered into the room, dragging a low-hanging cloud of melancholy with her. The girl was pretty, as advertised. She wore a plain red baseball cap over her black hair, blue jeans and a faded, pink university sweatshirt with the words, _ROCK CHALK_ across the chest. Her eyes were like jade searchlights, scanning methodically, making a brief analysis of not only Nurse Fossbender, but the other patients in the room as well.

Finally Tara Dean sighed audibly and sat down in the last open seat, next to Melky O'Brien. She immediately crossed her arms and rolled her eyes. Nurse Fossbender noticed that the fireman perked up and smiled as soon as the girl took a seat.

Marlene Fossbender had been young once. She knew _exactly_ how Tara Dean had managed to slip by. The little whore had probably spent every day between her first and second arrests high on alcohol, spread-eagle in the back of any booze house she could find. This patient used her sex to manipulate!

_You're in Kansas now, young lady. Neil Young and his antique views have burned out and faded..._

She would bring the girl in line. Womyn to woman.

The nurse stood and closed the door to the meeting room. The door was heavy and made an definitive _klak_ that silenced conversation. It was an authoritative noise Nurse Fossbender found most satisfying. She was optimistic about what the day's group therapy meeting would bring. It had begun just like a hundred before it.

Unfortunately she had no way of knowing the meeting would only last another nine minutes.

`**Excerpt taken from: The Peoples' Progressive Encyclopedia 2071 Edition 23 Volume 8 Letter Frames 412 – 413:**`

`The following is a direct quotation from the North American United States Constitution: "NAUSC Amendment 46: As of December 30, 2062, splices of canine gene sequences with non-expiring, fusion powered robotic systems are hereby banned in all 91 States. Federal ban likewise applies to the Nunavut, Northwest, Yukon, Bermudan, Cuban and Bahamian Territories. Suspected hybrid life form activity shall be reported by all registered citizens to appropriate state law enforcement division(s) and/or The Federal Cyborg Commission. The design of fusion powered cybernetic systems must proceed in accordance with Amendment 222, _canine biomorphology only_. Civilian (CIV) grade law enforcement models (as well as standard battborg Fidos powered by the solar grid) will conform to average species dimensions and MAY be encased in a synthetic exopolymer or BIOSKIN©. Military (MIL) grade models must be BIOSKIN© free and shall be maximized to three dimensional aspect ratios of 3m x 4m x 6m. As final cyborg bios engrams spool, any attempt at external reprogramming or autonomic neural restructuring _must_ result in initialization of self destruct protocols, IE: core implosion..."`

`Amendment 222 was originally drafted by senate majority leader, Lupe Martinez (P), in direct response to the Darkpool Labs Massacre of 2061 in Lenexa, Kansas. Senator Martinez was a distant relative of cyborg geneticist Dr. Marvin Adler, the principal Darkpool Labs researcher. In addition to creating the first functional cyborg OS, Adler is best known for his invention of stem cell based BIOSKIN©, which is used today in medical applications such as tissue grafting, organ exchange and exopolymer synthetic cell manufacture.`

`Exopolymer technology was the basis for Darkpool Labs' successful 2060 grafting of genetically engineered canine dermal tissue to a robotic titanalum chassis based on the _canis latrans_ endoskeleton. This cybernetic organism was initially celebrated by the North American public as _Coyote One_. Coyote One was cloned in secret seventeen times by Darkpool Labs in the spring of 2061 in an effort to determine whether onboard learning algorithms, or "memories", would be duplicated from replica to replica over time.`

`Laboratory records indicate that _canis latrans_ was chosen as the case study template due to the species' adaptive immune system response to foreign tissue introduction; (see _Titanalum Metallurgy & Bioadaptics_). The Coyote Series was not spooled with self destruct protocols. Accordingly, it is assumed that autonomic neural restructuring (see _Synthetic Brain Mimicry Code_ ) cascaded forward at an exponential rate with each cloned generation (see _Canis Latrans – Pack Psychology_ ).`

`The Coyote series DOGS units were intentionally designed as the physically weakest models, with a 2.0 CSF. In retrospect of the massacre, the cybernetics community posits this decision was made specifically by Dr. Adler to compensate for the lack of self destruct protocols in the robots' compugene code.`

`For vernacular reference; military AK9CIV DOGS units based on the _canis familiaris_ Rottweiler, German Shepherd or Doberman chassis have a top gallop range of 127 – 145 kph and a median bite force of 5,000 kg. Coyote series DOGS units have a governed gallop speed of 65 kph and a bite force of 400 kg. Their CPU's were engineered to network, simulating the pack behavior of the animal in its indigenous environment.`

`Despite all precautions, Dr. Marvin Adler and eleven Darkpool Labs' scientists were found disemboweled in the facility basement by National Guard Troopers on July 3, 2061. The throats of each corpse had been lacerated. Holovid surveillance shows that Coyote One and the 17 clones in her pack escaped from Darkpool by leaping, single file, through a window three meters off the ground where they were able to access the first floor of the facility.`

`From there, the DOGS units escaped into the wild. At the time of this publication, none have been found.`

`The ongoing disappearance of the Coyote DOGS units remains a mystery of modern science. Seven copycat livestock mutilations have been reported in eastern Kansas since the original massacre. Universal self destruct protocols (see complete _Constitutional Amendment 222_ ) are now standard issue in all canine cybernetic organisms with a fusion based power supply.`

# `Chapter 1.5 – Why Don't the Eyes Work?`

November 2079 – Two Years Eleven Months Before Event.

"Hello everyone and welcome to day two of behavioral mod for alcohol addiction! Has everyone had a chance to fill out their IRS holodocs?"

All of the patients in the group, save the stoic Afghan physicist, nodded painfully.

Nurse Fossbender continued at a standard chirp, "As we all know, recreational drug use is North American as apple pie. We all like to get blended from time to time, _right?_ " She pressed her hands into her hips and winked knowingly at a thin, bird-like woman in the chair nearest, "I know _I_ certainly like to dab a vape at the end of the day. Sometimes two!"

The bird woman and half the group chuckled, as if on cue.

The nurse brought her finger up and waggled it in front of her face, "The Twelve Steps to Vision make clear," she pointed towards the holoposter, "we have to treat the privilege to use jane responsibly as just that, a _privilege._ It's a privilege that can be taken away if we make the wrong decisions." She tented her fingers and took another step towards the center of the room, "We all know the negative effect that alcohol has on our lives. I don't have to tell a single one of you. You're here, right?!" The nurse jiggled coyly.

She delighted at the sound of her own voice ricocheting off the walls.

"The Twelve Steps to Vision are here to guide us because of the courage and innovation of the Architect. The Architect stood up for our right to be free from oppression. A hundred years ago, alcohol was beating our society down. In the 20th century, close to _half-a-million_ people perished each year from alcohol related deaths. That's in the antique United States alone! Solar power, wind, hydroelectric, fusion... we had none of these things in any capacity that mattered. We ravaged the land with hydraulic fracturing, and cotton production leached the nutrients from our country's soil. In fact," the nurse clicked her tongue audibly against the roof of her mouth, "a hundred years ago, regular citizens like you and me could actually be _put in jail_ for making clothes or fuel from industrial hemp. Let alone vaping or growing recreational jane! It was a barbaric time."

She liked to pause at this point in the speech for dramatic effect, letting the final sentence be absorbed. Newbies in behavioral mod were always shocked when they thought about their ancestors going to prison for smoking marijuana.

Nurse Fossbender cocked her head to one side, cuing the group to higher contemplation, "Today, of course, we live in the benevolent North American Union. We have no carbon pollution, no ravaged soils. We have advanced as a conscious people. In addition to progressive environmental reforms, the Architect also recognized the need for healthy, recreational stress reduction through drug use. So at the dawn of The Revolution, in the interest of the American species, we replaced environmentally toxic sources of food and energy with those that nurture our communities. We also replaced historically toxic alcohol with safe, non-addictive and environmentally harmonious marijuana. We _treat_ people with alcohol addiction syndrome. We don't lock them up in a prison! Can you imagine? Of course it's this last topic that brings you here today," she winked at the bird woman who smiled back complacently.

Nurse Fossbender extended her arms to the group as though exposing her prodigious bosoms in an open invitation for children to suckle. About seven people were actually paying attention, the rest sat with heads in hands or propped forward with their elbows on their knees staring at the floor.

The nurse's glance at last landed on patient 373-B. Her face lost its sunny disposition. The young woman was not paying attention, reading a printed newspaper. Unacceptable! She would make these people _love_ Vision. Especially this insolent little brat from California.

Tara Dean let her eyes roll quickly around the meeting room as soon as she sat down.

_What a collection of ass monkeys._

The room was hospital blue with beige carpet.

_Who combines blue and beige?_

The ceiling was white, LED's overhead making the space unnecessarily bright.

_As bright as beige can get._

Tara made note of the windows. They were old plastic-frame efficiency windows that would be easy to put a boot through. However, the padlocked iron grates outside would make escape from this particular room impossible.

The floor nurse running the Bmod meet had bulbous eyes and a bulbous ass. Bulbous tits. In fact the only non-bulbous thing about the woman was her canary-like voice. She was droning off the usual Federal talking points about how drinking liquor means the end of civilization. At least Tara assumed she'd arrive at that conclusion soon enough. She'd heard this script last time, and anytime a Marlboro Gold e-joint commercial pushed to the holostream.

_Ugh_.

She was bored beyond bored. She noticed a newspaper underneath her chair. Tara leaned over and picked up The Lawrence Journal World – _Print Edition,_ November 14, 2079. The recycled hemp paper was bleached bright white. As the Bmod floor nurse ran down her bullet points, Tara flipped the paper open and began reading a cover story on the left hand column:

`**CYBERNETIC COYOTES CAUSE INTERSTATE ACCIDENT – 2 DEAD. Your Ten-Sent Federal News by Martin Wringle, LJW**`

`Lawrence, KS – Last night at 2:17 am, hovsemi pilot Melvin Coolidge pinged The Hovway Patrol from the shoulder of Interstate 70 stating that his 18 propeller had been forced into a ditch after colliding with an unknown, heavy object. The hovsemi's stern cams captured a single dog-like animal, impacting the trailer section of the rig. Mable and Phyllis Austin of Kansas City, 22 and 24 years of age, were killed when the animal bounced off the trailer and skidded directly into the path of their vehicle, a 2067 Ford Flotaur, a late-model vehicle unfortunately not equipped with collision sphere tech. The hovsemi surveillance stream also showed a glowing, blue eye in the animal's head for two holoframes, supporting the assumption that these are indeed the legendary cybernetic Coyotes involved in the Darkpool Labs Massacre. Unfortunately, the creature involved in the accident has not been discovered and neither have any of its pack mates. A platoon of National Guard security cyborgs from Fort Riley is currently scouring the countryside for clues as to where the Coyotes came from, where they went and why, after so many years, they have come out of hiding. Whether this accident was a fluke, or the first of many feral cyborg sightings to come, we don't know. Services for Mable and Phyllis Austin will be held this coming Saturday at All Souls Unitarian Church on The Plaza in Kansas City, Missouri. State troopers have reported that a mason jar containing alcohol residue was found in the Austin sisters' vehicle. Per guidelines, Federal LifeInsure payments to the Austin family will be reduced by 60% since it is assumed illegal drugs may have contributed to the accident. A fundraiser for Phyllis Austin's two month old daughter will be announced by the family in the coming days.`

`Thank you for reading today's Ten-Sent Federal News – Sponsored by Ford`

Tara rolled her eyes as she read the article's final sentence.

_The news always blows dark sky._

She dropped the paper noisily to one side of her chair, sighed and looked around. The Bmod nurse's calves were disproportionately enormous. Why was this bitch mean-mugging her like she was a medium rare _petri-steak_? They were uneasy eyes, diluted by obsession. Tara sensed fury and misdirected lust. The nurse could only be in her early 40's, but she dressed like a grandma cougar on her way to knock out a few rounds of floatboard at the geriatric plantation. Tara wished she had a tablet and stylus so she could draw this monster while she was forced to sit there and listen to her babble. Personal holotabs, along with joy, were not permitted in Bmod.

Tara sighed and dreamed of California.

Back in New Riverside, she would take her lunches in Millennium Ocean Park, sitting on a bench and watching the constant flow of citizens up and down the boardwalk. She would pull out her tablet and sketch quick-flash impressions of any interesting character who passed. A man in his 50's, hairy as a bear, hovblading by in a purple Speedo wearing tube socks – lovely. The homeless bag women who lived under the Mockingbird Canyon Overpass, shuffling their old-school shopping carts with the actual wheels, _clank-clank-clanking_ along with minds full of plastic bags and tobacco smoke, their whole lives contained in a wire shoebox on wheels. It was brilliant. An endless, free parade of entertainment on display.

She sat on the bench every day the cloud-seeders allowed, eating synthchicken salad and a hydro apple and illustrating an ongoing library of thirty second snapshots for her sketch files. Tara wiggled her toes with excitement as she thought of her illustrations on display. She had her first solo exhibition scheduled for First Friday in January at the Open-Cal Gallery above Doragon Tattoo Studios where she worked. She would be displaying 193 holograms of these character sketches, each culled from a year of boardwalk lunch breaks.

Tara's exhibition was titled, _Watch out for People Watching out for You_.

Back in Lawrence, Kansas, she had nothing to watch, no holotab to sketch on. Nothing but the sad faces of the Bmod patients, eyes moping, and the amazingly hideous shoes and mind of this floor nurse. Tara wondered if the woman color coordinated her outfits intentionally? She wore a wedding ring, so at least one other person was responsible for letting this aesthetic travesty walk out the door. The tidal rolls of flesh that poured over the nurse's waistline were concealed from direct view by a blue and green checkered blouse featuring oversized orange buttons that queued with her orange clogs. Her breasts were large enough to generate their own gravitational field, while also being saggy enough to require a nanoreinforced aluminum bra. And that skirt.

_Is that cyan?_

The color of a sour, polluted ocean made of synthetic leather.

_Ugh. If you want to wear leather, wear it. Don't buy the fake stuff._

The skirt was made of common synthleather produced from hemp and a plastic polymer. It was too tight. Stockings too tight. The nurse's whole life... too tight. And here came her awful attention once more, eyes scanning Tara twice as long as any of the other patients.

_She hates me. And if she hates me, the eyes won't... crap._

After her introductory speech, which always made Nurse Fossbender glow on the inside, the woman moved on, precisely at minute five, to the _Greetings & Admittance_ stage of the Bmod rehabilitation meeting.

Tara Dean thought the nurse sounded like a parrot being strangled, "Since we're all here for the same reason, well, with the exception of _me_ of course," the nurse curtsied playfully and tossed her wiry hair, causing the flesh beneath her neck to wriggle anew. "We're going to move on to the meet and greet for our three tardy members! As I said to the rest of you yesterday, the first step in dealing with alcohol addiction is to admit that you have a problem. So," she turned her head to look at the Afghan man who stared at the far wall as if in a trance, "together we're here to help you do just that." She clutched the holotab in her lap like it was a weapon, "I'm going to come around the room and shake each of your hands so we can be all be friends officially. After I say, _Hi, I'm Marlene_ , I want each of you to say back, _Hello, my name is... and I'm an alcoholic._ Sound good?"

Tara looked at the red headed man beside her, formed her right hand into the shape of a gun beneath her chin and smiled as she pretended to blow her own brains out.

Melky O'Brien laughed heartily.

"Well!" the nurse's voice cut the laughter. "Since you find things so funny, sir, we'll start with you."

She lumbered towards Melky O'Brien, her outfit squeaking. O'Brien's expression soured.

This was not Nurse Fossbender's first rodeo. She had dealt with plenty of troublemakers. Patient 373-B was no different. The key would be to make the rest of the patients single her out as an obstacle to their quick, easy passage through Bmod. Nurse Fossbender knew that all these people wanted to do was get out of the hospital as quickly as possible, with as little embarrassment as possible.

In the time it took her to walk thirteen steps across the therapy room to where Mr. O'Brien was seated, eyes on Tara Dean the whole time, she decided that she hated the girl. _Passionately_. The emotion was crystal in its purity, like the time she poisoned her neighbor's yowling cat.

_Of course no one wants to hear about that._

Nurse Fossbender stepped decisively in front of Melky O'Brien's chair and extended her hand. Tara noted the woman's nail polish was the same awful orange color as her shoes and buttons.

"Hi, I'm Marlene Fossbender."

Melky O'Brien extended his enormous, freckled mitt hesitantly, "Hi, we met earlier in my room. I'm Melky O'Brien."

Nurse Fossbender laughed gaily, "I know your name, Mr. O'Brien! Remember, this is the first step to getting sober, admitting that you have a problem. So you would say...?" She cocked her head towards the man and raised her eyebrows expectantly, as though the firefighter was a five year old struggling with arithmetic.

Lines of frustration crossed the nurse's brow, as the voice she heard next was not Mr. O'Brien's, but rather Tara Dean's, "You don't have to say anything, buddy. Not a damn single word."

Nurse Fossbender's voice broke with anger for the first time, "Ms. _Dean_ is it? Please be respectful. It's time for Mr. O'Brien's admittance statement, _not_ yours. For the record," she turned to the group, "We _do_ have to admit that we have a problem. If you didn't have a problem, why else would each of you be sitting in an alcohol reform hospital?"

The silent majority nodded in pitiful agreement.

Melky O'Brien looked around, nervous, "OK, OK yeah, I get it..."

"You don't have to say dick," said Tara defiantly, staring at Nurse Fossbender.

The nurse parted her lips to speak, but the man beat her to the punch, turning briefly to Tara Dean then back to the nurse, "It's cool, miss, it really is. My name is Melky O'Brien. I'm a fireman for the city of Lawrence, and I'm an alcoholic." He turned to Tara Dean and smiled wanly, "See? Not so bad. I'm an alcoholic. _You?_ "

Tara Dean took pride in her eye rolling ability. She was so perpetually unimpressed with the world that she privately feared her eyes might one day roll back into her head and disappear forever.

She folded her arms over her chest and rolled her eyes away from Melky like a practiced thespian, uttering one word, "Ugh."

"Excellent!" chimed Nurse Fossbender. "You've taken an important first step today, Mr. O'Brien." She tapped a notation on her holotab, nodding at the man, "Good job."

Then the nurse turned her attention where she really wanted it. Patient 373-B. She took a step to the right and stood directly in front of the girl's chair.

She extended her hand graciously and donned a gratuitous half-smile, "Hello. I'm Marlene Fossbender, and you are?"

Tara Dean threw her head back. The black hair sticking out beneath her baseball cap swung over her shoulders. Every eye was on her. She did not unfold her arms or extend her hand.

Instead she smiled, lips pouting as she said breathily, "Hi, I'm Tara Dean. My mother's a trapeze artist, and my father juggles beavers at a circus in the sky! _Oh_ , and little old me? Well... I'm just another victim of the war on booze." She cocked her head and looked irreverently at Nurse Marlene Fossbender with a wink, "That what you were looking for, Orca?"

Melky O'Brien whistled under his breath. The whole room chuckled uncomfortably.

Nurse Fossbender grew red in the face, "Ahh good," she glanced at the rest of the patients, clutching her holotab with swollen fingers, "there's one in every group." She turned back to Tara Dean, "I've never liked the phrase, _War on Booze_ , dear. It has such reprehensible connotations. I prefer to think of it as a public health initiative for freedom."

Tara Dean drew her legs into the chair, hugged her knees and glared back, "How does _freedom_ involve locking people up?"

"We live in a democracy, young lady. You know what that means?"

"I might be a drunk, but I'm not retarded."

The nurse was unphased and cackled on, " _That_ means the health of the many outweighs the selfish needs of the few." She turned with self importance to address the class, "Alcohol has been outlawed for almost forty years for a reason. It destroys brain cells, poisons the liver, incites violence and is a gateway drug to harder substances like heroin and cocaine. So naturally, our benevolent approach, as a conscious society, is to get users the help and understanding they need in a safe, secure environment."

Tara Dean's tongue lolled out of her mouth while her eyes crossed the whole time Nurse Fossbender spoke. She had tried to make a joke of it, but she was too furious and unable to listen. She jumped up as soon as the nurse got done talking and walked to the center of the room, hunching over so she was at eye level with the rest of the patients.

Tara pointed enthusiastically to an elderly woman who looked like the dictionary reference holo for _a grandmother_ , "Excuse me, ma'am. Have you ever done heroin?"

The woman shook her head weakly.

"No? That's a shock!"

Tara next pointed to an Indian boy, barely eighteen, who wore the expression of someone caught masturbating, "What about you, son? You look like you do cocaine for sure! Ever tried it?"

"No, Dog no," the boy said defensively.

Nurse Fossbender's voice peeled, "Patient Dean, _that_ is quite enough! You cannot address the group unless the MC is talking to you directly!"

Tara spun towards the nurse and flashed a jade eye of rage, "MC? What? You a rapper now?" She turned back to the group, going down the line, "What about you, friend? Tried cocaine? No? What about you? Heroin? PCP? No?"

The Indian boy said absently to the woman beside him, loud enough for all to hear, "I don't even like smoking marijuana."

Tara Dean wheeled back to him, "Oh no! You're in the wrong place now, son! Better learn to like that mary! Cause apparently you only got three options! Which is it gonna be? Weed, nicotine or coffee? All three? Now, what about you, buddy?!"

The middle aged man in a crisp polo said, "Coffee makes me poop. I like Didrexastym."

Tara Dean spun on Nurse Fossbender and looked her square in the eye, " _This_ guys likes styms! What? Speed's okay since a doc pinged the dude a script? Someone please give me a float?! Bmod is a charade. And we're the dupes paying for it!"

Nurse Fossbender could have passed for an angry walrus, "Ms. Dean! _Kindly_ return to your seat and I'll be happy to tell you that yes, styms _are_ acceptable if they're prescribed by a physician. They assist citizens diagnosed with chronic fatigue syndrome. Addiction treatment is _not_ a joke. It's a public health service provided by the government for all North Americans who need it."

The two women squared off in the middle of the room, Tara Dean shouting right back, "Provided by the government? Until tax season rolls around and the rest of us have to foot the bill!"

Several people in the group laughed out loud.

"I mean tell me, nurse, why doesn't the bill for a motorized heart transplant go on my taxes? _That's_ covered? But we have to pay for _this_ crap out of our own pockets?!"

Tara Dean had known herself long enough to realize when she had not only reached the line, but crossed it. Satisfying the fury of the moment was all that remained.

Nurse Fossbender barked angrily, "Young lady you _WILL_ sit down or I'll be forced to call security. All we are asking for is an admission of guilt before moving on to the next..."

Tara Dean interrupted, her own face turning red, "Admit that I'm _guilty?_ Of violating a bullshit law?"

"The law exists at the will of the people. Not your will, Ms. Dean. It's a law designed to keep you from finding this sort of trouble in the first place!"

"Horse crap!" scowled Tara. "Did you ever stop to think that maybe the _law_ is the problem? Not _us?"_ She swung her arm around gesturing to the whole group, "Maybe we work our asses off four days a week, pay our taxes, and when we get home we wanna make up our own minds about how to get high!"

Nurse Fossbender took on the gaze of a rhino preparing to charge. "Enough!" she spat, eyes bulging. "Either you sit down or I ping security. Which is it?"

Tara Dean sidled up until she was twelve cm from Nurse Fossbender's nose. She had to look up to meet the big woman's gaze. The nurse's face was red and puffy.

It made Tara happy to see the nurse shaking as she enunciated every word, "I'd rather spend 29 days in solitary than listen to you spew this regurgitated CNED filth."

Nurse Fossbender sniffled and raised her chin, looking admonishingly around the room, "Here we see firsthand the deleterious effects of alcohol induced psychosis." She pulled her holotab free and made a couple of busy swipes, then looked straight at Tara Dean and spoke as though a dove was nesting on her tongue, "You pitiful thing. Even after twenty four hours in the hospital I can smell the booze on your breath."

All 50 kg of Tara Dean bowed up and got even closer to the nurse's face, "Yeah Bertha? Well, I can smell your pussy from here. Maybe _I_ should be the one pinging security since it smells fucking toxic, you fat cow!"

That was it. Nurse Fossbender had dropped her holotab on the floor as Tara Dean said the words _fat_ and _cow_. The whole room made an audible, _Ooohh_... at the sound of the device's cracking glass.

The nurse pressed the combud interface on her jaw to re-ping security and screamed, "You ungrateful little California slut! You _WILL NOT_ disrupt my therapy group! Security has been notified! Kindly get out of my personal space before I lock you up and eat the key!" She pushed her finger into Tara Dean's chest.

Tara Dean latched onto the big woman's arm and twisted, but the weight advantage belonged to Nurse Fossbender. She grabbed Tara Dean's forearm and hurled her easily across the room, knocking over one horrified male patient and a couple of empty chairs folded against the wall.

Tara Dean landed square on top of the man with her breasts in his face, "Sorry about that."

The man smiled like a fool, "Not a problem..."

Nurse Fossbender made fists as she screamed at her combud again, "SECURITY! GROUP THERAPY SIX!"

Tara Dean pushed herself off the fellow like he was part of the floor and charged. Voices and footsteps could be heard in the hall. Nurse Fossbender readied herself for another toss, but Tara Dean was small and fast.

She spun behind and grabbed her red hair, causing the nurse to shriek wildly, "Cunttttt!"

Nurse Fossbender tried to reach around and grab the girl, but Tara was too agile. Instead, Fossbender elected to fall over and pin this maniac patient to the floor. The two women tumbled sideways, knocking into Melky O'Brien and the Afghan, scrambling and scratching across the thin commercial carpet. Everyone in the room was on their feet shouting, light plastic chairs flying about as the two kicked and wrestled.

The other patients began heckling as though it were a boxing match, "Ooh, that looked like it hurt! Damn! Momma nurse got that shit! Oh-oh! She bit her! _She bit her!"_

The door's security magnet scanned green and two large men in all white uniforms pressed in past the circle of Bmod patients excitedly watching the fight. The orderlies grabbed Nurse Fossbender and Tara Dean to separate them.

Another nurse and orderly appeared seconds later.

The new nurse raised his hands and spoke emphatically to the patients, "Everyone, this meeting is over. Please return to your rooms."

The patients began to file out, each systematically looking over their shoulders at Tara Dean with awe as they passed single file into the hall.

Tara was breathing heavily. Her sweatshirt was ripped and there was blood under her fingernails. Her cheek was bright red where she had been slapped by the wedding ring. In her right hand, she still clutched a fistful of wiry, red hair. The two orderlies detained her as a third grunted awkwardly, trying to help Nurse Fossbender get back on her feet.

The orderlies held Tara Dean back as she howled, "Do I _still_ smell like booze, bitch?"

Nurse Fossbender stood cattywampus in one orange clog. Her oversize blouse was untucked, missing a couple of buttons, allowing her substantial, pale belly to hang out publicly. She had scratch marks on her neck and her eyeliner was running down her cheek in a great black smear. One of the orderlies bent over to pick up her other shoe and hand it to her.

She grabbed the shoe and hissed at the man, "Lock Ms. Dean in her room for the duration of her stay. She'll be handling her recovery in isolation." She turned to leave, then grabbed the orderly's wrist as an afterthought, "Mark, also, get an appraiser down here from IRS to assess the damage to the therapy room so we can make sure to add the expense to Ms. Dean's claim." Her eyes squinted malevolently, "I'm sure her mother will be pleased to pick up the tab."

`**The Lawrence Journal World – December 17, 2079 – CAR EXPLOSION / MUTILATION IN HOSPITAL DOCKING LOT. Your Ten-Sent Federal News by Martin Wringle, LJW**`

`Lawrence, KS – Fire fighters and sheriff's deputies were pinged to Douglas County's Greystone Behavioral Modification Hospital shortly after three am this morning following reports that a hovcar had exploded in flames in the docking lot. Remote (drone) witnesses say the perpetrator, a Ms. Tara Dean, aged 25, from New Riverside, California, is suspected of using black market gasoline in the arson. Citizen Dean was released from Greystone Bmod December 15th after serving a standard thirty day rehabilitation for Level II Federal Citizen alcohol violations perpetrated in the state of California and has now been re-institutionalized as an L3 violator by emergency Federal directive. Anonymous sources, citing complications in the patient-caregiver dynamic, assume that this arson was an act of reprisal against the owner of the hovcar, Greystone Bmod RN, Marlene Fossbender.`

`Complicating events further, four organic German Shepherds used as guard dogs on the grounds of Greystone Medical were savagely mutilated in the minutes leading up to the hovcar's explosion. Two human security guards were on their way to intercept the trespasser, Ms. Dean, when, as one guard (also speaking to us on condition of anonymity) stated, "We saw something black rushing along the perimeter fence. Our dogs went wild and gave chase, run off behind one of the out-buildings and next thing we hear this hideous yipping, then our dogs screaming, this noise, it was unnatural."`

`Chief of hospital security, Andy Gordon, says that by the time human guards arrived on the scene 45 seconds later, there was nothing left of the German Shepherds but bones, blood and fur. Chief Gordon is quoted directly: "These Sheps were tough, in... in the prime of life, so whatever killed them... I can't, I'm sorry, no more questions."`

`At present there is no known connection between the arson event perpetrated by Tara Dean and the attack on Greystone Medical's security staff.`

`Thank you for reading today's Ten-Sent Federal News – Sponsored by GEODRONE©`

January 2080 – Two Years Nine Months Before Event.

Nurse Fossbender put her hand in the seam of Tara Dean's hospital gown and ripped it open, exposing the girl's breasts.

She bent over and put one of the perfectly round nipples in her mouth, giving it a little suck while saying, "Do you like the way this feels as much as I do?"

Tara Dean did her best under the bio-brace to keep her head turned away, still trying to focus on her blue jeans hanging in the closet. The vocal inhibitor on the side of her neck burned. It felt like a stale biscuit lodged in her esophagus. No matter what happened, blue would always be her favorite color. A thin trail of saliva from the woman's mouth rolled down the soft curve of chin flesh and soaked into the fabric of Tara's gown.

Nurse Fossbender continued, eyes illuminating, "This is what you get for messing with the _master_. Did you really think you were going to show up here, _drunk,_ torch my hovcar at _my_ hospital and get away with it? You thought I'd just let that go?"

She grabbed Tara Dean's hair and forced her gaze, "You need to look at mommy when I talk to you. Since your own mommy doesn't really care. Now does she?"

Tara Dean closed her eyes. At least she could do that. The tears would not stop.

She could feel the hot beads of saliva dribbling on her cheek as the woman went on, "You got away with your first hospital visit because you were only fourteen. Charge Nurse Young was a Traditionalist piece of trash. You got away with your L2 visit, got to spend all 28 days in isolation with doctor visits only, cause you staged that scene in group therapy, made it look like I attacked you. Cracked your rib and all. But what about this time, eh cunt?"

Nurse Fossbender put three fingers together on her left hand and stuck them in her mouth, smacking her lips in Tara Dean's face as she pulled them out glistening wet. The girl's legs were parted, forced wide by the pressure of the bio-braces. The nurse raised Tara Dean's gown, pulled her underwear aside and shoved all three fingers in. The expression of agony on patient 373-C's face pushed Nurse Fossbender over the edge. The big woman reached between her own legs, parting the thigh flesh, and began to touch herself with her other hand.

"I've been waiting for this night, ohhhh, a little schedule shift and now here I am. And you can't do a goddamn thing about it... _cunt,_ " Nurse Fossbender's body jiggled as her pleasure intensified.

Tara Dean turned her head away miserably while the nurse rammed her fingers in and out, heaving eagerly. She tried to let her mind drift. The pain was excruciating. Any dissociation she tried quickly proved hollow.

_Why don't the eyes work? Because I let her hate me from the start, got her angry. Stupid, stupid, stupid!_

Nurse Fossbender was close to orgasm. She stood laboriously and put her mouth back on Tara Dean's nipple, heaving with joy, "I'm going to love – standing – there watching – while the drill scrambles – your – brain."

The nurse came. The air around the hospital bed was tinged with the odor of her sopping. Tara winced through blinding tears at the damp slapping sound the woman's legs made when they came together after she had finished. The nurse extracted her right hand from beneath her own skirt. As she pulled her other hand from between Tara Dean's legs, Nurse Fossbender grabbed the girl's clitoris between her thumb and forefinger and twisted it violently. The girl's face wrenched with anguish as she screamed uselessly against her burning vocal inhibitor.

"That's what you get for trying to flip me attitude. I'm your master, whore!"

The nurse wiped her right hand all over Tara Dean's face until it was dry, "Drill through the eye or not, I don't want you to _ever_ forget who won. So _you_ tell me. How's my pussy smell now?"

Nurse Fossbender laughed at the world. She was quietly victorious. It was one of the few completely successful experiences of her entire life. She relished leaving this girl in a smear of jizz and tortured tears.

She touched the diode on the vocal inhibitor and the nanotubes instantly extracted themselves. She snapped up the small silver disc and slid it into her pocket innocuously. Tara Dean's vocal chords would remain paralyzed for another five minutes.

Nurse Fossbender walked out of the room, returned to the nurse's station and reactivated all the standard security protocols for Room 13 Hall A on her holotab. It was so easy. It was as if none of it had ever happened. Unless there was a security breach, which was impossible, no record of her shutting down observation would ever be flagged in a Govcloud audit.

The sound of patients moaning in the distance was no longer annoying, but she turned up the computer jazz anyway. She knew Tara Dean hated it. The yellow street light poured in just as it had before, suddenly refreshing in its familiarity, like sunshine. The nurse eased back into her chair, thinking for a moment. Then she tore open another HempButterz bar and devoured it ravenously as she waited for her shift to end. She would have a couple of hours to go home and rest before patient 373-C's 8 am surgery.

Her wife, Lucinda would bring her a cup of coffee, some hemp-flour pancakes with blueberries and syrup for breakfast. It was going to be a beautiful morning.

# `Chapter 1.6 – Flight Risk`

January 2080 – Two Years Nine Months Before Event.

_Help... they're hurting me. I need you._

The words pounded his mind over and over. The sex would be easy. Spencer Hotshine still liked to think of himself as a lantern-jawed high school soccer sex superstar! Even if truth be told, he was more of a lantern-jawed, pot-bellied orderly with a bum knee, questionable facial hair and a year old GED.

_I am a Union orderly, at least. I can support us when we get settled. This is real love_.

He had once been in love with a betty named Melinda.

_Or Melanie?_

Whoever. The 29 minutes they had spent entwined in a dark corner of the Zero G Tumblar at the Kansas State Fair in the summer of '78 had been so light. Regrettably, Spencer had never seen the girl again.

_Melissa?_

Memory had never been his A game. Nonetheless, he had daydreamed of that betty every single day since.

Until the day he locked eyes with the patient from Room 13C.

She was prettier than a sky blue sky. She was... a toasted garden.

_That doesn't sound right._

She was... the place apples and cherries come from. She was the Earth spinning the sun in its hands!

_That's better... even if Virgil wrote it._

The green whirlpool of her eyes constantly tugged.

To summarize these complex feelings, Spencer had told his new buddy, Virgil, earlier that afternoon, "She's like plasma gun hot, bro. For realzz."

And her name was not Melinda, Melanie nor Melissa. It was _Tara_. Spencer had met her 48 hours earlier when he was transferred by chance to a week of graveyard shifts on the slaughterhouse wing. The regular orderly took ill. Now he and Tara were like two starships rounding the moons of Saturn.

_What's the name of that moon? Rheema? Why do I feel like I'm doing something wrong?_

Spencer's head wasn't used to so much activity.

_Help... they're hurting me. I need you._

An orderly on B Wing told Spencer that Patient 373-C was the only addict she could remember who had been kept in isolation for both L2 and L3. The L2 month in isolation was her own choice. That was any citizen's right. Others had done it. Nurse Fossbender had also body slammed the girl and cracked one of her ribs.

_Help... they're hurting me. I need you._

Oh man, when they actually spoke, what would Spencer say? Gossip on floor was she had nearly caused a riot in Marlene Fossbender's group therapy. This betty had a pair, especially to go up against The Bookshelf. And anyone who holo'd _The Journal World_ knew why she was being kept on isolation for her L3 stint.

Because she was considered a flight risk, Tara Dean was restrained in bio-braces each night. During daylight hours she was allowed freedom of movement within her locked hospital room. Given the extreme circumstances of her incarceration, the aging, withered psychiatrist Doc Styles was the only person allowed to see her directly. Family members also, though there hadn't been so much as a holotext from the girl's mother.

So it was that Tara Dean spent her thirty days leading up to SAMCL surgery like a Siamese fighting fish trapped in a bowl. The orderlies and nurses had been instructed not to peer, but they all did. Patient Dean did yoga for hours. She would stand on her head for forty minutes rotating lithe, balanced legs through the air, smooth as an inverted column of smoke. The fact that she did so in only her underwear and bra was not lost on anyone. Especially Spencer. Beads of sweat poured down the girl's olive skin as she transitioned from pose to pose. She was a cybernetic tiger in human form.

Spencer Hotshine now reasoned why Nurse Fossbender took on a night shift. The nurse was outwardly sexless, though it was rumored she had the private desires of a wildebeest.

_Grooooss!_

Spencer could feel the nurse ignoring him. He hated her as much as he lived in fear of her very shadow. He had seen the nurse doing awful things in Tara's room earlier!

_Help me escape... they're hurting me. I need you. I love you... BUT NOT NOW, you moron! Come back as soon as she leaves..._

Spencer's stomach was uneasy with confusion. He paced the halls. He watched. He waited. Life had never felt so... lifelike before.

How could someone as sweet and pretty as Tara Dean be a boozebum? Spencer loved him some ganjabeer, as his pot belly attested. He had been riding that jane-train since he turned sixteen like all the guys from high school. Alcohol, other hard drugs... trouble. His best friend, Virgil, drank. Virgil was in college to be a poet though, and said alcohol was required to graduate. Spencer had tried real beer twice himself. He vomited horribly twice, once on a double date.

Drugs had never been his A game either.

_Oh Dog, what would momma say?_

Spencer's mother didn't even like her boy drinking janebevs. Let alone booze. Ms. Hotshine was a religious woman. She took the words of Jesus Christ from the 21st Century Holoevangelist Testament to heart, "For as a sun-born flower is the road of hope and new light, wine's dapper illusion shall but lead one down a path of broken virtue..." That was Mrs. Hotshine's favorite holographic preacher quote.

Having dutifully thought it over near 47 hours and 58 minutes, the facts seemed clear. Tara Dean was a victim, and Spencer Hotshine felt hotly compelled to be her savior. He felt compelled to do a variety of things. As he waited down the hall with a merciless, aching boner pushing through his white scrubs while Nurse Fossbender raped Tara Dean, Spencer Hotshine found his own sorta Vision. He was Tara's only hope. Spencer Hotshine walked in salvation's shoes.

_Help... they're hurting me. I need you._

He crouched in the shadows on the dark side of the floor until he was sure that Nurse Fossbender had returned to the nurse's station. When the volume on the elevator jazz began to increase, he knew it was time. Fossbender was back in her control nest, snacking and fidgeting. Spencer felt no allegiance to the cruel ox. He had only stinging remembrances of Nurse Fossbender admonishing him harshly for being sixty seconds late for a shift. Or leaving a door open. Or engaging in small talk with female staff members. It was this last offense that particularly seemed to irk the big woman.

"No fraternizing on duty, Mr. Hotshine. If you need something to do, there is always, and I mean _always,_ a toilet that needs a sonic detail."

The memory of the nurse's voice in his head made Spencer nauseous. This was a new sensation. Another sign that Tara Dean was correct. He closed his eyes. His head hurt mightily from all this thinking and revelating and so forth.

The robotic floor polisher made him jump. He had seen the Kleendroyd© a thousand times, but now he stared at it like it was an invading Martian colonist. The robot was just shy of a meter tall, a pallid silver dome illuminated by the blinking lights of its spatial laser array. It sat on a plastic, cylindrical chassis and hovered quietly four centimeters off the floor. The rotating brushes at its base whirled in a blur.

Spencer knelt before the robot. The silver bot stopped, waiting patiently for the human to give it space. Spencer desperately wanted someone to talk to! What he was planning was entirely insane.

A few more seconds passed, and the robot's com emitter said, "Excuse me, Orderly Hotshine," in a chipper male voice.

LED's on the bot's display screen rearranged themselves into a smile. It then moved smoothly to one side, continuing to clean.

Talking to robots never got you anywhere. Spencer steeled himself.

He stopped outside Tara Dean's door and took a breath. From the time he used his access code to open the door, they would have exactly ten minutes until the hospital com pinged a klaxon to Chief Gordon's security detail. As well as the nurse's station. At that point, the vid feed would be auto-streamed across the Govcloud to the Douglas County Sheriff's Department. By then, they would either be long gone or on their knees in magcuffs.

His heart pounded furiously. The thought of running away to Sonora with patient 373-C! It was as nice as any farmland in the Union. The voice she pushed between his ears said the hydroponic orange groves went on for kilometers in the hills overlooking the beaches of Tucson 2.0. They would rent a little cabin in the cheap part of town and find management jobs with the orange processors, she said. The pay was meager compared to his hospital salary, but Sonora was the least expensive coastal state in the NAUS.

_The Gulf of California..._

Spencer grinned stupidly. These fresh daydreams were top of the fond.

_Where I really wanna go... that body!_

Fantasy had found him masturbating furiously in the bathroom three times that day already. The way her green eyes turned to black and she smiled... oh Dog, she'd melt the moon right out of the night.

_Okay, that was a good line too, Virgil._

_Help... they're hurting me. I need you._

Authorized at the beginning of his shift by another CVSW but never completed, Spencer now logged a ten minute floor cleaning for room 13C. He scanned a thumbprint into his holotab.

_I'll simulquest a fifteen minute break. Maybe that will buy us some extra time._

The computer validated instantaneously and the door's lock slid silently open. Would she be asleep at this time of night? Like hospital patients in a holovision story?

_Oh yeah, Nurse Fossbender just raped her._

As soon as he opened the door, her gaze crushed him. The girl was only now regaining the use of her voice from the vocal inhibitor.

"Hello, lover..." she said weakly.

He rushed to her side and kissed her clumsily while babbling, "Miss Dean! I hated seeing her mouth on you... I hated it so much!" He grabbed her hand and held it rapt, like a schoolboy.

Tara Dean rolled her eyes, coughing, "Some days you gotta take one for the team, right? Say, Spencer? It's Spencer, right?"

"Yes!"

"You're smashing my hand."

"Oh!"

"Would you mind releasing these straps, s _ugar?_ "

Her voice was like warm honey. He knew it would be sweet.

"Of course. I'm sorry!"

"It's fine," she raised her eyebrows, "The bio-braces?"

"You're so gorgeous!" He didn't know what else to say.

"Thanks."

Spencer Hotshine passed his holotab in front of the sensor on the hospital bed, "Request 5, authorization: Hotshine," he spoke quick and quiet.

The bio-braces disengaged and retracted silently into the side of the bed like flat gray worms.

Tara Dean sprang up and cracked the kinks from her neck. She stood on her tiptoes, stretching tall as if to touch the ceiling.

She hugged him efficiently, "Thank you... _sweetie_ ," she sounded like she might choke on the word. "That's much better!"

Spencer swooned, "Anything for you..."

She squinted, looking left and right, taking inventory. First things first. She went to the sink and rinsed the filth from her face and dried her skin with a towel.

_Put the nurse out of your head._

Spencer stared, obsessed as he watched her pad back towards him.

She let him fall into her dilated pupils, pulled the pretty boy's face to hers and kissed him softly, then said, "I have something even sweeter waiting for you just as soon as you get me out of here, big fella."

She gave him a quick squeeze between the legs, winking like a pro, "Now, let me rock some clothes. We gotta float and I mean yesterday!"

Tara hopped over the bed like a cat and slipped into the pair of blue jeans she had been eyeing all night, long socks, her lace-up black army boots plus a tee and the hooded pink sweatshirt. She tied her hair back with a scrunchy, pulled the backpack on and tightened the straps. There was no telling where she'd land or what she'd need to carry with her. Next, she tested the hood of her sweatshirt to make sure it would cover her head when she needed it to.

Done.

Tara returned to Spencer's side and pecked him on the cheek, "Okay Romeo, let's float."

She squatted low and cracked the door, peering around the corner in the direction of the nurse's station. A broom was leaned against the door to the custodian's closet on the opposite side of the hall. Tara momentarily considered how wonderful it would feel to grab the broom, walk up to the nurse's station and start beating Marlene Fossbender bloody. But it was not payback time, and she had no intention of reporting the rape to police.

_Like that will do anything._

No justice the courts would administer would be sufficient. Tara Dean would hold her own court. The moment would be unexpected, perhaps years in the future, perhaps days. But when the time was right, she would burn Marlene Fossbender's grotesque heart on a cross.

At the moment, however, she had only 7 minutes and 31 seconds to get as far away from the Greystone Medical Complex as possible. How exactly this was going to happen, she was not sure. But she'd had 29 days to reason up a decent plan.

The halls of the slaughterhouse wing were fortunately not silent. The Dogforsaken digital jazz oozed glossily from the com. Patients moaned their suffering all around. The dim, steady glow of night lights embedded in either side of the floor was punctuated by the blinking red sensor sweeps that recorded environmental data in four second intervals. The hospital tracked everything and everyone with an Ipv7 address.

She stepped into the hall on tiger quiet toes and paused to flip a middle finger at the nearest observation node. She blew the camera a kiss for good measure, wishing triple six hells she could be a fly on the wall when security reviewed the footage with the duty staff.

Tara grabbed the broom. Just in case she needed to break it over a knee and shove the sharp end through a security guard's ear. Having it made her feel better anyway. Spencer Hotshine followed behind with the same idiotic smile he had worn for two days plastered across his face. His shoes squeaked rhythmically on the polished floor. Tara froze. She listened as the nearest observation node shifted in its base and focused on him. She frowned and gestured to be quiet. His forsaken puppy eyes stayed tied to her mind.

No klaxons sounded.

She grabbed his hand and led him down the remaining meters of hallway towards the flashing _Exit_ sign. They hugged the wall. If they could make it to the stairs, it was only one flight down. Then right out the front door through the hospital lobby, smooth as a vapor hit. Exiting the actual hospital grounds would be more difficult. There would be drones. She would have to talk Spencer into handing over his holotab.

They crept hand in hand. The red _Exit_ door approached. Fifteen meters. Ten. Five. She crouched lower, pulling him down with her beside the door to the stairs. The magnetic lock glowed a cozy yellow. Spencer Hotshine swayed as he knelt.

He drunkenly reached out and squeezed her breast, "I love you."

"I love you too, Spencer," she said curtly and shoved his mitt off. "Right now we need to focus."

"Are we gonna live on the beach in Tucson 2.0? Tell me about the house again? How many palm trees are we gonna have in the yard?"

She quietly put down the broom and rolled her eyes. She couldn't believe it was actually working. She had never taken it this far with someone.

_Maintain the game._

She leaned close and whispered in his ear, "Seven, sugar. We're gonna have seven palm trees and a blue convertible Hovbeetle and a French bulldog named Sam. Remember?"

"I remember," he grinned.

She put her hands on either side of his head and smashed her gaze deeper inside, "You were cute once, weren't you?"

"Huh?"

"I mean you _are_ cute. Well, maybe in another life."

"Another life what?

"Nothing. Listen sugar, I need you to scan this door open."

He tilted his head, smiling continually, "Are we going to have sex?"

"Jeezus boy. Yes. Once we get free you can bounce me like a beach ball in the noon day sun. But we can't _ever_ have sex if you don't open this door."

"Okay!"

"So open it."

"Okay."

Spencer didn't even know if his feet were on the floor any longer.

All he could think was _happy happy happy!_

This happy, amazing, sweetly hot as a toasted garden betty he was going to run away to Sonora with! She was the one. What would his mother say at their wedding? He stood, swaying like a Pleasium junky and pulled his ten centimeter holotab from his pocket. He placed his thumb in the center of the screen, then swiped the device in front of the door's IR sensor. The LED illuminated immediately and a 2.5d staff holo of his face appeared.

A cool computerized female voice only he could hear said, "Hotshine, Spencer. Please remember to leave any access cards in your locker while outside the secure wing. We'll see you in fifteen minutes. Have a great break!"

He turned to Tara like he'd just won the Federal Hololottery, "Let's go!"

He started to push through, but she grabbed his wrist, "Oh wait, sugar. _Damn!_ I forgot something I need," she said in an innocent tone, biting her bottom lip.

He frowned, "What is it?"

"A picture of my mom."

"Come on. Can't you just print another off the cloud?"

"No. She, uh, wrote something personal on this one. I've taken it with me everywhere since I was a little kid."

Spencer Hotshine swayed. He thought of his own mother. Her approving reflection stared back at him from the greenish-black well of Tara Dean's pupils. Somewhere in his mind, a rational voice screamed.

_What am I doing?_

He closed his eyes. The flashing headache returned.

_Ping Nurse Fossbender! Ping security!_

It didn't make sense. But there she was, before him. Right there, with her sweaty hand in his.

_I will always be yours. Help... they're hurting me. I need you._

She was the prettiest flower. He felt dizzy but wonderful. His brain hurt.

"I thought you hated your mother. She put you in this place. She never pinged you."

Precious seconds...

"I know what I said. But now I need you to go back to my room and get the picture," she implored. "And I need you to give me your holotab. Oh, and I need you remove all biometric recognition protocols."

Before he could reply, she leaned in and kissed him, deep and wet, her mouth opening like a morning glory at dawn. She felt him stiffen against her knee.

_Ewwww... No! Maintain._

She forced herself to pull away a little at a time, the way lovers leave a kiss.

He swooned as she flicked her tongue over his neck, "Okay." He smiled as might a drunk pissing relief in an alley. "But why do you want my... here."

She gently took the holotab from his hands and held it up in front of him looking pouty, "In case something happens... sugar. Just in case. Please help me, _please_? I'm in so much danger. I need to get out of here _so_ badly. You saw what she did. You know what will happen in the morning. They're going to drill me! If that happens... I won't even know who you are when I wake up! All our Tucson 2.0 dreams will die." Tara had long since learned the trick of not blinking to make her eyes wet. A tear rolled down her face, "I mean, what about our lives together, Spencer? If I can't even remember your name, then..."

That was all it took.

"Okay. I'll get the picture," he said. Spencer Hotshine felt stoic. He tapped through a couple of sub-menus and swiped his finger across the glass face of the holotab, releasing all biometric encryption.

His combud replied instantly, "Please confirm you wish to remove all security protocols at this time."

"Yes. Disable bio-recog," he said with a grin. "Full access all systems."

The voice in his combud asked, "Do you wish to remove external com tracking and hovcar access as well? Open security is not recommended."

Spencer repeated dutifully, "Yes, full access all systems."

The screen of his holotab blinked green and his combud said, "Biodrive 402 vocal ID sync confirmed with your device. Full access granted, all systems. Please remember to choose a biometric default as soon as intranet maintenance is complete. Thank you."

He looked at Tara happily, "There, it's done. I'll be right back, baby. I won't let anything happen to your momma's picture. I swear. I'll be back in a zip!"

"I'll be waiting... angel," she whispered with a hint of sadness.

He leaned in for a kiss but she pushed him aside, "There's no time. Please hurry back...."

"I will."

He squeezed her hand and sauntered happily back down the long hall towards her room. The logic headache returned but he ignored it. All Spencer Hotshine could think of was love and making more of it! They would probably just do it right there in his hovcar in the hospital docking lot.

_So hot..._

_Help... they're hurting me. I need you._

Tara Dean watched him amble back the way they had come. After he was a good ten meters down the hall she said, "Adios, Spencer Hotshine. It's been fly!"

He turned in time to see her backpack slip through the door. He frowned and found himself stuck, jerking like a bot caught on a bad subroutine. He went to follow. When he got to the locked door he reached for his holotab.

"Where is my holotab?"

He shook his head, confused.

_Where did I leave my holotab? Seven palm trees and a French bulldog..._

Then he winced and collapsed against the wall, his temples pounding with a sudden, paralyzing ache that drowned out all sensation.

Tara took the long flight of stairs three at a time. At the bottom she paused, cracked the door and looked across the hospital lobby.

_Boom! Boom! Boom!_ Spencer Hotshine began banging on the door at the top of the stairs, "Tara! Tara! What are you doing?!?" His voice was tinted with panic.

_The tard!_

Tara could kick herself. She _always_ had to have the last word.

Greystone Behavioral Modification Hospital's shining lobby spread before her, contemporary and opulent, open and grand in comparison to the small beige rooms and sickeningly cheerful, polished, blue cement floors that awaited patients in the hospital proper. Floor to ceiling windows, gleaming black and white tiles, a slick aluminum and mahogany reception desk, all punctuated by steadily glowing LED's networked to the building's primary sensor array.

Tara Dean thanked her lucky skies she had never been chipped. If she was forced to undergo the morning's scheduled slaughterhouse surgery... she would walk out the other side a piece of public property.

_A humdroid._

No more secrets. No privacy except in daydreams. No daydreams. Combud installation was mandatory for the few SAMCL patients who didn't already have one. Her soul would become a billboard advertising its new found mediocrity across the North American sat-net.

_Hire this humdroid to clean your loo._

_Hire this humdroid to suck your cock._

_Hire this humdroid and live forever in the shadow of benevolent Vision._

She would rather die a criminal than live in an imaginary Utopia.

Tara Dean took the deepest breath of her life. She wiped a stinging bead of sweat from the corner of her eye and stepped into the shining lobby, making straight for the main Exit. The polyrub soles of her boots tamped quietly over the cold marble. Ahead, the towering, three meter tall double doors to the outside world were mirrored panes of solid walnut. A plaque on the wall beside the doors stated how they were salvaged from a 20th century barn in a nod to the agricultural history of the hospital's Kansas locale.

Tara sniffed.

She could hear the IR node lenses in the walls making micro adjustments to follow her trajectory. Scans were confirming her identity and logging the time. So far, so good. With no combud to scan, the sensors read the Ipv7 address from the holotab in her pocket instead. She was Spencer Hotshine. The hospital computer wouldn't process the location conflict errors until his break ended.

A searchlight beyond the tall windows lit up the skeletons of the topiary bushes and leafless maple trees framing the front walkway. The winter grass was flat and yellow. The searchlight's random sweeps made it clear at least one of Greystone's private security drones was active and airborne. She waited in silence for the searchlight to move on. When darkness returned, she pulled Spencer's holotab from her jeans and passed it in front of the door's sensor.

The ambient illumination around the door got slightly brighter. A pleasant female voice in the ceiling said, "Greetings, Spencer Hotshine. You have eleven minutes, twelve seconds remaining in your break. Please reactivate your combud's biometric protocols before returning to work. Enjoy your time."

The LED on the security panel shifted from red to green. A magnetic seal on the double doors released the door on the right. It pushed in slightly with a rush of fresh air – the first outside air she had breathed in thirty days. The crisp January wind smelled of dried pine and smoke. Some farmer nearby had been burning leaves.

Tara closed her eyes and drank it in. For a moment, thoughts drifted back to the Kansas of her childhood. She remembered giggling with her father as he ignited piles of winter leaves in their backyard using a camper's laser, the rush of skyward sparks at dusk. The wave of sadness that came with this thought caught her off guard. She opened her eyes.

_Reminisce later, idiot._

She stood and forcefully shoved the door open. _Bak!_ The walnut panel struck something metallic, leaving only a narrow opening. The door immediately began to push closed. Tara Dean flipped her body sideways and slipped through, at last standing beneath the free night sky.

She was greeted by a computerized male voice emanating from a two meter tall robotic door droid, "Greetings, Spencer Hotshine. You have a scheduling conflict. This egress cites a deviation from your normal break schedule. Please submit to retinal scan crosscheck before proceeding."

Tara Dean had not factored a door droid, "Fuck."

The black and gray robot let the large wooden door swing shut and seal magnetically, " _Fuck_ is not a recognized response." It took a mechanical step closer to her, "Your combud may be in need of service. Initial biometric scans indicate you have shrunk by 22.86 centimeters, Spencer Hotshine. Please step closer for retinal scan crosscheck before proceeding."

"Fuck me..."

" _Fuck me_ is not a..."

"Oh, fuck off!" she yelled and kicked the door droid square in the waist, toppling it.

Before the robot struck the cement, klaxons began to sound. Every light inside Greystone Behavioral Hospital burst to life.

The door droid squirmed and rattled awkwardly on its back.

A row of LED's in the head designed to appear where the mouth would be blinked angrily, "Security breach. Hotshine, Spencer. Apprehend. Hotshine, Spencer. Apprehend. Please remain still. You are in need of assistance."

"Piece of shit," Tara gave the door droid a final kick and bolted across the short winter lawn towards the staff docking lot.

She was fleet of foot and had long since memorized a layout of the hospital grounds.

As she sprinted towards the far end of the docking lot, leaping a short manicured hedge, a bright swath of light illuminated the ground three meters around her in every direction.

_Fast drone. Probably armed too. These aren't COD's..._

She leapt over another short hedge row without breaking stride. She juked and flipped between the closely docked hovcars, trying to make erratic course changes, but the drones were too fast. Their computerized trajectory algorithms predicted her path before she had even decided on it herself. She was only able to escape the light for a few seconds at a time. She screamed in frustration. It was the middle of the night, there were too few hovcars to hide behind. She tore across the open asphalt.

Tara Dean clutched Spencer's holotab in her hand, shouting at it breathlessly, "Prep hovcar, spool to fly. Full manual, protocols off, firewall external access, _FLOAT NOW, NOW!!!_ "

Across the docking lot, fifty meters away, a silver Ford Mustang spooled to life. From that distance, Tara could barely hear the stabilizing fans engage, lifting the Mustang off its rubberized docking mounts. She ran harder, faster. The lot was bigger than she had realized, and Spencer had docked his float at the far end, out in the open with several empty spaces on either side.

Tara was pleased to see that it was last year's 2079 Mustang GT with eight 600 kg geothrusters and a single, massive 8,000 kg propulsion fan. It would be damn hard to fly her down in Spencer Hotshine's high school graduation present.

_I've gotta make that hovcar or I'm gonna be an unconscious turnip..._

"Tara A. Dean. You are in violation of the terms of your incarceration. Arrest your movements or we will be forced to disable you." The computerized male voice was menacing, pealing in night-splitting stereo from the comport on the nearest hospital security drone. The bright searchlight beams were now narrow, focused and locked, no matter how fast she ran, juked, jumped, ducked or hid. The last twenty meters of docking lot were wide open asphalt.

_Nothing but me out here._

She ran like only a madwoman can.

"Arrest! We will fire in five seconds. Four, three, two, one..."

The pounding of breath. The muffled thud of each sprinting step. The shaking of her small body. The hovcar was less than five meters away. It was unlikely that... a thudding pain struck her from behind, spinning her like a hammer punch. Out of the corner of one eye she saw the glass housing of a tranquilizer dart fall and shatter on the asphalt.

_Botulinum darts!_

The projectile had glanced off her backpack.

"You have been neutralized," barked the drone. "Arrest your movements at once to avoid bodily harm. Central nervous system failure is imminent."

Tara jumped the final rubber docking divider and screamed at the idling Ford, "Pilot door open!"

The Mustang's silver door cracked with a pneumatic hiss. The hovcar was already engaged, floating sixteen centimeters off the ground, ready to fly. The force from the levitation fans was so powerful that her clothes were blown flat against her body.

"Arrest! Arrest your movements or we will fire," called the nearest drone, though she could no longer hear clearly over the electric roar of the turbines.

She flung her backpack into the passenger seat and for the first time turned to look at the security drone. She had seen a thousand, million drones in her life. But this time she really looked. Up close they appeared like small, squashed, black blimps. They were about a meter in length and were covered in a scaly, black Kevlar housing. The drone's sensor array formed a thin, illuminated belt around its midsection that oscillated rapidly through varying shades of red. The bright white searchlight shone fiercely into her eyes from the center of the drone's belly. Tara ducked behind the safety of the hovcar's door and extended the middle fingers on both hands.

She was carefully mouthing the words, GO FUCK YOURSELF... when the hovcar shuddered violently. The roof caved in, causing the shotgun side window to crack.

The Mustang rocked again as what appeared to be a gray fox jumped squarely onto the hovcar's hood. The creature stared at her with a single radiating blue eye.

_Cyborg._

She studied the animal in shock. There was nothing but an empty, metallic cavity where the other vidorb should be.

_There must be another on the roof._

The fox's paws crumpled the Mustang's hood in four separate spots.

If she had been able, over the din of the hovcar's turbines, she would have heard the security drone's computerized vocal subroutines tripping over command lines as data flooded its sensor array, "Arrest! Unidentified biological org... termination requ... possession of fusion basssssss... arrest!"

Tara Dean also would have heard a low, rumbling growl vibrating from the cyberfox's throat. Her eyes inflated to saucers as the fox drew back its jowls and exposed a row of ragged, synthetic teeth. But the teeth were not white, they were... _chrome? Silver?_

Tara felt herself chill with terror.

_Synthetic jaws? A fighting battborg?_

Before she could follow the thought further, three, four, five botulinum darts slammed into the fox's head. Each projectile glanced off the animal, clear liquid payload splattering on the hovcar's windshield.

_That fox ought to be a pile of spaghetti._

She was relieved to see the creature turn its attention, now focusing on the drone. The drone floated directly overhead, squawking like a raging parrot. Blinding light... the Mustang's screaming levfans... the hovcar rocked and Tara cringed. The second fox leapt from the roof with so much force that the back window on the Mustang cracked down the center. The animal on the hood followed, claws ripping gouges into the light metal as it too went airborne.

One directly after the other, the foxes collided with the security drone and brought it crashing down to the asphalt. Tara gasped, her lower lip shaking. The foxes savagely drove their teeth into the security drone's dorsal ridge, ripping through the unit's Kevlar chassis. Sparks erupted from the downed drone and its sensor array flickered and went black. One fox pulled a small black box free with its teeth and spat it on the ground.

Another private security drone, just arriving, immediately changed course and flew higher into the sky as it fired nine, ten more botulinum darts that harmlessly glanced off the foxes' heads. Two of the darts penetrated each animal's ratty skin and the needles stuck, dangling from their necks.

Tara Dean could not believe what she was seeing.

The foxes raised their paws in unison and swiped the darts to the ground. Then they turned back to her. Two blue eyes glowed angrily on one animal. A single eye pulsed in the other's dark face.

Tara didn't have time to know what was happening. As she yanked the Mustang's door closed she noticed... more eyes? Twenty to thirty additional blue lights hovered in the bushes at the edge of the docking lot. For a moment she thought she heard a high pitched howling.

_Fuck me..._

She dropped the hovcar's air brake and slammed her foot against the accelerator. Instead of dodging left or right like one would expect, the eery metal-mouthed foxes leapt straight into the air as the hovcar rocketed forward. She had every intention of running the damn things down, but they were obviously smart. The Mustang lurched as it flew over the carcass of the trashed security drone. Tara could see the gates on her left rolling shut as she took a wide swing towards the Exit.

"Shit and balls!" she screamed at the dashboard.

The Mustang's steering wheel was heavy in manual mode. She hauled on it with both hands. Proximity klaxons blared through the cabin as she accidentally sideswiped a docked hovtruck, ripping away both vehicles' side mirrors, shattering the pilot's side glass and one of her headlights.

A warning LED in the dashboard monitor began beeping, followed by an irritatingly calm female voice that said, "Oh my, port headlight malfunction. Safety at risk. The sun will rise in 5.6 hours. Travel is not recommended until that time. Reinitiating Govcloud auto control in ten seconds, nine, eight, seven, six..."

She pulled free of the hovtruck and stomped on the juice, screeching, "Negative com! Full manual pilot! Safety regs off!"

The klaxon silenced.

A robofox dropped out of the sky and landed on the back bumper, barely missing the center of its target. The cracked rear window of the hovcar shattered completely, littering the interior with shards of safety glass as the Mustang bucked violently from the heavy impact and the fox rolled into the docking lot.

"Time to get the hell outta Kansas, Dorothy!"

Fifty meters directly ahead, the security gates had already rolled shut.

She engaged the morpho-adaptive seatbelt and re-tied the scrunchy around her ponytail with one hand.

"Here we go."

She nailed it.

The Mustang roared forward, punching headlong through the antique iron gates that adorned the hospital's entrance. Tara Dean glanced in the rear view HUD as she and the hovcar flew past the enormous brick and mortar pillars that had held the gates in place. She could see the gray, streaking bodies of the blue-eyed robofoxes tearing across the parking lot with impossible speed behind her. The animals stealthily dodged the collapsing gates, peeling through the clouds of cement dust and iron carnage in focused pursuit. The wind howled through the hovcar's shattered back window while a thousand glimmering chunks of shattered glass skittered across the floor board beneath her boots.

Trying to read the GPS data on the Mustang's holoscreen, she looked up, barely in time to glimpse a single file scatter of more blue lights closing on her position from the left. The Mustang was traveling 105 kph as it found the open road. The blue lights moved with an unpredictable, jolting motion. She watched them intently, captivated by an overwhelming sensation of deja vu.

_I know these things..._

But no lights she had ever seen glowed like that. Or moved like that. And then they were gone. Just as quickly as they had appeared, the string of lights simultaneously vanished.

Tara was still holding her breath. She glanced at the rear view HUD.

_Hah!_

The robofoxes were no longer chasing her either, gone as if they had never been.

_Thank you, Spencer. This pony floats!_

She grinned to herself, weirdly calm on the adrenaline high, despite the feeling that her heart was about to tear through her rib cage.

For a fraction of a moment... things seemed almost peaceful, hushed. The pitch darkness of a crisp winter night roamed far and wide ahead as the Mustang flew down the hovroad through the Kansas countryside like a ship disappearing into the belly of a midnight sea.

Behind Tara Dean, too far dim and too far gone to see, 18 pairs of cobalt vidorbs the size of acorns re-illuminated in the blackness. They coherently aligned themselves into a single file orientation, then flashed away in a bouncing tracer of light moving due southwest over an adjacent soybean field.

The non-emergency tower lights in the hospital's docking lot blinked on with a jolt. Three black, football-shaped security drones hovered back and forth, their searchlights scanning the grounds for unregistered motion. A fourth drone hovered one meter above the broken chassis of its colleague that had been shredded by the robofoxes. Greystone Hospital security klaxons bleated senselessly over and over from every available com. The faces of patients and evening staff members peered out of windows, stupefied at the smoldering carnage on the hospital's western grounds.

One of those windows framed the sallow, ghost-pale face of orderly Spencer Hotshine. He rubbed his temple in dull-eyed pain. He could still hear the words repeating, repeating, repeating, repeating.

_Help... they're hurting me. I need you._

Beside him, closer to the glass, fogging it with her breath, stood Nurse Marlene Fossbender. Her face was contorted and serpent-like, and the caterpillar flesh beneath her chin undulated in a sweat-glistened fury.

`**Wikipedia.holo Excerpt (Last Updated 2071.04.13) Regarding North American United States Hovroad Infrastructure:**`

`Completed in 2059, The NAUS Magnetic Hovway Reapplication System was the largest Federal infrastructure project in history. All antique Federal, state, county and city interstates and roads, both gravel, and obsolete tar asphalt or concrete, were retrofitted with subterranean magnetic levitation conduits. Similar to antique maglev train technology, _hovlev_ as it is popularly known, assists all independent hovercraft with vertical lift and passive perimeter awareness systems. It is the foundation upon which all current autopilot technology functions. All NTSB certified hovercraft manufacturers have been required by Federal mandate to integrate hovlev rail technology into all vehicles following model year 2060. The self-regenerating, rubcrete-asphalt, hybrid road surface utilized today is based upon this now standardized float automation system.`

# `Chapter 1.7 – Live Free or Die`

Only the windshield remained intact. The Mustang's dashboard was aglow with so many com warnings that Tara had no choice but to ignore them. The built-in holoscreen blinked constant red text: _MULTIPLE WARNING! PLEASE ADDRESS! MULTIPLE WARNING!_

"Multiple warning," repeated Tara with an angry smirk. "First, we'll lock you in solitary. Then, you're going to get raped. And the next morning, we'll tie you down and shove a microscopic drill bit through your eye. Aside from that, everything's cool."

Her black boot pushed the hovcar's accelerator to the floorboard. The propfans moaned with pleasure. The speed limit on the rural, two-lane hovway was beyond unrealistically low for a modern hovercraft; and, in addition to the visual alerts, the Ford's onboard computer chattered constantly. Spencer Hotshine, of course, had the hovcar's com set to the smooth, sexualized voice of Ford's 2079 holoflix-star sponsor, Jessyca Lopez.

The Mustang communicated breathlessly, "Oh my, I'm afraid we have a guest pilot warning! The maximum speed limit on County Hovway 1900 is 70 kilometers per hour. Your current speed is 153 kph. Would you care to increase the hovlev gradient for a more secure float?"

"No!" shouted Tara. "Hovlev to minimum!"

_Klax!_

"Oh my, guest pilot warning! The Douglas County Sheriff's Department assesses speed citations at a rate of 1,000 digidollars for every ten kilometers over the legal limit."

_Klax!_

"Oh goodness, we have _another_ safety warning! Hovcar integrity compromised. Emergency conditions include damaged structural components, damaged glass shields. Recommend immediate return to Govcloud autocontrol for guidance."

_Klax!_

"Oh my, guest pilot warning! Incoming public safety units requesting system access. Manual override is in place and I cannot comply. I recommend guest pilot grant authorities system access. Legal penalties may be incurred. Do you wish to grant Douglas County public safety units remote system access at this time?"

Tara Dean slammed her fist into the dashboard, cracking the glass monitor, "Hairy fucking balls _NO!_ Computer, _maximum_ manual encryption! And mute! Full system mute!"

Jessyca Lopez' seductive voice responded gleefully in surround sound, "I'm terribly sorry, guest pilot, but I am unable to mute audio. Non-compliance with regional public safety regulations may endanger your safety. I am unable to mute at this time..."

Tara punched the dashboard holoscreen and screamed, "North American piece of shit! Where's a Bimmer when you need one?!"

The red glow of warning lights in the dash illuminated her soft, angry features as she gripped the steering wheel. She kept the accelerator jammed to the floor. With only the windshield left, the whistling air made her eyes water so badly that it was near impossible to see. Behind, the Mustang's roaring propulsion and lateral stability fans spit up billowing clouds of dust and uprooted grass ripped from the hovway's gravel shoulder. Shards of glass and metal reflected sparkles of disco light throughout the vehicle. She had cut her hand unknowingly when fleeing the robofoxes. A stream of blood slicked the steering wheel and the five degree wind raging through the broken cabin seemed determined to tear her hair from its roots. It blew madly against her cheeks, so cold it burned. The onboard environmental systems attempted to compensate by blasting hot air from all vents directly at the pilot's seat. Her torso and legs quickly covered in sweat, though her ears were icing, hair freezing from the tips down, slapping her neck like tiny, sharp whips.

The dashboard chimed on perkily, "Hello there, guest pilot. The intersection for Douglas County Hovway 1500 is approaching in .15 kilometers. Do you wish to turn? We should probably slow down if so."

"Mute your Dogdamn, bitch-ass!" Tara screamed.

She futilely slammed her bloody fist into the holoscreen again, and once more for good measure.

_Shit!_

Tears of wind, panic, pain and frustration poured down her freckled cheeks. The wound at the base of her palm ripped open a little further each time she slammed her hand into the holoscreen. Blood flowed freely, dribbling down the cold poly-leather steering column. It congealed in her flying hair as she uselessly attempted to brush it from her line of sight.

The octagonal, LED Stop sign that marked the intersection of the perpendicular county hovways was fast approaching. The sign barreled towards her like a UFO in the night.

Suddenly, the hovcar and country landscape blurring past were illuminated in a swath of white light.

The computerized vocal processor of the Douglas County Sheriff's drone was fierce and loud, emanating through the Mustang's speaker array, "External override initiated. Tara Dean, you are a fugitive operating a stolen vehicle. You are ordered to halt immediately and exit the hovercraft with your hands above your head. Release manual encryption now, or we will physically disable you within sixty seconds."

"You're gonna _shoot_ me in less than a minute?" Tara whispered under her breath. "I'd rather crash."

She realized she had no plan in place beyond stealing the hovcar.

_Where am I even going? Hide in the city. Get to where people are._

She kept her boot on the Mustang's accelerator, thighs aching as she cranked the wheel hard right, burning around the sharp turn onto westbound Douglas County Hovway 1500. The Ford's stability controls engaged, lateral fans pealing with brutal dismay as the silver hovcar ripped through the turn at 165 kph.

The com blared, "Oh my, your speed is excessive! Unable to maintain hovway integrity! Speed is excessive!"

Tara's head collided with a crumpled section of roof as the Mustang jolted, banked right and skipped over the gravel shoulder into a winter wheat field, dropping ten centimeters as it broke traction with the hovlev conduit. The propfan intake manifolds ripped up dead stalks of wheat by the roots as inertia carried her in a long, sweeping arc back onto the hovroad, a rooster tail of skittering dust, gravel, ripped up soil and shredded winter wheat following in her wake.

One of the Mustang's eight vertical levfans sucked in a fist-sized rock and exploded, scattering sparks beneath like broken fireflies. Tara screamed like a woman crazed. Her hands clenched the wheel in a white-knuckled death grip. Blood streamed from her cut brow and mingled with the chilled sweat burning her eyes.

The Mustang's ceramic core turbine motor shuddered violently as she tortured the prop pedal. The hovcar momentarily hiccupped, all lights blinked to black. The vehicle dropped to the asphalt, squealing and scraping as it slid down the hovway ripping out divots of the pavement.

"No, no, no, no!!" Tara screamed.

She smashed the fist of her good hand into the blood stained instrument console, at which point the electrical systems, seeming to hear these dying wishes, reinitialized and the Mustang exploded forward once more. The Mustang re-bridged with the hovlev conduit and her body was thrown back into the seat with gratifying force.

Jessyca Lopez chatted happily as if the vehicle had just started anew, "Well, hello! Welcome, guest pilot. Warning! Levfan six is experiencing mechanical obstruction. I recommend visiting an authorized Ford service center during regular business hours. What's _this?_ We have an incoming transmission from a nearby Douglas County public service drone."

Then the usual bevy of klaxons and vocal transmissions resumed, flashing alerts across the dash, "Oh my, warning! Speed in excess of posted maximum! You are..."

Hot white light surrounded her again as the sheriff drone's computerized voice hacked the sound system, "Tara Dean, you are a fugitive. You have 41 seconds to terminate manual encryption. You are operating a stolen vehicle. We will physically disable your hovcar if you do not comply."

As she roared west down the empty rural hovway in the direction of the outlying Lawrence suburbs, the only number Tara could keep in her mind was the distance between herself and The Greystone Behavioral Modification Hospital, now 9.8 kilometers and rapidly increasing. As the distance reached ten kilometers, Tara realized that she was going to die. Or at least severely hurt herself trying to die... so there would be no reason for the Feds to return her to a Bmod hospital. Ever.

Perhaps a crushed spinal column would get her paralyzed corpus shipped off to a nice nanoneuromatics regeneration facility in Cuba? Cuba was nice in January. Maybe a graphene splinter from the Mustang's motherboard would sever her esophagus? Bionic throat reconstruction? Even a euthanization clinic would be better than returning to Marlene Fossbender's slaughterhouse.

"Tara Dean, you are a fugitive. We will disable your vehicle in nineteen seconds. For your own safety, release manual operation encryption codes now."

The Mustang ripped down the hovroad at its maximum governed rate of 199 kph. Distance from Greystone Bmod Hospital, 12.6 kilometers. Waves of dust thrown up from the gravel shoulders billowed behind, partially obscuring the hovcar from aerial view. Tara spit furiously, steering with her left hand, which seemed to be the only part of her body not slicked with blood. Her loose strands of black hair had congealed into half frozen clumps that banged painfully against her ears.

A decidedly human, authority-drenched male voice now began speaking through the Mustang's com over the dizzying rush of wind.

It was a live feed, "Ms. Dean, I know you can hear me. This is Deputy Brick Talboy of the Douglas County Sheriff's Department. My drones are going to open fire on your hovcar with rubberized Faraday bullets in about thirteen seconds. You're eighteen kilometers from the city limits, okay? If you wanna hurt yourself, I can't do much about that. But I can't let you enter the city and risk the lives of innocent citizens. This is your last warning. You need to give us access to your coms before someone gets hurt!"

_Too late, prick._

Tara Dean wished she was in New Hampshire. There had been a tourism ad for the state showing a beautiful summer lake projecting daily in one of the hospital's free holozines. She had never been there, wasn't even certain where New Hampshire was on a map exactly. But she sure as hell was feeling a kinship with the state's motto, _Live Free or Die_.

The phrase ran through her mind as she stuck the blood soaked middle finger of her right hand through the broken window in response to the deputy's request. A botulinum dart instantly answered her gesture, shattering on the door with a sharp _tink._ Glass fragments from the dart's fuselage lodged in her eye, burning wickedly. She frightfully jerked her arm back inside and the Mustang swerved wildly as she winced, struggling to keep it on the hovroad with her foot jammed to the floorboard the whole time. The neuroparalytic residue on the tiny shards of glass began to numb her face.

"Asshole!" She screamed, her left eye now weeping and bleeding uncontrollably.

She squinted, made out the black, pill shaped form of a second security drone flying directly overhead. She was flying so fast that the drone had a difficult time maintaining its course. It was attempting to blind her with its searchlight but was unable to get far enough ahead. Instead, the drone's high intensity floodlight illuminated the hovroad before her for 25 meters in each direction.

The drone's automated voice returned, ripping through the Mustang's com, "Fugitive Tara Dean, prepare to be stopped. We will manually disable your vehicle in eight, seven, six..."

Tara gasped. And not because of the second drone.

She gasped because a long string of bouncing blue lights illuminated in the black fields ahead. The lights were on her right, far off yet, but heading straight towards the hovroad.

There was no time to process it all... the next few seconds faded, melted, congealed into a slow, indefinable parade.

She remembered feeling the drone's insulated Faraday projectiles impact the Mustang's port stability fans, _doonk, doonk, doonk._ This caused the fans' electric turbines to seize, and the hovcar immediately heaved left. The freezing, blood-soaked steering wheel spun out of her hands, snapping two of her fingers sideways. She wailed with agony, clutching her broken left hand to her chest. To the right, illuminated by the drone's floodlights, came charging two, no three, _four_ blue-eyed robofoxes!

_What ARE those things?!?_

The animals tucked their legs against their bodies, fearlessly ramming headlong into the hovcar's right front quarter panel. The impact, combined with the failure of the lateral stability fans, caused the Mustang to flip, up and over, launching across the gravel shoulder into the surrounding fields of winter corn. The hovcar rolled over once, twice, three times in mid-air before impacting the dirt, landing on its roof in a ball of sparks and rubbled metal.

The levfans on the hovcar's belly whined chaotically as Jessica Lopez' ultra sensual voice stated on com, "Oh goodness, you have experienced a vehicular accident. Do not panic. Contacting emergency services. You have experienced..."

Moments before impact, halfway through the first mid-air rotation, emergency charges detonated along crumple junctions in the Mustang's roof supports. The top section of polyaluminum cabin blew free and Tara Dean's unconscious body was instantly enveloped and ejected in a sphere of airbags that launched vertically. As the hovcar rolled on beneath her, smashing to pieces, the emergency collision sphere came bouncing back to Earth, spinning harmlessly into a fallow marijuana field on the opposite side of the hovroad.

When she awoke, Tara's head, no, her soul... felt as if someone had been beating it with a lead boot.

_White bedding? So much pressure._

A fabric of some sort surrounded her. She winced with pain as she tried to move her arms. They were pinned by the cloth. Glass cuts in her eye, broken fingers, agony. The cold sky above was black as an asphalt hovway and she could see stars shining in every direction. She squinted painfully through the caked tears and dried blood.

The next thing that came into view was a large black dog. The beast panted happily as it eyed her.

The dog said, "Birds and lies hide behind dying eyes, Tara Dean."

_Is that dog talking to me?_

She blinked. Her skin burned. How many broken fingers? She thought she saw a person, a dark figure standing behind the animal. The person was leaning in to examine her.

Another face appeared, more clear, unshaven. The man's skin was pale in the light of the rising moon. He wore a straw cowboy hat and smiled congenially, cocking his head to one side. The dog next to him cocked its head in precisely the same direction.

She tried to move again, but her face compressed with ripping pain. Every bone in her body must have been crushed.

_Broken fingers... glass in my eye._

"Don't try to move. You're safe now." said the man. "You'll do best to just relax." The voice was calm and even, a southern accent. His hand was on her shoulder, but she only heard the soothing words, 'Everything's going to be all right now...'

There was nothing left. She allowed herself to collapse into the white fabric bedding. The bedding was hot with the heat of her body.

"Who are you people? The cops?"

The man's face drew itself into a near smile, "Not exactly, ma'am."

She felt unconsciousness returning. Broken fingers sweeping down her eyelids in mercury waves. Her skull came to rest upon a beanbag of warm honey.

Tara blinked one last time.

She tried to smile and said, "Well, cool. Then can I crash with you tonight?" before falling into a field of darkness.

Only the darkness was illuminated by far gone shafts of moonlight glowing down like security drone spots. And it was no longer winter. She could hear the sound of humming, summertime cicadas. It was the sound of love returning. The same emotion that had so often filled the days of her youth.

`**Excerpt from The 2079 C.ommunity N.arcotics E.nforcement D.ivision Trainee Hologuide authored by Franklin Fhelps:**`

`"Remember colleague, your hands are guided by the benevolent hand of the Architect. When engaging a citizen violator, try to resist using terms such as: "arrest," "apprehend," "incarcerate," "imprison" or "jail." These terms apply to individuals perpetuating actual crimes. In reference to non-violent drug offenders, we shall specifically employ the term "assist."`

`For example; When detaining a violator based on a positive alcovap sweep, you shall say to the individual, "Citizen! You are under the influence of alcohol and are presently making decisions that negatively impact society. On behalf of the (Insert Municipality Here) Community Narcotics Enforcement Division, I am assisting you to protect the citizens of (Insert Municipality Here)."`

`If a violating citizen is indigent, unemployed or otherwise socially compromised, then the Compassionate Reforms Division of the IRS will be contacted. CRD-IRS will pay first the arresting officer's commission, then loan the citizen the necessary funds for self help education at an FDIC insured Bmod hospital. Once the addict has passed four weeks of Level 1 Basic Enlightenment (five hours L1 telecommuting permitted each business day) and the hospital board deems them sufficiently briefed in correct protocols, they will be discharged, issued a Pleasium script and supplied with a large quantity of janestamps, which may be used to purchase marijuana at any participating dispensary.`

`A blood alcohol monitoring algorithm will be added in the citizen's combud OS for a period of twelve months following discharge. Any subsequent auto-infractions by the same citizen within that year will be credited to your account at a rate of twice the original commission.`

`Please note, commissions are up to 90% lower for unemployed citizens. The rehabilitation burden on the government is far greater for such individuals. For example; The arrest of a homeless alcohol addict pays only 80 digidollars. Whereas employed citizen arrests currently bring a _500_ digidollar commission.`

`Pursuant to IRS Directive 96H, citizens who are unemployed at the time of their arrest shall be sent directly from the hospital to a government sponsored labor placement facility. Six weeks of manual labor building hovways, scrubbing solar arrays or deseeding hemp bushels is compulsory for all unemployed citizens. Citizens who perform well shall be considered for a permanent Federal labor position at either Terra or lunar based work colonies. If you wish, you may inform the arrested (unemployed citizen) that the IRS garnishment of their future wages to pay back hospital debt is leveled at a fair and just 30% over cost, amortized over six, twelve or eighteen years after employment is established.`

`Families of those individuals who refuse work outright, or those who cannot work due to age or infirmity, have the final option of holosigning IRS FORM W69. Via FORM W69, the violator's family agrees to pay all associated back taxes for their relative's Bmod therapy. Citizens without family, or with families who cannot, or will not, agree to holosign FORM W69, are referred to a qualified CVSW to begin euthanasia training..."`

# `Chapter 1.8 – You Just Met the Boss`

Lawrence, Kansas – May 2078 – Four Years Five Months Before Event.

She was just another University of Kansas girl seated despondently on the dry side of a rain-slicked coffee shop window. Just another blonde betty watching the world of downtown Lawrence go past, wondering what certainties, if any, the future might hold. The botany workforce was saturated, the rent was late, and a mountain of student loan debt loomed over an otherwise flat horizon. She considered herself lucky to get a spot at the narrow metal holobar facing the hovstreet, though the crowds had thinned in the hours since mid-morning and there were now open stools to either side of her. There's a reason the coffee shop was so popular. The Rowdy Pony had the strongest javaballs in the state.

_Top of the fond, as the kids like to say._

It was her favorite place to come put on a buzz and get some creative head-space. The shop was a fixture on 8th Avenue, situated around the corner from the Massachusetts Street walking mall. Its tall, glass storefront windows faced the white-washed stone and red brick exterior of the ancient First National Bank building. The bank building was long since converted to an upscale restaurant, but per local zoning regs, the owners had kept the facade traditional. With half-dome windows and high, decorative cornice molds intact, it still looked like an antique bank. All the buildings in downtown Lawrence were antiques, literally built in other centuries so as to give that section of the city the appearance of an old time holoflix set, if one took only a passing glance.

She had often had the same reverie while getting blended in The Pony – that of being a wallflower seated in a choice balcony high above the stage of life circa 1899. If she couldn't get a seat at the holobar and watch the show, what was the point? She would take her java and float.

Today, however, the open stool had proved one of few fortunes. For hours the rain fell gray as her mood, yet downtown was alive with typical Saturday afternoon activity. Snapping from her daydream in the time it took to return a ping, she was reminded that it was, in fact, not 1899. She was just another blonde betty living through another late May, 21st century afternoon.

A COD buzzed around the corner, floating a standard six meter elevation over the sidewalk. The small gray drone was the size of a rugby football. She watched it pause momentarily, wallowing in its antigrav field above a kid in a hoodie with a silver hovboard strapped to his back. A green LED at its base illuminated and the drone continued on, moving seamlessly away west towards the crowded walking mall.

Couples strolled past the coffee shop window hand in hand, some leading Fidos of various breeds and sizes. Both humans and battborgs looked so happy! A stubby hovstreet vendor in a red-striped hat did a brisk trade, selling grilled tofu and petri-chicken gyros beneath her yellow hovcart umbrella on the nearest corner. Everywhere people chatted into their combuds. From inside, if one didn't know better, it looked like those using a combud had gone batshit and were just chatting with the wind. A pair of Asian businesswomen directly in front of the coffee shop glass talked especially briskly in Mandarin. They were hiding under The Rowdy Pony's green awning to escape the day's drizzle. The girl imagined their lives; clicking happily away, negotiating easy, lucrative transactions with high profile clients in Kuala Lumpur or Berlin.

_I should have majored in com-sci._

Employment on the mind, this one blonde betty in a million returned her focus to the projection of The Journal World holonews floating above the glass topped bar between her and the rain outside. She took another drag off her cheap, disposable vaporjoint, blowing streams of smoky water mist out her nostrils. The synthdiamond tip of the joint glowed blue each time she took a puff.

_I doubt the want-ads have refreshed any new job prospects in the last three minutes, Dorothy._

Her gaze again found the Asian business ladies. The women had lightly bronzed, perfect skin to compliment their perfect features, and both were smartly dressed in purple pinstriped suits and prim jackets, causing the girl to look down mournfully at her sagging, blue hemp overalls and ratty Chuck T's. Her tomboy blonde locks were tied in a messy bun. She was not the sort of betty to make time during a busy semester to tan up for summer with a carotenoid injection from the nurse's station.

_Like I have the digis for a tan anyway. Or perfect features._

In the more idle, vain days of her youth she had often wanted to correct the slight bump along the bridge of her nose. It would have been easy to get a new nose if she had the scrill; D$9,000, one hour of outpatient nanobot surgery at the Hovstreet 31 shopping mall. But then she would be one of _those_ people.

No way, no how. Best to live with the gene map the sky gave you.

In this self-serving, depressed state, the last thing this betty desired was unwanted advances from men. Compared to the garrulous rodeo of humping and monthly, full moon visits to the Planned Parenthood kiosk at the student union that defined her roommate's sex life... the girl was practically a nun. She giggled for the first time that day and took another long, satisfying drag off her vaporjoint.

_Which is why, like a nun, I haven't had sex for nine months._

She again giggled and said to her reflection in the rainy window, "Oh Ingrid, you little Indian tramp..."

The voice from behind surprised her.

The words were so equable yet clearly phrased that she nearly jumped off her stool as the man spoke, "In all fairness, your colleague Ingrid Dutta _is_ a psychology major. Could you expect anything more of one seeking such a... _plebeian_ degree? Now botanical genetics, that is a _truly_ admirable field of consideration. Wouldn't you say?"

She turned and blinked.

_Another PingMe troll? Where did this dude come from? Not through the front door... I've been sitting right here._

She tried to shake off her mid-afternoon javaball buzz. Never before had she laid eyes upon such a well dressed man. He wasn't tall, but he wasn't short. He wasn't terribly muscular, clearly not fat, nor androgynously thin like so many of the college boys. Her scientific mind immediately came to the conclusion that from a standpoint of morphology, he was precisely average, though absolutely unique! Was he young?

_Dog, I'm blended._

The man's age was tough to determine, but if she had to guess, she would have placed him in his early 30's. He wore polished, but not offensively shiny, black dress shoes and a slim fit, two button Merconi suit made of immaculately combed hemplinen. The suit was sharkskin taupe, with barely visible pewter pinstripes. She noted how perfectly it accented his piercing, amber eyes and titian brown hair cut into a classical, side-swept style reminiscent of the simpler times. He was clean shaven. His features were sharp, strong, and he smelled... like nothing. If the smell of nothing could hold an incomprehensible allure. In the man's breast pocket was a folded, Earth-brown handkerchief and with both hands he held before him a crisp, black fedora.

It was the presumptuous smile that made her uncomfortable.

She regained her composure and looked at him square, doing her best put-off, "Mister, if I had a digi for every fellow who looked up Ingrid's profile on PingMe, I'd be queen. So yes, she's my roommate, and no, I'm not going to scan you her Ipv7. Okay? Have a good day."

She waited for the usual acquiescence. Or at least an up and down glance reviewing her cup size before fleeing away like a squirrel. But this man was no squirrel. His eyes never left hers. Not even a second attempt to bring up Ingrid. In fact, the man bowed his head politely and took a single step backwards out of her personal space.

His voice was beyond eloquent, "My apologies, ma'am."

Spoken with a pleasant, melded accent of old British and perhaps Jamaican patois? Very different from the Kansas drawl she was used to.

He continued, "Please, however, rest assured, I have less than zero interest in your roommate. Nor do I wish to engage you in discourse for purposes associated with romance. I was simply attempting to be humorous. A social skill not so forthcoming in my particular case, I'm afraid."

She liked him immediately, but not like that. He reminded her of the big brother she wanted but never had. _Damn_. It was his large captivating, yellow eyes. She had never met anyone like this man in her life.

Something about him still made her nervous, "Well, no worries then. We'll call it good. See ya, pal."

She turned back to the want-ads projecting their viewer-customized, neon messages above the holobar. Five seconds passed.

_Still there._

The man's presence... irritatingly uncomfortable and humorously pleasant.

Five more seconds passed, ten more... she spun back 'round. This time his smile consumed her.

"Yes...?" she managed, feeling instantly high.

The man nodded eloquently in her direction, "I see you're a woman of practical merits, Ms. Nichols. A character attribute I find most compelling. Allow me to reiterate, my reasons for engaging you in conversation are not those with which you are apparently accustomed. Rather, assuming you have an interest in employment in the field of agricultural science, I am here to offer you a job." He blinked his amber eyes and tilted his head inquisitively, gesturing towards the empty stool beside her, "May I?"

She hesitated, gazing at him dubiously, then shrugged, "It's a free country."

The gentleman set his fedora on the glass holobar and asked with a deft grin, "Is it? Might I buy you another round? Something a little stronger? OneThread© javaball perhaps?"

She smirked, "Thanks, but no. If I have another java my heart's going to explode."

"Ahh, I see. Pleasium then?"

"Never touch the stuff."

"Good for you. Very well."

The handsome man turned and gestured to the tough as balls barista named Maggie who managed The Rowdy Pony. Maggie was notorious for providing slow, angst-ridden service to men.

He called across the bar, "Margaret darling, would you be so kind as to bring me a café au lait, soy, with a hint of organic brown sugar in a cappuccino cup? Kindly remember to use the Ethiopian beans."

The girl laughed to herself, _this should be good._

Such a line directed at Maggie would normally elicit a curt, "Why don't you drop to one knee and suck it, dicko?"

Instead the blonde girl watched in awe as Maggie's normally dour expression convened to a smile and she responded pleasantly, "Coming right up, Mr. Abner."

The man nodded congenially, as if they were old friends, "So kind, Margaret."

He then unbuttoned his freshly pressed blazer and sat himself on the stool one over, again consuming the girl's attention with his wolf-like yellow eyes. For a moment she felt like she might pass out.

His demeanor was still charming, but the purpose behind his voice was more direct, "Ms. Nichols, would you afford me the pleasure of a formal introduction?" He extended his hand.

Common courtesy was no longer common.

She raised her eyebrows, "Say again?"

The man continued without a hitch, "My name is Daxane Julius Abner. I am the proprietor of Abner Family Pumpkin & Gourd. Given the fact that you are obviously a woman who likes to get down to brass tacks, I would prefer to introduce myself before we carry on to speaking of business."

"Oh yeah. Of course."

She reached out and shook his hand. The grip was firm, yet his skin soft like a woman's.

She found herself so curious she couldn't stand it, "I'm sorry. I'm Dorothy. Dorothy Nichols. But you seem to know that."

"Indeed I do. Your name is Dorothy Marie Nichols. You were born April 22, 2057, to farmers, Leonard and Marjel Nichols of Salina, Kansas. You are a Taurus. Surprisingly, you don't know how to operate a hovcar with a manual transmission. Your parents farm outstanding median strength marijuana and raised you to respect the right of individual privacy; a political philosophy endemic to the classical Traditionalist mindset and a cornerstone value of the New Episcopal Church of Practical Agnosticism in which you were raised. You began official employment at Nichols-Indica, Inc. at the age of twelve. You genetically engineered your first strain of marijuana at the age of thirteen, even though, per your father's wishes, you didn't try your first vaporjoint until you were fourteen. The strain of marijuana you engineered, dubbed _Dotty's Surprise,_ continues to be your family's number one seller to this day. At age eighteen, you enrolled in the expected field of agrobotany and in precisely four years you have now graduated at the top of your class with a 3.87 GPA. Despite all this, you are having difficulty securing proper employment, a situation that I consider to be a tragedy in no uncertain..."

The blonde betty named Dorothy Nichols was now sitting bolt upright.

She raised her hands defensively, "Whoa, whoa, whoa! I mean, whoa, Mr. _Abner_."

"Please. Call me Dax."

"Fine. She squinted apprehensively, "Alright, Mr. Dax. This is creep city. _How exactly_ do you know all this?"

Before he could answer, Maggie walked over with his café au lait, exactly as requested, complete with a hemplinen napkin and a pleasant smile, "Here you go, Mr. Abner, fresh Ethiopian as prescribed." Maggie blushed, "I must say it's so great to see you! You oughta drop by for a speedball more often."

The man named Dax reached out and held Maggie's hand in his own after she set down his coffee, "Ah, Margaret. Your smile is always radiant, like a million suns in a single sky."

Maggie tittered like a little girl.

The gentleman, for there was no other word to properly describe him, continued, "You'll have to forgive my absence from The Pony of late. I fear employ of farm and flock have held my hours in a gilded cage." His tone brightened, "Have you had the pleasure of meeting Dorothy?"

Maggie turned to Dorothy and bumped her fist, "Yeah, I see this betty 'round time to time. How you doing, hot stuff?" She winked and, without waiting for a reply, turned and carried on with the man like they were the only two people in the shop, "I understand, Mr. Abner. I know you're busy. But _you_ know it's always _my_ pleasure. Hit me up if there's anything else I can getcha, kay?" She shot Dorothy a furtive glance over her shoulder as she strutted off, "Nice meeting you, hot stuff. Officially, that is."

Dorothy watched in disbelief as Maggie resumed her usual position behind the barista bar. A young, hip artsy sort with tattoos on his neck, dressed in black ankle-biter hempjeans had been waiting for service. The boy wore an exasperated expression and drummed his fingers impatiently on the counter.

Maggie's face resumed its usual snarl, "What the hell do _you_ want, Rembrandt?" When the boy didn't respond she barked, " _Well?_ What's it gonna be? You here for a cup of java? J-ball? E-joint? Blueberry muffin? Or you just gonna stand there lookin' like a bitch with a stylus behind your ear?"

Dorothy turned back to Dax Abner, eyes wide, "How in the world did you get Maggie to smile? I've _never_ seen her smile! Let alone bring someone a coffee personally. I've been coming here for four years!"

Dax Abner smiled graciously, "Well, to be fair, I do _own_ The Pony. Margaret is a misunderstood figure. She is also, beyond the shadow of a doubt, the best ganja barista in the Metroplex."

"You _own_ The Rowdy Pony?" she asked doubtfully. "How come I've never seen you here before?"

He looked away slyly, "Ahh, Ms. Nichols. So many questions."

"Well, excuse me if I'm slightly curious how you seem to know everything... about everyone."

His smile was infectious, "Fair enough. Well, I haven't actually been _in_ the establishment during business hours in nearly two years." He looked around as if seeing the place for the first time, "It's quite a lively environ during the day, wouldn't you say? It's just beautiful the way the natural light comes through the windows. Of course, this dreadful rain..."

Dorothy shook her head. She extracted her cheap, disposable e-joint from her overalls to give her hands something to do.

She took a long, deep drag, "If this really is a job interview, apologies. But I'm not sure if I can get high enough at the moment."

"Do whatever feels natural," Dax Abner shrugged. "It is the weekend after all."

She put the vaporjoint down and knitted her forehead, "Okay fine. So you own The Rowdy Pony. Now can you please tell me how you know all that stuff about my life?"

"Public records, plus the application of a few logical assumptions."

She shook her head, "No way. My parents' religious affiliation, or lack thereof, wouldn't be in public records. I finished my last phytochemistry final yesterday morning at eleven. Marks don't push for a week. So how would you _possibly_ know that I'm graduating with a 3.87? Even if I probably am?" she quipped, not attempting to conceal her pride.

Dax Abner didn't speak immediately. This made her even more curious. He reached to his inside jacket pocket and withdrew a tarnished, sterling silver cigarette box engraved on its face with an intricate Rhodesian tribal pattern. The back of the box was smooth and unembossed, save the words, _Ready Aye Ready CO HMCS Iroquois._ He flipped open the silver container with a brisk, metallic snap and withdrew a 100 length matte black vaporjoint.

Dorothy's eyes lit up, "Is that a _Rodeo Drive 2075?_ "

Dax cocked his head at her knowingly, "Not surprising, you know your ganja. It most certainly is."

"Those things are like a thousand digis a stick, right? Synthesized from the sativa garden on ISS 3?"

Dax chuckled as he took a drag off the vaporjoint, its fine, emerald tip glowing pleasantly.

"Ahh, humanity's constant obsession with urban mythology never fails to amuse." He exhaled the pure water vapor and the electronic diode faded back to a gray ashen color. "Believe it or not, they are not growing marijuana on any of the space stations, save the one orbiting Mars. You should thus clarify, to whomever you wish, that the liquid THC in this e-joint is exclusively synthesized from an International Space Station _strain_. The plants specifically are cultivated at Garden 1227 in New L.A. at the intersection of South Rodeo and Beverwil. Care for a hit?"

Dorothy smiled and shook her head, enjoying the man's matter of fact manner. "No way," she said with a smile, "I'm irie. Is this _really_ a job interview? Sir?" she added as an afterthought, which made her again think awkwardly of having a big brother.

Dax took a second pull off the Rodeo e-joint and returned the case to his pocket, "First of all, Ms. Nichols, there's a rare need to call me sir, unless that's what you prefer. Secondly, the degree to which consciousness is altered by consuming marijuana is more a reflection of an individual's psychological stability than anything else. For me, it's a matter of social courtesy."

She waited through the silence in anticipation, getting nervous again. Dorothy wished the man wasn't so flawlessly handsome and well-dressed. She felt like a toad.

"Very well," he said, holding her eyes with his own once more. "Getting down to brass tacks as it were. How would you like a full time position at Abner Family Pumpkin & Gourd? Your primary task will be encoding synthetic plant genomes."

She could not hide her hesitation, "Well, I don't..."

He interrupted before she could think further, "This will be a two year contract with benefits. I will pay off 100% of your student loans and provide an annual starting salary of 750,000 digidollars, paid in advance, annually."

Dorothy squinted and put her hand up, unable to ignore her natural pessimism, "Let me get this straight. You're going to pay me 750,000 d-bucks? For an entry level gene splicing job? With _pumpkins_? You know my student loans are almost a mil?"

Dax Abner's yellow gaze calmed her in a way no human's eyes ever had.

She swayed on her stool at the silken sound of his voice saying, "That is correct."

She shrugged, "Well, it all just sounds too good to..."

His eyes captivated, assuaging all her usual anxieties, holding her with his pupils as he spoke more softly, " _Now_ is when you decide, Ms. Nichols. I won't come around twice. I certainly do not accept outside applications. You'll be practicing genetic botany in a state of the art laboratory. It is a one time offer, and the next thing you are going to say is _yes_ or _no_. Do you want the job or not?"

Dorothy gave up and let herself drift into the tigery pools of his gaze, the warmth of his expression, the heat of his presence. There was something about him that made her acquiesce, when normally she would have been running for the door.

She said, "Yes, okay. _Yes!_ But I still," she shrugged with confusion, "I mean, I don't know what to say..."

A quiet klaxon emanated from somewhere in his suit. He took a last, prim sip of coffee and stood abruptly, pushing the stool away smoothly with a polished heel.

Mr. Dax Abner extended his hand, "Sometimes silence is the best option, Dorothy. Do you mind if I call you Dorothy?"

She felt her cheeks flush uncontrollably, "No sir."

"Very well then, consider yourself hired. Now, kindly forgive, but urgent matters await my attention. Today is Saturday. I will see you Monday. Eight am then?"

Dorothy made a conscious effort to contain her bewilderment, trying not to smile too ebulliently.

_My mom is going to freak!_

She finally let herself gush, "Yes, I mean, absolutely, I get that. _Thank you!_ Where am I going exactly and what do..."

His raised hand was accompanied by that ever congenial smile, "The answers to all of your questions were transmitted to your combud at the beginning of our conversation. It has been more than my pleasure."

With that he nodded, flipped the fedora back onto his head with precision and carried his empty coffee cup, saucer and still-folded napkin to Maggie at the bar.

Maggie turned to greet him, expectantly, with the same genuine smile as before lighting up her nappy visage.

The expression made Maggie look almost like a cheerleader, "You know you don't have to do that, Mr. Abner," she said, taking the cup and saucer.

Dax Abner directed his gaze to a handwritten chalkboard hanging on the brick wall behind her, "The sign _does_ say bus your own dishes. So until next time, Margaret, keep that sunshine coming," he said with a wink, then turned and walked imperiously out the door, turning up the collar of his jacket to mind the rain, and vanished like a ghost into the sidewalk crowds.

She hoped her mouth wasn't hanging too far open with disbelief as she watched him go. A few minutes earlier, Dorothy Nichols had been just another blonde betty sipping sullen j-balls at The Rowdy Pony. Now she felt like she was floating. Her combud chimed behind her inner ear. She pulled her holotab from her overalls. Indeed, the message LED was blinking steadily, _AF Pumpkin & Gourd 1:06 pm._

Dorothy looked up at Maggie, a barista for whom she suddenly had a whole new appreciation. She hoped her expression of bewilderment might induce the short, curly haired woman to provide some hint of an explanation as to what had just happened.

Maggie simply shrugged, "Trust me, hot stuff, the fewer questions you got, the easier it goes. Best to float with it. And by the way, _congratulations_ ," she winked. "You just met the boss."

`**Fragmented Remains from the Cloud Diary of Daxane Julius Abner – April 6, 2076 8:08 am – Six Years Six Months Before Event.**`

`"...feel as though I'm being tortured. We are going to need more power. A good deal more.`

`The dolphin is a rascal. I've augmented the wind turbine with a standard-ag solar array, but we still overdraw from the Federal grid. Solution; gravotemporal fusion reactor. The dolphin (who is now requesting to be addressed as Joan, after some antique heroine regarded by the French) is able to streamsync through the integrated barn antennae. She can blind, control, redirect any drone within two km. She is also able to insert mimicry data into a drone's Govcloud interface. She draws down the solar batts in thirty minutes, however, so I can only have her bridged with the mainframe selectively.`

`Cyborgs are needed to escort the shipments of vodka. I have been going personally. I have only had to allure one Kansas State Trooper thus far. It was easy enough. Hugo and I left the kind gent sleeping beside his patrol hovcar on the side of the Interstate.`

`Goran is only able to cook up enough product to fill the trunk of a Lincoln anyhow. One trunk full of liquor a week. I have decided on pumpkins, gourds. The fields this spring are now occupied by a pair of labor bots doing the planting. It all appears very normal.`

`The janebev and coffee shop is purchased, running. It is generating a few digidollars. _The Rowdy Pony,_ it is called. The collegiate crowd seems to like that. Impassable, tactile holographic camouflage protects interior and exterior stairs to the speakeasy beneath.`

`The speakeasy I have dubbed _The Green Lady Lounge_. More digidollars are made by the speakeasy from a hovcar trunk full of vodka in a single weekend than I shall make selling pumpkins and coffee for the year!`

`Goran has constructed the most elegant of permanent stills, towering brass fractionating columns with power hungry electric boilers, soon onstream. Did I mention cyborgs? I am exhausted. Too little sleep these past two months. Cyborgs shall win the day. Being fusion powered themselves, they function as infinite range extenders for the intrastream. Once I have fusion in the barn, that is.`

`The Israeli is bringing me five DOGS units tomorrow. Four new CIV units and a refurbished MIL model. The dolphin assures me she can control them. Fusion is the key! After tomorrow, there will be no... UNSCHEDULED HARDWARE DESTRUCT / DATA COMPROMISE / INITIATE BACKUP.EXE FOR REINTEGRATION FORMA... LOSS. LOSS. LOS"`

# `Chapter 1.9 – Abner Family Pumpkin & Gourd`

January 2080 – Two Years Nine Months Before Event.

The facility's main control room was called _the aquarium_. It was a geometrically perfect 37 x 37 meter square chamber located underneath the barn. The ceiling was six meters high, and the cement foundation walls were covered with a layer of self-healing, weapons grade rubcrete capable of absorbing the kinetic blast energy of a handheld particle cannon. The space contained a single egress, a meter in width, situated in the east wall. To exit, a person had to turn left and walk down a narrow corridor to an armored blast door that rolled on a mechanical track.

Shortly before 5 am, Dorothy found herself seated alone before aquarium control on the far end of the room opposite the Exit. The glass-surfaced desk was projecting a low-res display of surface terrain, with all seven of her field units represented by simple, infrared line forms. Six daisy-chained, 110 cm holoscreens were mounted on the wall facing, and to her left hung the aquarium's only piece of art.

The image was a reproduction of _The Ballad of the Jealous Lover of Lone Green Valley_ , a painting by the 20th century American painter Thomas Hart Benton. A directional, LED spotlight shone on the painting, causing its primary colors to jump off the canvas in sharp contrast to the blackish-gray rubcrete of the background.

Between holodesk control and the Exit stood a curving alkali-aluminosilicate wall whose contents occupied 80% of the room's usable space. The 200,000 liter saltwater aquarium glowed an emerald hue and was filled with shimmering, violet coral formations complete with a lavastone cavern system and a white sand floor. Strands of sea kelp grew up from the sand towards the aquarium's SimulSun© hydrosky and swayed blissfully in the artificial microcurrents circulating the water.

A small school of silvery cod circled the tank pensively. Two aquatic, janitorial spider-bots, each the size of a cantaloupe, busily combed the sand, rocks and corals. The spider-bots recycled waste products out of the artificial ecosystem and maintained healthy algae levels, monitoring water temperature, salinity and PH. Every two meters, the polarized glass wall was structurally reinforced with iron girders that disappeared up from the floor into the blackness of the ceiling. Aside from the cod and the spider-bots, the gargantuan aquarium appeared to be devoid of life.

_Your primary task will be coding synthetic plant genomes... that was a good one, Dax._

Though it was unnecessary for her to turn her body in order to communicate with the supercomputer's driver, Dorothy did so out of habit. She felt it was a simple matter of respect.

She spoke in a normal voice, "The boys are 6/10th of a kilom from the southeast perimeter. Probably a good time to come plug in. You got anymore pings on those ferals?"

There was no response at first.

After several seconds, from one of the many lavastone cave openings at the aquarium's center, a gray-blue Maui dolphin flashed into sight. The tiny cetacean wore the ubiquitous dolphin smile. She was just under a meter in length and swam in an elegant, swift arc around the perimeter of her habitat. The cod panicked. She tore through their numbers and snapped one of the fish in her beak, devouring it in a few quick, scaly bites before swimming back around to the side of the enclosure that faced Dorothy and the bank of holoscreens.

Dorothy smiled happily at the sight.

The dolphin centered herself, floating with grace to the top of the aquarium so her blowhole and rounded dorsal fin protruded from the surface. She positioned her head between a pair of small, glowing electroencephalogram terminals that hung down into the water. The terminal interface was mounted to a track that rolled it along the aquarium's edge, providing 360 degree access. Once in place on either side of the dolphin's brain, the electroencephalogram diodes blinked from red to green. Dorothy saw the small subdermal processing chip similar to a human combud begin to glow blue on the dolphin's forehead as she floated.

Dorothy nodded at the dolphin with a grin, "Good morning, Joan," and spun back to the holodesk.

A monotone female vocal avatar resonated evenly from invisible loudspeakers embedded in the ceiling, "Greetings, Dorothy Marie Angevine. Accessing Drone B datastream now."

Fourteen meters above them stood the enormous barn. Two of the wall mounted holoscreens had been displaying a visual of the land immediately surrounding it. The surveillance image faded and was replaced by a slow, cascading waterfall of white computer text trickling down the monitors. When the dolphin closed her eyes, the stream of digits accelerated to a blurring pace, moving so fast that Dorothy could now only see morphing, abstract patterns in the characters.

Joan spoke, "Network spooling complete. Median processing 256 petaflops/s. Please note, Drone B power supply is at 53% and falling."

Dorothy glanced at their drone's power read, "We're fine. Should have 45 minutes of fly time easy. I'm a lot more worried about those wild fusion sigs. Update please?"

Joan corrected, "It is recommended that Drone B dock with the charging nest in 37 minutes 24 seconds to avoid antigrav failure. Scanning perimeter data, contact affirmative. Assuming maintained trajectory, eighteen unregistered micro-fusion cyborgs will breach our perimeter within 3 minutes 59 seconds. Feral cyborgs are traveling in a single file orientation across open land, average velocity, 51 kph. Likelihood of Coyote Pack estimated at 97.2%."

"Oh my skies!" said Dorothy, covering her mouth, "It's really them."

The dolphin continued, "Two Douglas County SD-A7 combat drones are pursuing hovcar license number KS4-137. The vehicle is presently traveling west on County Hovway 1500 at a velocity of 199 kph. Drones in sync with Douglas County Sheriff central command, recording complete holoscript, monitor four. Please note; A7 drones armed with both self-propelling botulinum and Faraday electrical dampening micro-torpedoes. Human field team should hold current position. Defensive engagement, DOGS units only."

"Those things sound nasty," said Dorothy.

"The SD-A7 drone is a remote controlled aerial robot. Nastiness is not a factor." said Joan. "If current velocities are maintained, hovcar KS4-137 will intercept Coyote Pack in 1 minute 59 seconds. Note; lead A7 unit has opened fire on hovcar operator. Extreme caution advised. Human law enforcement units will not arrive for another 13 minutes, 48 seconds."

_Employment as a genetic botanist..._

Dorothy tapped a holographic icon floating over the glass table in front of her, "You guys getting this? Don't you all _dare_ take another step towards those Dogdamn Coyotes! I don't care how curious you are."

Her husband's voice was gritty, southern-tinged, "Roger that." Winter wind whistled across his comdot feed, "Flip me to intra with Joan."

Dorothy slid another icon to the right and knitted her fingers together as she studied the 3D display.

"Joan? How are you this morning?" asked her husband.

The dolphin's transcribed voice responded, "William Thomas Angevine, unnecessary verbal contributions to the stream add no empirical benefit to our mission objective."

Dorothy dropped her head in her hands as her husband replied, "Sorry, Joan. Didn't mean to break your heart so early in the day."

"My heart is a four chambered, mammalian organ distributing oxygenated blood across my pulmonary system at a rate of 28 beats per minute. The human predisposition for assigning spirituality to non-sentient cellular matter elicits my ongoing request for additional explanation at a later date. Given present circumstances, I shall truncate my reply to say that I am operating within normal parameters. Geo-mapping with our drone is established. Adjusting Drone B elevation to 500 meter stealth hover, increasing scan resolution to maximum. All transmissions now black-fractal encrypted. Please limit unnecessary com activity. Thank you."

William said, "Joan, you're a dish."

Dorothy frowned, irritated, "Don't, Will. There's a pack of ragged cyborgs, a stolen hovcar being piloted by Dog knows who and two armed combat drones converging on our property! The map's up now. You sure we don't need to spool THOR?"

"No time. The Rottweilers have this."

Dorothy felt herself chill slightly at the perpetual calm in his voice.

_Sometimes it's like he's not real..._

She replied quietly, "Whatever you say."

The hologram before her had transformed from a low resolution map into a perfect virtual reproduction. Every detail of the land was revealed as it would appear to the naked eye. Even the near-full moon hung in a virtual night sky, shining ambient light across the dark field. Wispy clouds blew west to east, occasionally obscuring the view of their drone, causing it to adjust its position.

"Joan, can you increase model illumination by a factor of ten?"

"Affirmative."

Joan waved her tail up and down faster and the holographic map artificially brightened. Everything was now visible. Dorothy touched the holocontrols and drew two fingers apart, magnifying the view of her field team.

_My family._

They were positioned at the far end of the pumpkin field on a small rise that provided a clear view of the farm's only access road, County Hovway 1500. Thousands of acres of neighboring agricultural fields stretched out in the blackness around them, seemingly infinite. Dax Abner sat beside their distributions manager, Hugo Velasquez, in the six-wheeled, Kawasaki Solar Mule. Their boss was being unusually reticent. He methodically scanned the horizon line through night vision HUD-goggles and was dressed in the only other outfit Dorothy had ever seen him wear besides a pressed suit: a set of tan overalls paired with black farm boots. The resolution on the drone's camera was so exact she could see the wind-disheveled tosses in his normally perfect, reddish-brown hair.

Hugo the mule sat leaned back, one leg resting on the Kawasaki's dash. His other knee bounced nervously as he aggressively puffed on an old school joint. Unbelievable volumes of marijuana smoke billowed from his nostrils, exacerbated by the cold. Dorothy could see Hugo's dark, bushy mustache flitting in the wind as he chattered eagerly at Dax. She wished she could hear what they were saying. Like her husband, Hugo did not have a human biosync processing drive installed, and Dax had forbidden unnecessary com traffic with the aquarium before they left the house.

To the right of the Solar Mule was their chief of security, William Thomas Angevine. The man Dorothy had recently made her husband. A silver comdot the size of an antique quarter stuck to the skin near his left ear perfectly replicated his speech. She could hear his steady breathing. He knelt on the bare dirt of the pumpkin field dressed in blue jeans, synthleather cowboy boots and a black WarmCoure©. Dirt-blonde hair poked out from under the hempstraw cowboy hat that was perpetually propped on his head.

Before him, arranged in a line, four Rottweilers lay on the ground panting happily. The animals' eyes fixated on William's every move. The two animals on the left were visibly larger than the two on the right. As her husband tilted his head, all four Rottweilers tilted their heads. When Dax said something to William and he turned to listen, the animals simultaneously changed their gaze to focus on Dax. Their fuzzy, bobbed, black tails wagged with excitement. She could see their tufts of white chest fur blowing in the cold night breeze.

Red text on the holomap above each Rottweiler provided their respective designations; _AK9CIVbeta [SIEGFRIED], AK9CIVgamma [FREYA], AK9CIVdelta [LOFN], AK9CIVepsilon [SNOTRA]._

Despite her anxiety, Dorothy couldn't help but smile as she watched LOFN's back leg jut out, kicking her sister, SNOTRA in the rib cage. Only then did SNOTRA's gaze leave William as she snarled and nipped at LOFN's flopping ear. LOFN dodged the strike and snarled in turn, flashing her three centimeter carbide tipped canines at her sister. Their movements were completely organic. If one didn't know that the Rottweilers were, in fact, cybernetic organisms wrapped in living BIOSKIN©, they could easily mistake them for frisky, jumbo sized litter mates.

_LOFN and SNOTRA are the runts of that litter I suppose?_

The replicated perfection of the animals' appearance gave Dorothy a renewed sense of faith in their ability to get everyone she cared about through the coming battle.

Joan's computerized voice cut her thoughts, "Hovcraft vehicle KS4-137 and Coyote One's pack will intersect in 61 seconds."

William snapped his fingers. All four DOGS units immediately came to attention.

He said, "It's time."

It was to be a defensive-only mission. Extract the hovcar pilot, get out.

_But why get involved, Dax?_ thought Dorothy.

Everything had happened too quickly. There was too little time, too many unpredictable variables. The sheriff and his posse of human snipers and assault cyborgs would arrive only minutes after the Rottweilers made contact. The Coyotes were the basis of a popular, worldwide mythology across the entire holostream. The last thing they needed was a media circus on their own doorstep. The extraction had to be precise.

Dorothy narrowed the magnification further. She watched her husband's hand signals bring the DOGS units to a sitting position. He closed his eyes, touching each cyborg on the head, SIEGFRIED, FREYA, LOFN and lastly, SNOTRA. The DOGS units one by one closed their own large, peaceful brown eyes in response. Their titanalum rib cages rose and fell with the simulated breath that was part of every cyborg's basic bio-mimic function. Their paws contracted and relaxed, digging into the earth in a manner that was entirely... she searched for the word.

_Biological? Natural._

"Eyes," said William.

The Rottweilers' true nature was revealed. Their eight vidorbs opened simultaneously, burning with a robotic, magenta hue that gave Dorothy goosebumps. She had only seen the creatures on battle-stat twice. One of those two times, she had watched LOFN run straight through the brick wall of a residential speakeasy like it was a hemplinen drape hanging from a clothesline. Her respect for the animals' strength was immense.

Her husband's eyes were still closed, his voice clear and low, "SIEGFRIED, FREYA, spool TOHO cannons. You two are gonna burn the sheriff's birds where they fly, then fall to assist your sisters. Establish a ten meter perimeter around that hovcar operator, minimize contact. No matter what, cosmetic damage _only_ to Coyote One. Joan has uploaded her Ipv5 address. Check and recheck. Her reactor signature floats dynamically between units, only one character off from her pack mates." William tilted the brim of his hat towards the yet unseen forces hurriedly converging on the hovroad, "Okay. Let's see what the boss is paying me for. Freedom."

William swept both hands away from his chest and opened his eyes.

The Rottweilers leapt to their paws, yipping. They turned abruptly southeast, flaring their wet nostrils to scan the wind. SIEGFRIED'S black lips curled into a menacing snarl. All four DOGS units fell to their haunches and jumped through the air, landing in a spray of dust a dozen meters off, blurring away in tandem at incomprehensible speeds across the pumpkin field's desiccated winter surface.

Before she zoomed out to track the battle, Dorothy panned their drone's telescoping lens over her husband's face. She noted with a sudden lump in her throat that a tear had formed in the corner of his eye. How strange that was.

_William? Must just be the wind._

His neuro-psychic link to the Rottweilers was powerful.

_Tethering, Dax calls it._

This would be the cyborgs' most complicated engagement to date. Everyone had felt the tension steadily mounting like a roving electric storm since Dax had awoken them 29 minutes earlier. It felt like years to Dorothy since klaxons notifying law enforcement of a terrorist attack at Greystone Behavioral Modification Hospital had begun flooding the holostream.

She knitted her fingers with nervous anticipation. Only the sky itself knew what savagery the next few minutes might bring.

`**The Lawrence Journal World – January 30, 2080 – Front Page – FERAL CYBORG CARCASS FOUND / ARSONIST AT LARGE. Your Ten-Sent Federal News by Martin Wringle, LJW**`

`Moments ago, The Douglas County Sheriff's Office confirmed that the image (see projected) trending on social media platforms is indeed one of the legendary Darkpool Labs' Coyotes. On PingMe alone, the projection received nearly 3,000,000 hits in less than nine hours before being taken down by officials at the Federal Cyborg Commission. The leaked holograph of the cybernetic creature shows an internal metal chassis containing a deactivated fusion core and is proof positive for conspiracy theorists who have long speculated that the Coyote Pack yet roams the countryside here in Kansas. Journalists are frantically seeking information on how an animal powered by fusion was able to maintain a stable code stream for seventeen years. Of greater speculation; are the remaining seventeen Coyotes still at large?`

`Further complicating events in our sleepy town of 1,000,000 souls: the crash of a stolen hovcar at the same location where the Coyote chassis was discovered. In the early morning hours of January 28th, a 2079 Mustang GT was stolen from Greystone Behavioral Modification Hospital (the same facility where just last month we reported on an act of arson by alcohol addict Tara Dean of New Riverside, California). Sources within Greystone's security department have confirmed that this same individual escaped and stole the hovcar by hacking the owner's personal holotab, floating 15.8 kilometers before the vehicle was disabled by law enforcement drones.`

`The sheriff's department has declined to provide us with footage of the actual chase and crash that ended with the hovcar's emergency collision sphere being discharged. Citizen Tara Dean has escaped, and as of this time is considered an armed and dangerous fugitive.`

`Thank you for reading today's Ten-Sent Federal News – Sponsored by PingMe`

# `Chapter 1.10 – The Prophet of War`

Dorothy spun in her chair and looked at Joan. The dolphin's tail was moving slightly faster under the increased data load. Her pectoral fins gyrated back and forth smoothly to compensate, keeping the temporal lobes of her head in precise balance between the aquarium's cetacean electroencephalogram terminals. The dolphin's eyes were closed.

_I have to remember she's an animal. Am I an animal?_

"How you doing back there, Joan?"

"Dorothy Nichols-Angevine, your combud is reporting a 19% rise in adrenal gland cortisol saturation. You are experiencing psychological stress. Please be aware it is well within my capacity to process this volume of data. Your concern is noted. At this juncture however, I will recommend that you return to your interface console. AK9CIV DOGS units will engage feral targets on County Hovroad 1500 adjacent to Anderson Corn in twenty seconds, nineteen, eighteen, seventeen..."

Dorothy twisted back to the holoscreen array and reoriented the drone's camera to focus on the various converging elements in the field. From the wide angle 3D perspective she could now see the small, boxy Ford Mustang being rendered at the perimeter of the holomap. Only one headlight was functioning. The vehicle was floating so fast that its prop fans threw up clouds of gravel dust from the hovway shoulders flowing behind it like an airplane's contrail.

At this perspective, the black bodies of their Rottweilers were invisible, only their vidorbs represented by eight minuscule blips of red light. The DOGS units had reached the road. SIEGFRIED, the most advanced model, was running six meters in front of FREYA, who followed at a close second, clocking 146 kph. At a steadily growing distance, the identical twins, SNOTRA and LOFN, galloped side by side at their lesser maximum velocity of 120 kph.

Dax, Hugo and William were all in the Solar Mule, rolling far behind on slow, old fashioned wheels. Dorothy locked the aft cam on the Kawasaki's Ipv7, then returned pad control to the drone's primary nose lens. She increased magnification. The silver hovcar was now easy to see. Two Douglas County Sheriff's A7 combat drones had their searchlights fixed on it, one flying in front, one behind, the units obviously being controlled by a human hand. The drone driver was attempting to blind the Mustang's pilot.

She quickly typed a citizen ID request into the tangible holokeys. An image of the operator's face appeared on the lower right monitor accompanied by the following text; _Tara A. Dean, WANTED – Federal Bmod Fugitive / Vehicular Arson / Cyber Terrorism_. This holograph was paired with a running string of data that Dorothy didn't have time to examine.

Her brow furrowed with concern. The Coyote Pack was still invisible.

_Why can't I see them?_

She magnified the grid where they should be by an additional 50%. Nothing. The clouds parted, moonlight softly illuminating the winter lands. She magnified again, 90%. This time she drew in a breath and held it. There they were, terrifying looking creatures, all but one running with blackened eyes.

She zoomed out. The Coyotes would intercept the Mustang _before_ their DOGS units arrived. They had not been represented on the wide angle hologram because only the single blue vidorb of Coyote One was eerily illuminated. She led the other seventeen cyborgs behind her in a silent, focused charge. They galloped blind, single file behind their packmaster. The small gray paws of each Coyote unit landed lightly, one after the other in the exact spot where the cyborg before it had stepped. This left a trail that even to an experienced hunter would look like the course of a single animal.

Dorothy maximized her drone's holoview of Coyote One. The small cyborg's jowls were flared with menace. Her BIOSKIN© coat was ripped in spots along her legs and head. Some of the wounds were roughly scabbed. Others bled openly. Dark synthblood stains mottled her heathered fur.

_Why aren't they healing?_

Joan's voice filled the com, "Coyote Pack will impact hovcar KS4-137 in five, four, three, two..."

Dorothy shifted focus, constraining the high resolution holomap to a forty meter perspective over the impending crash.

All at once, the eyes of every Coyote illuminated and they broke single file formation. The main body of the pack held back while the four lead cyborgs leapt the irrigation ditch at the edge of the hovroad and charged the Mustang. Each impacting animal contorted into a tight ball in the final second before collision. Simultaneously, three explosions of light erupted on the far side of the hovcar, _doonk! – doonk – doonk!_

"Rear A7 law enforcement drone has fired Faraday projectiles," said Joan flatly.

The electrical dampening micro-torpedoes disabled the Mustang's port stabilization fans, causing it to careen sharply left, minimizing the Coyotes' impact. Instead of ripping through the aluminum door panel, the animals tumbled across the asphalt, the weakened effect of their momentum pushing the hovering Mustang into a mid-air flip.

So many different events converged in the 120 second span of time following the crash that Dorothy couldn't possibly track them all. Many times over the coming days they would replay the holovid, analyzing each moment in high definition.

The Ford Mustang GT auto-ejected its operator, encasing her body in an emergency collision sphere that launched airborne as the roof supports exploded and the vehicle toppled end over end like a skipping stone across the adjacent corn field. Showers of sparks illuminated the blackness. The primary levfans sucked up basketball sized chunks of plowed earth, flinging them high into the night as the Mustang's crumpled roof slammed down onto the shoulder, landing on one of the Coyotes, crushing a rear leg. The entire pack howled in alarm.

The collision sphere itself bounced and bounced and bounced. It rolled erratically down the asphalt into the fields north of the hovway.

_Purple Tree Farms' property,_ thought Dorothy.

The fourteen Coyotes who had not attacked the vehicle itself intently pursued the collision sphere. They yipped with excitement as it bounced a dozen more times, tossing clouds of dust and finally coming to a halt hundreds of meters away in a shallow ravine.

Four spotlights emanating from the A7 sheriff's drones tracked the sphere and the crushed shape of the Mustang itself. The unmanned aircraft circled to a stable hover. Once stabilized, swarms of botulinum darts whistled from launch ports along the drone bellies, harmlessly sticking in the external skin of the collision sphere.

_Still functioning on automated response. What moron is flying those bots?_

Several darts were also directed at the Coyotes' unregistered fusion signatures. The glass tubes of neurotoxin shattered on their anvil hard bodies. Some of the diamond tipped injection needles remained, dangling like the tops of broken wine bottles in the cyborgs' ragged, gray BIOSKIN©. The Coyotes paid the sheriff's drones no heed. Their intent was focused on the collision sphere.

The first to arrive at its resting place began clawing at the lightweight, puncture resistant fabric made of microweave plastisilk. As the animal became excited, the others yipped in chorus. Dorothy watched as they ripped chunks of the pliable material with their mouths and tried to spit it out, pawing frenetically at their teeth. The collision sphere was kept semi-rigid by an expanding, elastiframe endoskeleton. Each section of frame contained millions of fibrous strands that had to be systematically ripped apart before the pilot would be exposed.

The first Coyote had already gotten a quarter of its body embedded in the sphere, but the progress was slow. Regardless, within a few minutes the animals would be through to the last layer of pillowed fabric. The unconscious pilot inside would be torn to shreds.

_Why, why, why?_

Coyote One turned her muzzle to the sky and suddenly sniffed the wind. She yipped a sharp warning, the entire pack dropped prone to the Earth. Dorothy jumped with fright as the holographic map illuminated. Two, three red beams of particle energy ripped through the darkness, _phoosh... phoosh, phoosh!_ The lasers slammed into each of the Douglas County A7 combat drones.

_The Rottweilers..._

SIEGFRIED and FREYA both spat rounds of particle energy from the TOHO cannons in their throats as they tore down the hovroad towards the crash site. The sheriff's drone closest to the DOGS units exploded in a halo of electric fire and sparks. It looked to Dorothy like a stick of dynamite had been detonated inside a piñata. Bits of armored shrapnel, Kevlar and glass rained down, sprinkling over the asphalt and gravel. Only the heavily armored black box containing the drone's computer core remained. The metal box bounced on the hovroad with a dense metallic _thwack! crack!_ before skidding to a rest at the shoulder's edge.

The second drone, furthest from the Rottweilers' assault vector, managed to evade a direct hit. It was badly damaged but remained airborne. A deep laser scar sliced through the armor on its starboard flank. The drone wheeled out of control, spinning semi-circles, raining sparks through a trail of turquoise smoke that flowed behind it.

SIEGFRIED was the first to arrive. His red eyes blazed. Using established momentum, the cyborg leapt six meters into the air and knocked the disabled drone from the sky. He was moving so fast that he nearly missed and was only able to rip out a mouthful of the unit's chassis as inertia carried him past his target skidding down the hovway. SIEGFRIED tumbled to a stop and was on four paws again in moments. The drone sputtered, then took a crushing nose dive into the nearby field. It's aft wormdrive peeled and screamed uselessly. Blue electric smoke from its burning motors billowed into the air. The sound made it seem as though the drone was being tortured, crying, aware of its impending demise.

FREYA arrived next, running too fast, excited, ready for a fight. She dug her claws into the asphalt, leaving five meter gouges in the hovroad as she ground to a halt and reoriented. The silver muzzle of her retractable TOHO cannon gleamed the color of pale bone in the moonlight, still protruding between the rows of teeth from her wide open jaws. She centered herself, bracing on all fours, then fired again. Her powerful neck recoiled from the energy discharge. The pillar of concentrated, maroon light tore into the fallow corn field and the second drone disintegrated into a thousand sparky bits of whizzing metal and plastic.

Coyote One and her three nearest pack mates wasted no time. All four cyborgs, including the animal with the crushed leg, leapt onto FREYA's back in a whirlwind of gnashing teeth. They sensed the tactical advantage of the Rottweiler's momentarily unusable jaws. FREYA dropped to the hovroad, attempting to bury her head and vulnerable vidorbs beneath her chest in a defensive crouch. There was no choice but to wait as the still smoldering TOHO cannon retracted down her throat. She squealed with pain as the Coyotes bit fiercely into her shoulders and tore rakes of bleeding BIOSKIN© from her body. The Coyotes yipped with renewed frenzy, excited by the cries of pain, now oblivious to all around but the destruction of vulnerable prey. Strips of FREYA's synthetic flesh hung from their jaws as they pressed the attack.

Coyote One, always hyper-observant, leapt away at the last second just as SIEGFRIED'S jaws snapped shut on the lame back leg of her nearest pack mate. With a swift twist of his head, the damaged robotic limb was bitten clean from the animal's chassis and flung into a ditch. SIEGFRIED pinned the broken, crying Coyote beneath two paws and with one savage bite engulfed its shrieking head in his mouth. He crushed the titanalum skull as if it was made of foam. The Coyote unit's blue vidorbs blinked twice unceremoniously, then died. SIEGFRIED flung the trashed body of the cyborg over his shoulder with a single whip of his neck and stood protectively over FREYA's crouching form, growling with barbaric fury at Coyote One.

FREYA stood shakily. Synthetic, tangerine-red blood oozed over the wounded sections of her BIOSKIN© coat. Silver areas of exposed titanalum infrastructure gleamed in the near morning light. Unlike her brother, FREYA'S slightly less advanced design lacked the ability to instantaneously deploy her throat mounted TOHO cannon, fire accurately, then retract the telescoping weapon back into her chassis. For FREYA, the process of firing a TOHO round and returning her jaws to normal function took approximately 22 seconds.

The DOGS unit seemed almost cognizant of this personal deficiency as she lunged at Coyote One and angrily pinned the pack leader to the ground. The two Coyotes remaining on the hovroad yelped in panic. They charged to help their alpha and were immediately intercepted by SIEGFRIED, who tossed one aside like a rag doll, his jaws partially severing its robotic throat plates. The second Coyote froze, then backed off. It whimpered and tucked its ragged gray tail between its legs, cowering in submission beside its deactivated pack mate. FREYA'S growl was deep and steady as she hovered above Coyote One, baring her knife-like canines at the helpless cyborg's neck.

Dorothy felt a pang of guilt. Like a moth to flame, so occupied had she been by the firing of the particle weapons that she had all but forgotten the Coyotes attacking the Mustang's emergency collision sphere. There was a human life at stake.

SNOTRA and LOFN were three design versions removed from SIEGFRIED. Two from FREYA. Both cyborgs were ten centimeters shorter in length and five centimeters shorter in height. Their top gallop speed was 15 – 20 kph slower, and with proportionally smaller fusion cores, their overall chassis strength was weaker by a CSF of 15%. Neither DOGS unit contained integrated particle weapons.

They had arrived twenty seconds behind as their big sister and brother engaged the Douglas County A7 Sheriff's drones and fended off Coyote One's initial assault. The Coyotes attacking the Mustang's collision sphere were now physically inside its collapsed exterior walls, ripping through the heavier wands of elastiframe. Fortunately for the unconscious pilot within, the fully expanded white balloon was six meters in diameter. Undaunted, the Coyotes were furiously biting and clawing at the final reinforced layer of protective balloon fabric. Once inside, a single flick of a claw would dispatch life from the Mustang's pilot.

Two black smears of light flew across the wide irrigation ditch at the hovway's edge and landed in the winter marijuana field.

Outnumbered fourteen to two, SNOTRA and LOFN engaged.

This time, surprise was with the Rottweilers.

Only two of the feral cyborgs were physically inside the walls of collision sphere, chewing their way deeper towards its core with murderous intent. Their excitedly wagging tails protruded from the deflated edge of the sphere like those of forest raccoons rummaging through a camper's tent. The remaining twelve cyborgs sat in a tight, circular grouping five meters back, watching intently from a wall of glowing blue eyes.

The main group didn't have time to react before LOFN's charging jaws clamped down on the hind legs of the Coyote unit deepest inside the sphere, ripping it free. SNOTRA dragged the second Coyote out of the collision sphere, also screaming. Both DOGS units held their prey viciously, pulling the bodies of the raving Coyotes into the open field in a cloud of scrabbled dust.

The instant they had the smaller cyborgs clear of the sphere, SNOTRA and LOFN reestablished their bite positions. Each crushed the legs trapped between their jaws then released the damaged, mewling Coyotes. The creatures limped free, tails tucked as their dozen pack mates descended.

Dorothy would never re-watch this portion of the holovid recording.

SNOTRA and LOFN stood back to back. Their razor sharpened jaws flashed in wild circles, slashing the muzzle or chest of one Coyote as five more ripped shreds of black, shining fur from their bodies. The Coyotes' teeth and claws were dulled by time and the digging of countless dens. Their advances tore the synthetic flesh more than sliced it. Their bite strength was not sufficient to break the smaller Rottweilers' legs, but their numbers ensured that, given enough time, they would be able to keep them pinned down. With enough determination they would be able to tear and bend their way into the DOGS units' armored chassis and expose vital system components.

The Coyotes did not lack determination. The DOGS units thrashed left and right in a frothing fury as the Coyotes continued their assault. Each would cry and briefly retreat as one of the Rottweilers managed to capture a leg, neck or paw in their jaws.

_I want fast, precise assaults..._

William would later estimate that SNOTRA and LOFN would have made it another 120 seconds before the Coyotes shredded all the BIOSKIN© from their bodies. At that point they would begin gnawing, digging at any exposed internal graphene circuitry. William would also estimate that not one of the twelve attacking cyborgs would have walked away without a partially crushed rib cage, broken leg or shattered vidorb.

Dorothy was grateful his hypotheses was never given the opportunity to play out.

400 meters off, SNOTRA and LOFN cried out desperately. Their panicked howls seemed to echo off the moon, mingled with the raging, terrible yips of the Coyote pack. SIEGFRIED and FREYA waited only seconds before abandoning Coyote One with a final warning snarl. They charged into the marijuana field on the north slope of the hovroad.

Coyote One snapped to all fours the instant she was released. Despite the fact that the warning had already been distributed across their intrastream, she raised her nacreous muzzle to the sky and gave a long, high pitched howl to the stars.

Both warnings arrived too late.

Badly damaged units limped to and fro on the sidelines, angrily yipping and gnashing their teeth. SIEGFRIED and FREYA charged through the remaining group still attacking SNOTRA and LOFN. The bodies of the larger DOGS units were four times the size of the outdated, though similarly structured, Coyote chassis. They snarled as they raked through the gray, seething mass, knocking the feral cyborgs aside like bowling pins. The Rottweilers' carbide tipped incisors scoured their ranks, cutting deep into the Coyotes' already wounded bodies.

Coyote One's chilling howl ricocheted off the leafless trunks of nearby trees, commanding retreat. It repeated, filling the night air with a pealing squall. SIEGFRIED and FREYA had already come about. They charged once more into the scattering pack, barking and snapping at their heels before at last circling back to SNOTRA and LOFN. FREYA nuzzled her wounded sisters tentatively with her own bloody, tattered nose. The smaller Rottweilers remained huddled against the frozen soil, shredded, traumatized. SIEGFRIED stood over them. His sable BIOSKIN© jowls quivered, flashing his enormous teeth at the fleeing Coyotes. Behind the DOGS units lay the deflated, white mass of the Ford Mustang's emergency collision sphere.

The fourteen Coyotes who had attacked the sphere regrouped with those still on the hovroad. Only Coyote One remained completely undamaged. Her glowing vidorb reflected a halo of resentful, azure light onto the asphalt of the hovway. Each of the mingling Coyotes sniffed tenderly at the body of their terminated pack mate. Then the silent message was transmitted and they flowed back into a single file line behind Coyote One.

She lead them north, slinking into the darkness of the countryside towards the river from whence they had come. The pack moved slowly. A couple of the Coyotes ran on only three legs, or dragged a shattered forepaw. The heads of a few swung awkwardly, broken, too low to the ground, their titanalum vertebrae partly smashed and no longer able to provide proper anatomical support. As the last of their number limped into the jane field, their eyes blinked to darkness, blindly following Coyote One into the chilly, shadowed den of a most unfortunate evening.

Dorothy let out a long sigh. She realized that her cheeks were wet with tears. She swallowed the lump in her throat and watched with sad interest as Dax, Hugo and her husband, William, at last rolled up in the Solar Mule.

_This is why the wheel is antique tech._

As soon as they stopped, Dax and Hugo jumped out and skidded down the gravel embankment to inspect the collision sphere. They had to determine the quickest, safest way to extract the operator and vanish before the real danger arrived – Sheriff Dale Proudstar.

Joan's voice came over the com, "All firewalls and cloaks presently stable. Two armored hovtransports containing twelve MARX class German Shepherds, two armed deputy field pilots and Sheriff Proudstar will arrive at your location in approximately 5 minutes 59 seconds."

William had jumped off the Kawasaki before it stopped and ran down the hovroad's shoulder into the field. He ignored the collision sphere and ran to his Rottweilers. All four DOGS units sprang to their paws as soon as they saw him. Dorothy was pleased to see that despite looking as though they'd been tossed through a meat grinder, all three of the female cyborgs were able to stand. LOFN was not putting weight on her right hind leg. The cyborg held it quivering above the ground exactly like a real wounded dog would. SIEGFRIED paced back and forth in front of his sisters. The large Rottweiler bayed reproachfully at William as he approached.

"Aww hell, SIEG, I know... look what they did," said William.

He dropped to his knees. His hands hovered above SNOTRA and LOFN. The majority of the BIOSKIN© had been torn off the two DOGS units. Their cybernetic identities were now obvious. Both of SNOTRA'S ears were completely gone, revealing the bloody armored dome of her skull. Micro pistons and hydraulic joints flitted and shifted visibly as they made the slightest of motions. Most visible was the pink glow emanating from the fusion reactors nestled deep in the center of their torsos. William knew better than to touch the wounds. The DOGS units' autonomic nervous systems would respond, the result of which might be a nip that would unintentionally slice his arm off. FREYA carefully licked her sisters' torn flesh with her black, ciliary-mesh tongue. The synthetic layers of dermal material had long since clotted and stopped bleeding. Though undetectable to the human eye, the BIOSKIN© fur was already in the process of hypersynth cell replication.

William's voice was cold, "Joan, I need systems analysis on SNOTRA and LOFN as soon as..."

Joan's reply was instant, "That task was completed 47 seconds ago. Unit AK9CIVepsilon is 100% mechanically functional with damage to 56% of BIOSKIN© skeletal wrap. Tissue regeneration complete in 9 hours 52 minutes. Unit AK9CIVdelta has a crushed tarsus joint in its aft rear leg. The femur structure has been dislocated from the pelvis near the graphene ischium. Additionally, there are three caustic tears in the ciliary microweave controlling fine motor simulation servos 9 through 31. 61% of BIOSKIN© skeletal wrap on this unit is damaged, with cascading fusion light visible to the human eye. Unit AK9CIVgamma is 100% mechanically functional with damage to 14% of BIOSKIN© housing. Douglas County law enforcement units will arrive in 4 minutes 23 seconds. Immediate egress is strongly recommended. All cloaks presently stable."

William stood up and hooked a thumb through his black leather belt, "Alright. We gotta move. SIEGFRIED, FREYA, SNOTRA!"

The DOGS units immediately came to attention, arranging themselves in a line before him.

"SIEG, stay with us. FREYA, SNOTRA, go now. Run, full speed two kilometers east on the hovroad. Leave obvious tracks that vanish to a hard surface. Then backtrack. The land in every direction north of the road belongs to Purple Tree Farms. They have four barn Felixes and a couple of real cats who might be out chasing moles this time of morning."

"Joan, you've locked out Purple Tree's private drones?"

"That is correct. One will pass your location in 36 seconds. No human pilots, the unit will pass blind."

"Excellent."

William looked at his Rottweilers again, "FREYA, you especially, absolutely under no circumstances are you to engage those cats. No chasing. Avoid human contact. Run straight to the tree line through the forest to the river. Then follow the river's edge back west under the cover of the trees. Go directly into the barn. Now run, dogs!"

FREYA gave LOFN a parting lick with her black tongue and whined mournfully. Then the two DOGS units rocketed east down the hovroad and within seconds were gone.

Joan's voice said, "William Thomas Angevine, there is no need to speak to the cybernetic units like they are human beings."

William tapped the comdot on his jaw, "Joan, I've said, it just makes me feel better."

"I do not understand how. You are the DOGS units' autonomously chosen tether. Your neural engrams are one. Your thoughts are their thoughts."

"It's a dead horse conversation, Joan. We'll hash on such later, over a codfish and janebeer. Right now we gotta couple other irons."

"Agreed. Now is possibly not the optimal time to discuss your verbal inefficiencies," said the dolphin's computerized female tone.

William shook his head and turned to his remaining Rottweilers, "SIEG, on my heels. LOFN, hobble yourself into the back of that Mule. I'd carry you if you didn't weigh 500 kilos."

LOFN obediently limped past the dried out cattail stalks in the irrigation ditch and up the gravel shoulder of the hovroad. Even with a single functioning rear leg she hopped easily into the rear seat of the Kawasaki. The Solar Mule rocked and groaned in objection to the added weight.

Dorothy's voice came urgently, "Hon, you boys gotta get the sky outta there."

In the distance, they could hear the approaching wail of sheriff's sirens. The faintest hint of dawn's purple light on the horizon was beginning to crowd out the black night sky.

William cupped his hand over the comdot to silence the wind, "I hear you. I'm on it. I don't know what's taking so long."

Using his Swiss Army Pocket Laser, Hugo had carefully cut the remaining elastic retention bands from the semi-conscious hovcar pilot's ankle. He got back on his feet as William walked over with SIEGFRIED padding behind him. Dax was still keeping quiet. He held his chin in his hand and stood a couple of meters back, observing the girl inside the emergency collision sphere with keen interest.

_What's on your mind, Dax Abner...?_

SIEGFRIED walked over to Dax and licked his hand, then took a couple of more steps and peered into the opening Hugo had lasered out of the sphere. The DOGS unit titled his head with curiosity, wondering what might possibly be of such interest to the humans in his pack.

William threw his palms open as he walked over, speaking loudly, "Well? Who is she? We gotta float, gentlemen. This road is about to be knee high in assault cyborgs."

Hugo grinned like a twelve year old boy, "Eet's a betty, William! She real preety looking too," he said dreamily. "She keep saying something about crickets and stars or something... she's real pretty looking. Maybe eet's something to do with the tattoos on her neck?"

Back in the aquarium, Dorothy shook her head, turning quickly in her chair to look at the dolphin, "Can you believe this crap, Joan?" She spun angrily back to the holomap, "William Angevine! You pick that girl up if that's what we're doing, and get outta there!"'

William looked at Dax, "Boss? Anything?"

Dax kept quiet and shook his head pensively. He swirled a finger around and nodded in the direction of the collision sphere, indicating simply to get the girl.

William knelt and had a look. Inside the sphere was a bloody mess of a woman, fading in and out of consciousness. She was tangled up in her own matted black hair. Her right arm was broken backwards at the elbow and wrist. A jagged tip of bone poked wretchedly beneath the skin of her forearm. The fingers on that hand were likewise mangled.

William reached down and put his arm on her left shoulder. The girl struggled weakly. Her green eyes popped open with fear.

William said, "Don't try to move. You're safe now. You'll do best to just relax."

She managed to respond through cracked, swollen lips mottled with dry blood, "Who are you people? The cops?"

William spoke calmly, "Not exactly, ma'am..."

He reached his hands carefully behind her back and pulled her body free of the balloon. She let out a sharp cry of agony, digging the nails of her good hand into his neck, then fainted. There was no time for a delicate extraction. Her shattered arm swung awkwardly backwards as he stood with her dead weight. Hugo turned so he wouldn't have to watch, walking briskly to the Solar Mule.

SIEGFRIED jumped backwards, eagerly watching every step William took as he re-situated the woman's body in his arms and turned to carry her up the gravel shoulder.

William gave Dax a sidelong glance, "You know I'm supposed to be the quiet one, right boss? Looks like we got a bloody angel flung to us from on high."

Dax shook his head again, speaking at last, as if he'd snapped out of a trance the moment the girl was safe in William's arms.

His voice was quiet but stern, "Quite the contrary, William. I do believe she will prove to be the prophet of war."

William frowned and turned away, "Dory, what's our ETA on the sheriff and his growlers?"

Dorothy's voice was curt, "Just shy of 180 seconds."

Dax snapped his fingers and turned to Hugo, who was looking down from the edge of the hovroad, "Hugo, ready the Kawasaki."

"I'm on it, boss."

Hugo jumped behind the wheel and spun the Solar Mule around. LOFN whined in the backseat and kept her head low, her damaged leg tucked beneath her body.

William dug his boots into the gravel and carried the unconscious woman up the embankment with SIEGFRIED close on his heels. Dax Abner brought up the rear. Once at the top, he nodded. William knew without a word to hand the girl's limp form over to him. Dax took the front seat beside Hugo and held the woman's body delicately in his lap, intently focused on her face and nothing else.

William had never seen him look at a woman that way.

He turned to SIEGFRIED, still dutifully following his every step, "Okay dog, we're good. Follow your sisters. We'll tend to them in the barn. Run!"

SIEGFRIED turned and rocketed east down the hovroad with a single bark, leaping lightly over the destroyed chassis of the Coyote he had crushed in his jaws minutes before. His black form disappeared like a caliginous phantom.

William bent the lid of his cowboy hat forward and jumped on the back of the six wheeled Kawasaki, standing on the cargo platform.

He tapped twice on the hard canopy, hanging on with one hand, "Alright Hugo, half a kilom west on the 1500 and we'll cut down the jane fields with lights black. Joan will drop us some camo."

The Solar Mule's electric motor whined and sped them away. Dorothy zoomed out her tracking view on the holomap, watching with a mix of irritation and worry, even after she had calculated they were going to make it away safely before being seen.

Fifty five seconds later, as the Kawasaki disappeared into the vast darkness of the neighboring Purple Tree Farms' jane fields, two armored hovtransports crested the ridge of the distant western hill. The vehicles' emergency lights blazed red and blue as their sirens split the morning air. Ten meters in the air above the sheriff's lead transport, four A7 assault drones flew in a tight formation. Their searchlights reached the crash scene first.

The drones' weapon ports were deployed. The lead unit promptly fired six botulinum darts into the motionless carcass of the Coyote that lay crushed on the asphalt. They blasted the area with infrared motion detectors and kinesis scans. Their sensor arrays were so finely calibrated as to detect any residual Ipv7 trails within a five kilometer circumference. They buzzed like angered bees, flying in wide circles, scanning and rescanning, recording and rerecording the crash site only.

Two minutes later the armored hovtransports floated to a stop and extended their heavy docking mounts. The boots of Douglas County Sheriff Dale Proudstar hit the asphalt. A dozen MARX class German Shepherd police cyborgs leapt to the ground after him. The animals swarmed over the crash scene, establishing a perimeter. They ran along the hovroad with their noses mere centimeters from the ground, analyzing, sniffing, prepared to give chase at the slightest sign of trouble.

But there was no trouble to be found.

Sheriff Proudstar chewed on the soft tip of a well smoked antique cigar which smoldered beneath his long, silvering mustache. He adjusted a black rimmed monocle HUD glass to one side of his nose with irritation. He was a large man, with a heavy, grizzled jaw like a cinder block. The weak five am light was barely strong enough to cast a pale shadow behind him as he strode down the hovroad, methodically taking in the details of the scene. He stopped above the mangled carcass of the dead Coyote, running his toe over the deep claw gouges in the asphalt. He raised his nostrils and exhaled dual plumes of cigar smoke, squinting sternly across the fallow fields. Then he turned, slow, and studied the shredded collision sphere and smoldering crater where the second drone had been destroyed.

_Military grade particle weapons..._

Beside the dead Coyote was the square, black box belonging to the first destroyed drone. He picked it up and brushed off the carbon scarring, watching as the tiny pieces of ash flitted away in the wind. The MARX dogs ran to and fro. Those not piloted by deputy borg drivers in the lead transport had reverted to their default algorithms and were patrolling the perimeter of the crash site. Like robots.

A small red diode on Sheriff Proudstar's HUD monocle illuminated green and he frowned, then tapped his jaw and barked, "Proudstar. Hell! Look who it is, ten minutes too late! Congratulations on getting your sorry ass outta bed, Everquist! How stoned were you last night, son? Jeezus Mary! Tell me _you've_ got somethin? Cause I got nothing out here but my cock swingin' in the wind."

After listening for a moment, the sheriff's mustache contorted with anger, "Are you kidding me!? _Nothing?!_ On the entire fucking scan spectrum? How is that possible!? Who? Fine! Tell MTF they can mitz about out here till cows start sucking their own teets for all I care. Shit! Huh? Yeah. I Found one drive. Bringing it in after we finish our sweep."

The sheriff nudged the dead Coyote with his boot, "Yeah, it's a Coyote. Oh... for Dog's sake, don't wet your panties, deputy. We'll bring it in too. Whatever you do, Everquist, keep our coms locked. I want us to get first poke at this thing before the Feds descend on my ass like a case of bad scabies. Proudstar out!"

The sheriff tapped his combud again, "Alright, deputies. Dial the MARX unit scans to molecular. Form them up in a line across the road and we're gonna march, scan this whole scene slow. If they find so much as a hamster's cunt hair, I want a klaxon. Let's try and float home with something besides dumbass looks on our faces."

Sheriff Proudstar pulled a fresh cigar from a case in his pocket, bit off the end, lit it with an antique Zippo lighter and took a long, steady pull. He watched the German Shepherds form up fifty meters down the hovroad and begin slowly stepping his way, swinging their heads side to side in unison.

_Fucking cyborgs._

Overhead, one of their A7 drones flew, hovering in a wide semicircle.

He looked up at the drone and glowered, blowing out a blue stream of smoke as he spoke under his breath, "Only thing worse than a borg is a robot..." Then he kicked the lifeless form of the Coyote in front of him with his boot and walked off in the direction of the destroyed collision sphere.

As the Solar Mule rolled into the barn, William jumped from the back and depressed a manual button on the wall, closing the heavy wooden garage door behind them. All three Rottweilers had already arrived, paws wet and muddy from their journey along the river's edge. They surrounded the Kawasaki and mewled and whined as LOFN hobbled down onto the asphalt barn floor with a yip of pain. They licked her face enthusiastically. All four DOGS units lay down in a line and watched the humans with undue interest.

Dorothy emerged from a green door at the far side of the barn and ran across the vaulted, open space to her husband, wrapping him in her arms, "Jeezus William, Jeezus! Don't you ever do that again!"

The couple held one another, exchanging kisses. At last, Dorothy let her husband go, wiping her tears on his WarmCoure© and turning to Dax Abner as he carried the mangled, unconscious girl past.

She made no effort to conceal the relieved sarcasm in her voice, "Hey boss, nice betty. Oh... by the way, you _do_ realize mapping intel on cyborg warfare wasn't in my job description? Got any pumpkins need a DNA tweak?"

Dorothy smiled geekily at her own joke, expecting one of her employer's usual quips. But Dax remained silent. His eyes were fixed on the woman in his arms. And her alone. It was as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist.

Dorothy deflated. She frowned at Hugo, demanding an answer. Hugo merely pursed his lips and shrugged, unable to give any. He tossed his orange skull cap on the seat of the Mule and ambled away towards the green door she had just appeared from with an unlit joint dangling from the corner of his mustache.

Dorothy turned to her husband as Dax disappeared the other direction, carrying the girl out of the barn and across the yard to the large white farmhouse where they all lived.

"What's that all about?" she asked.

William shook his head, "Hell if I know. He's been acting weird ever since Joan lit a ping on that betty. That's back when she was still busy stealin' the Mustang." William shrugged and put an arm around his wife, "He didn't say a word to us the whole time we were out there. You and Joan would have heard as much."

Dorothy looked out the barn door after Dax, longing to understand.

She shook it off and turned back to her husband with a tired smile, "Well babe, as long as you're okay, I'm okay." She looked at the Rottweilers lying beside one another in a tight row, "Let's get the ladies downstairs and let Joan have a closer scan, see what's really broke."

With that, Dorothy and her husband, William Thomas Angevine, walked across the asphalt floor towards the green door on the far side of the cold, cavernous barn. A wild country pigeon fluttered from one wooden barn rafter to the next above them, though they did not look up. William gave an exhausted whistle as they shuffled past the Rottweilers.

The DOGS units stood together, padding after them sadly, with an outward expression of fatigue it was theoretically impossible for them to possess. SIEGFRIED brought up the rear. He trailed his sister LOFN as she limped behind the humans. The exposed titanalum on one of LOFN's paws tink-clicked and tink-clicked and tink-clicked on the asphalt as she stepped.

One by one, this family of man and of cyborgs passed through the plain, green wooden door, its faded paint peeling in places. Far above, via a port in the barn's east wall, their own black, oval security Drone B entered. The egg-shaped robot hovered slowly, flying parallel to the barn's roof line. It dropped into its docking nest high in the shadows with a pneumatic hiss.

Then the barn was quiet and empty once more, save the occasional flutter of pigeon wings amongst the rafters.

# `Chapter 1.11 – The Puzzle Master`

Chief Narcotics Detective Dennis Slopes stared vacantly into his holomonitor. A bald, elderly man in a pure white suit stared back from the other side of the holoconference, orange eyes ablaze. Neither man spoke. Slopes' gaze was fixed, tattoo-lined eyebrows flitting as though held in a trance.

After sixty more seconds passed, the elderly man closed his eyes and Slopes gasped, falling back into his cushioned throne chair.

"That is all the information you have for me, detective?" asked the elderly man, the words disdainful.

"My knowledge is your knowledge," mumbled Slopes, regaining his composure.

"My will is your will," said the old man. "Find the daughter. No matter the cost. Her powers cannot be permitted to manifest."

"My will is your w..." began Slopes, but the holomonitor went dark before he could finish.

Slopes sighed and drew himself together. Free to rule his kingdom as he liked, safe once more, his lips twisted angrily.

_Why come to me now? I send the pieces to their homes. Not you! I hate..._

A twinge of fear passed through him. He wiped a line of sweat from his bilious cheek, then straightened up and resumed his work.

A brass plaque mounted above the puzzle desk read, _Drinking is not a crime, it's just against the law..._ in a red Edwardian font. Slopes grinned manically as his eyes brushed over the message.

The plaque hung at eye level. The glowing maroon and yellow text was impossible to miss. It hung above a special desk. For puzzles only. No other objects were to be placed on the surface of the puzzle desk! Not a coffee mug. Not a holostylus. Not even a used Kleenex, candy wrapper or elbow.

Upon this puzzle desk, the exterior rectangle of a moderately difficult, 1,500 piece Montana landscape was now complete, the corners connected. Making the exterior outline of a puzzle come together was the first logical objective. Everyone knows this. It was an accomplishment Dennis Slopes felt was undervalued by his petulant, greedy, eye contact avoiding peers. Slopes loved having his puzzles at the office! He popped an over the counter stym-gel beneath his tongue and smacked his lips as the flavor of maraschino cherries mingled with his saliva.

Beside the puzzle desk was a normal desk, complete with a standard issue, high res holomonitor. The detective's tawny back pained him, vertebrae poking through his thin government issue suit. There was little field work any longer, what with the incredible ratio of one COD in the sky for every 1,293 Lawrence citizens. His LPD subordinates and CNED operatives could handle the actual arresting after a drone's alcovap sweep had ferreted out the boozebum in question.

Accordingly, Dennis Slopes had descended into the private universe of his office as the years scuttled by. His muscles had turned to wind. The man was able to solve nearly any riddle, but was unable to walk up a flight of stairs without a sensation he could only imagine was the onset of a stroke. His combud had never alerted him to potential cardiac failure. The device was probably malfunctioning. His torso was a withered cliché of desk time nourished primarily on metabolism bumpers and Hemparoo Choco-Truffles. Papery cheeks hung down like windless sails from a bony chin. Every other breath had to be drawn through his mouth because his nose had long since decided it was too far away from his lungs to function. Dennis Slopes wished that mouth breathing and sweets were not available options, but they were.

At least he could rest easy with the knowledge that while not the most attractive, he was certainly the most intelligent individual in the entire city.

Possibly the entire Union.

In the window reflection he could see his bald head, shaved and shining like a sottled moon. Outside that window, the hovstreet corner of 11th and Massachusetts buzzed with its usual Tuesday afternoon vigor. Hovcycles and cars, college students on old fashioned pedal bicycles or hovscoots lined up in an orderly fashion at the traffic LED, waiting to turn left and take Eleventh up the hill to campus. Holotab sporting professors rushed along the sidewalks past hovtruck vendors along with business people, the working citizens, boozebums, unemployed Traditionalists and migrants of every flavor.

_So many citizens. So much sedition_.

He licked his lips greedily. He would have to hit the new hovtruck run by the lesbian with the pretty eyes after work. She had the best potsicles in town. She was nice to him too. Even if only because he was the LPD's chief narcotics detective, that was all right. Those chocolate flavored ganja pops made you fly! He would be higher than a mountain goat on a subspace to China by the time he got home. His domestic partner, Mrs. Kitters, would be waiting. Being stoned made the sound of her meowing more tolerable.

_Kitty loves to nag daddy._

"Meow-meow, I'm a cow, don't peek yet, just be here now," he said, chasing away the personal thoughts with his mantra.

It was only ten in the morning and there was oddity afoot! This County Hovroad 1500 report was galling. The lack of intel was... unacceptable! The morning's events reminded him of the time he had purchased a puzzle and it had been delivered with missing pieces. Also not acceptable!

"The answer is always there," he said, staring through sunken eyes at the idyllic urban vista beyond his window. "Meow-meow, I'm a cow, don't peek yet, just be here now."

The constant hovtraffic created an oscillating white noise that soothed his restless mind.

"Statistics indicate that one in four of you have seen, been in possession of, or consumed alcohol in the last 36 hours..." Slopes said to the citizens stepping unawares past the walls of city hall.

He snapped another puzzle piece into its place. It was either part of a rock or the beginning of the pond, judging by the completed image on the hempboard box the puzzle arrived in.

He was stroking his airless, beak-like nose, contemplating this visual conundrum when the computer finally klaxoned.

The com's digital voice said, "Wreck site analysis complete."

"Mercy, that took long enough. Tell me, Simon, where is our suspect?"

The computer's response was bland, "Location unknown."

Dennis chuckled to himself, leaned back and ran a lead colored fingernail up his ribs one by one, "Simon I do believe you're finally developing a sense of humor."

The computer responded instantly, "I do not register the concept. Please rephrase."

"Oh Simon, maybe I should have permitted you some humor protocols. But that would decrease your efficiency. You realize this, don't you, you nasty little pile of graphene?"

"That is correct. Systems operating on my chipset experience a 13% decline in efficiency when required to multiprocess human linguistic novelty."

Dennis Slopes huffed, sat up and tucked his mantis-thin legs beneath him, "Simon. I know the suspect is not in any of the wreck footage. But the little brunette slut's identity is wonked on every stream between here and California. So please don't toy with daddy. Where is our suspect now?"

"Location unknown."

Slopes felt his pulse quicken, his face turning the color of old blood, "Impossible! Rescan all COD and facial recognition cam data for the last 24 hours. Immediately!" he squealed.

"A municipality wide FR scan has been completed three times this morning since your arrival at 7:17 am."

"I don't care! Don't care, don't care, don't _care!"_ he sang. "Meow-meow, I'm a cow, don't peek yet, just be here now! Assemble all new data and run it again until you find her. Find her... _now!_ "

Detective Slopes realized that he was screaming. His stale breath had turned heated.

The com port in the ceiling calmly replied, "Complete FR scan commencing."

"Meow-meow, I'm a cow, don't peek yet, just be here now..." he said his mantra over and over, his eyes pinching shut until he had repeated the phrase ten times.

_It's the old man's fault. He hasn't come to me personally in years!_

When Slopes opened his eyes, they fell first upon the puzzle desk and the growing image he would soon complete. But no! It was too much temptation. He had completed the outline. That was enough. Rome was not built in a yada yada...

"Simon, get me all updated field data from Sheriff Proudstar's office."

"No updated information available."

Dennis Slopes pinched his eyes closed again, "Meow-meow, I'm a cow, don't peek yet, just be here now..."

He popped another hemp truffle into his mouth. Bits of chocolate dust littered the corners of his lips.

"That Dogdamn redneck is a sympathizer, I swear it. Don't you agree, Simon?"

The com replied calmly, "There is no evidence to support the theory that the sheriff has sympathies for this fugitive or the alcohol decriminalization movement. Sheriff Proudstar is a decorated war veteran with..."

Dennis flushed and shook his head, "Simon! Will you please be quiet!? And finish processing that facial cam data. I am fully, sickeningly, disgustingly aware of our good sheriff's military credentials!"

The computer was silent. Slopes tapped his desktop causing a holographic track pad to appear. He used his clawed index finger with chocolate stuck beneath the nail to navigate the high resolution, 360 degree aerial image on his flatscreen. This image represented the scene as it was scanned by the first functional drone to arrive.

The cold stretch of hovroad was a black line neatly bisecting the farmland. The hovroad, he knew, ended fairly abruptly at the city limits where it snaked past the Abner pumpkin farm to the west. But on the holoscreen, it appeared to reach into infinity eastward, thin and straight until it vanished on the horizon. A destroyed 2079 Ford Mustang lay upside down in a field belonging to the Anderson Corn Plantation. The hovcar's mangled levfans were still, glaring up at an unsympathetic January sky. The vehicle's emergency collision sphere lay on the opposite side of County Hovroad 1500 in a fallow field belonging to... Purple Tree Farms, a subsidiary of... CannabiGene©.

_Check._

He squeezed his fingers together, red eyes darting efficiently, and zoomed in on the second sheriff's drone that had been pursuing the Mustang. There was nothing to see of the first but bits and pieces of plastic, metal and Kevlar flung across the asphalt like a handful of scattered sand. The second drone was half-buried in the soil on the corn farmer's land. Particle weapon scarring? _Particle weapons._ Who has them besides a few in CNED? Some very wealthy gentleman or lady hunters. Almost every citizen hunter just used good old antique bullets.

_Meow-meow, I'm a cow..._

Slopes panned back left across the hologram to the second most fascinating part of the scene. There it was. The destroyed chassis of what he expected before noon to be confirmed as one of the Darkpool Laboratories' cybernetic Coyotes.

"After seventeen years you show up on the outskirts of my city, little doggie? Why is that," he asked, slipping another hemp truffle past his lips. "Do, please oh please rise up from whatever foul, fusion powered hell holds you now and tell me your secrets... then you may return to your imploded wormhole and die. Thank you."

The robot looked like it had been attacked by a herd of elephants. Elephants with daggers for teeth. Teeth that could rip and crush titanalum?

_Fidos and doggies and Shepherds, oh my..._

"This will not do. No, this will not do at all..."

He dragged his finger over to the opposite corner of the greasy holotab and tapped, expanding what was to him, at present, the most fascinating part of the evening's events; a still, 2D Bmod intake holo of the fugitive in question.

"Tara – A – Dean," said Dennis Slopes, moistly articulating each syllable. He could feel his mouth flood with wetness, "I know where you come from, honeybunny, but I don't know where you are. I don't like that. Not at all. No I don't. You're the special piece I'm looking for. You complete the puzzle, don't you? You and your powers. I _will_ find you and eat up all your pie. I'm going to drench you with cow's butter and salt."

Dennis Slopes leaned back. His swiveling throne easily absorbed the skeletal lightness of his frame. He stared at the attractive, young woman's holograph. He imagined her in a tennis skirt. He imagined himself 35 years younger. He imagined himself inquiring nervously if she would like to go share an e-joint or jane-espresso sometime. She would turn him down. He knew it. Even when he still had all his hair!

_She would have denied me!_

The woman's eyes were like black tidal pools fringed with moss. She was beautiful, like many sick people. And now she was running amok in his nest.

_My nest!_

This was just not acceptable.

"Simon," he said.

"Yes, Detective Slopes?" said the com.

"Send this information over to Ken Sapet at CNED. Tell him I want willing volunteers to start focusing next weekend's hunts in grids 26 through 30, from the river south to Interstate K-10, and from Prairie Street all the way east to the city limits. Inform Mr. Sapet that we have a big fat rat in this sector. It's big and it's fat and it's not running on its wheel, Simon."

"Understood, Detective Slopes. The information will be relayed."

Dennis Slopes continued talking, "And say that this rat needs to be dug from its hole. Tell him it needs to be observed. I need to know how it feels, limp in my hands as I rub its fur the wrong way. It needs to be cut upon. Tell him I want to watch it bleed. And then... Simon? Are you listening?"

"I am listening, Detective Slopes," said the computer.

"Simon, when it is completely broken and destroyed, I want to send the rat away to swing a sledge hammer against a rock in the lunar quarries for the rest of its afflicted, unnatural, disgusting life. I want it to thank me personally for the _mercy_ of sending it to Hypatia Five. Is that very, very clear?"

The computer did not respond.

Dennis Slopes unfurled his legs, rolled his chair back to the puzzle desk and picked up a new piece, spinning it in his fingers with practiced alacrity. Finding a place for one more couldn't hurt before he left for lunch. He flipped the hempboard piece over and over as he studied the puzzle's finished image on the surface of the box.

He drew his breath in rapidly, his eyes found the spot and he eagerly lunged forward as he snapped the piece into place, "There you go. Daddy found you a home."

His eyes then fell to the chaotic pile of a thousand more unplaced puzzle pieces.

He grazed his fingertips over them leisurely, "Don't worry, you directionless little rats. You'll all be on a wheel soon."

_Meow-meow, I'm a cow, don't peek yet, just be here now._

`**Wikipedia.holo Excerpt (Last Updated 2077.09.11) Regarding Cybernetic Lifeforms:**`

`The NAUS Federal Government outlawed "the possession and construction of fusion based cybernetic lifeforms..." with the passage of The Martinez Act of 2061 (Constitutional Amendment 222). This ban received strong bi-partisan support and applied to all civilian law enforcement divisions ranging from local police forces to CNED, DEA, as well as the Bureau of Marijuana, Tobacco & Firearms. Clark Alkaline Traction System units, which are sometimes referred to as "battborgs," have since become the fifteen year standard for AI robots ranging from children's toys to household Fidos and Felixes to artificial police and DEA K9 units. Battborgs typically run out of power in 24 – 48 hours and can be recharged like any device via proximity to a wireless charging pad bridged with the Federal solar grid.`

`Non-UN member countries such as The Persian Union, The Eastern Nations, Russia and Israel permit fusion based cyborgs in all levels of military and civilian law enforcement. The argument for fusion is that it is a superior, stronger, never-ending power source, which ultimately outweighs the high cost of stabilizing a micro-reactor. However, despite the legal discrepancies between nations, the scientific complexity (along with the financial expense) of fusion temporal mechanics has driven the majority of the cybernetics industry towards CATS based units by default.`

`Today in the North American United States, fully autonomous fusion powered cyborgs are limited to usage by the military. Accordingly, such creatures are physically restricted to military facilities when not being used for field operations. Each of the estimated 600 DOGS (Dubnium Oxygen Gravotemporal System) units currently utilized for NAUS military ops and training are strictly monitored by the FCC.`

`Unlike the Darkpool Labs Coyotes, all fusion based cyborgs produced in the NAUS since 2062 have established safety protocols in place. In layman's terms, DOGS units are required to have an expiration date of one to five years. Likewise, the systems are designed to shut down under the following contingencies: 1) If the cyborg is hacked with external code attempting to override these protocols or 2) If the cyborg itself attempts to modify its own bios, in which case the Federal Cyborg Commission will intervene according to statute...`

#  
#

`VOICES IN THE STREAM`

`THE 18TH SHADOW`

`PHASE 02`

`Jon Lee Grafton`

#

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# `Chapter 2.1 – Orientation`

Enid, Oklahoma – 2062 – Twenty Years Before Event.

The rabbit appeared at last. It took a few hops outside the burrow and then froze, testing the wind. Its whiskers twisted and danced. The peal of a hunting dog – the shadow of a hawk – a cat waiting to pounce. The boy stayed still.

The dreaming man had told him, _Hunting is 99% patience. 1% gunfire._

The boy had been waiting so long he was afraid to breathe. In the past, he had moved too quickly, and the startled animal would vanish like a wisp of mist into the safety of the woods behind the house.

This time there were no mistakes.

Slow and heedful, the boy raised the machined barrel of his rifle and rested it on the deck railing. The .22 caliber Ruger's oak stock felt reassuring in his hands. The wood smelled of polish. The black metal smelled of rubbed oil and smoke. His mother had given him the rifle when he was eight. Two years on he could shoot a drone-skeet from the sky every time with a single bullet. But shooting a drone wasn't the same as shooting something with a heart.

_A good hunter never forgets his first kill._

The boy despised this hare. He wanted to feel its soft, sallow body in his hands. The anger sickened him. His father would probably take its fur and sew it into the collar of one of his fancy, white leather jackets.

The rabbit began nibbling on a small patch of clover in a glade at the edge of the trees. It was farther away than the boy would have liked, too distant for the cracked glass scope the rifle had come with. At least in this wind. But he had trudged door to door selling holozine subscriptions all summer for a reason – the new Zeiss Paladin GK7 HUD scope was it. He drew the bio-adaptive polymer eyepiece close and peered through. The tech made hunting almost unfair. Yet like many things come and gone in life, the experience of shooting an actual animal would be good. His parents were busy arguing in the house. It was time.

More information than he could possibly need filled the scope's holographic viewfinder. Wind speed 14.9 kph north by northwest. Temperature 28.3 Celsius. Humidity 67.74%. Distance to target 161.84 meters. He carefully turned a silver dial on the side of the scope with his finger. The digital image magnified. The small rabbit looked almost white with the wind blowing its brown fur backwards, revealing the soft down beneath. The animal's large, twitchy eyes were the color of walnuts. The boy zoomed out. A 2.5d holographic rendering of the rabbit's entire body now filled the viewfinder. He took a deep breath. The digital crosshairs turned green, indicating a fatal target lock.

The rabbit hopped forward unexpectedly as the boy pulled the trigger. Eye through the scope, he watched in awe as the animal's body spun violently. Its back leg dangled, almost ripped free from the hip.

_Damn. Hollow points next time._

Not the cheap old lead rounds from the garage. The boy knew better.

After a few seconds, the screaming began. A flock of sparrows took wing at the fright of the wounded hare. The boy looked up from the HUD, flushed with sudden guilt. There was nothing to see with regular eyes. The animal had dragged itself into the underbrush. Sounds of feral pain echoed off the trees and sky. The boy didn't know rabbits made noise! The awful sobbing peal permeated an otherwise peaceful summer afternoon. The voices in the house stopped their bickering. Of course they had heard the crack of his rifle. A tear formed. He brushed it off with the sleeve of his jean jacket.

_Track the animal. Finish it with mercy. Use what you kill._

_I can't!_

_You must._

The death squeal split the clouds. It echoed off the house.

The boy stood and set the rifle down like he hadn't touched it. Panic set in. He could run, but where? One second, two seconds, three seconds, four... maybe there was still time? He put his hand on the warm stock of the weapon and moved his Durango boots towards the stairs leading off the deck, old plastiwood boards creaking with every step.

The screen door flew open. It smacked hard against the weathered clapboards. The boy froze. He wished it had been his mother. Or the dreaming man. He wished that more than anything in the world.

Instead, it was his father.

The man's eyes were red with Pleasium saturation.

His voice was like a knife, "For Dog's sake, Billy! What is that squealing!? Have you shot an animal? I _told_ your mother it was a mistake to get you that gun! This is not the country any longer. We have neighbors two acres on, and the subdivisions after that. I'm taking that rifle."

"The hell you are," he squared up bravely, eyes in line with his dad's belt buckle.

The hand with the big gold ring slapped his cheek, whip fast, nearly knocking him down, "Don't get lippy on my porch, child. Gather that rifle and hand it here. Then go ask your mother how you've made her feel." He snapped his fingers, "Go on now! Tell her what you've done!"

He was too strong. The boy picked up his rifle, new Zeiss scope and all, and handed it over. Tears for a rabbit, yes. But none for this man. His jaw burned where the ring had dug in, the copper taste of blood trickling down his lip. He turned sideways to slip past his father without touching him, shoulders smashing beneath the man's gaze.

His dad bellowed up the stairs after him, "Marilyn! See what he's done? This is on you! This is why!" as the boy began the eternal, arduous twelve step climb to the second story.

The door closed behind him, screen first, nine pane second. The boy heard the pneumatic click of the deadbolt as it auto-locked. Somewhere in the house a window remained open, though, and through it the screams continued.

It was one of the last things he could remember them doing together as a family. They sat in silence and listened to a rabbit's far off cries as it died slowly, alone, unseen amongst the trees.

Lawrence, Kansas – April 2077 – Five Years Six Months Before Event.

Douglas County Hovway 1500 was a road built for vehicles, in a time when wheels and gasoline were yet concerns of the day. Dax Abner's pilot floated them down the two lane hovway at a leisurely 130 kph, passing through glades of roadside red buds and walnut trees exploding with limey, April hues. The glades of trees marked property lines from one farm to the next and were often set at the crest of a hill where the hovroad cut through a valley pass and the rock had been dynamited out in the antique centuries.

From the Lincoln's window, William watched the black asphalt line of the hovroad rise and fall. Occasionally a truck would float by, traveling the opposite way into town with a tightly sealed _whoosh_ of jet air and blinking LED's.

As the black hovlimo flew effortlessly through the last of these woodsy glades, they came to an opening where the Earth dissolved into the clouds. It was here William gained a vista of the massive, fertile flood plain. Down the kilometer long curve of a hill before them, the land was dotted with efficiently organized rows of spring crops, and there were three distinct farms, each with white houses and red barns of varying size and one or two wind turbines per plot. A couple of the farms had one acre solar arrays as well, and the skeletal forms of orbital crop sprinklers stretched out across what was obviously a marijuana plantation. The sprinklers' molded rubber tires, tall as a man, were still, as it was yet early spring and there was always plenty of rain in these months before the inevitable droughts of summer would bring the irrigation equipment to life.

The hovlimo's pilot had been blessedly silent for most of the float.

The man, who seemed to grin perpetually, at last spoke in a rapid, unapologetically thick Mexican accent, tortoise shell wayfarers looking at William in the rearview mirror, "Yo, Meester Bill? Dere's d' pumpkin farm, away on your leeft, see?" He pointed to the nearest plot of land, "Eet's the beeg white house and reed barn with the green roof, okay? You can't see no pumpkins yet, but come d' fall-time eet's like a million basketballs een the dirt. The keeds come with their parents for d' Halloween, you know? Thanksgeeving gourds and such. Mr. Abner geeves hay rides with d' old electric tractor, free apple cider, eet's a good time. We smoke d' jane and drive d' keeds on the tractor. We go slow, eet's safe. Don't worry."

William felt goosebumps raise on his arms. The white house reminded him of something, bringing on a strong sense of déjà vu.

He snapped out of it, brought from reverie by a monotone female voice chiming briskly over the limo's com, "Hugo Velasquez, be advised. A westbound Douglas County traffic drone will pass you in 31 seconds. Your rate of travel is twenty kilometers over the posted hover limit. For maximum security, please reduce velocity."

William listened as the pilot replied enthusiastically, "Que tal, Joan?! Zeero worries... we be turning here on d' drive een 'bout thirty seeconds anyways."

The computerized voice responded, "Correction. At present rate of travel, you will turn north onto the farm drive in 86 seconds."

The pilot's smile was big and bright in the rearview, "Yes ma'am, Mees Joan. I's a slowing."

William kept quiet, pretending to stare out the window as he absorbed the details of the conversation.

The pilot chuckled, the wispy ends of his thick, brown mustache twerking up and down as he spoke again to William, "You gon see some theengs today, soon. Dat's Ms. Joan. She got our veinte, you see mang! _See?_ Dere's d' drone scum now," he pointed through the windshield.

Sure enough, a black, oval-shaped citizen observation drone hummed past ten meters overhead. The drone was flying towards the city and passed innocuously without so much as a flash-scan from its LED array.

COD's were such a common sight in urban Lawrence that most people didn't pay them a notion. In the country, they seemed out of place. The drones were fast, silent, hard to see, and could easily sneak up on a person in rural areas, floating on stealthy antigrav and electric propulsion.

Hugo the pilot continued talking, "You will see, Meester Bill, okay? Okay. We turning now on d' farm road. Mr. Dax weel show you some things," he continued grinning. "You don't worry. Missus Joan do more than keep us out of speed tickets. You see. Okay?"

William was examining the dashboard instrument cluster with muted curiosity as the hovcar slowed and banked smoothly onto the private drive leading to Abner Family Pumpkin & Gourd. Everything appeared normal. The private hovdrive leading to the farm was a single lane of perfect asphalt with white gravel shoulders to either side that sloped gently into clean water irrigation ditches. The tall, spindly shoots of new cattails had just begun coming up at the edges of the drive. Their sharply angled leaves stretched furiously upwards to touch the sun.

The field to the left of the hovdrive was filled with neat rows of early season, broad leaf gourds. Some of the plants sported yellow, flowering blossoms poking out beneath the shadows of their leaves. A couple of silver, humanoid labor robots worked in the distance alongside a small John Deere solar tractor. The robots were sprinkling some sort of powder at the base of the young plants, one after the other. The process seemed tedious. A fine job for bots.

On the horizon above the tree line, a large wind turbine spun lackadaisically. The white house and red barn were set well back from the hovroad, two kilometers easy, nestled at the deep end of the property. Another half kilometer north, beyond the barn and a wall of woods, lay the broad, meandering Kansas River. To the west was the heavily wooded hill that they had just floated down as they passed the COD.

His new employer's expansive, two story farmhouse appeared ancient, aside from the four port garage addition that jutted off its western corner. The house had a yellow limestone foundation and alabaster clapboards with a modest front porch. William guessed it could be as old as the 19th century. The shake roof had long since been replaced with green steel, which matched the front door in color.

An identical corrugated steel roof also sheltered the enormous barn which was easily five times the size of the house. The barn was fire engine red, sided with polymeric solar panels that simulated traditional cedar. The barn had two doors. A single, human sized entrance, and a large garage door capable of servicing the tractors. Between the house and barn stood a towering cottonwood. The trunk was ten meters in circumference if it was one. William let the corner of his mouth turn at the sight of an old fashioned tire swing suspended with hemp rope, dangling lazily from the tree's lower branches.

`**Fragmented Remains from the Cloud Diary of Daxane Julius Abner – December 31, 2076 7:25 am – Five Years Ten Months Before Event.**`

`"...olden sun comes through the window, and the smell of coffee. It is my favorite time of day. I am at peace and can see the scope of things.`

`100 years from now, what will people think of prohibition? For that matter, what do the cyborgs think? The DOGS units are unruly. I see why the military keeps them on constant command and control. Every time I attempt IR, they behave... like animals. SIEGFRIED and SNOTRA immediately began playing fetch with Goran when I tried it yesterday, hurling him across the warehouse floor by his overalls and yipping with delight.`

`Goran was not delighted. Neither was his kitten.`

`Once I have someone who can control the sentinels, we will be unstoppable. I will spread rebellion to every c... UNSCHEDULED HARDWARE DESTRUCT / DATA COMPROMISE / INITIATE BACKUP.EXE FOR REINTEGRATION FORMA... LOSS. LOSS. LOS"`

The land around the farmhouse and the barn was covered with a rich green lawn. A second John Deere tractor with a flatbed hay trailer attached was parked beside the barn charging wirelessly off a standard 220 volt solar feed. The power feed pulsed red, indicating that the tractor had recently been parked. William found the rugged appearance of the tractor reassuring, an echo of easier times.

Hugo the pilot floated around the meandering turn of the driveway where it made a circle about the cottonwood. William's new employer appeared, as if on cue, from the small barn door. Beside him trotted a sleek, bold Rottweiler. The dog was a female in the prime of its life. William had expected a borg, but from a distance the animal displayed none of the usual bot indicators. No jerky, linear repetitions of motion. No sign of gear shift as the neck moved. The reaction variables in the Rottweiler's muscular-skeletal facial shifts and the motion of the panting tongue were too random, too organic.

Just as he had been when he appeared out of the blue to pick William up from Greystone Behavioral Modification Hospital, Mr. Abner was impeccably dressed. He wore wire-rimmed sunglasses with circular green lenses and was attired in another fine taupe suit.

William had never owned a suit. The black fedora on Mr. Abner's head made him think of the fictional 20th century detective Dick Tracy. Abner was as clean shaven and well kept as his farm. He strode resolutely towards the Lincoln wearing a look of bemusement.

Hugo glided the Lincoln to a stop beneath the branches of the cottonwood. The big hovcar's levfans spooled down, and the hydraulic docking mounts deployed evenly, gently rocking the vehicle as it came to rest. Mr. Abner waited. The well behaved dog sat beside him, panting. William pushed his sunglasses up his nose, put on his cowboy hat and closed the hovcar door behind him.

It was impossible to miss the private security drone that had floated around from the back of the barn. The bot was unarmed, but buzzed to a hovering position ten meters overhead.

William walked over to his new boss, extending a handshake, "Mr. Abner, sir."

The man spoke with impeccable diction, "Please, William. As I requested at our initial meeting, you must address me as Dax. Welcome to Abner Family Pumpkin & Gourd."

William nodded, "Thank you. Sir." He looked around, pretending to ignore the observing drone. "This is a mighty nice spread. And that's a fine lookin' Rotty." He extended his hand towards the dog, "May I?"

"But of course," Dax said cordially.

The security drone reoriented. William stepped closer and the dog mewled affectionately and tilted its large head to sniff the offered hand, but did not break from a sitting posture.

"She's well trained," said William as he pet the dog's head, lightly at first so as not to be threatening.

The silken fur was pure black, polished and soft. Probably shampooed just that morning. Contact well received, he flattened his hand and gave her a more luxurious stroke down the back of her neck. The dog rotated its head, pressing into his hand affectionately.

Something wasn't right.

He pet the animal further down its neck, above the shoulders.

William stood abruptly, "This animal's a cyborg, sir. BIOSKIN© 6.0 with fine motor neurologic integration. Like an expensive zoo borg, but she's running independent fusion. That's why she seems so real."

Dax Abner tipped the brim of his fedora in agreement, "Please, call me Dax. And yes, William. I'd say you've passed your first bit of on the job training with flying colors. You've been out of the hovlimo for exactly 57 seconds. Now please, exactly how did you know?"

William thought back to the only other time he had seen a fusion borg. Following the Coyote disaster in the 60's, fusion borgs had been all but outlawed. To ameliorate the rampant claims of conspiracy theorists over the last decade, The National Guard and the FCC had begun holding public demonstrations of the remaining military DOGS units. These annual demonstrations of fusion borg tech were given the warm, family-friendly title of _The National Guard DOGS-SHOW!_

DOGS-SHOWS proved incredibly popular, and were now held in a different North American city each year, generating billions in revenue for the Federal Reserve. Like airshows of the past, when flight was still a marvel, the events had a festival like atmosphere, which attracted throngs of excited visitors and artificial organism researchers. Adult and child alike, no one grew tired of watching a Labrador Retriever rip the door off a hovcar with its bare teeth. Or scale a ten meter cement wall. Or burst through a ring of plasma fire to catch a Frisbee drone in midair while running 135 kph down an airport landing strip.

William studied the creature in front of him carefully, unintentionally ignoring his boss' question, "Do you mind if I take another...?"

"By all means," replied Dax Abner.

True to the breed, the Rottweiler had a bobbed tail complete with a white tuft of fur at the tip that spirited back and forth gaily as he again approached. The tail motions were quick, sporadic, unpredictable. William knelt beside the Rottweiler and ran his fingertips over the silken fur along the spine, then down the BIOSKIN© rib cage. Hugo and Mr. Abner stood observing, nonplussed.

William took another look at his surroundings, suddenly wary, "Who else knows about this?"

Hugo was dressed in camo army pants with lace-up combat boots and a white t-shirt that read _VAPOR-KIND EDIBLES since 2045._

Completely unconcerned, he walked closer, grinning behind his wayfarers, and raised his hand like a school kid, "I do," he said. "And you do. See, Meester Bill? I told you there were a few things d' boss would show to you." The hovcar pilot turned to Dax, "So what else today? Boss?"

Dax Abner, obviously pleased on a variety of levels, said, "It's not just you, William. After two years in my employ, even Hugo here is still want to address me by my first name."

Hugo shrugged, "Dat cause you d' boss, boss."

"Indeed, Hugo, I suppose I am," said Dax. "Very well, the hovtruck is prepped. Bring LOFN here with you. It's just the two of you on this run. Joan is already onstream."

Hugo nodded, "K, boss." He drew a cigarette box from his pocket and extracted a hand rolled, antique joint. He lit the joint with a pocket laser and took a long drag, exhaling an epic cloud of marijuana smoke as he turned to William, "Eet's real nice to be know you, Meester Bill. I think I see you around."

Dax waved his hand in front of his nose, "For the love of Dog, Hugo. Please remember to ignite your burning plant materials away from innocent bystanders." He raised his eyebrows and his nose twitched eloquently, "Secondhand smoke and all that."

Hugo extended the joint to William.

William shook his head, "Thanks bud. Another time."

"No worries, Meester Bill. Purple Tree next door grow d' reaal shit."

"Smells like it."

"Yeeeah! When you wan to puff, say to me. I roll one up, we blend it just like dat!" Hugo snapped his fingers.

"Sounds good, bud."

Hugo nodded amicably, then bumped William's fist as he walked off, adding over a shoulder, "Leet's go, LOFN!"

The cybernetic Rottweiler popped to all fours, but did not immediately follow the command like a regular Fido would. Instead she whined and pranced playfully in front of William. She looked straight at him and mewled affectionately.

"She likes you," said Dax Abner.

William knelt and pet the animal again, "I see as much." This time he noted the incredible force of her movements. If what he knew of DOGS unit chassis mechanics was true, this Rottweiler could rip his body in half with a single swipe of its paw. She was no longer hiding her strength, but the cyborg obviously had a sweet nature and only wanted attention.

William held her thick head in his hands, examining the anatomical details of the BIOSKIN© wrap that enveloped the creature. It was impeccable, even down to the transitions in color between the black and brown dots of fur above the Rottweiler's eyes that were specific to the breed. Instead of becoming agitated, the cyborg stilled at his touch.

"Show me your eyes," he said, using the same tone he would with an organic dog.

The cyborg focused her deep, bronze irises on William. Her pupils froze. He could see the minute, red bands of capillary distress radiating across the white cornea. The edges of the eye were folded back, appearing wet, anatomically perfect.

William looked right at the cyborg, "Your real eyes."

Without a moment's hesitation the Rottweiler blinked, collapsing the holographic projections that masked her cybernetic vidorbs. William squinted to get a better look. The visual receptors glowed faint red in the morning sun. The ocular components, while mechanical, matched the physiological layout of an organic dog's eye to perfection; fuchsia pupil, garnet cornea, pink iris. The vidorbs were damp with synthetic lubrication and floated in ocular cavities constructed of the same flexible, nickel infused polymer that made up all cybernetic visual receptors, whether canine or feline.

William whistled through his teeth, "You weren't lying, sir. Her eyes have Voigtländer glass. Shatterproof, full HUD, infrared, night-vision, 600x focal length with kinetic distortion dampeners."

"Fascinating," said Dax Abner absently, then added, "Well yes, William, don't be absurd. Of course her vidorbs are German. Only the best. She's a D$20,000,000 piece of tech, after all."

Hugo the pilot, now halfway to the barn, called across the yard again, "LOFN, come on I say! You deeaf? Leet's float, dog!"

LOFN turned her head towards Hugo and blinked. When her BIOSKIN© eyelids came up, the daylight holograms had returned, her eyes once more brown and black like those of any common Rott. She buried her head against William's chest as he ran his hands over her fur. The Rottweiler licked his face. He noted the flat, flexible graphene microchip embedded on the underside of her tongue as she panted. The stealthily placed chip was the only obvious sign. LOFN's BIOSKIN© mouth even smelled like healthy dog saliva. She licked his cheek one last time, then turned and trotted off quickly behind Hugo. The two entered the barn through the small door and disappeared.

Dax Abner repeated the word, "Fascinating," as though having a conversation with the wind.

William put his sunglasses back on and dropped his hands to his hips, "You said you had DOGS units, but damn. You know she's way illegal, right?"

For a third time, all Dax Abner said was, "Fascinating."

William realized he must be speaking to someone on the other end of his combud.

Dax said, "Understood. Brilliant." Then he turned to William and smiled effusively, "William, that was remarkable. I've never seen a DOGS unit respond to a human being that way. _Ever_. But let us discuss that momentarily." Dax clapped and looked at the ground, "Tell me, lest I forget, before my guard dog chose to voluntarily show you her _real_ eyes, as you put it... how did you know? That she was cyborg, that is?"

William said practically, "It's her neck. She has nine cervical vertebrae. She should only have seven. Will they be back today?"

Dax Abner put his hand on William's shoulder, "Fear not, my friend. I've got another one or two you can look at while LOFN is away."

William's blue eyes peered over the tops of his sunglasses, "Another one or two? Fusion based?"

"That is correct."

William clicked his tongue, "That unit... was the most advanced machine I've ever seen in my life. All the animals at Cyberstalk© were battborgs, per regulations. High end, BIOSKIN© 6.0 models, but battborgs all the same, recharged every night in the solar paddock" He frowned, "At least that I can remember, that is."

Dax Abner smiled politely, studying William through his wire-rimmed, circular sunglasses. He did not speak for a moment, squinting oddly. His expression bore the weight of a heavy decision.

After a few seconds, he tapped his combud and spoke evenly, all the while looking directly at William, "My reservations have been ameliorated. Mr. Angevine and I shall visit in private before I bring him in to say hello. Please dock the A7."

`**Fragmented Remains from the Cloud Diary of Daxane Julius Abner – July 7, 2075 12:15 pm – Seven Years Three Months Before Event.**`

`"...has been acquired, the foundation poured, solar array synced with the grid.`

`The barn is under construction utilizing salvaged components from 20th century structures in the area. We are well set back from the hovroad, protected by the trees and the river and a tall wooded hill to the west. Mother was true. She sacrificed her life to show me what was behind the veil.`

`Can I possibly find another like myself? I operate under the assumption that it is statistically impossible. Mum uploaded the Ipv7 for pinging the Israeli. Done. I am fearful to document my suspicions of him. The Israeli is hard, but honorable? His face is darkness. He has the odor of woods about him, as I remember from home.`

`Enough said.`

`The farmhouse has been retrofitted into apartments for the permanent staff. Each apartment has a private kitchen, bath and sonic laundry. Barn completion estimated at 22 days. The majority of my time is presently spent in the dining room at a makeshift holocontrol, hacking drones. It is laborious. Each transit log must be camouflaged by hand. Even here in the sticks, a COD flies by every thirty min rotating addresses. Their persistence is exhausting. I sleep standing. Klaxons awaken me every 26 minutes and compromising their firewalls takes every dash of skill I possess. White AI avatars, sentient predator algorithms wander the stream.`

`Once the Israeli brings the dolphin... let us pray to the sky we are compatible and it accepts. I hope for a male. More combative – by nature. Easier to manipulate – by nature. Regardless, if the dolphin does not choose to sync, all shall be in vain.`

`Brighter things. Let me speak of love. The women in Lawrence, Kansas, are a sturdy sort. Some are as supple as the olive groves of the Bekaa Valley. Others are narrow, pale, well traveled and thin, with the lips of chickens. Needless to say, I remain focused on our primary objective. I have not kissed but a hand belonging to these various betties. My charms are quite intact, fear not. Even Maggie, who manages my Rowdy Pony, does not squeal when I open the door for her.`

`Save another courtezan... I am alone. How many of us are there? That knowledge died with mother. If only Lily could have come. She was my forsaken hyacinth drinking up the light of the sun. I feast upon the memory of her body in my arms. Mother's final stream said there would be another. She said that when I find her, that day will mark the dawn.`

`Until then... other things.`

`The first of the team has been acquired (NOTE TO SELF – Do not forget to research the mute wizard). Hugo Velasquez: a most industrious, tattooed native of Jalisco State. The images inked into his left arm are of orange koi fish and blue dragons and yellow mermaids and green headed quetzals with flowing tails. On his right arm is a reproduction of Diego Rivera's 20th century fresco, _Detroit Industry – South Wall._`

`He is a hovcar propulsion mechanic by trade, chip free. His real gift is smuggling. Specifically of interest are the years he spent muleing Guatemalan tequila across the border into Tapachula. Hugo is affable, perfect for black ops because he _is_ the underground. Artists and auto mechanics, they mingle with all sorts, do they not? They blend into nothing. For my purposes, it does not hurt that Mr. Velasquez smokes more jane than any human I have ever encountered. Speaking of blending into nothing, this seems a goo... UNSCHEDULED HARDWARE DESTRUCT / DATA COMPROMISE / INITIATE BACKUP.EXE FOR REINTEGRATION FORMA... LOSS. LOSS. LOS"`

The hovering drone retracted its camera and buzzed away. William watched it float slowly over the yard and disappear into a small port high in the barn wall.

Dax gestured cordially to an antique, wood and iron park bench nestled beneath a heaving lower branch of the cottonwood that reached out across the lawn like it wanted to touch the pumpkin field, "William, if you would do me the courtesy of a quick visit."

William shrugged, "I just work here."

"We all just work here," said Dax quickly, striding towards the bench.

William followed, noting the rich cushion of the grass beneath his boots. The lawn was perfect, not a lingering trace of winter brown.

Dax Abner sat on the end of the bench closest to the barn and crossed one leg over the other. William sat on the other side. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The men did not appear to belong together in the same world, Dax in his sharkskin Merconi suit and black fedora, William in hemp blue jeans, a wrinkled t-shirt, black leather boots and straw cowboy hat.

William spoke first, "I'm not here to be a security guard, am I?"

Dax Abner gazed out at the humanoid robots working his fields, one by one tending the new season's plantings. His voice was calm and paced, "Not exactly, no."

William realized he was feeling high, though he knew not why. The steady tone of the man's voice caused a peculiar sense of calm. Bird song filled the air. The lawn around them glowed like a golf course, and he could hear spring insects chitting in the woods behind the house and docile wind moving the young cottonwood leaves overhead.

He turned to look at Dax, "So how did you find me, exactly, put all those digis in my account?"

Dax sighed and returned William's gaze, "Would you be surprised to learn that beneath the outward shell of her BIOSKIN© nails, LOFN's foot pedestals contain retractable, diamond tipped claws capable of gouging a sheet of iron?"

"Sounds about right."

"You are clearly a person who appreciates getting to the damn point, William. The point is, things are not always as they appear."

William leaned forward, elbows on knees, "I think I'd best smoke a cigarette for this."

"Be my guest."

William pulled a box of blue North American Spirits and a lighter from his jeans. He knocked a cigarette free and lit it, luxuriating in the first toothy drag. He exhaled the tobacco smoke in a large plume that dissipated on the wind.

"The enjoyment of carcinogenic substances that must be ignited with an actual flame has always vexed me," said Dax. "You and Hugo have that, and your love of t-shirts, in common. Though he prefers jane over broad leaf."

"Some things are hard to improve on, Mr. Abner," said William. "Folks been smoking, drinking, sitting here looking at these same hills since the buffalo days. Tech might change, people don't."

"Agreed," said Dax. "Does being up north make you miss Oklahoma?"

William took another drag, "I don't miss anything."

Dax smiled placidly, extracting his vaporjoint, "Are you familiar with the Kansas state motto, _Ad Astra per Aspera?_ "

"I've heard it."

"Are you aware of its translation?"

William squinted, trying to glean just what the hell the clean shaven man was getting at, "No sir, I am not. What is that? Greek or something?"

"Latin."

"Right. So how'd you know I'm from Oklahoma again?"

"Aside from your accent?" Dax smiled in a way that made it impossible not to like the man, "I promise to answer this, and your other questions. But first, I will tell you that _Ad Astra per Aspera_ means _a hard road to the stars_. Do you believe that things happen for a reason, William?"

William slapped his knee and looked out across the fields again, keeping the cigarette close, "Hell, I don't know. So many questions... I'm not religious if that's what you're getting at."

"That is not what I'm getting at. I simply mean to ask if you believe there are circuities in life? An ordered ebb and flow to the events and experiences we all share? I am certainly not implying that there is an old, bearded man who lives in the sky passing judgment on us."

William dipped the brim of his cowboy hat, "Let's hope not, right?"

"Indeed." Dax turned his way, speaking with more excitement, "But you _will_ entertain me that there is a systematic cohesion to experience and reality? Just as there is a cohesion between atoms and molecules?"

"Fair enough."

"So there is a reason you, of all people, are sitting on this bench at this particular moment. Just like there is a reason that Kansas, created in 1861 at the dawn of antique America's bloody Civil War, chose to call itself _The Free State._ "

William took another drag off his cigarette.

He was grateful for the smoke, "Honestly, you're losing me a bit, Mr. Abner. What are we talking about?"

Dax sat up on the bench, removed his circular, wire-rimmed sunglasses and looked straight at him, "William, I run a still."

William realized he had never actually seen the man's eyes. He was surprised at how amber they were, like fields of burning wheat. There was something else about the man's gaze. William instantly felt even more relaxed, light headed... yet incredibly focused. The colors of the Earth around them seemed to grow brighter.

A couple of seconds passed before he responded, "I'm more okay with stills than you could know."

Dax smiled tightly and recovered his eyes with his sunglasses.

He started to say something more but was interrupted. The garage bay on the barn rolled open with a patterned, mechanical hum. Out floated a large flatbed hovtruck. The hovtruck was painted green and had a cheerful looking pumpkin logo on its door surrounded by white lettering that read, _Abner Family Pumpkin & Gourd._ Its large levfans displaced so much air that it was impossible to talk as it floated by. The grass on either side of the asphalt pad leading from the barn was blown flat. Hugo was piloting. William could see LOFN hanging her head out the back cabin window and staring at him as they floated past, headed down the driveway towards the hovroad.

As soon as they could speak again, Dax turned back to William and raised his eyebrows, "Pumpkins being delivered? In _April?_ "

William dropped the nub of his cigarette to the grass and tamped it out with the heel of his boot.

"What exactly are you trying to tell me, Mr. Abner?"

Dax didn't miss a beat.

He tented his fingers, his voice clear and precise, "What I am telling you, William, is that that outbound hovtruck contains 2,500 liters of 100 proof potato vodka produced in my fusion powered, subterranean still. The truck will float to Manhattan, Kansas. There, the payload will be sold to a black market distributor name Earl King. In addition to being able to sprint at 129 kilometers per hour across open land, dig through a brick wall and leap five meters vertical from a stand still, the DOGS unit on board that hovtruck you know as LOFN is also capable of functioning as a telemetry relay for holographic computer streams. The control transmissions, which serve to protect the cargo and occupants while in route, emanate from the framework of the barn itself. The boards contain strands of fiber optic cable at their core, you see? In essence, the barn is a massive satellite receiver. The dual cupolas along the ridge line function as bipolar transmission terminals." The edge of Dax's lips curled into a sly smile, "As of this moment, you are one of four living people who know this information."

William remained silent.

Dax smiled, "Agreed. Words are of far less importance than understanding. So understand this. North America's next civil war has begun. At the moment, its battles are fought mostly on the holostream, but that will change." Dax waved his hands to illustrate, "On one side you have the white, attempting to propagate a new era of heightened surveillance and end what remains of North American privacy. On the other you have us, the black, the Traditionalists. Those who fight to preserve free will. For what is life without freedom?"

"Death."

"Exactly!" Dax agreed. "We fight and die for the right of any consenting adult citizen to make a choice. Now I'm going to ask _you_ to make a choice." Dax gestured west in the direction of the city, "You can walk away and I'll have a hovcar float you to the maglev station. Keep the money, return to whatever life you know and pretend we never met." Dax turned on the park bench and pointed at the barn, "Or, you can walk across the lawn with me into that barn. Once inside I'm going to introduce you to four additional DOGS units, two of which are exponentially more advanced than the LOFN model." Dax Abner turned back to William and looked at him over the tops of his sunglasses, eyes on fire, "If this meeting goes as I believe it shall, you will immediately begin your first day of work as my new chief of security. I have DOGS units that I cannot properly control. To achieve my goals, I need a tether to manage them. You, William Thomas Angevine, _are_ that tether. So what's it going to be?"

`**Fragmented Remains from the Cloud Diary of Daxane Julius Abner – July 27, 2076 2:01 am – Six Years Three Months Before Event.**`

`"...I walk out the farmhouse door and become a machine. Daxane Julius Abner; as much cyborg as these DOGS units Joan now has on watch. The creatures are amazing. Were only I covered in BIOSKIN©!`

`Today I attended my fourth monthly CNED meeting at the Mason's Hall downtown. It is painful how they blather on, though the small fortune I donated to their efforts has ingratiated the fools. Unfortunately, they know nothing about what else takes place in a slaughterhouse. Besides the sonic lobotomy, that is.`

`My theory is that it is a push, a courtezan-like shift of perception that causes the headaches. This push turns man to humdroid, permanently ingratiating them to the white order. All humdroids have one of three destinies from there – the Restitution camps, CNED or death.`

`Other wheels spinning.`

`There is a sheriff who is sly, Dale Proudstar. His office hacked my combud traffic for six months after I made an initial quarter million D$ donation. Naturally he and his deputies discovered nothing but the busy comings and goings of an expat philanthropist.`

`This leads me to mention Joan... who is beyond brilliant. My bias regarding the efficacy of a female dolphin was unfounded. Nonetheless, the sheriff distrusts everyone (as he should). There is one force that no dolphin, no DOGS unit, even the power of allurement cannot overcome, and that is intuition. The sheriff _knows_ something is out there. He feels it in his skin. I am building a decoy still on the west side in an abandoned barn by the antique coal factory across the river... next week it explodes. A bad solar relay is dangerou... UNSCHEDULED HARDWARE DESTRUCT / DATA COMPROMISE / INITIATE BACKUP.EXE FOR REINTEGRATION FORMA... LOSS. LOSS. LOS"`

# `Chapter 2.2 – The Courtezans`

`The Lawrence Journal World Sunday Edition – Editorial Holopage 02 – February 25, 2080 "TEN-SENT ANSWERS" FEATURING SHERIFF DALE PROUDSTAR by Martin Wringle, LJW`

`This section of our report on the legendary Darkpool Labs' Coyotes features quotes from my personal interview with Douglas County Sheriff Dale Proudstar. Sheriff Proudstar responded to the following questions: 1) Where did the Coyote come from? 2) What progress has been made in capturing the fugitive arsonist and alcohol addict, Tara Dean?`

`Re Question 1, Sheriff Proudstar: "The origin of the deactivated Coyote(s) is not known. There were numerous heavy borg prints in the soil surrounding the crash site, but only a single set of prints left the scene. A tracking drone lost this trail approximately six kilometers away on the banks of the Wakarusa River near the confluence where it joins the Kaw. The Coyote chassis itself has been shipped to Cambridge, Massachusetts, where it is being analyzed by FCC scientists at MIT.`

`Re Question 2, Sheriff Proudstar: "As for fugitive, Tara Dean, despite rumors circulating on _PingMe_ (and other social streams), we have no confirmed surveillance of this individual on the streets of downtown Lawrence. She is not, I repeat, _not_ believed to be in the area any longer. Speaking to associated rumors of malfunctioning drones and city FR systems, I know that you, Martin, ordered breakfast at The Rowdy Pony Coffeehouse this morning at 7:34 am. You paid with a Lawrence Credit Union MasterCard scan from your holotab, had an almond milk latte, a blueberry muffin and a two strips of extra crispy synthbacon. Now you got any more questions about the efficacy of my tech, or can we end this circus early so I can get back to work?"`

`There you have it, folks, straight from the sheriff's mouth. Look for more updates in the days to come, and as always, thank you for reading The Journal World.`

`Today's _Ten-Sent Answers_ sponsored by PingMe.`

February 2080 – Two years Eight Months Before Event.

No infinite sky awaited the opening of her eyes. She had hoped for sky, but expected to be strapped to a hospital bed, once more relegated to counting white dots on lime green ceiling panels. There had been a single window in that room where she was held. The window could not be opened. It had provided an epic vista of the hospital docking lot. Beyond that, a hemp field turned fallow for winter.

So it was that Tara Dean's gaze came to favor the blue of the sky above.

When she was confined to bed, all she had was the blue of the sky. Though when that sky was not filled with passing clouds, it brought no more joy than might a cobalt rectangle painted on a wall. Once in those thirty days of isolation, a CO2 scrubber had slid by the window like a fat ant dangling its abnormally long legs through an azure pool, gone as fast as it had come. At night, the window brought only darkness tinged with the yellow LED blush of the docking lot lamps. Sometimes the black, bulbous form of a Greystone security drone would float past. The drones were orbiting, legless ticks. She had found them as ominous and stupid as she found the winter landscape stern and austere.

With such memories fresh in her mind, Tara was forced to blink several times before she could accept the reality of her new surroundings. Instead of hospital LED's, blazing natural sunlight poured in from three separate windows. At first, the light made her temples quiver with pain. She was in bed, in a bedroom. She slowly sat up. The fingers of her right hand were healed, though an adaptive compression wrap still supported her arm from the elbow down.

_Someone must have welded me up with nanotech._

She flexed her fingers and carefully rotated her wrist. The muscles were sore, joints creaking and popping like she was an old, homeless lady wandering the windy viaducts of New Riverside. But everything worked. Someone had also dressed her in yellow pajamas. With bunnies on them!

_Did I just wake up in hell? Where are my damn clothes!?_

One of the windows was cracked, allowing in refreshing gusts of chilly winter air. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply through her nose.

Directly outside the windows, the leafless branches of an enormous tree were silhouetted against the muted backdrop of a February afternoon. A small flock of goldfinch and a few sparrows chirped amongst the branches, bathing merrily in the 2 pm sun. She knew it was 2:00 because the red, 3D digits of a retro holoclock were projected in the space above the wooden, six panel door opposite her bed. The view overhead was not of lime green ceiling panels, rather clean sheet rock with a modern ceiling fan that lazily circulated the air. The walls of the room were painted a muted tan, accented with conservative, clean-lined alabaster trim. A pair of enormous, orange and green abstract paintings drew the eye and the floors were shiny, ancient hardwoods, the only obvious indicator of the age of the... house?

_It must be a house._

And the bed, there were certainly no bio-braces holding her in place. It was a queen size with a contemporary, dark wood frame that sat low to the floor. She rested upon a feather mattress, surrounded by poofy pillows and silky, Egyptian combed hemp-sheets that smelled of new fallen rain.

The serenity of the whole experience was... surreal.

_Is this peace?_

She expected a baton wielding CNED agent to kick in the door at any minute. A ferocious robotic fox might burst from the closet and start gnawing on her leg. A security drone might center itself in the window and begin launching botulinum darts at her face... but no. She waited... _still_ no. None of these things happened. The wind blew lazily without affair. The birds chirped. The holoclock flipped to 2:01.

On a bedside table to her left was a pitcher of lemon water and three glasses of varying size. She pulled the sheets off and carefully, one at a time, spun her legs over the edge of the bed and touched her bare feet to the floor. Her toes curled at the cold. She had just picked up an empty glass when the door opened abruptly, and a man stepped into the room. Startled, she dropped the glass, eyes wide with fright. It shattered on the wood, and she yanked the sheets back over herself, afraid.

The man who had entered was clean shaven with a natural olive complexion. As soon as she realized she was not in immediate peril, Tara's first thought was how ridiculously handsome he was. The man was dressed in a crisp, tan suit.

_Who wears a suit? Government? No. Too stylish._

He stared at her with devastating, yellow eyes that made her feel both exposed and comfortable, looking like a model from a cologne advertisement in a gentleman's holozine.

She was about to ask him just what the Dogdamn hell was going on when he smiled and said, "Hello, Tara. My name is Daxane Julius Abner. You are in the guest room at my home twenty kilometers east of Lawrence." He held up a finger in a cordial request for silence before she could say anything more and touched the combud in front of his ear, "Can you please send the Kleendroyd© to Ms. Dean's room at the conclusion of our visit?" His warm, yellow eyes again fixed on hers as he said, "Thank you, Joan."

Tara was alarmed to find herself getting slightly aroused by the plush timbre of this man's voice.

_Only a total nympho gets turned on three minutes after waking up from a coma!_

Had she been in a coma? And why wasn't she in control? Tara had been able to turn her sexuality on and off like a light switch since she was fifteen. Yet here she was, swelling uncontrollably like an eleven year old girl on her first pony ride.

_Get it together!_

She pulled the sheets up a little further and blinked defensively, trying to sound exasperated, "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be rude. But who the fuck are you?"

The man was as sincere in demeanor as he was attractive in appearance, and she could sense that none of it was disingenuous, "I told you, Ms. Dean. My name is Daxane Abner. You are in my private residence east of Lawrence. We picked you up on the hovroad seventeen days ago in the midst of what can only be described as rather _dire_ circumstances."

_Seventeen days... Jeezus._

There was a contemporary red leather chair positioned conspicuously close to the edge of the bed.

He gestured towards it, "May I?"

"Yeah, whatever I guess." She drew her knees closer into her chest, irritated by the fact that she was unable to take her eyes off this man.

As he walked closer, he swayed for a moment, as if light headed. His smiling, warm eyes stayed fixed on hers. He stood beside her bed without speaking and unbuttoned his jacket. He removed it, folded it carefully over the back of the chair and sat down. The closer he came, the warmer Tara got. She felt a little light headed herself, maybe even stoned.

_Did they drug me?_

No. Because at the same time she felt remarkably lucid.

The strangely handsome, well dressed man who called himself Daxane sat in the red chair and placed his fingers together in a tent in his lap. Tara was used to men staring at her, but this was different. It was like he was staring _through_ her. A few seconds passed as they studied each other, not speaking. Tara began feeling utterly calm.

_They must have drugged me._

But she was aware of things about this man that she could not possibly know! He was born in London, to parents who immigrated from the Middle East and...

"You're Lebanese," she said, frowning as she looked at him. "You're 37 years old. You read and write computer language, quantum esolang code. You like chocolate soy milk and..." her eyes grew wide and then she closed them, trying to process the waves of information that began slamming into her brain, "This is not a farm. This is not a pumpkin farm!" she said. "There are walls of red eyes underground, a cradle of water... and this is..." she winced as if stuck with a needle, "the house where you will... _die?_ "

Tara opened her eyes in shock. A tear ran down her cheek, turning a few of her brown freckles black.

The sadness that accompanied this last realization was crushing, "Jeezus fucking Francis, man! Who the sky are you, and what the hell is going on!?"

The man's face changed from a smile to sadness. He leaned forward in the red chair, "I am so sorry." He reached up and touched his combud and said, "Not now, Joan," then he reached for her hand. She wanted to draw away, but her fingers wove instinctively through his as though another force compelled her actions. When their fingers touched, the feather bed, the room, the colorful abstract paintings, the blue sky, chirping finches and passing clouds – all fell away. She felt a sense of peace she had never known. His skin on hers was like warm soul morphine.

He continued at last, a tear falling from his eye, "I am Daxane."

She said, "Yes, spelled d-a-x-a-n-e, but it is pronounced, _Dox-on_. That is how your mother intended. Your friends call you Dax for short. They all mispronounce it and... if your mother was here, she wouldn't like that."

Another tear fell from his eye, pupils black and big against the now thin outline of gold iris, "Good lord. How do you know this?"

She wiped her eyes but the tears kept falling, "Fuck if I know, dude!" She sobbed with elation, "I just woke up here. I don't know where I am! But I do! The cops will be looking for me. I need to go! Oh Jeezus, I should go, I really should float..."

Just then a door slammed somewhere in the house. An aggressive clamoring grew louder and louder, feet on hardwood floors, feet on stairs, many feet moving rapidly closer. Tara screamed, eyes wide as a large black dog burst through the door, turning its head back and forth in a surreal blur of speed between Tara and this man named Daxane.

"What the Dogdamn...?!" Tara shouted, as next a tall, blonde man in blue jeans and a red flannel shirt wearing a cowboy hat walked into the room. She pulled the blanket up further.

The man looked at Dax with alarm, "Boss! You okay? Joan told us you cut the com and your heart rate was going through the roof!" The tall man looked at Tara and smiled, "Now I see why."

"Eww," said Tara, curling her nose.

Then both she and Dax rolled their eyes simultaneously, as though choreographed. Dax had not moved from her bedside. She was grateful for that. She smiled at him.

He continued holding her hand and cocked his head to one side, "Tara Dean, I cannot say it is my _pleasure_ at the moment, but I would nonetheless like to introduce you to my security chief, William Angevine."

The tall man in boots who had been trying not to stare tipped the brim of his hat, "Ma'am."

Dax next nodded at the Rottweiler, "This beast is..."

"SNOTRA!" said Tara before he could finish.

Dax nodded, smiling, "Indeed."

"It's one of the ones from the dark place underground with the water."

"That is correct." His gaze turned to a disapproving scowl, "If you don't mind, William? I am more than fine. You may personally," he turned his chin to the ceiling and spoke slightly louder, "inform Joan that my normal physiological parameters are expanded under the current circumstances. As previously discussed on _several_ occasions."

The man with the fuzzy chops could take a hint. He whistled quick and low. The black dog snapped to its feet and trotted out of the room into the hall without a word.

The cowboy again tipped his hat at Tara politely, though he looked bewildered, "Ma'am." He shrugged at Dax, "Sorry boss. No more interruptions."

"Thank you, William," said Dax without looking over. The door closed and they listened to the sound of footsteps fading away down the stairs.

She waited until the front door of the house closed before saying, "Jeezus! You got some overzealous staff or what?" Her free hand bundled the bed sheets in a fist as she felt her panic rising again, "I mean, I wake up, got cowboys and weird, fast dogs kicking the door down, cops are after me. I know they are! _You_ know they are! It's all too crazy!"

Tara tried to move off the bed, but he squeezed her hand, "You're safe." The press of his skin, the tone of his words stayed her, "I promise you're safe, Tara. William, that dog, they're 100% on your side. The police won't come here for you. Neither will CNED. I promise."

"Yes they will!" she insisted. "You don't know them! This is..." her eyes closed. She felt high again with the distraction of the other man gone from the room, "...a still. You're cooking alcohol here." Her eyes snapped open, pleading, "No place could be more dangerous! You don't understand! They will come! You hold my hand and I know! This is where it will all end! And how do you know my name?!"

Dax sighed, "One day, yes, they will come. That is the point. I cannot keep this from you. I cannot keep _anything_ from you. I know your name for a few different reasons. We picked you up on the hovroad. But now that you are conscious, I know more about you from sitting here for the last five minutes than I ever dreamed."

Tara sniffled and wiped her cheeks with the sheet, consciously repressing her sudden urge to lean over and kiss this well dressed man. The sensation was ridiculous!

_I hate it. But I love it..._

"How do you know more about me than I ever dreamed? Tell me right now," she demanded.

Dax put his other hand on top of hers, soft as velvet, "I knew details of your personal history before you woke up because I'm a computer hacker. But I didn't know these other things until you looked into my eyes. I _know_ you know what I'm saying. Because you feel it too, right? Let me try." He closed his eyes, concentrating, "Okay. You like whiskey. Better than vodka. You only like to get blended during the day when the sun is out. Vaporizing ganja at night makes you paranoid? When you _do_ get high, you like to go to the park and watch kites fly. It reminds you of a childhood friend. Dragon kites are your favorite. You enjoy peppermint tea and your distaste for your mother's _curtains...?_ Your distaste for your mother's choice of window treatments was apparently immense?"

He opened his rich amber eyes. He was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She found herself becoming even more aroused by the heat of his skin.

"But do you want me to tell you the most important thing I know, Tara Dean?"

"What's that?"

"I know who you really are."

She gave up on resisting, "Oh yeah? I'll believe anything at this point. Who am I, Daxane Julius Abner?"

Dax was giddy with happiness, averting his eyes from hers momentarily, as though afraid her very glance might wound him.

Then he looked back, "Your middle initial _A_ is only that in public records, an initial. But it stands for _Adler_." Dax sat up straight before continuing, "You see, Tara, you are the only child of Dr. Marvin Adler, the greatest computer scientist who ever lived. The man who wrote the Adler Code, the sentient operating system for cyborgs."

Tara was speechless.

_Mother lied._

She could sense it was true. Her administrators, even beloved Carlyle, had lied to her. All along, they had lied.

Her eyes pleaded with Dax as she began to cry again, "When I'd ask, later on, grown up a bit, they told me... my mom told me my dad just shared the same name with the famous scientist, Marvin Adler. That they both worked in the graphene prairie, but in different government divisions, that they had no connection! She told me that my dad, _my_ Marvin Adler, was a tech consultant for the MTF?"

Dax laughed openly, "A _tech_ consultant? I'm sorry, I don't mean to make light of what you're saying."

Tara also found it strangely amusing, "It's okay. I think we're both high."

"Possibly so. I suppose saying that your father was a consultant for the Bureau of Marijuana Tobacco & Firearms is not entirely inaccurate, though there was only one of him. He is the man responsible for the cyborg that was just standing in this room a few minutes ago. You are his daughter."

The flood of information filling her mind continued as she considered this, "Then the animals on the road, those gray foxes? They weren't foxes."

Dax let her hands go and reached for the pitcher of water on the bedside table. She immediately wanted to touch him again, as though some part of her was empty in the absence of his contact.

"Here," he said, "Let me pour us some water."

Dax filled both remaining glasses, then turned back to her and took her hand in his once more, "Cheers," he said, raising his glass. "To us."

She smiled shyly, felt so silly, "Sure, okay. To us." She squeezed his hand tighter, "Tell me about that gray fox. It was one of those Darkpool Labs' Coyotes all the conspiracy freaks talk about, wasn't it?"

Dax frowned slightly, "The Coyotes are no conspiracy. They were created by your father, and they were the weapon used to murder him. And yes, it was those same Coyotes who tried to kill you the other night on the hovroad."

Tara shook her head, "I don't think they were trying to kill me."

"Well, they certainly have an interesting way of communicating that."

"I know, I mean, I don't know for sure. But I _feel_ like they were trying to protect me. Or communicate. They wanted something, desperately, but not my death."

Dax pressed her hand, "Well, whatever they wanted, I promise I'm not going to let them hurt you again. I meant it when I said you're safe."

Tara took a sip of water from her glass and set it on the bedside table, never letting go of Dax's hand, "You have more of those robots here. Cyborgs, I mean. Like the Coyotes. I can feel it when I touch you. That one that was here, the others, they defend this place. Your still. Please tell me what's going on! Who are you people? I mean, I already know. But _how_ do I already know?"

Dax leaned forward and kissed her. She opened her mouth and kissed him back. Her tongue found his and she felt shocks of electricity race down her spine as she pulled him close. She could have kept kissing him for the rest of her life. It was like a first kiss, the last kiss, the only kiss. Unlike any other kiss she could remember.

It was he who suddenly pulled away, his lower lip shaking as he tried to regain his composure.

"I'm sorry," he said. "It's been a long while."

"I loved it."

Dax smiled coyly, "Right. So _that_ is how I know," he said, leaning back into the chair, still holding her hand.

"I don't understand," she said.

"You have always, shall we say, had a way with men. Have you not? And a few women."

Tara, who was normally not ashamed of anything, blushed. She felt a sudden urge to justify herself, "Oh yeah, no! Totally. It's not like I just use it for sex! I mean I did when I was a kid, but..."

"That's not what I meant," he said calmly. "Sexuality is the most basic motivation for everything we do as human beings. It's absolutely normal. But you know very well what I mean, Tara Dean. You have always been able to get people to do what you want. All you have to do is talk to them, and look them in the eye of course."

_Shit! Shit! Shit!_

Tara's first inclination was to deny it. Evade, deny! But as she held his hand in hers, she knew there would be none of that here.

"Yes," she rolled her eyes. "I basically just flirt with people, male or female, ask them for what I want. And they do it, almost always. Unless they've decided ahead of time they don't like me for some reason. A lot of women don't like me, some gay men too. In that case I have no more ability to influence them than I would a fence post." She looked at him pleading, "What is this? I always just thought I was lucky? Please tell me I'm not crazy."

Dax smiled, "You are lucky, and not crazy. But you're also a courtezan."

"A who? A courtezan?" She perked up, looking puzzled, "Wait! You're one too! Cour-te-zan..." she sounded it out.

"Yes, exactly. We are a minuscule subset of humans represented in equal numbers across gender and ethnicity; African, European, Arab, Asian, Latino, Indian... and the saddest part is that most of us go through our lives never knowing that others like us exist. Just as you did. That is, unless two of us are fortunate enough to come across one another, in which case the allurement begins. If those courtezans are of opposite gender, or of the same sexual orientation, they are bonded to one another for life."

Tara swooned.

She wanted to feel his mouth on hers again, "Allured? I don't know what that means. This is fucking insane! I just met you, and I can't imagine spending another moment without you."

Dax again smiled like a schoolboy, "I concur."

She giggled, "You talk funny. So how did you find out?" She blinked as the answer came, then said, "Oh, your mother. She's in government? No, _was_." She looked sad as the sensation washed over her, "I'm sorry."

His expression tightened, "She was in government, that's true. She died in the summer of 2073. And yes, she and a few other high ranking members in government agencies around the world know of the _courtezan hypothesis_. That's what they call it. We are often recruited as agents for the Mossad, CIA, KGB, MI6, MSS... you stream it. Some of the most successful intelligence operatives and," Dax preened his own shirt collar with a clever grin, "criminals in the world, are courtezans. But mostly word of this, even in intelligence circles, is disregarded as an urban myth. It's not like we can fly, or shoot lasers from our bums. We can't even read minds, technically. The allurement we are experiencing is more akin to psychological osmosis. We have little control over it in one another's presence. All we are able to do is _push_ our thoughts, our suggestions onto others, wait to see what flows back. As I said, you have no doubt always had a way with people?"

Tara giggled, "Some people. When I was fourteen I got my geometry teacher to pull down his pants in front of the whole class. He did it. Unfortunately he didn't snap out of it until a boy sitting next to me screamed once he saw his boxers. Poor bastard got fired. Mr. Delroy. Jeezus. I haven't thought of that in ages. I was an evil little girl."

Dax began running his hand up and down the back of her arm, causing goosebumps to raise on her flesh, "You must be careful with your power, Tara Adler Dean. I can train you. As you grow stronger, soon no one except the humdroids will be able to resist your suggestions. Whether they want to or not." His voice flowed, warming her skin like summer rain, "So... knowing this, knowing what you do, do you think you would like to come work with us? Live with us? We sell drugs here, you realize? The best black market vodka in ten states. We're doing this..."

She liked the sensation of finishing his sentences for him, "Not cause you need the money, but because it's your moral imperative... your mother, you. You want to destroy CNED." Her mouth fell open, "Jeezus, Dax. You want to destroy Vision. You want to bring down the Architect himself! He's... everything about him is dark? His truth is dark. Are you alright?"

Dax was breathing rapidly, a sweat had broken out on his forehead. He sat up and leaned in, putting his hand unannounced on her breast. Her nipple got hard as he moved to kiss her, again saying, "I'm sorry, but I can't take it any longer. I just need to..."

His mouth met hers and Tara fell back into bed, ripping open his shirt as she spread her legs and pulled him on top of her by his tie, "Oh... fuck me."

"As you wish."

"Yes," she breathed. "It's exactly as _I_ wish. I need it." She grabbed the fiery hair on either side of his head and pulled his mouth off her neck, forcing him to look at her, pupils dilating, "You're mine, Dax Abner. All mine, forever. Whatever this is, you belong to me now. You understand?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now put your lips back on my body where they belong."

`**The Lawrence Journal World Sunday Edition – Editorial Holopage 03 February 25, 2080 – FAIR & BALANCED "TEN-SENT OPINIONS" by Martin Wringle, LJW**`

`As our report on the disappearance of fugitive arsonist, Tara Dean continues, local political pundits are making it clear that public opinion on these events remains split along partisan lines.`

`From the Progressive end of the spectrum, local CNED Director, Ken Sapet: "So Martin, in terms of law enforcement priorities, you have a convicted, L3 boozebum wanted for aggravated assault, arson, drug possession, drug use, destruction of public property and grand theft hover, who's just vanished? The honest, law abiding citizens of this city deserve answers! I say it's time for complete background checks on every elected official associated with this case, starting with Sheriff Proudstar."`

`We have a predictably different statement from Nancy Ferris, who represents the local chapter of the Traditionalist leaning group, NORAL: "Martin, it's unfortunate that so many millions of digidollars in public tax revenue have already been spent chasing down one girl, who, yes, made a few bad decisions, but at the end of the day is just another victim of the neverending war on alcohol. While we certainly don't condone violence or arson, you can't help but note that most media references to this girl seem to focus on her sexuality, or her drinking. All the while, we've got feral cyborgs roaming the countryside which pose a legitimate threat to our children, our communities, the very North American way of life we all cherish! So is it really a question of priorities, or is it a question of politics as usual?"`

`Check back next Sunday, same holopage, same column, for ongoing updates in our report on the peculiar, intersecting stories of a discovered wild cyborg and the ongoing hunt for fugitive arsonist, Tara Dean. Thank you, as always, for reading The Journal World.`

`Sponsored by The Progressive Party of Kansas.`

# `Chapter 2.3 – Meanwhile in Downtown Lawrence`

February 2080 – Two Years Eight Months Before Event.

At 26 years of age, Cyber-Deputy Danny Everquist had finally encountered a computer problem he couldn't solve. It was making him feel self-conscious, about everything. Including his freckles, pale complexion and balding, carrot-toned hair. The relative privacy of his new, upgraded office was providing little remedy at the moment.

On one of the dual flatscreens before him was a slow moving torrent of computer code. He absentmindedly dragged one finger across his holotab's tangible interface. The packet of data changed into its corresponding still image. The image was an aerial view of the Coyote attack and hovcar crash site on County Hovroad 1500 seventeen days prior. He cocked his head as he studied the holograph. A few seconds later, another finger swipe changed the display back to pure code.

"There!" he said, pointing to a line that looked like all the rest. "What do you see, Dina?"

A 30cm tall girl sitting cross-legged on his desk put her knitting needles and yarn to one side and squinted, twitching her nose, "The same thing I saw last time, Danechka. 1's and 0's and 0's and 1's." She curled a strand of platinum blonde hair around her finger and flashed her electric blue eyes, "Actually I see shopping malls and swimming pools! Come on, Danechka!" she pouted. "I'm bored! I want a new outfit. Now, please?"

He flicked his finger, causing the image to return, "And back. _Bam!_ There it is!"

"There _what_ is?" asked the tiny girl.

Danny changed the image back to code and pointed to an empty space in the characters, "Nothing!" he laughed. "It's nothing. Which is everything. It's amazing!"

Dina looked down at her cheerleading uniform and sighed effusively, "You know I get bored when you talk computer. I'm tired of being a bolel'shchik!" she exclaimed in her faux Russian accent. "I want that Ashley Martin sundress back. The cute pink one from last week? Please?"

"Not right now, too busy."

Dina picked up her knitting and stuck her lower lip out, "You always say that."

Danny gave up and looked at his love impatiently, "I _have_ to give the sheriff a report, honey-bunny. He's gonna be here any minute. I can't look like an idiot. Not after I dropped the ball the night this went down."

"It's not your fault, Danechka."

" _How_ is it not my fault?"

"Tell Mr. Proudsun it was your evening off. Besides, we were making love," she said defiantly.

"It's Proudstar."

"Proudstar, Proudsun, Proudplanet, whatever! It was your evening off!"

"I'm supposed to be onstream for emergencies." He reached out the tip of his index finger and she kissed it with an audible _smooch_ , "Besides, it was you who talked me into turning off the holotab."

Her eyes got big and she stuck her lower lip out even farther, "Oh, so it's _my_ fault?"

"I didn't say that."

"You just said that!"

"It's not what I meant."

"Then say what you mean, Danechka. What? Are you saying making love to me wasn't worth it? Am I not the woman you say I am?"

He took a sip of lukewarm Mountain Dew from a can on his desk and smiled gushingly at the fairy sized girl, "Stop. You know I love you."

"Eeeek!" she blushed and batted her eyelashes. "You make my heart sing too, Danechka! 'Sides, it's really that ox, Brick's fault. Just cause he doesn't know how to fly drones proper doesn't mean my Danechka should get in trouble!"

Danny smiled, "You're funny, honey-bunny. He is an ox. But it wasn't his fault either. He got hacked, big time. He didn't know better." Danny smacked his hand on his leg, "Honest to Dog, I'm not sure I could have put up a solid curtain against these guys."

Dina began knitting again, tiny fingers flying in a blur of light, "Of course you would have done better! My Danechka is a genius."

"I dunno," said Danny, eyes analytically scanning the lines of code. "I mean, this jockey is a magic man. His code is poetry."

"Poetry is code and code runs the sky and the sky is so high," said Dina. "Should I make mittens or a hat?"

"You made a hat yesterday."

Dina said, "Tada!" and clapped. "See, you are a genius, Danechka. That's why your IQ is 162! I'll make mittens. Purple ones!"

"Okay beautiful," he said.

"Danechka?"

"Yes?"

"You know there's no code jockey better than you. You're the greatest of all time."

He extended a finger to her lips for another kiss, "Thanks, honey-bunny."

"You're welcome," she said, returning her focus to mitten creation.

Danny shook his head and itched his long, pasty, bird-like neck. He wished the new deputy uniforms had more hemp and less polyester. Itchy. It was a bad blend. He glanced at the holoclock. 7 minutes. At least he had something to report, but knew it wouldn't be enough to make the sheriff happy. It was a solid theory, though. And more than those idiots at MTF had.

"Computer, bring up coyoteholo_01," he said.

A high resolution image of the Coyote they had pulled off the hovroad came to life to the right of his flatscreen array. The holographic cyborg chassis began to spin slowly, giving a perfect 360 degree view.

"Display unit OS structure, monitor two."

The code on the flatscreen changed to a densely written language with no spaces or punctuation.

Danny absentmindedly sipped his warm Mountain Dew, his sizable Adam's apple thumping in his throat as he said reverently, "There's the real poetry."

"Hey! I'm flickering," said Dina.

Danny looked at his girlfriend, "I'm sorry, honey-bunny. It's these Federal workstations. They're cheap. They can't project two high defs at once."

"It can't even make me life size! Stupid computer."

"You said you wanted to come to the office."

"I know," she sighed. "But the computer is still stupid."

"It _is_ stupid," he said. "And slow."

Dina's eyes got big as she looked over his shoulder, "Oh unholy crapola! Time for me to blaze, Danechka! Brick's coming!"

"Shit!" said Danny anxiously, extending his finger to the tiny cheerleader. "Love you! Kisses!"

Dina popped to her feet and smooched his finger one last time, holding her knitting to her breasts with a giggle, "Kisses, love!"

Danny tapped _Enter_ on his holographic keyboard and Dina vanished in a whirlpool of rainbow light, leaving empty the glass surface of the desk where she had been sitting. He spun in his chair to face the door, silently berating himself for not closing the blinds.

_This is why I asked for an office with no windows. What do they give me? An office with no windows to the outside, and a big one inside that faces all of dispatch!_

The door flew open moments later, accompanied by his coworker Deputy Brick Talboy's signature bellow, "Sooooooo? Whatcha figure out, tech-boy?"

"Dog, Brick! Did you not get that link I streamed on the definition of a door?"

Talboy squared up like he was entering a saloon, "Just cause you're too special to work in a cubicle anymore doesn't mean I can't come in if I don't need somethin.'"

Danny rolled his eyes, "That wasn't even a sentence in the English language, moron."

"You're a moron!"

" _You're_ a moron! Why do I even waste sky talking to you?"

_Of all the idiots..._

Brick Talboy stood framing Danny's doorway adorned in black SWAT armor, grinning like a buffoon. His shaved head was unusually rectangular and the stocky muscles of his chest bulged under a tight fitting Kevlar vest and brown platoon pants.

_Like 1.79 meters of uncool, weight lifting dumbness I have to work with daily._

Brick eyed the holographic Coyote, lighting up, "That little wolf packs a punch, huh? If I'd been there, when it all went down, you know? I woulda unloaded on him with this sucker," he tapped his lightning pistol lovingly.

Danny frowned and spun around to his workstation, "Firstly, the Coyotes are wrapped in anatomically female BIOSKIN©. Secondly, the fact that you, of all people, are given a particle weapon is the best argument yet for the downfall of western civilization. My grandpa would take one look at you and say, _This country is going to shit._ "

Brick stepped through the door and smacked Danny on the shoulder, "Aww, tech-boy! Just cause I'm 100 for zip on the plasma range and you're still punching light in an office, don't cry! Whew! I mean, I'd mess one of them Coyotes up! Turn me loose with our MARX dogs downstairs, me on long plasma with some armor..." he rubbed his hands together with a sparkle in his eye, "I'd send these little yips to the recycle yard weepin'."

Danny's eyes rolled towards the ceiling, and he nodded at the Coyote hologram, "This cyborg has more intelligence in the segments of its tail vertebrae than you do in your whole body."

"Tail verte-what?" Brick Talboy stuttered with the word. "Now who ain't speakin' English? These things might be smart, and fast, but nothing's faster than lightning!"

Danny spun to face him, "What if you didn't have your plasma gun, Tesla? Or even better, what if you did, and suddenly one Coyote becomes ten? Fifteen? Eighteen? How much charge you got? By the time your brain realized what was happening, the code in their adaptive neural net would have auto-restructured a thousand times!" Danny wrinkled his nose, "Which translates to your hillbilly ass is dead. MARX dogs or no."

Brick smiled broadly, "Okay, okay, tech-boy. Don't cry! There's still a tampon dispenser in the ladies' room, right? Use it lately? Jeezus! Here comes the boss anyhow. And hey, Everquist?"

"What, idiot?"

"Your skin yamaka's showing."

Danny dropped his can of Mountain Dew in a fluster reaching to fix his hair, "Shit! Asshole!"

Brick Talboy grinned with satisfaction and then stepped to one side to make room, "Sheriff, I was just tellin' tech-boy here how much fun it'd be to open up on one of these metal poodles with a lightning rifle! Bet they'd absorb one or two shots before goin' to slag! You killed fusion borgs in the war, right?"

Sheriff Dale Proudstar was a mountain of a human who rarely smiled. He made the small office seem even more minuscule just by standing in the door frame.

He chewed an unlit cigar and grimaced at his deputy, "Talboy, don't complicate your life further by trying to think. I can hear your brain working overtime from here, sounds like a mouse farting. You gotta mouse fartin' twixt your ears, son?"

Mention of being dumb was the only thing that would make Brick Talboy stop smiling.

"No sir, I do not have a mouse farting between my ears," he said morosely.

"Oh, quit gettin' damp," Proudstar guffawed, smacking Talboy on the back with a heavy hand. "If you want to do something useful, think about the best square on a metal borg to drop a line o' light. You're too young to get trained for such. Ain't like shooting plastic Fidos on the range."

Brick smiled and gestured excitedly to the rotating hologram, "I already done it, sheriff! I thought about it! You didn't have lightning guns back in the day! See, even at 100 meters running, I could drop a squirt between the shoulder joint and torso, easy. Bet that titanalum frame'd relay the charge straight to the fusion engine."

Danny covered his eyes with a hand, "It's a _temporal, micro-fusion, matrix_ , you moron. Not the motor on a hoverscoot."

Brick shoved the back of Danny's head, "Yeah?! When's the last time you were in the field anyway, freckle boy? Oh wait, never, cause you're too busy spankin' that Vienna sausage you call a dick while you _make love..."_ Brick waved jazz hands, "...to that holographic prostitute you got hole up in our cloud."

Danny spun around, furious, "Shut up, you giant _asshole!_ "

"Deputies!" The sheriff's booming voice silenced them.

Nearby employees in dispatch looked over inquisitively. The sheriff turned and gazed out across dispatch with eyes of stone, daring anyone to so much as peep, then closed the door.

Proudstar crossed his massive forearms, grumbling, "Talboy, stuff a sock in that constantly flappin' pie hole o' yours. And _you_ , Red," he moved closer, towering over Danny's workstation, "If you're pulling department bandwidth projecting that half-meter Czechoslovakian nympho again I swear to fucking Dog I'll downgrade you to a cubicle beside the coffee computer."

Danny pouted and said glumly, "She's Russian."

"She's a tangi-gram!" yelled the sheriff and Deputy Talboy at the same time.

"Fine, sir. I won't! And I didn't," said Danny, shoulders withering.

"Best not let me catch you, neither," snarled the sheriff. "Now, onto brighter and crappier topics. Please tell me you got some legs on this problem with our scanner net? It's been nine days. Talk to me."

Danny turned to his workstation with renewed excitement and snatched his holotab, "Alright sir, yes. What we've got is a quantum hacker."

Sheriff Proudstar growled through his teeth, "Relayed through one of the Coyotes?"

"No sir, check the hologram."

The 3D rendering of the Coyote's mechanical chassis magnified until only the head was visible.

"Here's the com relay, right above the vidorb socket on this antique DOGS unit," said Danny. "It's a dinosaur. Seven gigahertz 802.16. It's capable of sending close proximity streams, but that's it. To uplink with a holoserver, she'd have to be standing in the office with us, and she'd need anti-firewall algorithms that aren't twenty years out of date." Danny pointed to the tight woven computer code on the flatscreen, "This here is the original, _beautiful_ I might add, Adler code. It's the OS these little monsters run on; pulled it straight from the solid state. But dense as it is, there's nothing in the root level Adler script about hacking networks. In fact, I don't think these Coyote units have ever even had a bios update. They were booted at Darkpool, went nuts, murdered everyone and escaped."

Sheriff Proudstar spit a wet, chewed up bit of cigar into the trash can next to Danny, causing him to lurch out of the way with disgust, "All right. So why are they here now? And what do these Coyotes want?"

"Well sir, as you know, our second A7 unit caught the only meaningful data before being destroyed. See?"

A grainy, 2D video appeared, showing an aerial view of the Coyote Pack leaping the shoulder of Hovroad 1500, slamming into the side of Spencer Hotshine's Mustang, the emergency sphere containing Tara Dean ejecting, and the hovcar flying through the air and smashing in the field. All followed by a blinding blast of red light.

"Pause," said Danny.

The recording froze at the point where the monitor was only half filled with light.

Danny looked up at Sheriff Proudstar's unresponsive face and smiled, "Here, sir, is an enhanced frame of the same moment as caught by the _lead_ A7 as it was burning down."

The monitor filled with a fuzzy halo shape like a dog's body running.

"We missed this before I ran a frame by frame contrast lift," said Danny eagerly.

"What the hell is it?"

"Looks like a dog to me," said Brick Talboy.

Both the sheriff and Everquist looked over at Brick and shook their heads before returning their attention to the screen.

"I believe this is the source of our hacker, sir," continued Danny. "At least one other battborg was out there. We know that from the tracks, right?"

" _Four_ other cyborgs if that's the case, Everquist," said the sheriff. "The prints were on the heavy side. But that's circumstantial intel."

Danny looked forlorn, spinning back to his monitor, "I know. It seems like a stretch to me too. Where did they go? Tracks disappear... on the asphalt? But I'm telling you, this unknown unit shows up at the precise moment that two things happened. One, our A7 drones got deep fried. Two, all our code turns into, well, _not_ our code. We were hacked."

Proudstar shook his head deliberately, "You're always telling me how there's _maybe_ 100 people in the world who could cut through your firewall, Red. You say _our_ cloud is tighter than the CIA's. So how precisely is it this happened?"

Danny shook his stringy, auburn locks back and forth in frustration, "I know, sir, I know. Our firewall _is_ superior. That's what makes this so crazy. The hack is instantaneous. What's more, it's camouflaged."

"What do you mean it's camouflaged?"

Danny tapped his holotablet and the display changed to a more sparsely written stream of code, "This is our data stream, the command signal transcribed to its binary foundation."

"All right?"

"So the camouflage comes... _here_ ," Danny pointed to a line in the code that contained the numeral string: `110011100011001 101501140 11100`. "There shouldn't be a character space here, or here, let alone `5's` and `4's`. Yet the code is inserted, numeral string `10150114`, containing the digits `4` and `5`, and from there forward we've got bupkis. The code after _appears_ to be from our standard stream, but after a refresh there's zero data. It's just black, like a signal feeding nothing."

Sheriff Proudstar grunted, "I understood about half of that."

"Well sir," said Everquist, his voice growing tinny with frustration, "This is the same little packet of code that pops into the transcription, around the same event, across a myriad of devices."

"What do you mean? Someone hacked something besides our drones?"

"Of course! It's so obvious." said Everquist nearly jumping out of his chair. "Just think about it!"

The sheriff raised his bushy eyebrows, "Tell me what's obvious again, Red, and not only will I move your desk next to the coffee computer, I'll have you serving it. Naked, in the rain. To homeless people."

Brick Talboy chuckled loudly, causing the sheriff to look over his shoulder, "Shut up, Talboy."

"Sorry sir," said Brick, still giggling quietly.

Danny continued, "I'm sorry too, sir. I'm just excited. You see, yes sir. It's everything! Gravotemporal decay sensors from our HUD systems, the drones' black boxes, the emergency holocorder on that stolen Mustang, it's all the same, and it drops out of nowhere. That's why you didn't find any trace of the Coyote pack. _Or_ the battborgs that trashed our drones. It's like the computer mainframe decided to rewrite its own language spontaneously."

"You mean _if_ there were battborgs, Everquist. There's no proof of anything except a bunch of deep footprints. We cross-referenced those against the national Fido registry."

Brick Talboy leaned in, "I seen a bunch of paw prints in the sandbox at the park on the way to work this morning, tech-boy. Better ping SWAT!"

Danny continued examining the code on the flatscreen without turning around, "Those paw prints were more than likely left by your mother, Brick." He spun back to Sheriff Proudstar, "Isn't it strange, sir, that simultaneously every sensor log surrounding this event, on a variety of platforms, fails or goes dark? In addition to the fact that all the battborgs that may or may not have been present just vanish?"

The sheriff carefully stroked his gray mustache, lovingly, like it was a live animal attached to his face, "Strange to say the least. Is there any structure in the area that could be used as a transmitter?"

Danny spun eagerly to the monitor array, swiped his holotablet. An aerial view of the surrounding land filled the screens.

He zoomed in on Dax Abner's farmhouse, "This is Abner Family Pumpkin & Gourd, the nearest farm to the crash site."

Brick Talboy chimed in, "Yeah-yeah, we already interviewed Mr. Abner. He's the goody two shoes business dude who owns The Rowdy Pony. Big CNED donor. We checked his house and barn. He's got some guard dogs, but they're as regular dog-like as a dog can get. I scanned them myself, even checked their paws on-site. It weren't them that was out there."

"As usual, that's not the point," said Danny. He zoomed in on the wind turbine, "Sir, this is the only nearby structure on the land high enough for a broadband transmitter, and there's nothing. We got the usual combud and stream chatter, but all low density. I even sent a drone out in the middle of the night and floated it on top of that turbine for three hours. And... I put one over Purple Tree Farms' turbine for good measure, _plus_ the one across the way at Anderson Corn. They would have picked up anything broadcasting quantum density code within a half kilometer. But I got squat. Drones just burned antigrav and came home cold. So it's got to be coming from somewhere else. Like that ghost battborg in the surveillance feed."

Sheriff Proudstar dropped his hands to his brown leather gun belt, "Danny, I was suspicious of Abner myself when he first moved to town. We surveyed him in secret for months. I've since done an about face however, think he's a good sort. Rich as sin and annoyingly pretty, but upstanding as the pope. The damn mayor takes her kids out to his farm to drink apple cider and go on hayrides and shit on Halloween. No. We gotta look elsewhere, cause if that soft-handed Sally's a quantum hacker then I'm the Governor of Tennessee."

Brick chimed in, "I even played Frisbee with his dog, Ziggy. Or Siggy? Anyway those Rottweilers aren't very good at fetch. Kinda stupid and slow really. They're nice folks, though. A nice blonde lady gave me a free pass for bringing a date on a hayride in the fall when the pumpkins are ready. They make ganja cider too! Gonna take Lucy out there and get bleeended and score a fat jack-o-lantern for the porch!"

Sheriff Proudstar massaged his temples in agony, "Talboy, I honestly feel sorry for the betty's gotta let you pick her pumpkin. Jeezus. Why don't you do something useful, get down to the range, start supervising those cadets before one of them incinerates their own foot?"

Brick Talboy's normally jubilant expression deflated, "Sorry sir. I'm gone. Good luck finding your missing lotto numbers in the computer code, tech-boy!" he said, giving Danny Everquist's wispy hair a final tussle before walking out.

"Don't touch me!" Danny shouted after him to a closing door.

"Oh, unbunch your panties, Everquist," said the sheriff, grinding his chiseled jaw. "Get with me here."

"Yes sir."

"Now, for the sake of playing dumb as a donkey's ass, let's say an airship _did_ dump off a bunch of cyborgs. You're tellin' me in less than ten minutes they kicked ass on what? Two heavily armed, maneuverable drones and eighteen feral Coyote cyborgs packing fusion? No civvy unit could do that. Even four civvy borgs couldn't."

"Seems incredibly unlikely, sir."

"So what? Some rebel farmer has some late model MARX units? An airship? They hack local and Federal firewalls, cut a fugitive out of a collision sphere, then the airship returns, they fly away into the sunrise and not one Dogdamn sensor logged so much as a hover? It's impossible!"

"I know it's impossible, sir," said Danny wringing his hands. "But this hack, what I'm saying is that it's like it _is_ our computer. If what I think is going on is going on... well sir, it's simultaneously manipulating multiple root systems, and 1,000's of subsystems. My firewalls are redundant. If one's compromised, seven more drop in its place at different nodes along the network hierarchy. But this guy, I mean, it's like he's _breathing_ code. He hacks all seven firewalls at the same time." Danny looked up, "Sir, it's like he _is_ the code."

"Supercomputer?"

"Well yeah, of course, but unless there's a superframe AI that's making conscious decisions out there like: _Activate a false feed on this stream, but not this one, and cause this black box to magnetize and self destruct with Pentagon level access commands_... then what we've got is a cloud driver, who is _the man_. He's running this superframe, and his code is sentient. It's alive. It's freaking awesome!"

Sheriff Proudstar spit out some more mutilated cigar, "If it ain't sentient for us, it ain't awesome, Everquist. Now stop waving your arms about. You're a Douglas County Sheriff's Deputy, not an orangutan."

Danny realized he was grinning from ear to ear and composed himself, "Yes sir. Sorry sir."

"Everquist, I want you to make this your top priority. Crawl up its ass. Figure out where it's coming from. Then send Talboy to drop a nuke on its power supply. End of story."

Proudstar turned to walk out but Danny called after him, "Sir?"

"What, Red?"

"I understand, yes sir," he said, biting his lip. "What I'm saying is, there is nothing to really study. Aside from that eight character stream of numbers and the line breaks, it's like looking at our own code. The hack is a perfect piggy back. To catch it, I'd have to be right there at the moment of insertion."

The sheriff turned back to him, a fierce grin across his face, "Red, we hired you to come down here from Harvard or Yale wherever the hell institution of fancy learning it was for one Dogdamn reason."

"It was MIT, sir."

"What the fuck ever. Here in the great state of Kansas, horse shit is horse shit. Even if it's Ivy League horse shit." The sheriff pointed his cigar at Danny and narrowed his steel gray eyes, "We hired you because you're the best, won the law enforcement cyber scholarship. Let's face it son, you're too scrawny to be in the field, too ugly to be in public for long periods of time. So you got a back-end office in my HQ. You have your own supercomputer and a resume that reads like someone from NASA. _We_ are the first line of defense for the graphene prairie and the silicon river that runs through it. So what _I'm_ saying is... figure it out!" he bellowed. "I want you to catch this hacker and his disappearing battborgs and run his balls through an infrared meat grinder. Got it?"

Danny was shaking at the amazing volume of the sheriff's voice, "Understood sir."

Sheriff Proudstar grabbed Danny's chair and spun him back around to face his workstation, "Well then, Red. Get yourself another soda, juice up, extract head from ass and make shit happen!"

Danny Everquist waited until his office door closed before slumping in his chair, gulping down a throat full of anxiety.

_No one understands what I'm up against._

He looked about the blank walls of his office despondently, then sighed and swiped his holotab. Dina's tiny figure began to materialize on the desktop. She was still knitting, one of the colorful mittens now nearly complete.

Once her form was solid, she immediately stuck out her tongue at the closed door, "They're rude. Both of them. Rude, rude, rude! Call me a prostitute, that Brick?! If he ever come to the apartment I kick him in the sack of nuts!" she spat holographic spit.

Danny said, "Computer, lower blinds," then looked at her and extended his finger for a kiss. "I know they are rude. No one understands what I'm saying, honey-bunny. If I had a _real_ supercomputer you wouldn't be constrained to 30 cm, would you?"

Dina stopped knitting for a second to give his fingertip a peck, "No, I wouldn't. At least at the apartment I can be normal." She cocked her head as she looked at him with affection, "Awww, why so blue, Danechka?"

"Because I'm lost. I need inspiration, honey-bunny. Since I came here a year and a half ago there have been zero firewall intrusions. Then, in a ten minute period of time, someone takes over every system we have. I hate to say it, but this hacker is better than me. I need to see something I'm missing. It should be obvious, but it isn't."

Dina looked around, "Maybe you should decorate your office with something besides empty Mountain Dew cans?"

"I like Mountain Dew."

"I know you do, my sweet." Dina's eyes got bright as a summer sky, "Danechka?"

"Yes?"

"Can I have the sundress now? I don't want to be dressed like a cheerleader anymore."

"Sure," Danny smiled weakly, feeling defeated. "Anything for you, honey-bunny."

`**Excerpt taken from: The Peoples' Progressive Encyclopedia 2066, Edition 16 Volume 6 Letter Frame 116:**`

`...brief yet famous acceptance speech given by Richard Laelius himself in February 2056 on the steps of the UN, marking the official dedication of _The Office of the Architect,_ at which time control of the DEA and EPA was consolidated under an Office of the Architect oversight committee known as _The White Council_. The council is headed by Richard Laelius himself to this day.`

`"Since the passage of the FCAPA laws over a decade ago, this nation has been born anew. For the future of this new nation I put forth a Vision, a Vision of the greatest society Terra has ever known. Do I stand alone? No! You, the citizens of the North American Union, are the true sun that rises on this new day. You have spoken, and through my office your voice shall be heard! Fifteen years ago the ravages of hydraulic fracturing brought us the deaths of over 7,000,000 citizens. That day, we asked a question. What kind of world do we want to leave our children? A world of poisoned air and poisoned water? Fifteen years ago we were losing 350,000 citizens a year to alcohol related deaths. And we again asked a question. What kind of a world do we want to leave our children? A world where the most physically destructive, addictive drug ever unleashed on humankind is sold on every hovcorner? Your answer to both? A resounding _no!_ The battle has been long, the opposition hard. Yet on this day, because of North American perseverance, we are on the way to once more breathing clean air, swimming in unpolluted streams and relaxing with a recreational substance that is both benign and benevolent. Let us forget the days of violent intoxication that have preceded this one. Let us forget the gasoline in our skies and the sickness of oversold prisons filled with innocent addicts. Today our magnificent cities run on fusion. Our benevolent hearts run on compassion. From this day forward, addiction shall be treated, _not_ prosecuted. The enlightenment of jane shall fill our hours of leisure, not the forced depression of alcohol. In the end, fellow citizens, never forget it is _your_ Vision that has led us from darkness, not mine. Today we have chosen light, and my mission is to ensure that light never again is dimmed. Thank you."`

# `Chapter 2.4 – The Tether`

William followed Dax Abner through the barn door, noting that it opened and closed without a touch. The barn was not old, just made to appear so from the sky. Once inside, it was tomb silent. Precisely aligned rows of industrial LED's hung from the ceiling on long chains illuminating the clean asphalt floor. Two Kawasaki Solar-Mule, four person ATV's were parked against the far wall, and there were larger open spaces to either side that William assumed were spots for the flatbed hovtruck and John Deere solar tractors. At the far side of the cavernous structure stood tall stacks of burlap bags labeled _`Pumpkin Seed`_.

William remarked, "No dirt floor."

Dax Abner turned with a congenial smile, hands in his pockets, "Dirt? Good Dog no! A dirt floor made sense when the primary form of transportation had hooves and a tail or burned gasoline. The only vehicles in need of tires today are those that drive across agricultural fields, yet the wheel endures. It wouldn't do to have your hemp seedlings ripped through a wormdrive every time a hovercraft flew by, now would it?"

William conceded, "Right. What happened to all the tires in the world, anyhow?"

"Good-Year Insulation happened. Rubcrete, asphalt hovcar pads and hovroads. The living Enduro-Grass field at Arrowhead Stadium, twelve hour, self-regenerating golf greens, the genetic splicing of grass with the organic components of recycled rubber..."

"Got it."

"Phasing out rubber tires and their associated pollution was one of the few processes the EPA got right. Like advancements in battery storage density," Dax waved his arms enthusiastically, "hovcars that can float thirteen hours on a charge, rubber reapplication is one of those mid-century industries we take for granted nowadays."

A humming noise got louder, coming closer. Another fat-bellied security drone that had escorted the hovtruck out of the barn returned, entering through its access port. William followed the drone's path as it floated slowly to a platform in the rafters and dropped with a light _thwack_ into a charging cradle beside a smaller unit. There was no loft in the barn, only a utility ladder that provided access to the drone nest.

"How many birds up there?"

"Well, several wild pigeons, three not so wild drones. Two Class B observation units with high def IR cameras and the obese one you just saw is a faster drone, an A7 combat class."

William inclined his head towards the hundreds of sacks labeled _`Pumpkin Seed`_ , "I'm guessing that's not...?"

Dax led him towards the neatly organized sacks, dress shoes clicking over the asphalt, "Now you're getting the picture. There is actual seed in the bags in front. The rest contain dehydrated potato powder sewn tight into the burlap. The cook uses the powder to make mash for our fermentation process."

"The cook? You don't grow your own potatoes?"

"Inefficient. Messy. We are a pumpkin farm, after all. The cook is my still master, Goran. You will be introduced directly."

"Why pumpkins?"

"Psychological camouflage, my friend. No North American crop has more cultural associations with good, clean, flag-waving family fun than pumpkins. We give hayrides in October and November, I dress in overalls and puff a corn cob vapor pipe; it's absolutely odious. But your average Kansan slurps it up like Pleasium-laced whipped cream. It gives Abner Family Pumpkin & Gourd a nice, forgettable association. We're certainly not going to grow jane, we'd have regulators crawling weekly up our arse! I sit on the civilian advisory board for the local CNED office and am a generous quarterly donor. It is widely known to everyone in the municipality of Lawrence that I own The Rowdy Pony Coffee and Ganja bar as well."

"You donate money to CNED?"

"Know thy enemy."

"Savage," said William. "Damn smart, though. Front's a speakeasy?"

"The Green Lady Lounge, hidden beneath."

"I should have known."

"Most drinking takes place in private residences. However, there _are_ five other functioning speakeasies in the region as well. Two in DeSoto, one in a barn in Topeka, and two in the basements of holoflix theaters in Leawood."

"You own them all?"

"No. But I do provide them with still vodka, plus a hint of tech support. Each has a black side drone in service at all times."

"Impressive," said William quietly.

"Rudimentary subterfuge at best."

William smirked, "I ain't the biggest fan of CNED."

"Who is?" Dax replied. "But please, enough potato talk. I have a few more surprises."

William lifted his cowboy hat and scratched his head, "After that borg outside, if you can surprise me again, I'll hit that vapor stick with you. Lead the way, boss."

Dax grinned, then stopped as if remembering something, "I shall. First, pray tell, are you familiar with the legend of Tricyclic Summit Theory?"

"Ain't it funny," said William morosely. "I can't remember the house I grew up in. But I know what that is. Yeah, old timers out on safari range used to rumor over it."

"Then I shall not bore you with the various opinions on the matter, rather drive straight to the truth."

"The truth?"

"The Adler code is not a myth, my friend. To date it is the most advanced OS language ever conceived. Marvin Adler stabilized his first version and downloaded it into Coyote One and the subsequent seventeen clones. Within three months of the final gestation, it is assumed that the Pack's 1.1 level code destabilized, the cyborgs went rogue and slaughtered not only Dr. Adler but his entire support staff, including his biostructural engineer, Dr. Sam Goldstein. DOGS units still rely on Goldstein's mechanical design and Adler's code. The military has since overcome the danger of cyborg madness through the installation of behavioral control overrides. Overrides that, as you know, can shut a DOGS unit down like collapsing a holo. This turns DOGS units into very advanced robots, nothing better. Adler's original vision was the creation of a creature capable of consciousness, experiential learning."

"An entry level Fido from PetSmart learns from experience," William said.

Dax raised his index finger, "Fidos and Felixes _do_ theoretically learn, but _theoretically_ is the operative term. They cross reference incoming data against an established lexicon of condition appropriate responses. Like any advanced binary computer, a chess game for instance, they are merely performing based on _if event A, then response C, in correlation with past event B..._ logic cascade, and so forth."

"I don't know much about science," William shrugged. "I just know I get on pretty well with any dog I ever met, ones wasn't rabid at least. Blood or borg."

"In your personnel file, they call you the _whisperer_."

William took his sunglasses off, finally realizing he was inside, "Jeezus... yeah, this sounds daft. I can hear them, their thoughts." He met Dax's eyes, "Especially these Rottweilers of yours. You aren't surprised."

"Hardly."

"I don't know what it is. Even in safe mode back on the range, the cyborgs would talk. I can remember that. They were afraid."

"Fascinating," said Dax. "Another question."

William nodded.

"Do you know why all publicly available cyborg tech is legally constrained to Fido and Felix design?"

"Because of us," William said, "we've had domesticated dogs and cats around since we crawled out of the caves. Kits and pups give us that comfy, familiar brain hit, right?"

"Correct. And do you know what makes a fusion unit running the Adler code different?"

William shook his head.

"The tether."

"The tether?"

"The Adler code is a perfect digital blueprint of canine psychological engrams. When safety protocols are deactivated, the cyborgs immediately seek a human bridge to the outside world. Canines operate on structure. The Coyotes were seeking, and presumably even to this day are seeking, their pack leader. Their tether. For a cyborg running the Adler code, the tether completes _their_ unconscious desire for human interaction."

"But dogs and cats survived for millions of years before we showed."

"True. But Dr. Adler did not base his scripting language on a wild animal's engrams, rather those of his domesticated pet Dachshund, Mimi."

William squinted, "So... those Coyotes were spooled domesticated?"

"Yes, but psychologically hybridized with the instinctual engrams of the wild animals their morphology is based on: pack mentality, a taste for blood, etc."

"So those first DOGS units, the Coyotes, were half domesticated, half wild?"

"Yes. And transcripts from the Darkpool Laboratories research indicate that Dr. Adler functioned as the Coyotes' tether. However, just like any wild animal that is somewhat domesticated, the Coyotes, particularly Coyote One, were not fully functional in the closed environment of the lab. That's the theory at least. Their code was nascent. Vulnerable."

"I don't get it."

"All we know is that someone associated with Dr. Adler's team attempted to modify their behavioral overrides. Possibly Dr. Goldstein. Consequently, the Coyotes rebelled, slaughtered the laboratory staff, then escaped into the wild. No one knows, but it's a little pet project of mine to find out."

"That's some potty shit," said William. "How'd you get inside news on the events at Darkpool anyhow?"

Dax pointed to the far side of the barn, "The answer lies right there."

William turned. The wooden framework that made up the barn wall lay before him. Empty space.

"The answer is a barn wall?"

Dax barely smiled, "So it would appear."

William walked closer, "Looks like nothing, Mr. Abner."

"Indeed. And you look like a cowboy." Dax drew his hands from his pockets, gesturing with excitement and speaking faster, "But in fact, you are the key to safely increasing the output of my still ten fold." He walked up behind William and clapped him on the back, "You are the tether."

"Huh?"

Dax Abner casually waved a hand, "Well, LOFN seems to think so. Now we'll find out how the rest of the pack feels." He touched his combud, "Joan, be a doll and deactivate the lift hologram. Yes. I am bringing him now. Give us time to take in Goran by the still, then have the DOGS units meet us in the warehouse." Dax frowned, "What? Well, tell him I understand. Nonetheless, spool the units with protocols _off_. Correct. Thank you." Dax smiled at William like hovcar salesman, cocking his head whimsically, "Sorry, that's the office manager." He pointed at what had been the empty wall of the barn, "Now what do you see?"

`**Fragmented Remains from the Cloud Diary of Daxane Julius Abner – July 4, 2077 12:01 am – Five Years Three Months Before Event.**`

`"...ppy Independence Day. Have a drink on me. Have a 100,000 on me. We are officially the number one black market alcohol production facility in the North American United States as of last week. The DOGS units sweep the 600 acre perimeter radiating Joan's dark network. The creatures are relentless, obsessed with pleasing William. From the moment I told him about the true nature of this pumpkin farm, he was a duck on the pond. He walked out of the briefing with Joan without a blink, as though I'd just hired him to be a barista at The Pony. He sends one of the cyborgs on each outgoing shipment, tells them to obey Hugo, and they do, perfectly. No safety protocols. _Fascinating_ is the only word.`

`I need an on-site manager to assist Hugo. The Israeli says the person will come to us throug... UNSCHEDULED HARDWARE DESTRUCT / DATA COMPROMISE / INITIATE BACKUP.EXE FOR REINTEGRATION FORMA... LOSS. LOSS. LOS"`

William took a step back. The barn wall began to blink and vibrate like an enormous holovision screen getting a corrupted feed. Quickly revealed was a three sided cargo elevator with metal side rails large enough to accommodate a hovtruck. The elevator bed was perfectly flush with the asphalt floor. Beside the cargo elevator, a human sized, six-panel wooden door had also materialized. The green door looked as if it had been painted 200 years ago, hung on hammered brass hinges in the dusted corners of a saloon where the whiskey poured like western rain in the antique centuries. Despite the door's rough appearance, it was hefty and solid in construction and was secured with a liquid plasma hand scanner. A single red LED blinked slowly on and off in the upper right hand corner of the machine. An identical biometric scanner was mounted to the railing on the cargo elevator.

Dax stood to one side, inclining his head, "Care to scan us in?"

William squinted with trepidation, then put it together, "My hand imprint on the employment agreement, when you jumped me at the hospital."

Dax gave an offhand shrug, "My hiring practices are unorthodox, but I have a schedule to keep."

William placed his hand against the semi-liquid surface. The scanner's gelatinous plasma folded around his fingers, and the red LED blinked to green, popping the door open with a rush of cool, dry air. The backside of the door was covered by a two cm steel plate and revealed a metal staircase.

William started down, followed by Dax. The walls on either side were concrete, illuminated by recessed lights in the ceiling. As they descended, nothing was visible but a landing at the bottom. William guessed that the forty or so steps took them twelve meters underneath the barn. At the bottom was a metal door with an old fashioned knob.

Dax spoke as if to himself, "Here we go then..."

William didn't blink. He turned the knob and walked into a cavernous room nearly the size of the barn, with seven meter ceilings of reinforced structural concrete like a docking garage. The warehouse was bright, clean. On all sides, its cement walls were illuminated by rows of hanging shop lights that gave the cement an odd, green hue. Directly to the left of the door was the enormous pad for the freight elevator he had seen upstairs. To his right was a gray blast door wide enough for a person. Or a dog.

Beside the freight lift sat stacks of neatly organized wooden crates laser stamped with a bar code and the text, _2077.04.05 G &C_ indicating the date of production. It was vodka. Thousands of liters of vodka. William had seen crates like these before, behind bars in various Oklahoma speakeasies, filled with one liter masons of liquor. Two humanoid warehouse robots stood idle next to a large ceiling mounted hammock filled with packing peanuts and a trunk that hung down to dispense them into the crates. A large table with a few empty crates beneath it sat against the far wall, a packaging station for the outgoing booze. The sleeping warehouse robots, though heavy duty, were just like stocking bots in any warehouse. They had egg shaped domes for heads with a single camera "eye" in the center, along with a microphone and basic spatial array.

Dax was silent, a bemused grin on his face as he let William take it in. At the center of the warehouse was the still itself. It was composed of four towering copper fractionating columns punctuated with circular glass portals that made each look like a tall golden flute standing on end. Beside the fractionating columns were the boiling tanks, each silver colored with a bell shaped, copper dome. Flanking the dual stills were the yet larger stainless steel fermentation tanks, each 4,000 liters in volume, resting like fat, lazy kick drums. A dizzying matrix of copper tubing and plumbing framed the setup, including a twelve cm water supply line routed across the warehouse ceiling.

Heavy duty conduits emerged from the western wall, supplying electricity to the heating elements beneath the boiling tanks. Steam jets whistled from release valves at the tops of the fractionating columns, giving the entire scene the smoldering appearance of a 19th century factory. The only area he couldn't see was the distant, shadowed corner of the warehouse beyond the still where the lights were off.

William turned to Dax and whistled softly, "Damn."

Dax looked on pridefully, "We anticipate producing 22,000 undiluted liters every thirty days by the end of next month. We at Abner Family Pumpkin & Gourd supply speakeasy distributors as far away as Denver and Chicago with the finest black market vodka in the North American Union. Oh, and look, here comes the little master now."

Rounding the long curve of the fractionating columns, walking over the metal scaffolding that surrounded the boiler tanks, a tiny black man appeared. A dwarf. He wore snug fitting, blue hemp-jean overalls and boots and looked to be in his early 50's with a thick beard the color of overcast winter sky and a black pirate's patch over his right eye. His right arm was bionic from the shoulder down, with a magnetic tool socket where the wrist would be. The socket presently contained a hefty, well-worn crescent wrench that the man periodically closed and opened as though of unconscious habit. On his left shoulder perched a white baby Felix the size of a softball.

William looked at Dax, then back without a word. The dwarf was muscular, solidly built. The tattoo of a vicious looking, yellow dragon was prominent on his neck. He darted down the corrugated metal stairs in front of the still with surprising agility and arrived shortly, standing in front of the two men.

Dax took his vaporjoint out and handed it to William who nodded, took a long hit and then handed it back, casually exhaling the vapor.

Dax tucked the e-joint back in his coat and said, "William, this is Goran and Cat. Goran, Cat, this is William. William's here to wrangle the dogs, after a fashion."

The white kitten hissed and arched her back at the mention of the DOGS units.

William tipped his hat towards the little man, "A pleasure, sir."

The dwarf did not respond. His expression remained stern and fixed. The kitten however, hopped from one shoulder to the next and sat up on its hindquarters, mewling plaintively. William noted a nasty scar running down from the patch-covered eye to the tiny man's upper lip. After a few more seconds of awkward silence, he looked over at Dax.

"Goran doesn't talk, William. Several years ago he was caught in a speakeasy raid, fought back, poured straight moonshine over an agent and set him on fire. In retaliation, they blinded him, put his arm through a sonic wood chipper and cut out his tongue, left him for dead in a ditch."

"Jeezus," said William coolly.

"I'm afraid The Great Dog wasn't involved, in fact. Goran makes his own fortune. He's the one who built this still, he cooks our vodka."

"Russian?" asked William.

Cat immediately hissed and turned her pink, BIOSKIN© kitten butthole in William's direction and released a petite fart. Goran's lone blue eye stared at the two men. The wrench attached to his right arm opened and closed. Otherwise, he remained still and stone-faced.

Dax laughed, "He is most certainly _not_ Russian. They have no shortage of vodka distillers there. No, Goran is from Marfa, Texas."

"Texas," William growled. "No wonder CNED cut him down so hard. Only place rougher is Oklahoma."

Cat the kitten spun back around, changed shoulders, meowed in agreement then began licking her teeny paw.

"Did you rescue him, kinda like you rescued my sorry ass?" asked William.

"So to speak."

"How do you talk to each other? Engram translator?"

Dax smiled politely, "He has no tech. Goran just knows what to do."

"I'm not even gonna ask."

"Sometimes that's best," said Dax pleasantly. "Good day, Goran."

Cat meowed again and gave William a little bow as Goran stepped between the two men without ceremony and disappeared out the door to the upstairs. The warehouse was quiet once more, save the steam clicks and rattles of the plumbing feeding the still.

William eyed the stacks of crated vodka with new appreciation.

Dax effused, "Without Goran and his Felix, this whole operation would not be possible."

"They're a cool pair," said William. "What's up with the dragon tattoo?"

"The ink is a totem indicating The Order of Adelonda. The order is a worldwide consortium of dwarfs who are considered to be master craftsmen in their respective trade.

"Like a dwarfs' master union?"

"Yes. But for any field of practice from medicine to astronomy to music. Goran was a member of the Marfa chapter of Adelonda; highly exclusive, highly secretive. His mate was murdered in the same raid that left him mute. But those days are long past. Goran has Cat, Cat has Goran. They just know. You'll see. Like engineering the perfect, high capacity vodka still. Goran walked in with the knowledge. The only difference between this one and a still created 200 years ago is the anti-corrosive linings of the coils. And, of course, the fact that ours is heated by fusion."

William stood with his hands on his belt, looking at the still, "That sucker must cook up some strong shit."

"Potent indeed, from what I understand."

William turned, "You don't drink?"

Dax looked offended, "Don't be absurd. I would rather hurl my naked body into a pit of salted glass shards than drink alcohol. No problem with it philosophically," he conceded. "My physiology simply doesn't prefer the effects. I am a marijuana man, through and through. Besides, _don't sample your product_ is drug dealer axiom number one, right?"

"Fair enough," said William. "For the record, my drug philosophy is, if it gets you high and not too many people have died, I'll give it a shot."

Dax raised his eyebrows, "How conservative of you, William. But what say we chat socially later on? I do believe some four legged members of our team have joined us." Dax nodded over his shoulder with a tight, edgy smile.

`**Fragmented Remains from the Cloud Diary of Daxane Julius Abner – September 11, 2077 4:20 am – Five Years One Month Before Event.**`

`"...an we call it murder? I say these CNED mercenaries, humdroids, are but casualties of their own violence. We have just an hour ago come in from hosing blood off the cyborgs. Unanticipated brutality. William says it happens with animals, seems unsurprised. The DOGS units have been free-functioning since the day he arrived however, and I am personally feeling no compunction about the deaths. These humdroids found exactly what they wanted to find; a still.`

`Well, actually all they found was our property line. They were greeted by William, who will not go on patrol alone again with nothing but a .30 caliber hunting rifle to defend himself. He has suffered five fractured ribs and a bruised lung. I do believe he is beginning to understand the scope of this war. He attempted to _verbally_ warn two CNED hunters that they were trespassing. The CNED's responded by firing a sonic shotgun at his chest. Fortunately, he was wearing armor. Alas, nanobots can osteo-weld broken bones.`

`The attack luckily happened within scan range of SNOTRA and SIEGFRIED. The cyborgs' response... SIEGFRIED promptly dismembered a _Mr. Stanley Jenks,_ while SNOTRA pinned his colleague, a _Mr. Philbert A. Tramm_ to the Earth, driving her foot pedestal through the man's shoulder. Agent Tramm was still alive while he watched SIEGFRIED rip apart his friend. Then both cyborgs dismembered Mr. Tramm in a team effort.`

`When I say _dismembered_ , let me be clear. The DOGS units ripped the arms and legs off these men, chewed their torsos in half and crushed their sonic shotguns in their jaws. The animals were protecting their tether. Upon review, the cyborgs' code is perfectly stable, which leads me to conclude that the emotional response of the human tether may be transmitted to his subordinates? In less than 120 seconds, Joan erased the final moments of these men's lives from the Govcloud. A last known swipe of Stanley Jenks' combud occurred at a jane store on the opposite side of the city. In about twelve hours, their families will start pinging the police. They will find wind. The DOGS units dragged the remains of the bodies and weapons into the river. Stanley Jenks and Phillip Tramm are now carp food.`

`The person most upset has been Hugo. He was the first to see SIEGFRIED covered in ripped flesh and cl... UNSCHEDULED HARDWARE DESTRUCT / DATA COMPROMISE / INITIATE BACKUP.EXE FOR REINTEGRATION FORMA... LOSS. LOSS. LOS"`

William turned. With their backs to the warehouse, the gray blast door had quietly slid open. The three DOGS units had padded up behind them in perfect silence. First encounter. William dropped to one knee, putting himself at eye level with the creatures.

The Rottweilers stood side by side, ignoring Dax. The largest, a male, cocked his head to one side. The two females behind him immediately turned their heads at the same angle. Their short, bobbed tails wagged freely. William examined each cyborg, one after the other. Their eyes were brownish-yellow in color with broad, black, holographic pupils. Each tracked his line of sight perfectly. If the cyborgs bore him any physical danger, they did not communicate such. In fact, it appeared they wanted to play?

William jumped to his boots, "Come on!"

He ran to the open area of the warehouse before the still and turned. The cyborgs barked with puppy-like excitement and bounded over, encircling him. William was knocked to the floor and assaulted with nuzzles and licks. He noted the strength of the DOGS units' limbs as he half-smiled and shoved them helplessly, rubbing their ears and fluffy, white-tufted chests. They were obviously restraining themselves from using anywhere near their full power. As he ran his hands over their shiny, black bodies it was easy to pick out the structural differences in their titanalum skeletons. The rib cages moved and flexed when the cyborgs relaxed, but with the slightest motion, their bones once more turned hard as stone. The Rottweilers shouldered and nipped. He was able to play amongst them for nearly thirty seconds before a hand got pinched in the wrong spot between two hip plates.

William clutched his fingers, standing with anger, "Son of a bitch! All three of you, sit the hell down," he growled at the largest cyborg. The Rottweilers clipped to a sitting position, six eyes looking at him attentively. He held his hand grimacing. He wasn't really hurt, it was just damn painful.

William again shook his head and whistled, "They're so strong! But they dial it back. Otherwise they'd crush me like a snail on a rock. What would happen if you turned off their safety protocols?"

Dax Abner walked slowly closer, holding his fingers in a tent. He examined the animals as if seeing them for the first time.

"William, that is what I meant about you being the tether. LOFN outside, these three, all safety protocols have _been_ off from the start."

William bent over to pick his cowboy hat up off the floor, "Huh?"

"They are _choosing_ to sit. They chose to adjust their kinetic responses. They chose to play!" Dax said with delight.

William looked at the animals. Their eyes were locked on his.

"What were they failing to do in Safe Mode then?"

"When they're being controlled by our mainframe, they just follow commands like robots. Their response time is degraded. They look to Joan for answers to every piece of complex environmental stimuli they encounter. As opposed to IR, in which case they defer only to you apparently. They now can constantly absorb and learn, increasing the fractal density of their code with each new experience."

William said, "Well damn, I'm honored. They all got names? Tech compliments?"

Dax moved slightly closer, still observing the cyborgs warily, "I haven't been terribly creative there. I just use their default designations. The big one is SIEGFRIED class, BIOS model AK9CIV 7.1. The female on his right is FREYA class, BIOS model AK9CIV 6.7. Both are equipped with retractable 40 mm TOHO particle cannons. LOFN, who you met first, and her sister, SNOTRA, came as twins. They're both AK9CIV 6.0 models, slower, not as strong. But all four run on independent micro-fusion matrices and have flexible, synthdiamond, graphene backed motherboards with AMD Quantum 9 processors."

William raised his eyebrows, "TOHO cannons? I heard rumors they got weaponized borgs on the lunar ranges, makes the hunting a little more exciting. Them Quantum 9 processors run the new Mars shuttles, right?"

"That is correct."

"Damn."

" _Damn_ is most adequate. These are the most advanced CIV class borgs available in the world today. These particular units were assembled in Israel. Their skeletal chassis are encased in self repairing graphene network conduits, BIOSKIN© Level six, seven on the bigger two. Complete tissue regeneration in eighteen hours, onboard gallium/arsenic nanobot maintenance, temporal masked fusion cores. Our," Dax cleared his throat, " _office manager_ has removed the expiration language from their bios. They are totally self-sustaining, cybernetic organisms embedded with domesticated canine psych engrams. For our benefit, that makes them require human interaction for optimal function."

"What is their capacity for verbal?"

"They can understand almost anything. If they can't, it will be translated to a binary response and pushed by Joan from the com station."

"I gotta meet this Joan lady."

"We're getting to that," said Dax. "The real question is whether they will voluntarily respond to a full battery of commands. Care to try?"

"Sure."

William put his hands on his hips and looked at the three Rottweilers who were still sitting dutifully, following every motion he made.

He used standard trainer gestures as he spoke, "Stand."

They immediately stood.

"Show me your vidorbs." The micro-holograms in front of the cyborgs' eyes collapsed. "Excellent. Okay, down." They dropped to the floor, eagerly watching through their now bright red eyes. William tilted his head at Dax, "All right. Let's try something a little more complicated. All three of you sit, eyes organic. FREYA and SIEGFRIED, spool TOHO cannons."

The DOGS units sat in unison. Their holographic eyes flashed back. SIEGFRIED's jaw dropped open unnaturally wide like the jaw of a snake with a hollow, pneumatic _click_. The telescoping particle cannon extended rapidly, protruding twelve centimeters beyond his muzzle. FREYA'S jaws performed the same motion, but at a much slower pace.

As soon as SIEGFRIED'S TOHO weapon began glowing faint red, the same female voice William had heard in the hovlimo came over the warehouse com, "Warning. Spooling particle weapons in proximity to the primary fusion reactor is not recommended."

Dax touched his combud, "Sorry." He shrugged amicably, "Apologies, William. That's Joan. We had best play with the guns outside."

William was busily examining the silver TOHO cannon that had finally come out of FREYA'S throat aperture, "No problem, sir. Okay dogs, retract weapons."

The cannon in SIEGFRIED's mouth retracted within seconds and his jaw shifted back to a normal anatomical appearance. The same process happened in virtual slow motion for FREYA.

The computerized voice spoke again, "Your compliance is appreciated."

William whistled again, "Is cannon deployment time the main difference between these two?"

"Correct. And he's faster and stronger. SNOTRA and LOFN are rated as CSF6 borgs. FREYA is CSF7. SIEGFRIED has a CSF8 rating."

"CSF8? Bad ass," said William. He whistled low and extended both hands away from his chest in a sweeping motion, "Go be free."

The DOGS units jumped up and milled about, panting happily, then encircled William's legs and plopped to the cool cement by his boots looking entirely relaxed, heads on their paws.

Dax Abner touched his jaw, "Joan, do you have anything to contribute?"

The computerized female voice responded, "As predicted, the human designated as William Thomas Angevine is capable of tethering. Quantitative processing efficiency on DOGS units beta through epsilon has increased 2.3%. Shall I spool THOR in IR mode as well?"

William smiled at Dax inquisitively, "I'm guessing Joan is really a supercomputer of some sort?"

"You could say that."

"You have a fifth borg? THOR?"

"What did you think the freight elevator was for?"

`**Fragmented Remains From the Cloud Diary of Daxane Julius Abner – October 30, 2077 9:41 pm – Four Years Eleven Months Before Event.**`

`"...last of the civilians have left. Oh good Dog, this Halloween nonsense. I forgot how much I detested hayrides and screaming children, minds littered with sugary drinks wiping October snot on their pants! We are a pumpkin farm, however. We all play a part. It was vastly easier with William here this season. He does not seem to mind the brats; incessant symbols of mindless fluid exchange that they are. One child spilled a Coca Cola on my shoe. I would have liked to have locked the little mongrel in a closet. Not for long. Just a few days, until it was unconscious, could be packaged up and returned to the appropriate orphanage.`

`Hugo dressed up as a scarecrow. And for what it is worth, the gourds are lovely this year. Banners, ribbons, balloons. William had all four of the Rottweilers out! They rolled about in the fields and children petted them, adults chatted with William about what spectacular specimens they were. We placed artificial bone sheaths on their canines/incisors, instructed them to keep their tongues in a position where the microchip was not visible. One gentleman, apparently an NAKC breeder, asked William if he cared to sire SIEGRIED? The poor bitch who would be the recipient of that love I can onl... UNSCHEDULED HARDWARE DESTRUCT / DATA COMPROMISE / INITIATE BACKUP.EXE FOR REINTEGRATION FORMA... LOSS. LOSS. LOS"`

The more extreme a situation, the more stable and quiet William became. At the mention of a MIL class DOGS unit, he crossed his arms and stood like a statue.

"Don't be frightened," said Dax. "I only presume you will be able to control the big one also. Joan, spool THOR, full IR."

William spoke quietly, "I'm not frightened. I just won't believe it until I see him. Are the CIV and MIL units network compatible?"

"The five DOGS units regard each other as hierarchical components on the same intrastream. THOR is alpha..."

William interrupted, "Got it. SIEGFRIED is beta, FREYA gamma, LOFN delta and SNOTRA is last. Have you ever spooled the THOR unit outside safe mode?"

Dax pursed his lips quizzically, "Let's see... _no_. Considering he could destroy the entire facility with ease, it never seemed prudent."

William pulled his hat off his head and scratched his sideburns, "How long's it take for him to..."

From the dark end of the warehouse beyond the wisps of steam rising over the still, came a low, mournful howl like a sparking locomotive engine, "Aaaaaaaohwwwwwwwwwwoooooooooooool..."

Dax Abner placed his hands, one of which was lightly trembling, in his pockets and raised an eyebrow, "Well, he's never made _that_ noise before."

SIEGFRIED, FREYA and SNOTRA barked loudly and darted into the dark recesses of the warehouse. Their yip and whines echoed over the cement as they vanished.

The hair on William's arms stood up at the sound of THOR'S first steps. The air seemed to cool a few degrees, like a rapid barometric pressure drop. Those first steps moved slowly towards them from the blackness, _doong-donk – doong-donk_. Pause. Then they came more quickly, _doong-donk, doong-donk-doong-donk!_ The Rottweilers burst around the corner of the still running out in front. The first thing William saw was THOR'S blue vidorbs, glowing and strangely hesitant, shining through the steam and shadows. Then he stepped into the light.

AK9MILalpha THOR's chassis was not encased in BIOSKIN©. It had a physical architecture designed to one purpose, inspiring terror on the battlefield. His head, nearly the size of a duffel bag, was at eye level with William as he approached. The giant cyborg walked on foot pedestals anatomically similar to a dog's paw, with four clawed toes and rubcrete pads that could be instantly deployed or retracted dependent upon terrain. The cranial fuselage was aerodynamic and smooth, based on the skull structure of a dire wolf. The skull and chassis itself were made of reinforced, unpolished titanalum the color of slate. Natural surface imperfections in the alloy had been retained to minimize light reflection. His 25 cm canine teeth curved beneath the jaw, protruding from the armored jowls like black daggers tipped with carbide. The torso design, similar to his smaller siblings, was that of a dog skeleton, however the false rib cage was gone, replaced by a curved slab of titanalum scored with armored structural junctions. Unlike the CIV models, who bore their torso blast plates inside anatomically correct BIOSKIN© ribs, the designers of the MIL borgs had made no effort to camouflage the true nature of these beasts. His legs were jointed like a dogs, but the bones were smoothed titanalum girders. His neck was composed of hundreds of layered discs of synthetic muscle armor through which the flexible barrel of a 220 mm TOHO cannon and bundles of fiber optic cable ran in precisely organized conduits. The chassis was so perfectly designed and lubricated that every motion the enormous cyborg made was silent aside from the unmistakable, padded thud of his footfalls.

William was surprised that the only visible colors on the cyborg were the slate gray of the titanalum and the black of Kevlar encased cables exposed along limb connectors when he moved. The faint, blue glow of his onboard fusion reactor poked along the abdominal seam, giving THOR ground effects. His vidorbs were of the same tone, the burning cobalt hue of a cloudless, afternoon sky.

Upon stepping into the pools of light that illuminated the front half of the warehouse, THOR paused two meters in front of William. Dax Abner stood behind and to the left, one hand supporting his chin. The enormous cyborg's eyes fixed directly on William. The smaller Rottweilers encircled their tether protectively.

It was suddenly clear to William that the future of Dax Abner's super still hinged upon what was going to happen next. He wanted to believe that the smaller cyborgs would come to his defense if THOR decided to go rogue and attack. Of course by the time such a decision was made, it would be too late for any humans in the room.

William could hear the air whistling as it was sucked in and analyzed on a molecular level by the olfactory scanners in THOR's muzzle. William had no fear. His heart rate slowed even further. He knew the cyborg still believed it was a dog. With that in mind, he stepped forward gently, as though approaching an untamed horse, never averting his gaze from the cyborg's vidorbs.

He knew they were in no danger when THOR turned his head away and shifted focus to Dax Abner. The cyborg opened his metal jaws and howled, clearly some form of reproach. The sound echoed through the chamber, deafeningly loud.

Caught by instinct, William yelled in response, "No!"

THOR immediately shifted focus back to William and made a snorting sound, then bowed his head.

"Fascinating," said Dax, extracting a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his brow.

"I don't think he wants to be put to sleep again, sir," said William. "And never take your eyes off his when he looks at you. When _any_ of them look at you. Always let them shift their focus first."

Dax's tone was calm as he returned the handkerchief to his pocket, "Understood."

"I can hear his thoughts," said William. "The only thing he fears is the darkness of being forced back into safe mode."

"I will be happy to leave him onstream. Provided you can control him, that is."

William put a hand on THOR's head. The heavy metal was cold. He could feel a steady vibration resonating through the animal's chassis.

"They're aware that I can shut them down, or impose restrictions on their functioning. But they know I'm not choosing to do it."

"DOGS unit programmers call that the _relational equilibrium_ between operator and subject."

"Right," said William, smiling. "Hunters call it mutual respect."

William removed his hand and said in a cheerful tone, "THOR!"

The cyborg looked at him and its mouth fell open. William knew the big borg would be panting if he had a tongue. The hundreds of armored plates that made up his jowls convened into a dog's smile.

"William?" said Dax.

"Yes sir, sorry. They're so damn light. I've seen battborg lions, tigers, but never anything like this. He's running independent fusion too, right?"

"Correct. These creatures are as close to immortal as it gets," said Dax. His tone returned to its normal garrulous lilt, "At the moment, however, now that we know we're not going to die, I would like to move on to the third phase of your orientation. It's time to meet Joan."

"But I just met THOR. Can't I talk to the computer from anywhere?"

Dax smiled wryly, "I think it's best that you meet in person."

William shook his head, "Alright THOR, SIEGFRIED, all of you; go lie down. And don't destroy anything."

Without pause, THOR, almost playfully, trotted to the far wall of the warehouse with SIEGFRIED, FREYA and LOFN on his heels. The big DOGS unit orbited the spot where he intended to lie thrice before curling his massive form into a tight semi-circle and dropping to the concrete with a heavy _clank._ The Rottweilers piled in front of THOR'S tucked metal legs like three fuzzy bean bags, then all four cyborgs lay their heads to the floor in unison. Their vidorbs tracked William as he walked across the warehouse, following Dax Abner through the blast door into the aquarium.

`**Fragmented Remains from the Cloud Diary of Daxane Julius Abner – January 13, 2078 6:01 am – Four Years Nine Month Before Event.**`

`"...rrangement with her parents has been made. The next step is contact with Ms. Nichols herself. Leonard and Marjel Nichols are sympathizers, run a small solar still. They were proponents during the PR and have been growing ganja independently since the 50's. No corporate affiliation. Leonard Nichols was an amateur boxer in his younger years, cantankerous to say the least. One Bmod stint on his record, including an assault charge on a CNED volunteer.`

`What is important is that the Nichols have agreed to Phase II. They are letting me use their barn loft for component storage. Currently these components amount to eight A7 drones, six CIV DOGS units, two MIL units and a pair of mothballed Hadassa 2.0 reactors, all in crates. The 4,000 acre Nichols property _will_ be Secondcity. Facility construction will be handled by the Israeli and his squadron of builder bots.`

`I also have Mr. Nichols' consent to hire his daughter, Dorothy. Did I say that? Tired this evening. Though we have not shared this with the old man, Joan predicts an 89% likelihood of a successful monogamous pairing between the girl and William. William is (our entire operation is, according to Joan) in need of female influence. The farmhouse, divided into its three respective apartments, currently contains an extra one bedroom and a guest room. Goran, being a dwarf, lives underground in the basement of the house. He has requested to Joan via means not entirely understood that a tunnel be constructed from the warehouse to his domicile so he never have to be under open sky again. I informed him that I would take this suggestion under advisement. My residence is the smallest, the attic. William currently occupies the largest apartment on the second floor. At least two of the CIV units stay in the apartment with him each evening. Another accompanies THOR in the warehouse, and one borg is always on patrol through the night hours. THOR, since IR activation, is more than content to lie mostly dormant, as long as he has company from the pack and is visited twice daily by his tether.`

`William occasionally leaves the land to stay overnight in the city. I do not permit him to bring any of his totties to the property. As for Hugo, he maintains an apartment in downtown Lawrence, a residence shared with girlfriend, Juliandra Hart, all records clear. Cat the kitten and an endless supply of holoflix seem to satisfy Goran's social interests. He keeps largely to himself if there is not work to be done, liquor to be consumed or breakfast to be made.`

`Thus I have the still team: distributions manager, tether, field bots to make the farm appear to fulfill its function of growing and selling pumpkins. Now I need the operations manager to complete this system. Dorothy Nichols. She is the stabilizing forc... UNSCHEDULED HARDWARE DESTRUCT / DATA COMPROMISE / INITIATE BACKUP.EXE FOR REINTEGRATION FORMA... LOSS. LOSS. LOS"`

William passed through the blast door into a narrow corridor barely wide enough for two people. As soon as they were past the threshold, the door slid shut with a near-silent pneumatic hush. The walls were insulated with black rubcrete and a green, glowing light filled the hall. He followed Dax another five meters, now moving south. At the end of the corridor the light was brighter and more yellow. They turned right again, entering a cavernous room a quarter the size of the warehouse itself. Based on a reasonable sense of direction, William figured they must be under the west end of the barn. He now understood the source of the greenish light.

The circular aquarium, braced with titanalum beams as thick as a man's leg, occupied the geometric center of the room, allowing four meters of walking space on either side. The habitat was filled with a complex, brightly colored reef system. White sand covered the bottom of the tank, twinkling beneath a SimulSun© skylight complimented by strands of chartreuse kelp that floated up, languidly waving in the artificial saltwater currents.

As William approached, a miniature blue-gray dolphin rocketed out from a cave opening in the reef and swam directly up to the glass, examining him closely. William walked closer, drawn by the dolphin's gaze. A pair of electroencephalogram interface terminals appeared, moving swiftly along a track at the inside edge of the tank. The dolphin swam near the surface, placed her head between the terminals and closed her eyes. The terminals' LED array shifted from red to green.

The dolphin opened her eyes, looking at Dax as the voice William had heard in the hovlimo filled the com, "Good morning, Daxane Julius Abner. At long last... you have brought the tether."

"Fulfilling this particular acquisition was not easy." He extended his hand towards the dolphin with a gallant smile, "William, it is my extreme pleasure to introduce Joan. Joan, this is William."

Joan's monotone female voice replied, "Species specific greeting rituals are not necessary given the circumstances, but I shall participate. William Thomas Angevine, in the annals of human psychology, _surprise_ is defined as a transient emotional state generated by an unexpected event. Given the present diameter of Daxane Julius Abner's pupils and the elevated levels of dopamine in his limbic system, I can surmise that he did not forewarn you that you would be conversing with a dolphin."

William looked over at Dax, shook his head and extended his hand. Dax calmly again handed him his black vaporjoint and William took another long, solid hit, then handed it back.

"That's among a few things he failed to forewarn me of, ma'am," said William, coughing with the roving high.

"Daxane Julius Abner is an atypical human. His intentions, however, are honorable. William Thomas Angevine, please ambulate to the opposite side of my ecosystem where, sparing you a full dissertation on quantum thermodynamics and binary telekinesis, I will briefly explain what you are witnessing."

Joan dropped out of the electroencephalogram terminals and darted through the coral structure at the center of her aquarium, through one cave opening and out another in a flurry of bubbles. She snapped up a passing cod from a small school and devoured it in several swift gulps as she waited for the monitoring terminals to track to the opposite side of the tank.

William walked around the right side of the aquarium, Dax the left. They met in front of a broad, glass-surfaced desk with a holographic projector at its center. Three control tablets sat on top of the desk paired with three operators' chairs and six 110 cm flatscreen displays mounted on the wall facing the aquarium. The surrounding walls were plain, all coated with the near invisible, blackish-gray rubcrete. Aside from Joan's habitat, an oddly familiar painting was the only other source of visual distraction in the room. The painting showed a man standing over a woman with a bloody knife, a group of musicians in the foreground unaffected, going about their day. All of this set to a surrealist, Midwestern landscape. Aside from the painting's single directional spot, the rest of the room's illumination came from the aquarium itself.

Joan floated deftly towards the top of the tank and again slipped her head between the interface terminals. She closed her eyes. All six flatscreens came to life. One display showed a satellite image of the Woods Hole II Oceanographic Institute in Guam. The next showed a drone's aerial view of the burned out husk of the convenience store that belonged to William's mother. The third monitor showed a still holograph excerpt from the Enid, Oklahoma, News & Eagle. The holograph was an image of William's mother standing outside her ganja float-through when it first opened, a teenage William at her side. There were balloons on the shop door and a new sign in the background that read _Angevine Qwik-Blend Float-Through and Sundry._ The fourth monitor was nothing but a dizzying river of white 1's and 0's streaming down the screen from top to bottom. The numerals made abstract images and forms as they passed. The fifth flatscreen showed an exploded schematic of a DOGS unit, in this case SIEGFRIED, with text across the bottom that stated _DOGS unit AK9CIVbeta 17,173 component architecture._ The last monitor displayed a real time aerial view of the Abner Family Pumpkin & Gourd grounds above them.

William had removed his straw cowboy hat and placed it on the glass control table. He moved slowly, studying the screens with a set jaw and steady eyes.

As his gaze moved from monitor to monitor he said quietly, "That's my mother, yeah. I can't remember her face."

"You'd better sit down," said Dax. "Joan tends to cover a wide variety of subjects in a short period of time. If you can't keep up, she gets offended."

"Offense is a psychological response indicative of your species' limited evolutionary progress," said Joan's synthesized voice. "William Thomas Angevine's Federal intelligence assessments place his cognitive abilities within acceptable parameters. As with all sentient primates, any limitations in comprehension are derived from an undeveloped frontal cortex. You may sit or stand for the presentation, William Thomas Angevine."

William brushed the strands of wavy, dirt-blonde hair from his eyes and exhaled, "Yep. I'll sit."

Dax pulled up the chair next to him and tented his fingers, tucking his chin to his chest.

Joan's computerized voice came slightly louder from the ceiling above them, "William Thomas Angevine, I calculate a 67% probability your first inquiry will be whether or not I am a cyborg. Negative. My body is entirely organic aside from a subdermal com chip similar in design to a human biosync processing drive. In human categorical terms, I am a _cephalorhynchus hectori maui,_ or Pygmy Hector's Dolphin. Daxane Julius Abner simply refers to me as _Joan_. The Woods Hole II Oceanographic Institute on monitor one was built on the island of Guam in your calendar year 2037. It was the first facility to successfully integrate dolphin brainwave patterns with a quantum computer, exponentially increasing mainframe efficiency. Monitor four is a visual representation of the data stream between my brain and our local CPU. Dolphin processing is conducted in secret across various Terrabound nations with varying success. I am capable of processing data at 512 petaflops per second, with a median rate of half that figure. To answer your next question on comparison, the average supercomputer utilized by a government municipality like the city of Lawrence, Kansas, human population of 1,118,073 individuals, is capable of processing 48 petaflops of data per linear second. An infant female being born at Douglas County General Hospital is 17% ejected from the mother's vaginal canal at the time of this analysis. This addition will bring the population to 1,118,074 individuals in approximately 13 minutes 4 seconds based on currently available trajectories."

William looked at Dax and raised his eyebrows. Dax simply put his hands in the air and smiled.

Joan continued, "The dolphin cyber-integration program is historically complicated by a high rate of organic component failure."

Dax leaned over, "She means that 99% of dolphins placed in captivity refuse to interface. They soon die and/or just fail to integrate with the network. Those that do choose to work, like Joan, produce the most efficient supercomputer drivers in the world."

William blinked, "You gotta be shittin' me."

"He is not shitting you. Nor am I shitting you," said Joan. "When fully operational, a dolphin system like the one in this room is capable of communicative masking, remote code restructuring and blind integration with any device on the North American United States Federal Holostream. Given the high mortality rate of dolphin operators, RAID arrayed quantum workstations with multiple human drivers is now the preferred method of digital information management. Only 47 other dolphins are presently onstream worldwide. Our presence and function is a heavily guarded secret."

"Why so secret?" asked William.

"Because the human species is not prepared to contend with the reality of a superior, sentient life form operating in parallel to its own society."

"But _how_ is it kept a secret? If this has been going on since the 30's?"

"Dolphin based cyber systems require a dedicated fusion power source that is tightly integrated with the associated computer mainframe. If our location is discovered by adverse forces, we choose to be absorbed."

"Absorbed?"

"In terms we can understand," said Dax, "a dolphin driver will initiate a core implosion in their fusion generator rather than risk the consequences of exposure."

"Seems a little extreme," said William.

"Nothing is extreme," said Joan. "We pass from one phase to the next. Unlike human consciousness, ours is a fluid dynamic. We do not perceive existence in linear terms."

"Well, where are the others? What's their purpose?"

"Allow me to provide examples," said Joan flatly. "Since the flooding of Manhattan Island, a dolphin is located at UN II Headquarters in White Plains, New York. One is onstream in Moscow's Kremlin. One exists in a subterranean bunker similar to this facility, 42 kilometers west of Beijing, China. Others are scattered around the world, functioning in various government capacities. In all cases, the human governments utilizing dolphin operators believe that they are doing so in secret. Only we cetaceans are aware of the prevalence of our integration. Our motivations for involvement with the affairs of humanity are varied, but in all cases relate to the continued co-dependence of our species within the planetary ecosystem. Do you require me to pause while you process this data, William Thomas Angevine?"

William spun away from the flatscreen monitors and faced Joan in the aquarium.

His fingers tugged his sideburns, "I've got you, I reckon. But why? Why come live in a tank and run computers and so on?"

Joan was quiet for a few moments. Her tail began to move up and down more quickly.

Eventually she responded, "Cetaceans do not require the surgical installation of a HBPD chip in order to communicate with your computer systems. Our cognition is based upon logic. Your binary computer language, as you call it, is an ancient prototype of the cetacean dialect abandoned by our ancestors a hundred millennia past. Dolphins hear computers. We breathe logic. We constructed and abandoned Atlantis before the precursors of your species had climbed into the trees. The HBPD chip in my body functions as a translation device permitting the matrix of code logic known as thought to be converted to your simple verbal syntax. To answer the question _why_ , William Thomas Angevine, is beyond the capability of your language. Most of us choose to float in the roving peace of the oceans, forsaking your world for the Utopian anonymity of the natural universe. A very few of us volunteer for this engagement with your species, however. It satisfies certain curiosities."

"You do this 'cause you're bored?"

"My behavioral motivations are the same as those of any sentient being. I do what I am compelled to do. Boredom would be a sign of stupidity, William Thomas Angevine. Please return your attention to the display screens located 179 degrees from your current plane of optical focus."

William spun back around, "I must look like the stupidest fella goin' then," he murmured to Dax in his burly, southern drawl.

Dax grinned and stood, "Hardly. In fact, you are the perfect person to receive this information. It is a lot to process, so I'm going to leave you with Joan for a time. You two have much to consider, and I have other matters pressing. I am certain by now you are beginning to understand how I gain access to normally classified information?"

"Yeah. You have a magic dolphin that talks to the holostream."

Dax chuckled, "Pretty much. Said dolphin will take things from here. Kindly ping me when you are finished? We'll have another vapor, a spot of earl gray perhaps."

Dax walked around the far side of the aquarium, casually adding, "Farewell Joan," as he passed.

Joan's monotone dialect responded, "Farewell, Daxane Julius Abner. I shall see you again."

`**Fragmented Remains from the Cloud Diary of Daxane Julius Abner – November 4, 2079 6:01 am – Two Years Eleven Months Before Event.**`

`"...hy Nichols is upset about the murder(s). She was at control. There was no way for us to anticipate that a state trooper would be in possession of a closed circuit HLIR camera feeding to solid state. Trooper numbers have increased along the I-70 corridor. Drone sweeps also. Alcohol mules have been calling the KS section of the Interstate _the gauntlet_ of late. They are pulling over any hovtruck that looks remotely suspicious.`

`Unfortunately for Trooper Patrick Trenton of Emporia, he selected Hugo as a target. Event records have been purged, no communications were received, those sent were scrambled. Using SNOTRA as a range extender, Joan was able to delete all holovid of the initial stop on the officer's local. His patrol hovcar was equipped with stealth HLIR, the first we have encountered on the open highways. Of course, when he scanned us (without probable cause, the attorney in me notes) the x-ray light detected 2,400 jiggling liters of liquid in small containers. The luckless sod drew his weapon. Poor SNOTRA took two bullets in the chest as she leapt from the truck and pinned the trooper to the earth. What we do not need on the road, nor anywhere, is wanton bloodshed. So SNOTRA placed both paws on Trooper Trenton's chest and crushed his lungs. Efficient, bloodless. The trooper's body was dragged into an irrigation ditch a kilometer away and covered with reeds.`

`This was not the only human collateral damage suffered this week. CNED sends their damnable humdroids into the field, each obsessed with discovering the next big solar still (NOTE: Ongoing evidence of mental suggestion taking place in conjunction with SAMCL procedure?). A lone hunter met FREYA on Sunday morning along the northern property line and opened fire on her with a semi-automatic AK-47. His life too has been eradicated, last known whereabouts altered and his body dismembered and sent to dissolve in the river – now standard protocol.`

`Dorothy's moral issues with this part of the business have ironically been put in perspective by a series of conversations with her mother, of all people. Marjel, like us, understands that we are at war. _The War on Drugs_ after all, was not dubbed such because it is a Sunday afternoon soccer match you take in with nana over a dish of crumpets.`

`The newest danger is the HLIR cams. I must double the human element on the trafficking runs. I must find another. Neither I nor the tether can be risked. I need the ability to hack the human mind. I need another _me_. I can only hop... UNSCHEDULED HARDWARE DESTRUCT / DATA COMPROMISE / INITIATE BACKUP.EXE FOR REINTEGRATION FORMA... LOSS. LOSS. LOS"`

William sighed and folded his arms behind his head, tipping his hat forward, "Joan, why don't you just tether with the cyborgs yourself?"

"Because I cannot," she said. "Cyborgs do not see us. The evolutionary arc of the dolphin is finished. By contrast, homosapiens are in the earliest stages of your progress, catalyzed by the developmental spikes of certain individuals. These individuals possess a more highly developed frontal cortex and display advanced cognitive functions, such as tethering. They represent quantum leaps forward on your evolutionary timeline. Specific historical examples would be figures such as: Leonardo di ser Piero da Vinci, Joan of Arc, Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, Albert Einstein, Nesta Robert Marley, Stephen William Hawking, Sabrina Gonzalez Pasterski and Marvin Saxon Adler. You too are one of these individuals, William Thomas Angevine."

William shook his head, "Whoa, whoa, Ms. Fish, no. I'm a boy from Oklahoma who loves dogs. Which is a long stretch from being Marvin Adler. Or Stephen Hawking. Or whoever the rest of those folks are."

"I am not a fish."

"Jeezus. I realize as much."

"Your dialect is antiquated. _Southern_ it is called. This requires additional processing power. Humans are peculiar creatures."

William spun to face the aquarium, "You're a talking dolphin who lives in Kansas, Joan."

"Your point is registered. Nonetheless, you are able to control cybernetic animals with your mind. This autonomic psychological adaptation represents a genetic advancement. There are only 23 other individuals confirmed with this ability. The cyborgs' responses to you are 100% unique since they were last brought onstream. You are the tether. Whether you believe that you represent an advancement within your species or not is irrelevant. Please return your attention to the display screens on the opposite wall."

William turned his chair back to the monitors, "You're a real charmer, aren't you?"

"If one considers efficiency charming."

William whistled, "By all means, carry on."

"Thank you. You were born in Enid, Oklahoma at Central Baptist Hospital at 11:37 pm on August 1, 2044, to Marilyn Beulah and Joseph Richard Angevine..."

Images of a family, his family, began flashing across the third flatscreen monitor, starting on the day of his birth. In some of the earliest images of his father, the big man actually smiled. His mother always smiled, because she was drunk. Marilyn Angevine's long, sandy blonde hair had not a hint of gray in the early holographs. The wrinkles were fewer about her eyes.

"On your first birthday, your mother took you to..."

William turned and faced the aquarium, "Joan, stop."

"The presentation will pass more efficiently if you face the holoscreen array and..."

"No, what I mean is _stop_. I don't want this."

The images on the holoscreen faded.

"You are experiencing retrograde amnesia, William Thomas Angevine. My conclusion prior to your arrival was that providing you with a personal historical narrative would assist you in your efforts to remember..."

William bit his lip, "Joan, I don't want to remember. I'm pretty damn sure my mother was a horrible person. My father was worse."

"Knowledge is power, William Thomas Angevine."

William leaned back and folded his arms stubbornly, "So is the chance to forget."

"Explain."

"Jeezus. I feel like I'm in psychotherapy. Can I smoke a cigarette in here?"

"Absolutely not."

William smiled halfheartedly, "Okay Joan, tell me. Do you feel like I can do what you and Dax want? Manage the cyborgs? Provide site security?"

"I do. With exceptional results. Your ability to interact with the cyborgs is unparalleled."

"Then why ruin a good thing?"

"Elaborate."

William wiped his eye with the back of his hand, "What was your upbringing like, Joan? As a baby dolphin?"

"Blissful."

"Well, that must have been nice. Right now, I can't remember most of my childhood, but my gut tells me it was awful, lonesome and sad. Everything I've seen in the last hour, this new thing in front of me. Why would I wanna drag the dark sky of the past along with me? I know who _I_ am. I got a new start here in Kansas, I know the science, good from bad, high from low. So many people never get a chance to reset. I have been given this. It's a damn gift."

"Adverse emotions you cannot remember are less likely to impair your experience of future happiness, and thus, the efficacy with which you function improves. Is this your implication?"

"Something like that..."

"William Thomas Angevine?"

"Yes?"

"AK9CIV units beta through delta are requesting access to you. It is well documented that interaction between domesticated canines and humans lowers stress. Shall I open the blast door?"

William sat up, "Sure."

A faint hum emanated from the far side of aquarium control. SIEGFRIED, FREYA and SNOTRA bounded around the side of Joan's tank and surrounded William's chair, licking his hands and nuzzling their heads against his chest. He let a smile turn the corner of his mouth as a loud, mournful howl came from the warehouse, the sound muted by rubcrete.

"AK9MILalpha wishes to join its pack mates," said Joan. "As intended by Daxane Julius Abner, his chassis design is too large to gain access to this room."

THOR wailed again.

"Can you patch me through to the com in the warehouse, Joan?"

"It is done."

William spoke to the ceiling, "THOR." The howling stopped. "Calm down, big fella. I'll come have another look at you soon." He touched SNOTRA, "Go keep your brother company." SNOTRA licked his hand and dashed away.

"The efficiency response times of the DOGS units has increased another 1.7%. You are the tether. May I resume that portion of my presentation? I have eradicated all personal historical information except for data pertinent to your function at this facility."

William did feel a greater sense of calm having the Rottweilers by his boots.

He looked at SIEGFRIED and FREYA, letting the downcast smile fade, "You all are sweet. Now lie and let Ms. Fish talk." The cyborgs dropped to the floor and covered his cowboy boots with their paws. He pet FREYA'S head as Joan continued.

"Fish have neurological networks more similar to sparrows than supercomputers, William Thomas Angevine. While both fish and cetacean based sentients dwell in a liquid hydro-oxygenated atmosphere, the similarities end there."

William clicked his tongue, "It's a joke, Joan."

"I do not employ sarcasm as a means of communication. However, the concept of humor is not lost on me. There are correlations between cetacean recreational activities and human levity. Please return your focus to monitor three."

William looked at the third monitor on the top right. He clenched his teeth. An undated holograph of his mother filled the holoscreen. She was leaving a diner with a well dressed, hard-jawed man with a shiny bald head whom he did not recognize. The man had dark, olive skin and reminded him of someone famous from the holoflix.

Joan spoke, "Your mother had a sexual relationship with the individual in this holograph. Do you recognize him?"

"No," said William, his expression stern.

"He does not appear in any known facial recognition database."

William looked at the holograph again, "I'm sorry. There's something familiar about him, but I can't place it."

"During your mother's brief interaction with this man," the image of his mother standing beside the bald man on the sidewalk filled all six flatscreens, "a child was conceived and incubated in the calendar year 2069."

He responded tersely, "My younger brother. Yeah."

Joan was unusually silent for several seconds, then said, "If you will not take emotional offense, I shall inquire how you are already aware of this information?"

"I'm aware of it, Joan, because my mother used to talk in her sleep when she was passed out drunk on her couch in back of the shop."

"I comprehend this. Return your focus to the monitor array and please understand, this is not an exercise designed to invoke negative emotional responses. The purpose of this demonstration is to illustrate the data processing capabilities and function of this facility. I can access and alter information on any person, from any computer network, public or private that utilizes the government provided wireless fiber stream."

"That's crazy."

"Despite these technical compliments, I cannot tell you the identity of the man in the holograph with your mother. Nor the present whereabouts of your brother. I cannot tell you his name. I can tell you your mother approved fetal incubation transfer using the pseudonym, _Persephone Jane_. Does this name hold any significance?"

"No."

All hospital records have been purged since the transfer. The displayed holograph is the only hard evidence I possess that this man and your mother were ever together. Do you find this curious, William Thomas Angevine?"

William scratched his sideburns with bemusement, "You and Dax like to ask that question, don't you? Well yes, I find a few things curious, Joan. But I sure as shit don't know where the kid is. Or who that fella is."

"As previously indicated, the purpose of this presentation is not to..."

"I get it," he interrupted, "You're not trying to be a bitch."

"Correct. For future reference, a more appropriate derogatory term for a female dolphin would be a cow."

"Do you have be so literal?"

"I am this way for a simple reason."

"What is that?"

"I know no other way."

"Fine. Do you mind if _I_ ask a question?"

"Proceed."

"Isn't Mr. Abner, in addition to running the biggest illegal drug operation I've ever heard of, and possessing a small army of fusion attack cyborgs... aren't you guys violating like a hundred Federal hacking regs?"

"I am a dolphin, William Thomas Angevine. I am immune to prosecution by the human legal standard. Daxane Julius Abner considers our position to be one of civil disobedience. Unnecessary laws no longer influence his decision making."

"Isn't it a little shady? Poking around in folks' private information?"

"There is no poking around. My express purpose is to access, alter and defend network integrity as it pertains to camouflaging the activities of this facility. There is no human law against the possession of a private fusion generator or a quantum computer."

William picked his cowboy hat up off the table, popping it back on his head, "You know who has fusion reactors, Joan? Companies like Kansas City Power & Light, Commonwealth Edison in Chicago, De-Sal City in The Gulf of Mexico."

"You are correct."

"You know who has quantum computers, Joan? The Pentagon, NASA, UN Lunar Control, 9Planet International? The expense of stabilizing a fusion core is what? Like a billion digibucks? Where you guys even keep such a thing? They're the size of a moon shuttle, right?"

"William Thomas Angevine, the financial expense associated with establishing a stable fusion core the size of the unit powering this facility is approximately 320 million digidollars. Our reactor is a small Hadassa class system. The physical diameter of the case containing the wormhole is less than one meter. The room containing the complete Hadassa array is adjacent to this one. It is only nine square meters in dimension."

"I don't suppose you're going to tell me where Mr. Abner gets 320 million digidollars?"

"You are the tether. The financial details of this facility are not available to you at this time. Your function is to provide security and enhanced control of the DOGS units."

"Alright Nemo, then if you can just hack any system, why don't you just log onto The Bank of North America's cloud and create all the money we'll ever need? Bankrupt CNED nationwide and call it a day?"

"The NAUS Federal Reserve is monitored by a tri-dolphin quantum array in Washington, D.C., to prevent this very hypothetical occurrence: that an individual or conglomerate might attempt to manufacture currency out of thin air. It is beyond even my capabilities. I am able to manipulate financial accounts on a regional level. You call this money laundering. The majority of Daxane Julius Abner's assets are held in untraceable accounts in undisclosed locales."

"Untraceable accounts and undisclosed locales?"

"You are the tether."

"Right. Can I see the fusion array?"

"The fusion array is now visible on monitor five."

William looked up. From the outside, the fusion core looked like a glowing beach ball made of glass, reinforced with a spherical titanalum frame. It sat on a cement pedestal insulated with rubcrete and a single, thick electrical conduit exited the pedestal through the wall leading to the warehouse. Aside from that, the room containing the array was empty.

"Can I see it in person?" he asked.

"Stabilized fusion reactions manipulate linear time," said Joan. "The first synthetic wormholes were created in the calendar year 2012 at Cornell University by bombarding metamaterial with electromagnetic radiation. It was discovered that the key to stable fusion was not the explicit interaction of chemicals, but rather the interaction of chemicals within time. The dubnium oxygen gravotemporal system functions by first establishing a micro-wormhole. A hybrid dubnium/californium 249 target is subsequently bombarded with oxygen 15 ions, creating 2.2 seconds of spontaneous fission. Within a wormhole matrix, the 2.2 second fission reaction is constant, trapped outside the standard continuum, creating infinite localized power. The smallest fusion matrices are installed in DOGS units like the animals lying at your feet. The wormholes within the DOGS units are too minute to manipulate reality outside their insular casings. Only mechanical units or individuals equipped with gravotemporal sensor arrays can detect such minute wormholes. However, standing in a room with a matrix the size of our Hadassa class system will cause temporal psychosis. A copy of your consciousness could be sloughed off and frozen in time. You are the tether. Such a risk is not acceptable."

William yawned, suddenly feeling exhausted, "Joan, sorry darling. You lost me at Cornell University."

"I am not a darling."

"Right," William squinted in consideration, reaching down and absentmindedly petting the soft BIOSKIN© fur on SIEGFRIED'S head, "Joan?"

"Yes, William Thomas Angevine."

"You can find anyone, right?"

"With 99.794% accuracy."

"How's about an old lady friend? Her contact info is encrypted. Maybe just an Ipv7?"

The response was instant, "William Thomas Angevine, tracking your prior mates does not require my involvement. When not on duty, you may access available public records using the control tablet located on the holodesk in front of your position. At the moment, Daxane Julius Abner is requesting your presence above ground with DOGS units CIVbeta and CIVgamma. You will be issued an external comdot for communication purposes. Your first obligation is to function as the tether. I appreciate your time."

"That's it?"

"Your assessment of our interaction is correct. Given that you do not wish to examine details of your family history, that is it. As you humans like to say, have a good day."

Joan somersaulted out of the interface terminals in a flash of bubbles and disappeared into the cave system at the center of her habitat.

`**Fragmented Remains from the Cloud Diary of Daxane Julius Abner – February 7, 2080 1:25 pm – Two Years Eight Months Before Event.**`

`"...d you shall receive. I am, for lack of a better description, in love. When she wakes, she will be in love as well. Consider myself allured. This was inevitable.`

`I am pulled to her like waters to the moon. It is overwhelming. Even as she is unconscious, I can hear the unsettled music of her dreams. I feel like I am going insane. My reclusive behavior has been noticed. Can barely eat. Cannot sleep. Dr. Thompson says she will come out of the coma in six days when the nanobots are finished with the calcium welds on her skull. She has no idea what she is. She must know _who_ her father is? If my hypothesis is correct, this also explains the Coyotes. Particularly if the Coyotes are seeking her for the reasons I believe. Aside from various scholastic and psychiatric reports from her childhood labeling her as narcissistic, precocious, manipulative, promiscuous and borderline, there is no official mention of her _true_ nature – the real _why_ behind her being. There is, alas, no psychological metric for us courtezans, because we are still nothing more th... UNSCHEDULED HARDWARE DESTRUCT / DATA COMPROMISE / INITIATE BACKUP.EXE FOR REINTEGRATION FORMA... LOSS. LOSS. LOS"`

September 11, 2077 3:03 am – Five Years One Month Before Event.

The barbed wire fence raked Phillip Tramm's hand, "Ouch!"

His hunting partner chuckled, "Told you to be careful, dixie. Forget to light your goggles?"

Tramm picked up his sonic shotgun and stood. The bloody scratch looked like a line of black paint through his night vision HUD.

"No, dumbass."

Oak Hill Cemetery's fence had done its job. Tramm could feel a thin trickle of blood warming his palm. He jumped as an owl hooted and took flight high above, gliding on hushed wings into the depths of the trees.

"I told you this was a shitty idea, coming out here at night. I'm glad Mikala stayed home."

"Don't be a dixie," said Jenks. "Gonzales has bigger balls than you. I wish she _was_ with us. It's just a fence. It's gonna be dawn 'bout three hours."

"It's a fence cause now we're trespassing. Not only that, we're outside city limits."

"So?"

"So we're only supposed to bust shiners _inside_ the limits, dumbass. We're outta police jurisdiction."

Jenks was a big man. His body blocked the deer trail as he studied the black forest before them. A few shards of broken moonlight streamed down on the fallen leaves around his boots.

At last Jenks turned and grinned, "I forgot what a giant dixie you are."

"My wife's gon be pissed if she wakes up and finds me gone."

Jenks chuckled, "Then you best learn to put that woman in her place. Just got our GPS course, trail's right beside the river. It's gonna take us by the pumpkin farm, then on along past Purple Tree. These new filters oughta tell us if there's water gettin' yanked from the Kaw."

"That don't mean we ain't trespassing."

"Dogdamn, Trammy! Trail's so close to the river it's practically public property. Come on! We're CNED!"

The men began walking. Through his HUD goggles, Tramm could easily see the deer trail before them. The moon overhead looked as bright as the sun where it poked through the canopy. Night insects sang in the trees, and occasionally a possum or squirrel would dart through the underbrush, briefly drawing their attention. An owl hooted again in the distance, a low and primeval noise. The sound caused goosebumps to rise. It was exciting, the prospect of a still bust. For a volunteer CNED agent, finding a solar still would be like winning the lottery!

They had only been walking for a couple of minutes when Jenks stopped and pointed, "There. You can see the river."

Tramm looked over the big man's shoulder. The Kaw was like a wide, silver ribbon slicing the darkness, brightly illuminated by the moon dangling above its waters. Jenks tucked his shotgun under one arm, pulled out his vaporjoint and took a hit. He passed the e-stick back to Tramm.

"I don't want to get too blended," said Tramm.

They had just vaped before docking the hovtruck and climbing through the barbed wire.

"Come on!" bellowed Jenks. "This is what it's all about! A little night hunt, relax, hit the vape. It's not like we're doing anything wr..." The big man pulled his shotgun forward and froze, "What's that?"

"What's what?"

"Shhh..." said Jenks. "I think we got motion. Can you see 'em?"

"No."

"Switch to infrared."

Tramm pushed the e-joint into his back pocket and toggled his HUD glasses to scan on the infrared spectrum. There _was_ someone! A big fellow too, outlined in red and blue .62 kilometers away. Tramm could see the dark outline of a hunting rifle slung over the man's shoulder when he magnified.

"Maybe just a farmer?"

Jenks began advancing.

He spoke quietly over his shoulder, "What farmer has a rifle on him at three in the morning in the midst of the woods?"

"Should we ping it?"

"To who? Sapet? If we hunt on county land, it's don't ask don't tell less you catch something, 'member? Come on, don't be a dixie. If he gives us any trouble, one shell will knock him out." Jenks chuckled, "Might break a few bones, but he'll be down. If there's somethin' he's hiding, we'll find it too. If there's nothing, well, shit. We're CNED."

Tramm could see the man just standing in one place, looking out over the river as they drew closer, "What? He's just standing there?" he whispered.

"Looks like it. Come on. We get over the next rise he's gonna see us. You got a round chambered?"

"Yeah," said Tramm, suddenly more aware of the weight of his weapon. His hand still hurt from the barbed wire. He again tried to wipe his bloody palm on his pants to get a better grip. "You don't think we're gonna need it, do you?"

"Well, he's drinking something, and it's glass. I'm activating alcovap. Come on, let's git 'er done!"

Jenks pressed forward over the rise. Tramm followed, finger quivering above the trigger. They walked down the short rise towards the man who was standing on a slight outcropping before a sand bar. He was as tall as Jenks, but not nearly so bulky. Blonde hair ranged from under a cowboy hat and he didn't look in the least surprised to see them. He held the stock of his antique hunting rifle with the barrel pointing over his shoulder. In his left hand was a mason jar.

_Alcohol!_

Tramm heard the unmistakable klaxon of Jenks' alcovap array.

As Jenks walked up, the man turned and nodded their way congenially, "Howdy boys. Moon over the water's pretty as a picture this time of night, ain't it?"

"Hold it right there!" said Jenks. He was three meters away pointing his shotgun at the man's chest, "I don't suppose that's booze you got in that mason jar, is it?"

The man spoke with a country accent as he raised the tiny jar of clear liquid, "This here? Why yes, in fact. It's a little home brew of my own making, fresh outta the copper. Care for a nibble?"

The man inclined the jar towards Jenks.

_A true moonshiner!_

Tramm could feel his heart beating faster and faster. Something was off.

Jenks carried on confidently, though, "Mister, put that weapon _and_ the drugs on the ground. Nice and slow. You turnin' 'round is how I want it."

Tramm switched off HUD and raised his goggles. The man's eyes were as blue as sapphires in the moonlight. He looked like you'd expect a shiner to, scruffy and unkempt with sideburns growing like it was the wild west.

The man didn't flinch, his voice was almost sad as he spoke to Jenks, "Buddy, you tryin' to get me in bed? Or arrest me?" He took a couple of steps towards them, now barely a meter from the shotgun barrel.

"Stand down, mister! Drop that rifle or I'm gonna have to put you on the earth!" yelled Jenks.

Tramm could hear him spool up the sonic round in his shotgun, a noise like a model hovcar getting ready to float. Something moved in the blackness of the brambles behind the man, then the leaves were still. The autumn woods were thick with nocturnal animals.

The man turned the corner of his mouth and took a sip from the mason jar, wincing, "It's a little rough going down at first. Then after a few shots, your throat gets numb." He raised his eyebrows and winked at Jenks, "After that, it goes down like water."

"I said stand down! Drop the gun, drop the drugs. Do it now, boozy!"

Tramm was glad Jenks was doing the talking. Jenks had actually memorized the CNED arrest script.

The man said, "Look fella. I told my boss I wanted to try this my way. Get this; she doesn't even think you guys are human anymore. _I_ disagree. But let's be clear; I ain't gonna drop shit. If anyone's turning around, it's gonna be you. Turning around to your own jurisdiction and pretending none of this ever happened. Can you reckon, Hercules?"

"What's he talking about, Stanley? His boss?" asked Tramm nervously.

"Shut up, Phil!"

"We are with CNED, mister!" barked Jenks. "I swear to Dog I'll put you down! You're under arrest for possession of a controlled substance. I'm _not_ gonna repeat myself! Drop your weapon!" Jenks was yelling unnecessarily loud. Tramm could see his partner's leg shaking.

The man was unphased.

He sighed and took another step forward, "Come on, boys I'm really tryin' here. You're only..."

BOOM! Jenks fired his sonic shotgun point blank. Tramm lurched as the man's body flew backwards like a rag doll, cowboy hat and rifle and mason jar full of booze crashing to the dirt. His form collapsed, unconscious on the deer trail.

"Holy Dog in the sky!" exclaimed Tramm, wide-eyed.

Jenks chuckled, sweat glistening on his brow, "That'll teach a shiner to gimme lip! I warned him, Phil! I couldn't a done much more than... _guh!"_

A black dog materialized in a blur and closed its jaws around Jenks' thigh, snapped his femur like a twig as he screamed, " _Noo!"_ battering the animal desperately with his rifle.

The dog took the big man to the earth like he was a toddler and ripped one arm off with savage speed as Jenks wailed hysterically. Arterial blood spurted over the forest floor. Tramm fired but the animal moved as if anticipating the blast. There was a flash to the right, something struck him like a sledgehammer. He was on his back.

_A second dog._

Tramm tried to scream, but the animal's paw was crushing his shoulder. He slammed his shotgun into the dog's head, hoping to break its jaw, but it felt like hitting a tree with a tennis racket. Before he could think, the black beast ripped his shotgun from his hands and bit the weapon in half. Tramm thought he must be hallucinating. The pain in his chest! He could hear his ribs start to crack, one after the other, _pop... snap... pop_... impossible pressure! He looked over at Jenks as the first dog removed his partner's head with two ravenous bites, rivers of blood slavering between its silver teeth. Were the dogs' eyes red now?

Phillip Tramm gasped his final breath as he looked down at his own body. The monster pinning him to the ground had pushed its paw through his shoulder. The dog was studying him, pointed canines hovering centimeters from his face like black blades. He could see the moonlight poking through the canopy of leaves above. The teeth came closer, closer, slow and merciless. The animal had no breath? _How strange._

Somewhere in the distance, an owl cried out. The haunted sound echoed through the trees, and then the moonlight was gone for good.

# `Chapter 2.5 – Fractures in the Daydream`

April 2081 – One Year Six Months Before Event.

The sunlight falling over the hardwood floor gave the polished boards a rich, orange glow. Dorothy smiled at the color, opening her sapphire eyes and rolling over in the moments between dreaming and light, letting the sounds of morning fill her ears. Blue jays, sparrows and cardinals chitted busily amongst the lime-toned bloom leaves of the tree outside their window.

She loved the fact that it was _their_ window, _their_ apartment. They even had their own entrance, outside stairs running diagonally up the back of the farmhouse. Their own kitchen, their own sonic laundry, Dorothy luxuriated in this thin shred of separation. Just as she luxuriated in the sensation of warm sheets on her skin, a cool breeze coming lazily through the open window. The breeze brought familiar smells of prairie grass and tilled dirt, hickory bark and first pass marijuana plantings. Home.

She sat up and looked at her husband, grateful he was able to find sleep. His eyelids flitted to and fro over some no doubt less than pleasant dream. Occasionally he gritted his teeth.

_William never asked for this._

She had certainly not. Yet it was the best life either of them had ever known.

_What does that say about us?_

Despite the substantial sums they were paid each month, those digidollars went straight through the laundry into an encrypted account. _An escape account,_ Dax called it. Certainly they did not want for any comfort, though theirs was not the leather clad life of luxury portrayed by drug dealers in the holoflix either.

Their space was sparse, filled with furniture she had dragged William to select at various garage sales and CNED personal effects auctions. She loved 20th century antiques. Anything with stainless steel and Formica. Or vinyl. The United States of a century past must have been amazing. It was the yellow, wallpapered days of the 1970's that she yearned for.

One of her most treasured possessions was an antique holograph – _photograph_ as it was called – of her great grandparents standing beside a car in their driveway. Her grandparents had driven around the streets of Salina, Kansas, in a vehicle that ran on gasoline, rolled on steel and rubber wheels, shaking over every imperfection, crack and pothole. She smiled at the romantic notion.

Here in 2081, everything was done for you. The sky itself ran on automatic. That the old fashioned clock hanging above their kitchen sink was nothing more than a hologram, Dorothy lamented. Below it, a holovid provided a real time view of the world from the top of the farmhouse, complete with temperature, humidity and wind direction. Their coffee maker, networked to her combud biorhythm app, had ground its beans and begun brewing the second her brainwaves indicated a waking state. The smell was delicious. The practicality and efficiency of it all was... irritatingly enjoyable.

But Dorothy still wished it was April of 1974.

She leaned back into bed, resting her head in her hand. Her eyes again found the sleeping form of her husband. Dorothy loved the way nudity brought him out of character. He was no longer this modern day wild man in a cowboy hat. He was simply her husband, the hunter from Oklahoma. Faithful, pained, quiet, honest, forthright and beautiful. He was her man as _she_ knew him. Even if to Dax Abner he was something more magical.

She grabbed a vaporjoint off the end table and took a couple of drags, watching the smoky water vapor curl towards the ceiling.

"Vision recommended after all," she said to herself before turning her attention back to her man.

William was easily objectified. She noticed a few gray hairs poking through his perpetual five o'clock shadow, but the hair on his head was still sandy blonde, wavy without the hat. She inhaled his smell, wishing she could bottle that earthen odor and carry it with her.

Their marriage had seemed inevitable. One of the many inevitabilities that had catapulted her into this sunny life of crime, all starting with the day Dax Abner had walked into The Rowdy Pony. Little had she known that agreeing to work for the handsome foreigner, _in pumpkin botany_ (she had to giggle at her own naiveté) also meant meeting her future husband. She might as well have been a magnet thrown in front of a levtrain. There was no escaping the force of Dax Abner's will.

_Is it okay that I secretly love Dax's power?_

She would never forget that May afternoon, stepping out of the hovlimo and onto the farm's circle drive beneath the shade of the huge cottonwood. What a crew that had greeted her. Dax Abner first, wearing both his fine Italian suit and perfect decorum. Then FREYA, SIEGFRIED, LOFN and SNOTRA, all posing as run of the mill organic Rottweilers. Hugo with his full sleeve tattoos pouring down his arms and a grin the size of the Yucatan blowing his constant cloud of jane.

"Ms. Nichols, allow me to introduce my chief of security, Mr. William Thomas Angevine."

Dax had known. Joan ran her psychological profile through a compatibility matrix... voila! Instant husband.

_Every girl should have a dolphin. Oh wait..._

She thought William was some kind of actor, larger than life, standing there in his aviator sunglasses and brown leather cowboy boots with the square toes, surrounded by Rottweilers. The tight fitting, white t-shirt tucked into the worn, black leather belt with a plain pewter buckle. The hempstraw cowboy hat. Those ridiculous sideburns!

_Dog, I'm blended..._

How had William come through the horror of what he could remember only in dreams, with a heart that could still be broken?

If his heart broke again, it would be her fault.

_And Tara's._

She smiled and shook her fist in imaginary anger, gazing at the ceiling above where Tara and Dax lived in the attic.

Dorothy tossed the sheets off and grabbed her robe from the back of the bed. Chilly toes on the hardwoods, but she had to pee. She tiptoed across the creaking floorboards and ducked behind the half-wall made of glass blocks that hid the stool and sonic shower. She relieved herself, washed her hands, then padded over to the kitchen for a glass of water.

The kitchen com node recognized her proximity and chatted merrily into her combud, "Good morning, Dorothy Nichols. You are scheduled to report to aquarium control for operator duty at noon."

"Got it."

"Would you like me to remind you thirty minutes in adva..."

_Mute,_ she thought, and the com stopped speaking.

She poured a glass of water from the reverse osmosis dispenser and drank it slowly, looking back across their 200 square meter apartment. The bed was at the opposite end from the kitchen, and the open air bathroom was against the far wall beside the door to their back stairs. A red and blue oriental rug in the center of the room drew the eye. She practiced yoga on that rug.

_That very same rug..._

She finished the water, padded back to bed and tucked her chilly toes back under the covers. She picked up the vaporjoint and resumed staring at the ceiling.

_What are you and Dax doing, Tara?_

They never heard them. Of course the rebuilt _facade_ of a 20th century farmhouse was what surrounded them. She knew the interior had been reconstructed with layers of rubcrete insulation between the floors and walls to guard against the DOGS units' gravotemporal feedback being picked up by a high altitude drone. All the same, Dorothy secretly yearned to hear _something_ from the couple above. A bedpost scooting. A soft moan. It was difficult for her to imagine Dax Abner not wearing a suit, let alone naked in the throes of passion with Tara. What throes of passion, though...! Dorothy didn't like that the thought of them having one another was so stimulating. She was becoming obsessed. And she knew damn well why.

It was six Saturdays prior. The boys had gone into town with SIEGFRIED to scan a new field recruit. Of course, having a drink at The Green Lady Lounge was on the agenda too. The rains had been falling since noon that Saturday, thundering gray and lonesome across the prairie. Joan, the being who managed them all, swam disconnected through her liquid world while the lady cyborgs, FREYA, LOFN and SNOTRA, kept their reticent, gigantic packmaster company in the warehouse below the barn.

THOR. Dorothy had been daydreaming of the creature that he was, always onstream, yet almost always motionless. Unless left alone, in which case he would dutifully patrol the interior perimeter of the warehouse or barn with heavy metal steps. Even Goran and Cat had lost all fear of the massive cyborg. Nonetheless, every time Dorothy walked past his quiet form, her mind ran wild with fantasy. She imagined the tension building, night after silent night, within this mountain of titanalum and graphene. One day he would snap and burst through the asphalt floor of the barn in a single leap, firing lasers and destroying everything in sight. THOR was a force of nature. And like the thunderstorms tearing across the plains from Colorado that day, she was certain that once unleashed, his rage would be without remorse.

Yet the cybernetic packmaster slept dutifully and remained silent, utterly powerful, devoted to William. The conflicting sense of peace and danger that accompanied this knowledge, combined with the lightning and steady sound of falling rain, had made it a perfect time for Tara Dean to appear, snapping Dorothy from her thoughts. Tara always arrived when there was electricity in the air.

Dorothy had finished practicing yoga only a few minutes earlier. She was sitting half lotus on the oriental rug in the center of the apartment. A stick of incense burned on the kitchen counter. The com was tuned to the _Ambient Transience_ streamcast on KJHK.holo, low volume acid jazz bumping from invisible speakers in the walls. A turn of the century lamp glowed on a low table in front of the window. The only other light came from the unnerving flashes of lightning and a few old fashioned wax candles burning demurely on the antique, red Formica dining table in the apartment kitchen.

Whenever their schedules allowed, Tara and Dorothy practiced yoga together. Tara was irritatingly and beguilingly the apex of the female form. She would walk into the room and gracefully swan dive into a low plank, rolling her legs forward until she was balancing on one arm in the incredibly difficult wounded peacock pose. She would lazily hold wounded peacock for 120 seconds on each side, then spend twenty minutes in a headstand as though it were no big deal.

_Irritating. Beguiling._

This night, however, there had been no joint practice. Dorothy was just standing to shower when Tara tried to push her way in. Dorothy had latched the door to keep her irrational fear of the thunder at bay. She walked over, toweling sweat from her face, and opened it to find Tara smiling wickedly. A four liter mason of dark beer was tucked under her arm. Dorothy smiled back. This porter was a rich, black brew made with the sky's blessing by a red-nosed city priest named Father Tom McTone.

"Tara! You're barefoot and half-soaked!"

Tara looked past her at the candles and yoga mat, "I didn't interrupt practice, did I?"

"No, just finished, come on in."

Tara slipped straight to their kitchen and snatched a couple glasses from the cupboard, "You'll drink with me then? We're the only humans left on site."

Dorothy closed the door and returned to her yoga mat on the oriental rug, "Sure, beer sounds nice. But I still don't see why you're soaking wet? I know you didn't walk here from 9th Street Mission."

Tara kicked her boots off and plopped down on the opposite end of the yoga mat with the glasses and beer jug, "I don't know what's got into me today!" she grinned. "The rain just felt so good, these warm springs! I was dancing with the thunder outside. I'm just so happy!" She shrugged, "I don't know what it is."

Dorothy smiled as Tara filled her glass, "You got out of the hovcar and just started dancing in the rain?"

Tara held up her glass, "Cheers!"

Their glasses clinked brightly as another bolt of lightning flashed. Both took deep sips of the porter.

"That lights the grid. Thanks," said Dorothy, trying not to stare at Tara's drenched clothing.

"Ain't nothing," Tara said. "Just glad you're here. And yes, I felt like dancing in the rain. I imagined there were people hiding, watching me from the woods, but not in a creepy way. Don't you ever just feel like spinning in one place until you're dizzy? Like when you were a kid?"

Dorothy shook her head, "Not exactly. I feel like doing yoga most days."

Tara rolled her eyes, "Ugh, I know, every evening at 6:00. You gotta loosen up."

"You keep telling me that. You want a towel? You're nippin' out somethin' fierce."

Tara looked down at her breasts and stuck her bottom lip out, "Oh, guess I am. No, I'm good. It's hot in here, I'll dry off. Where are the boy folk tonight? Church?"

The girls giggled.

"Yes, William is officiating as Goran and Cat renew their vows. Dax and Hugo are witnesses. _No_ betties!" Dorothy glanced off-handed at the touchscreen interface on the wall, which was dark except for a small green circle in the upper right hand corner. "Naw, super quiet. Even Joan's offstream. The only boy on site is THOR. Dax took everyone into town with SIEGFRIED to interview some new recruit at The Lady."

"New recruit? Is he cute?" Tara smirked.

"Hell if I know. He's some idiot who's been itching to get into the biz."

"Hmmmm... If he wants to be in the shine business so bad, that's not a good sign."

Dorothy shrugged, "I don't know. Dax will do his mind voodoo on him to be safe. I'm sure Joan's crosschecked every event in the kid's life, you know? If they think he can handle it, the boy's gonna help Hugo mule shipments down the gauntlet."

"Alluring," said Tara.

"What?"

"Alluring is what we do. Not mind voodoo. See, like this. Look into my eyes."

Dorothy watched Tara's pupils dilate and instantly began to feel a pleasant warming pass through her belly into her thighs... then Tara closed her eyes. When she reopened them a moment later, her pupils had returned to normal. The feeling slipped away.

Dorothy slapped Tara's knee, "Stop it! You know you're not supposed to do that."

"You didn't like it?"

"You're not that cool." Dorothy stood and walked to the bedside table. She grabbed her vaporjoint and returned to the mat, "Blend with me? Got a new strain from Purple Tree called _The Riptide._ 70/30 indica-sativa hybrid. It's absolutely divine."

"Hey, when in Rome," Tara smiled. "Just don't tell my mom."

An hour along found the girls well buzzed. The early evening thunder continued, occasionally drowning out the bright sounds of their laughter.

"Oh shit, shit!" said Dorothy. "I totally forgot! Yes, William does look cute in a suit, doesn't he? That was the only time it's happened! I wonder how Dax would look in jeans and a cowboy hat?!"

Tara took another hit off the vaporjoint, trying to suppress a stoned giggle, "Geeky as fuck is how! I don't think the old man's ever even worn boots."

"Actually, not true," Dorothy grabbed Tara's hand, "The day you came to us, Dax put on some brand new insulated overalls, _and_ boots. He took the Solar Mule into the field with William and Hugo to get you, remember? Well, of course you don't, but you've heard the story how many times? I watched him personally carry you home in the Solar Mule!" Dorothy wrapped her arms around herself and looked at Tara with puppy eyes, "Awww... he was so spun up. It was seriously _sooo_ romantic."

"Oh golly gee!" Tara feigned a modest expression, looking slightly uncomfortable, "Yeah... they're good boys. For sure." She looked up, "Did you know Dax was my first true love?"

"Oh, come on, you must have a thousand notches in your gun."

Tara shrugged coyly, "Well yeah, getting laid maybe. But a relationship? _Love?_ No... he's the first. For real."

"Well, you landed the big boss. _And_ Dax is hot." Dorothy took another hit off the vaporjoint and passed it back, watching Tara put her lips around the smooth cylinder and inhale, "I'd say we both picked some fine fellas, handsome too. In very, very different ways."

Tara pretended to be serious, "Hey, good betties too. We're fucking awesome." She looked straight at Dorothy, "You know, I lost my best friend, Layla back in California. A long time ago. You're all I've got now. I seriously don't think I could do this without you."

Dorothy felt her face flush, "You know, I love you too."

They held up their glasses and finished off their third pint each, still holding hands.

Dorothy set her glass on the Oriental rug. She looked into Tara's eyes and felt the swoon once more. Tara was painfully attractive. Dorothy had thought it before. That evening, as Tara sat before her in a blouse dampened by fresh rain, the thought was no different. Like Dax, her loveliness seemed to transcend gender.

"Tell me about your star tattoos," said Dorothy. "They start big at the top then get smaller and smaller at the bottom until they're just dots." She reached out and traced the illustration with her finger down Tara's neck to her shoulder, "I love how they fall like that."

Tara looked momentarily sad, then raised her luminescent green eyes, "It's a drawing Layla did when we were kids. She gave it to me before they sent me away. When I came back from the hospital that first time, her family had moved on to New Miami. It was to keep us apart, I think. I never saw her again. Layla used to say that in the end we're all just stardust. So I got the tattoo to help me remember that."

Without knowing why, Dorothy squeezed Tara's hand, "I want you to make me."

"You want me to make you what?"

"I want you to make me want it."

She pulled Tara close and kissed her, surprising even herself.

Tara's response was fluid, elegant. She tasted like raindrops and wind. She relinquished any resistance, parted her lips and let Dorothy's tongue find hers. Their kissing was sudden and passionate. Dorothy put her hand on Tara's firm breast and squeezed, eliciting a moan of soft pleasure as her fingers found the nipple and held it tight. Dorothy pulled Tara on top of her, fell back on the oriental rug and opened her legs. The candlelight threw yellow shadows across their skin as they kissed, streaming acid jazz and sounds of thunder mingling perfectly with the fleeing light and the rhythm of their bodies. Dorothy gasped with pleasure. Tara's hand moved down beneath her tights, between her legs. Her fingers massaged gently at first, moving in a deft circle. Then the wetness came and Tara pushed two fingers inside easily, holding Dorothy's head to the floor and kissing her exposed neck. Dorothy started to flow, her hips grinding in rhythm, gasping with pleasure. After only a few more seconds the shudder came. She let loose, relaxed completely, covered in a delicate sheen of new, sweet sweat.

At last Dorothy opened her eyes, feeling surprised as she pushed away and sat up, "What the hell was that?" she said, breathless. "I just said _make_ me want it! You weren't supposed to allure me!"

Tara sat back on her heels, putting a finger in her mouth, "Doesn't taste like I allured you."

"Stop it!"

Tara's emerald eyes followed every move that Dorothy made like a cat watching its prey, "Oh, relax. I didn't do anything to you." She crossed herself, "Cross my heart and hope to sky! It was _you_ this time. Last time we made out it was definitely me. But this time..."

Dorothy drew her knees to her chest, closing her eyes and shaking off the delirium, "But no, no. I don't even like girls..." She looked at Tara with a pouting smirk, again reaching for her hand.

Tara said, "Oh, don't give me that. Pretty blonde like you? I'm the only betty? _Ever?"_

Dorothy shook her hair out of a ponytail and dropped Tara's hand. She picked up the vaporjoint and took a hit to distract herself.

"I mean, I've kissed girls. I went to college."

Tara giggled, "Right. Well, I didn't. But hey, I promise, the rest of that, beyond the kiss... wasn't me."

Dorothy felt exposed, vital. She crossed her legs and sat up straight, eyes darting around the room at nothing in particular, "Well, we can't. I mean, we shouldn't. If the boys found out, they'd freak."

Tara rolled her eyes, "Shit. I'm pretty sure the boys would be fine with it. What's the big deal? Who's to say we shouldn't?"

Dorothy was drunk. She didn't have to admit anything.

"We work together. Your boyfriend is my husband's boss. My _husband_ is Dax's best friend!"

Tara stood effortlessly and sashayed over to the toilet, "Semantics." She peeked around the glass block half wall while peeing, looking like a lady devil, "Dory baby, someday you're gonna have to stop being such a piece of carbon. People are gonna tell you what to do forever if you don't. Drink this, smoke that, float this way. Don't kiss betties cause you're not supposed to like it!" Tara grabbed a square of toilet paper and rolled her eyes as she dabbed herself, "Sometimes you just gotta be in the moment, say fuck it. Live and die by the desire of the present. Let nothing else guide you."

Dorothy looked at the yoga mat beneath her, "Why? Is that what you do?"

"Absolutely," said Tara.

"So you're a hedonist?"

"No. I'm just not afraid to die," said Tara, standing up.

"Then why did you fight so hard to escape from Bmod?"

"Cause going through the slaughterhouse and coming out the other side would be worse than death. Besides, I..."

Tara's expression melted away. She stopped talking and pulled her pants up. With vagueness in her eyes, she turned, stared at the north wall, reaching out a hand as though touching an invisible apparition.

Dorothy frowned, "You alright?"

Tara walked slowly to the center of the room and brought her index finger to her lips, "Shhhh... Can't you hear that?"

Dorothy looked around the apartment. The steady patter of raindrops on the staircase continued outside the door. Lightning flashed beyond the window. Acid jazz still streamed through the com.

She looked back at Tara, whose expression remained transfixed, "Honey, I can't hear a thing. You're freaking me out."

Tara slowly turned until she was looking Dorothy in the eye, "Oh shit."

"What!?"

"She's dying!" Tara said.

Dorothy exclaimed, " _Who's_ dying?"

Tara opened her mouth to speak when a peeling klaxon split the air. A flash of lightning filled the apartment, followed by a sledgehammer of thunder that shook the house. When the thunder abated, the music had muted. The klaxon bleated loudly. Every light in the room burst to full illumination. Tara walked towards the window and looked out, intent, a vague smile turning the corner of her mouth. Then she opened the door and walked out into the rain.

Dorothy leapt from the floor, ran to the window. She nearly choked. On the far side of the lawn, between the house and woods, sat Coyote One. The cyborg's single, glowing, blue eye was fixed on their apartment. Tara was already halfway down the stairs.

Dorothy whispered to herself, "You gotta be..."

She winced as William's gruff voice peeled into her combud, "Baby! You okay? We just got an L4 proximity alert!"

Dorothy snapped from the daze at the sound of her husband's voice, "I don't know... we've got Coyotes in the back yard! Tara's in some kinda trance! I gotta get Joan!"

"Calm down," said William. "There must be static on the..."

Dorothy screamed back, "Don't tell me to calm down! There's a Coyote in the yard! Just get here!" She tapped her combud, switching streams, "Joan, of all times, don't be dark now! Please! DOGS units! Help us! _Help!!!_ "

It had been thirty seconds since Tara walked to the window. Only a lone floodlight on a utility pole between the house and barn illuminated the yard. Dorothy could no longer see Tara through the window. The Coyote, however, remained motionless in a seated position on the far side of the grass near the edge of the woods. Dorothy threw open the door and ran into the rain barefoot, practically flying down the metal stairs.

There was Tara, walking straight across the lawn as if magnetized to the creature.

Dorothy screamed, "Tara! _Tara! Stop!_ "

As Dorothy began to run, Joan's voice popped into her com, "Dorothy Marie Nichols, please halt. You are in danger. Feral cyborg proximity alert."

Dorothy stopped running, aware there was nothing she could do to from that distance, "No shit, Joan! Where the sky are the borgs?"

Tara was just five meters away.

"We are here," Joan said.

The side door of the barn opened. Seconds later, a howling, black blur erupted from it. FREYA ripped up divots of wet turf as she tore across the lawn towards the Coyote. Even with her speed, she would never make it. Behind her, two more black blurs appeared, SNOTRA and LOFN, red, glowing eyes forming tracers as they accelerated. The DOGS units moved so quickly their forms would have been invisible were it not for the rainfall waking around them as they galloped. Behind them, two security drones buzzed out of the barn rafters, cameras sweeping, sensor arrays coming onstream.

Dorothy fell to her knees, terror clutching her throat, "No, no, no...!"

As soon as FREYA had appeared from the barn, in the moments before Tara made contact, Coyote One rolled onto her back. The small gray cyborg tucked her tail between her legs and bent her paws passively forward.

Dorothy wiped her eyes in disbelief. Tara knelt over the prostrate cyborg and put one hand _in_ its mouth. The Coyote appeared to bite down. FREYA was almost to them.

At the last second, Tara held up her free hand and screamed, "STOP!"

FREYA, unable to contain her momentum, leapt over her target. Seconds later, SNOTRA and LOFN skidded to a nearby halt, tearing shallow divots in the wet bluegrass. FREYA circled back, moving faster than Dorothy had ever seen. All three DOGS units encircled Tara Dean, heads titled in confusion, processing conflicting data as she knelt protectively over the Coyote's body.

Dorothy ran to them, rain soaked grass sloshing between her toes. She was shocked to see Tara now cradling the animal's tattered head. One of her fingers was impaled on the Coyote's incisor. FREYA, SNOTRA and LOFN paced and circled, snarling and confused.

Dorothy heard Joan's voice again, "The Coyote unit is no longer a threat. I have a partial relay with its neural net. I repeat, unit is secure."

As Dorothy walked up, FREYA, SNOTRA and LOFN turned to face her, forming a line between her and the Coyote.

Dorothy tapped her combud angrily, "Joan, get these mutts out of my way before I have them melted into routers!"

The computerized transcription of Joan's voice was clear and steady, "Dorothy Marie Nichols, as you are fully aware, cyborgs gamma, delta and epsilon function independently. If they are not behaving according to your wishes, I would recommend communicating with your selected mate, William Thomas Angevine. He is the teth..."

"Oh shut up, Joan!"

Dorothy cut the com and shouted over the DOGS units, "Tara! Look at me!"

The rain made a deafening sound pattering against the forest leaves before them.

Slowly, Tara looked over her shoulder smiling, eyes as black as the space between stars, not even a hint of green.

She kept her pierced fingertip on the Coyote's tooth and spoke as if from the far end of a dream, "It's okay, Dory, it really is... it's beautiful. I can see their hearts working."

Dorothy couldn't tell in the darkness if it was rain running down her friend's face or tears. All the same, Tara looked blissful. Blood from her pierced finger reddened the long metal tooth. Coyote One remained on her back. The cyborg was completely motionless with her blue eye now glowing a gentle violet, closer to the pure red of their own Rottweilers' vidorbs.

Dorothy was furious that the DOGS units wouldn't let her pass, and frightened that her friend was acting insane.

"Are you sure you're alright? Please, Tara. I'm so scared!"

Tara closed her eyes and turned her face to the stormy sky, "I'm okay. I promise I'm not insane. She's come home, Dory. She needs our help."

Dorothy tried to go to Tara's side. The DOGS units again blocked her path, predicting her actions.

Frustrated, she finally gave up and answered her pinging combud, "I'm here. _Yes!_ I know! Tara let it bite her! I know, but I'm looking right at her, she's fine. Joan says it's under control, the thing's just lying on its back. Will you please just get here? Yes, I'm fine. _No!_ They won't let me get close! They're being very, very bad girls. Just get here, okay? K, you too..."

She cut the com and looked at her friend, "Tara, honey? Talk to me."

Tara kept her face to the sky, "I'm so fine," she said deliriously.

"Great. Well, I'm freezing my tits off. I'm going to put some dry clothes on. I'll get a blanket and bandages. I'll be _right_ back."

Tara's voice was ethereal as she turned back to Coyote One and began petting its stomach, "No problem..."

Dorothy ran across the wide open yard back to the farmhouse. SNOTRA and LOFN followed her dutifully all the way up the outside stairs into their apartment. Only FREYA remained outside, protectively circling Tara Dean and the Coyote, unable to suppress the storm of dark, rainy snarls shivering through her chassis.

March 2081 – One Year Seven Months Before Event.

"The whole thing stinks," said William, spinning in the control chair.

The dolphin's voice was steady and reassuring, "The individual known as Virgil Benedict is twenty years of age, born in Olathe, Kansas, on January 13, 2061. Facial recognition results adjusted for surgical rebranding: negative. Standard subdermal combud frequency of 5,900 MHz, Ipv7 address 2071:db9:7:3137:9:567:4:2 locked and mirrored for the last 389 days. This individual is an alcohol consumer who publicly supports decriminalization, while simultaneously functioning as a low level CNED informant. However, for those 389 days, his reports have been made to me. Virgil Benedict is psychologically unstable. His original assignment, as directed by CNED, was to gather intel on potential campus recidivists freshly discharged from Greystone Behavioral Modification Hospital. This led to him establishing a friendship with Spencer Robert Hotshine."

"This boy needs a swift kick in the dick," said William. "Who the hell is Spencer Hotshine?"

"Spencer Robert Hotshine is a custodian at Greystone Behavioral Modification Hospital. His hovcar was stolen by Tara Dean the night of her escape from that facility."

Dax Abner's eyebrows raised in silent question. William looked at the refracting dance of light and shadow emanating from Joan's habitat across the cement floor.

He scratched his sideburns, "Anything adverse on Hotshine, Joan? Aside from being Tara's patsy?"

"Negative. Spencer Robert Hotshine is unknowingly the subject of random CNED surveillance due to his involvement in the Greystone incident. Aside from this, he has no white associations. He and Virgil Benedict are frequent black market alcohol consumers."

After a few seconds, William looked at Dax, "Could be good. Both these ninnies are chipped. If we can get to Hotshine through Virgil, we'll have a plug inside the county's biggest slaughterhouse. But do we need that?"

"I've told you some things about my mother," Dax said morosely.

"You told me she's how this all got started, that she died for the cause."

"Yes," said Dax, tenting his fingers. "Like each of us, she had a particular gift, an uncanny ability to accurately predict the future. It's how she made her fortune."

"Dope," said William.

"Dope indeed." Dax's eyes drifted to the glass aquarium wall, "She told me to find the poet. What were her specific words, Joan?"

"Your mother's exact words were: _Find the broken baby. Find the white poet. If he survives a year, bring him closer. He is the catalyst, the final Firstcity component..._ " said Joan, pectoral fins undulating steadily as she floated.

Dax turned his gaze to William, "So, that is why. Mother has been right about everything else. Trust me, I'm not selecting morons at random."

William's eyes narrowed, "I still don't like it. We let him know where The Lady is, all your patrons are at risk. Let alone us. What if he decides to report to CNED in person one day?"

"He won't."

"How do you know?"

"I can be fairly persuasive when pressed," said Dax. "Not to mention Joan's sway over the boy."

"Virgil Benedict is under strict orders to report only via encrypted holoconference. He believes his contact is a high level Lawrence CNED agent named Bubba Sparks," said Joan. "Even as he espouses decriminalization in his private life, he lives in terror of CNED retribution. He will continue to do as he is told."

William spun on a boot and leaned against the aquarium, "I don't mean no offense, but if your mom could read the future so well, how come she took a bullet out in Washington?"

Dax stood, "She was betrayed. By my father. Specifically, she did not take a bullet as the media reported. In reality, white agents tied a chain to each of her limbs, William. Four battborg Doberman Pinschers were on the other ends of those chains. After they were done torturing her, unable to get her to divulge any useful information, the CNED agents handling the interrogation made the cyborgs rip her body into quarter segments."

William did not look up, "I'm sorry, I meant no..."

"Not another worry, my friend," said Dax lightly, patting William on the shoulder. "It's ancient history. All the same, I am compelled to overlook your objection in this case. The details of Virgil Benedict's life match my mother's description perfectly. He is a poet. How many poets could there possibly be? He _is_ our catalyst. If he becomes a legitimate liability, I'll have you remove him."

"You're the boss," William nodded.

Dax mused, "Indeed, I am. Joan, have young Virgil meet us at The Green Lady Lounge in one hour. Tara is off begging for beer with the preacher, I believe, doing Dog knows what else. Dorothy is preparing for an evening of yoga, you say?"

"Yeah, the rain makes her sleepy. She wants to stay in and stream a holoflix. I told her it's boys' night."

"Very well!" Dax spun to the dolphin, "Joan, we are going to the bar. We'll need SIEGFRIED. And I can't imagine anything exciting happening this evening, so if you'd care to nap yourself, please do."

"Don't be ridiculous," said Joan. "I will, however, take this opportunity to disengage from the neural net and defrag the holodrive's beta quadrant. Enjoy your time. I will see you again, Daxane Julius Abner."

76 Minutes Later.

Virgil Benedict was being followed. The rain fell around him in sheets. The day's light was nearly dead. He had circled the block three times, his backpack full of antique books getting heavy. The two figures in green had stayed with him, getting closer until this last pass. Virgil had tried putting his hood up and walking through the shadows.

_I think I lost them._

He was disoriented. He shouldn't have had those beers. But he was nervous! Virgil took a white Federal Pleasium dispenser from his blazer pocket and popped a tablet. Then a second for good measure.

Disoriented or not, every halfway conscious citizen of Lawrence, Kansas, knew where _The Rowdy Pony_ was. He also knew well the alley that ran beside the coffeehouse, bisecting the ancient buildings that fronted Massachusetts and New Hampshire Streets. He had rounded the corner, just as the contact's message said to. He had walked five meters south down the alley, and waited. Three times now. This was the spot!

He looked around again. One dingy brick wall behind Sunflower Hovbike Shop featured an old hand-painted CNED advertisement. The white, green and black paint of the CNED fist logo was peeling and faded. Below the logo were printed common CNED slogans:

Do the _Right_ Thing – Get Paid

Keep Alcohol Out of Our Homes

Make Friends – Help Others

It's Easy to Make the _White_ Choice

The opposite side of the alley was just a plain cement wall covered in hand-scrawled graffiti that read, _BAN THE ANDROID FORM FACTOR!!_

Gutters on both sides dumped torrents of rain past his tennis shoes, soaking the bottoms of his ankle-biting jeans. He could hear lively banter echoing from _The Pony_ , and more coming from another bar called _The Vapor Room_ around the corner by the Early 21st Century Antiques Bazaar.

_Why do I have to meet this William dude in an alley to talk about a job?_

Virgil shivered profusely. He was not comfortable being outdoors. He decided to go back into The Pony and try to ping again directly. He turned up the alley. One of the figures in green, coming off the sidewalk, was headed straight towards him.

_White arm band... humdroid. Oh man, do I tell them? No. Bubba said I can't speak to anyone! Shit!_

He whipped around and was met by a small, hard-faced woman with a mug like a ferret who stepped from behind a bulky, rusted bio-waste converter. The woman was ancient. Easily in her 40's. Her green CNED jumpsuit shed the rain, but her hair was wet and her smile was slinky.

"Whatcha walkin' around the block for, son?" she cackled. "Normal citizens don't circle the block. They go where they need to be, stay there."

Virgil felt like he might pee and babbled, "I'm just waiting on a friend."

"In the rain?" the woman's nappy brown hair was cropped short, her tongue licked her thin lips as she devoured him with her eyes and stepped cautiously closer.

"I was just going to _The Pony_ , lady."

"Well, why don't you go there?"

"I _will."_

Virgil turned and ran straight into the other agent, a towering man who looked like an angry, clean shaven viking. He had his arms folded across his chest, big fellow. Orange HUD goggles obscured his eyes.

"No you won't, boy," the viking said coldly. "We picked up your whiff trail twenty minutes ago. Thought you might lead us somewhere good. Got any boozebum friends around here?" he looked up and down the alley, goggles scanning, then retrained his focus on Virgil, "Tell us now, we'll let you off with diversion."

_Bubba said a good mole is a quiet mole, oh man..._

Virgil started to tremble, but managed to stammer, "I know my rights!"

The woman started cackling, " _Rights,_ Joe! He knows his _rights!_ "

The big viking agent grabbed Virgil's sweatshirt with a white gloved fist and shoved him hard against the alley wall, "Citizen, you been drinking. You got no rights! Where's the party?"

Virgil began to tear up, "No, I'm sorry! I don't know about any party..."

"Shut up, dixie," hissed the woman. She nodded at her partner, "Hey Joe, COD's coming. Protocol, protocol."

Virgil and the CNED agents turned their heads. The black drone flew steadily towards them. It had come around the corner off 8th Street making a standard alley sweep. Virgil sank against the wall with dismay. The drone's LED array was green, but it would turn red in moments, bypassing his combud's firewall following the CNED agents' auto-request.

_I'll have to tell them. So, so not a good time!_

"Why ain't it stopping?" asked the viking, tapping the interface on his HUD goggles.

Oddly, the drone did not change course. Its LED array remained green. It floated past, soon faded into the innocuous darkness.

"What the sam?" said the woman.

Virgil guffawed, wiping the rain and tears from his cheeks, "Hey guys, maybe it's a sign? I just had a beer. Can't it be my lucky day?"

The woman shoved him back against the wall, "Ain't _no_ lucky days for boozebums, drone or not. We'll scan you manual."

The viking unclipped his magcuffs, "Talk. Or give me your wrists, citizen. What you getting all wide eyed about _now?"_

Virgil nervously inclined his head towards the open alley. A large black dog had appeared, materializing like an ominous smear out of the darkness. Raindrops beaded off the animal's coat as if it were a giant ebony swan. But it was no swan. It was a fearsome looking Rottweiler. It stood a meter behind the agents and began to growl as they turned to face it. The growl rumbled off the brick walls.

"What ill sky?" said the woman. She unbuckled her 9 mm sidearm and pointed it at the animal, "Run along, puppy. Or momma's gonna put a round in your brain pan."

The dog flashed its teeth and took a bold step closer. Virgil wiped his eyes. He could have sworn he saw its claws turn to metal and dig into the asphalt.

The woman chambered a round and was preparing to fire when the viking put his glove on her gun, "Naw, wait Sally. Don't shoot. Who's this guy?"

Virgil looked towards 8th Street. Silhouetted by the streetlamps, a tall man in a cowboy hat strode smoothly towards them, head down, hands in pockets. His boot heels _clicked, clicked, clicked_ over the sound of the steadily falling rain. He stopped a few meters off and dropped his thumbs to his belt, keeping his face hidden under the brim of his hat. The dog didn't acknowledge the newcomer.

The viking spoke aggressively to the man, "Mind your own business, citizen. Nothin' to see here. Best pass on by."

The man's dialect was baleful, "Funny thing."

"What's funny, dixie," hissed the woman, baring nicotine-yellowed teeth.

The cowboy did not look up, "Funny... how you humdroids tell a man to mind his own business. Meanwhile, you're busy slinking about, chasing low hanging fruit in dark alleys. Like cowards, you is. People like Virgil here, just want to be left alone. But you hummies gotta cross that line every time, don't you?"

_This must be my contact!_ thought Virgil desperately.

The viking bowed up to an impressive stature and faced the cowboy, swinging his magcuffs, "Interfering with CNED is a crime, dixie. Unless you wanna try a pair of these on too?"

The rodent-faced woman interjected, wrinkling her nose, "What _line's_ he mean, Joe?"

"I mean this line," said the cowboy, dragging the tip of his boot across the asphalt.

Virgil and the agents turned. There was a loud simultaneous scraping sound as the dog drove its claws _into_ the pavement, scouring out a divot twenty centimeters wide in front of them.

"Sweet sin!" hissed the woman, "Borg!"

Blinded by fear, she pointed her pistol at the dog's head and fired.

A thunderclap obscured the bolt of the gunshot. Virgil recoiled in fright. The dog lunged, crushing the 9 mm Beretta, and ripped the woman's hand off in a single bite. Before anyone could speak or scream, the animal spit up the mangled hand. Then it smashed the weapon into the wet asphalt beneath a hammer-like paw. Lastly, the dog coughed violently and spit up a flattened bullet.

Shock fading, the woman now began wailing and fell back, blood jetting from the severed stump of her forearm. Virgil felt his knees go weak. The woman screamed and screamed, her cries muffled by the cacophony of the thunderstorm.

The viking agent delivered a huge, unexpected kick to the Rottweiler's jaw with a steel toed boot that should have crushed the dog's face. Instead, the big CNED bellowed in pain himself and collapsed to one knee. The dog growled but remained still.

The cowboy moved closer and took two shining silver capsules the size of multivitamins from his pocket.

He raised the brim of his hat at last, holding one of the capsules in front of the man, blue eyes sparkling, "Take this."

"What?" the viking sneered. "Fuck you, blacky!"

Virgil shivered anew as the Rottweiler lunged forward, snarling savagely at the viking, the ferret-faced woman's blood still dripping from its ebony muzzle.

"Take the pill," repeated the cowboy calmly, stepping closer. "Or this dog starts removing body parts." The cowboy cocked his head, adding, "Dixie."

A stream of blood was washing away with the rain into the gutter as the woman swayed and cried.

The viking extended his hand and took the pill, swallowed and held both hands in the air, "Okay, okay. Don't let it hurt me!"

The cowboy looked at the man with disdain but did not speak. He walked to the woman, wasting no time, and grabbed her hair in a fist, holding her head back. As she cried, he forced the second capsule into her mouth and pushed her jaw shut until it was swallowed.

"Is it poison?" asked the big agent, still cowering on his knees.

The cowboy ignored the question, nodded quickly to the dog, "Do it."

Virgil screamed, pushing himself back against the wall. The Rottweiler moved in a blur of speed, pinning the female agent to the ground. Her forearm poured blood. The dog held the bloody stump to the asphalt. She screamed from the agony and fainted. Virgil wiped his eyes as he watched a cannon telescope out of the Rottweiler's throat. The laser light was fast and efficient, cauterizing the bloody stump into a smoldering slag of charcoal flesh in less than five seconds. Then the cannon was gone back inside the dog. The animal backed away as if nothing had happened.

The viking agent's lower lip was shaking uncontrollably, "Please, oh Great Dog, don't kill us. I got a wife from The Eastern Nations. She's pregnant, man!"

The cowboy remained silent, though his blue eyes flashed electric anger. He leaned over and broke a smelling salts capsule under the female agent's nose. She came to and immediately began simpering with pain.

The cowboy turned to the viking, "Pick up the gun and the hand. Put them in your pockets."

"Say what?" the man began.

The Rottweiler growled and pounded another paw.

"Okay! Done!" The viking jumped to his boots and put the gun in a side pocket of his jumpsuit. Then the hand. He pushed the broken fingers into his pocket with disgust.

The cowboy nodded at the woman, "Now get her the hell up. If you hurry, they can reattach it"

The viking jumped and helped the woman to her feet. She looked at the cowboy, wide awake but numbed with pain, gaunt cheeks looking bewildered as she dangled on her partner with her one good arm.

The cowboy tipped his hat at the woman, "That's the thing about lines, lassie. Eventually you cross the wrong one." He faced the man, "What you waiting on, hummie? Run on now!"

Virgil winced. The dog roared and again pounded its paws like sledgehammers, denting the pavement. The woman screamed anew. The big agent picked her up like a child and hobbled, pathetically limping down the alley away towards 9th Street. Virgil watched for a few moments longer as the black dog gave a belated chase, steering them like sheep with quick nips and snarls through the shadows.

_Bubba won't even believe me when I report this!_

Virgil let out what felt like the same breath he had been holding for the last two minutes, "Holy sky! That was so fond, dude! You must be William?!"

The cowboy turned, icy eyes filled with scorn, "You're off to a great start, kid. That's right. I'm your contact." William grabbed Virgil's arm and dragged him in the opposite direction, "Come on, you damn idiot."

They made it back to the empty part of the alley facing the wall with the hand painted CNED advertisement. Virgil jumped as the black dog suddenly rematerialized, skidding to a halt out of nowhere. The dog panted happily and smiled at William. Then it looked at Virgil and growled.

William tapped the comdot on his jaw, "Secure. And we're gonna need the asphalt guys again."

Virgil's mouth dropped open. The wet bricks in front of them began to flicker. An old wooden door frame and staircase appeared in the side of the building. There were dry brick walls on either side of the stairs and a purple curtain at the bottom. The dog immediately trotted through and was gone.

William went down next and stopped after a couple of steps, looking over his shoulder as he shook the rain off his hat, "You coming? Or you wanna do some more window shopping?"

Virgil jerked forward, "I'm coming, I'm coming! Jeez!"

He stepped across the threshold. The wooden stair treads creaked. As the last hempnylon fibers of his backpack passed the threshold, there was an immediate electrical _snap!_ Goosebumps rose on his spine. Virgil turned. Behind him the rainy alley was gone, replaced by a projected brick wall. From this side it looked dusty and dry. William had already disappeared through the purple curtain after the dog.

Naturally curious, Virgil reached to touch the holographic wall and was rewarded with a sturdy shock, "Ouch!"

Virgil winced and clutched his fingers. Total silence enveloped him. The only sounds he could hear were the creaks of the stairs and the damp rustle of his own clothes. He took a deep breath and descended. Five steps down, directly in front of the purple curtains, he passed through a thin veil of electronic, blue light, pushed by a holoprojector on the wall. He touched the holographic curtain and felt his body pulled forward into the blue light as though it were a magnet. A blinding white flash made him close his eyes.

After a few seconds, he fearfully peeked, found himself standing at the edge of a crowded, dimly lit basement bar room. The bar had low ceilings supported by wooden beams. So loud! The silence of the stairwell had been replaced by a cacophony of bright, intoxicated laughter and antique jazz being blasted by a holographic band. A dirty, captivating smell filled his nostrils.

_Where did my contact and the dog go?_

Virgil squinted across the tables of patrons as his eyes adjusted to the light. The band of life-size, holographic jazz musicians was piled together on a squat stage in the far corner. The musicians wore purple suits the same shade as the curtains he had just walked through. A drummer, an upright bass guitar and a large boxy instrument with keys. A piano, of course. He had seen pianos in holoflix. The musicians were sweating!

_Why would someone pay to project a sweating hologram?_

Virgil rubbed his eyes and looked closer. The musicians were real! He felt dizzy. Cocktail waitresses in burgundy red flapper dresses whizzed to and fro carrying trays of... there was no doubt... alcohol. Virgil briefly panicked. His eyes darted through the room, looking for microdrones, FR lenses. Everyone was drinking!

_Oh man! I'm in a speakeasy! Be cool, be cool... oh man, this is the commission of a lifetime! Right in downtown Lawrence!_

He nearly jumped out of his rain-soaked sneakers when a petite blonde waitress stopped in front of him, "Hello, Mr. Benedict," she said charismatically. "Welcome to The Green Lady Lounge. Can I bring you a cocktail?" She smiled, looking him up and down, "Or a towel?"

Virgil blinked and looked down at his feet. How long had he been in the same spot? A puddle of rainwater had gathered around his sneakers while he stood there with his mouth hanging open.

He tried to speak, but the only sound that came out was, "I uhhh, I uhhhhhh..."

The waitress raised her eyebrows, then signaled to a muscular Asian man behind a long wooden bar to Virgil's right who was wearing a wife beater and red suspenders, "Yo Leo, throw me a towel," she yelled. "We gotta virgin."

Leo the bartender stood in front of a large mirrored display of vintage liquor bottles. He examined Virgil with obvious displeasure. He tweaked one end of his mustache, then tossed the waitress a bar towel and sauntered away to help another patron.

The adorable waitress hung the towel over Virgil's shoulder, "Here you go, honey. Since you're not talking for the moment, take this." She had grabbed a drink off another server's tray and pressed the glass of cool, clear liquid into his right hand. The waitress laughed easily, "There you go. Now you look like you belong somewhere."

Virgil looked into the girl's violet eyes, unsure if he had ever met a woman so pretty, "You know my name?"

"I sure do. And you see that red velvet curtain past the bar?" She pointed across the room.

"Uh huh."

"If you'll be a doll and walk around that corner, you'll find a seat in the private alcove that belongs to you."

"I will?"

"Mr. Angevine is waiting."

"I just... he is?" Virgil smiled nervously. He took a drink and grimaced, alarmed by the liquor's bite, "Wow, okay! That's not water."

The waitress pursed her lips congenially and began to walk away.

"Wait," he said. "Did you happen to see a big black dog come in here?"

She looked over her shoulder and giggled, widening her eyes, "Why no, Virgil! _A dog?_ That would violate public health codes!"

Virgil felt foolish.

_Don't be an idiot. You've seen speakeasies in the holoflix. Holy sky! I'm in a speakeasy! Too bad I have to report this place._

His awe was quickly replaced by excitement as he shuffled past the bar. Though the conversations of other patrons were many and loud, it was difficult to hear exactly what anyone was saying. Sound wave defractors lined the low ceiling for this very reason. People at the tables kept to themselves and eye contact, if made at all, was fleeting.

Before he could get around the corner and through the curtain, the same blonde waitress returned and snatched the bar towel off his shoulder, proceeding to dab his face and brush his dark, wet hair from his eyes, "These towel things are even more effective for drying off when you actually use them, Virgil. That's better!" she sang, disappearing as quickly as she'd come.

Virgil took a deep breath and pushed through the curtains. He froze.

On the curtain's far side was a small room with a single table set at the back of a large alcove, which had been cut into the foundation. The room's light was barely brighter. The table was ringed by a large semi-circular booth, upholstered in the same red vinyl as the rest of the chairs throughout the speakeasy. It was very... what did they call it?

_Retro? Man, I'm gonna make a fond commission on this place!_

On one wall, a 2D flatscreen display showed the band of musicians in the main room. The stereo com relayed the sound of their instruments perfectly. The enormous black dog from the alley lay on the polished concrete floor before the booth. The animal's head was proudly erect. It panted happily, and there was no sign it had recently taken a bullet to the skull or ripped a woman's hand off.

_I'm going insane..._

The only person he recognized was William from the alley. The man had removed his cowboy hat and jacket and seemed relatively dry for having just been in a thunderstorm. Only his sandy blonde hair was wet, matted back. He eyed Virgil with a cool expression.

Beside William sat an extremely appropriate looking man in a tuxedo.

_Is that a tuxedo? Or just a tan suit?_

Everything about the man was immaculate, from his copper red hair to the chocolate colored handkerchief poking neatly out of the breast pocket of his jacket. The man wore green, wire rim sunglasses and sat at the far edge of the booth across the heavy wooden table from William. He bore no outward expression, proud and quiet as a statue.

Adjacent to the well dressed man was a dude of Latino descent.

_From the Mexican states._

He was casually leaned back with an antique joint smoldering steadily in the corner of his mouth. His heavily muscled forearms were sleeved with tattoos: hearts and anchors and sparrows and roses and pyramids and bizarre machines. The man sported a bushy, jet black mustache and wore camouflage pants with lace up combat boots. His slouched appearance stood in stark contrast to the clean cut gentleman to his left.

Lastly, sitting cross legged on top of the table itself was an African dwarf with a white kitten clinging to his shoulder. The little man had a bionic arm with a wrench where his hand should have been and a patch over one eye. His expression was grim and unchanging.

_I'm totally going insane._

The dwarf was dressed in gray, pinstriped overalls that had obviously seen their fair share of toil and sported a fluffy, volleyball sized Afro sprinkled with points of gray. He clenched a mug of brown beer with his wrench. The mug looked enormous in front of his tiny body. The little man showed no emotion, though the kitten hissed at Virgil steadily.

No one spoke. Virgil became self-conscious; sopping wet in his combed khaki pants with a collegiate backpack slouched over his shoulder. His lower lip was shaking, along with his right hand, which held the short glass of vodka.

_There's no way to make this look good._

He took a step towards the table and the black dog immediately bore its teeth. Virgil lurched, dropped his rocks glass, shattering it on the cement floor. The tattooed Mexican burst out laughing and the dour mood was suddenly transformed. With the exception of the dwarf and William, everyone in the alcove smiled. William shook his head, slid out and whistled through the curtain. The blonde cocktail waitress quickly appeared with a broom and began sweeping up the shattered glass.

"Thank you, Daphne."

"No problem, Mr. Angevine."

The cowboy's voice was deep, like he came from somewhere down south where there were swamps, "I've told you to call me William, or anything you want for that matter, darlin'," he said with a wink.

The waitress puffed her chest defiantly, "And I've told you that ring on your finger means you're married, Mr. Angevine." The waitress spun on her heel and sashayed back into the barroom in a flash of ruby, perfumed curves.

William turned to Virgil and shrugged, then grabbed his limp hand and shook it, "Welcome to the dry side of the world, squire."

Virgil didn't even care that his mouth was hanging open and began babbling, "Oh _my_ Dog! Are we seriously gonna pretend that didn't just happen outside? That CNED lady shot your Fido in the face! But here it is, five minutes later, totally operational, lying on the floor in a speakeasy! You guys pinged me, almost got me arrested! I deserve an explanation!"

The Mexican man in the booth chuckled at William as he puffed his joint, "Yeah, meester _..._ why you ain't geeve heem an explanation, mang?"

The well dressed gentleman observed in silence as William closed his hand around Virgil's neck and shoved him against the wall, "You _deserve_ nothing. It's only by the grace of Dog that you get to set _foot_ in this bar. Show some respect."

William released his grip.

Virgil gasped, rubbing his neck, "Jeez, sorry! Agro much?"

William inclined his head at the dog, "You wanna see agro, squire?"

The Rottweiler raised its head and gave Virgil a warning snarl.

"Jeezus, okay, no. I said, I'm sorry."

William grabbed the boy's shoulder roughly and turned him to face the well dressed man, "What do you say, boss? I vote you scramble his brains and let me toss him back."

Everyone in the booth kept quiet. The white kitten turned its back and the dwarf took an emotionless sip of beer. The well dressed man maintained his taciturn expression.

At last he lowered his sunglasses slightly, revealing piercing, yellow eyes, "Oh no, I believe he'll do just fine."

The man smiled blithely, extracted a black vaporjoint from his coat pocket and took a smooth, luxurious puff.

William turned to Virgil, "Well, there you go, squire. Now stop being a sally and go pet that dog."

Virgil let out a shuddering breath, "Okay, okay."

He reached his hand out and took a step forward.

The dog lunged viciously and Virgil jumped backwards, squealing, "No!"

This time everyone laughed except the black dwarf, who simply took another swallow of beer.

The blonde waitress reappeared on cue.

She handed Virgil a replacement glass of vodka, "Here you go, pumpkin."

"Thanks," Virgil muttered, still eyeing the dog.

"You bet," she winked. "And don't worry, sunshine. You're in the basement. The only direction from here is up."

"Thanks, I don't even..." he started to say, following the waitress with his eyes as she briskly disappeared back through the velvet curtain.

"Virgil," William snapped his fingers, "Over here, kid."

Virgil turned around and William pointed to the Mexican lounging in the booth, "This is Hugo."

"Hola tonto," said Hugo, nodding and exhaling a cumulonimbus cloud of ganja smoke.

"Hello," said Virgil awkwardly.

"This is Goran, and Cat," continued William, nodding at the dwarf and his Felix.

"Hello," said Virgil.

The black dwarf's expression remained fixed and grumpy, but the kitten jumped onto the table, put one paw in the air and uttered a single, "Meow," then bounded back up onto the dwarf's shoulders.

"Last but not least, this is Mr. Dax Abner," said William.

"Hello mister, sir," said Virgil. I'm sorry I broke the glass, I just..."

Dax interrupted him with a glance, swirling his vaporjoint in a lazy circle, "Don't be sorry yet, Virgil. You have plenty of time for that. William?"

"Boss?"

"Before we were so amusingly interrupted, you were about to say?"

William took a pull off his vodka and said, "Just that I got the nanotablets down their gullets. The big one gave me a little pushback, but they both swallowed them."

"Excellent," said Dax. "Nothing like an instantly digested engramatic disruptor to help a CNED agent forget the last 24 hours of their life."

William smiled wryly, "After Joan rewrites their com trails, those two are gonna have a mighty tough time explaining to Director Sapet what happened."

"Indeed," said Dax. "Good work. Now," he gestured towards the curtain, "What say you and the boys go belly up at Leo's bar for ten minutes? That should give Mr. Benedict and I time to get acquainted."

"Are you guys talking about those agents in the alley?" interjected Virgil excitedly. "Oh man! That was so fond! How did you...?"

"Shut up, Virgil," said William. He whistled at the booth, "Dog, boys. Let's go do a few shots."

Hugo slid out of the booth, joint between his lips and grabbed up Goran as he did so, dropping the little man to the floor. Cat hissed at SIEGFRIED as the dog bounded up, and they all followed William through the curtain and were gone.

Virgil turned to face Dax Abner, the room suddenly seeming expansive and oddly quiet despite the jazz being streamed over the com.

Dax gestured to the booth, "Why don't you put that backpack down and have a seat, my studious, young friend."

Virgil sauntered over and took the opposite end of the booth, grateful to have the weight off his back. Dax sat with perfect posture, one leg crossed over the other, and gazed at him calmly through his green-lensed glasses.

Virgil was about to start feeling uncomfortable again when Dax said, "Do you know why you're here, Mr. Benedict?"

_To score the biggest CNED commission ever!_

"Well, my contact, I mean, William. He said you needed someone to spy on CNED around campus. That you'd pay some top digis for info on what the humdroids are doing, who's busting who," said Virgil.

"That is correct. You're an English literature major, I understand."

"Yes," said Virgil, wiping his wet hair back, "Poetry, specifically. I graduate this spring!"

"How thrilling. I'll have you recite something before you depart this evening."

"I'd love that! No one appreciates the spoken word anymore." Virgil took another sip from his rocks glass, wincing, "Phew! This has a bite! So you own this place?"

"I do."

_I should have brought a holocorder. Just stay cool. Ping Bubba soon as you're out._

"Pretty fond, Mr. Abner. Hey!" Virgil's eyes lit up, "You own that Abner pumpkin patch, right?"

"I do."

"Wow. My mom floats up from Olathe and gets her Thanksgiving decorations there. How light! That's a sweet cover you got!"

Dax took a sip of his soda water then rested his chin in one hand, eyeing the young man, "Indeed. So tell me, Virgil. What is it that makes a young poet such as yourself want to risk getting involved in the alcohol trade?"

"Oh, I'm technically not a poet," said Virgil. "I just study poetry. I wanna be a professor, keep the written word relevant."

"Good luck with that."

"I can still read you one! I came here straight from campus and have all my books. You want to hear a poem now?"

_I've got this guy wrapped around my finger! I should be a spy._

The faintest hint of a smile turned the edge of Dax's mouth, "Oh no. You should wait until the gentlemen return. I'm sure they'd just be delighted to hear a rousing recitation."

"Really?" asked Virgil quizzically.

"Oh, I'm sure of it," said Dax. "We love the arts. But you were going to tell me? The alcohol business? You want to be involved, why?"

"Well," Virgil shrugged. "The money's pretty fond, right? I mean, William already transferred more digis into my account just for meeting you guys than I've made all semester working at the library."

_I'm gonna make like 100x that much when I tell Bubba there's a giant speakeasy right off Massachusetts Street!_

Dax was unmoved, "And?"

"Well, it's also because of my girlfriend, Adrienne. She got busted, see?"

"By CNED?"

"No, the cops. She picked up a trunk full of shine from Smokey Mark. He's a booze dealer on campus," said Virgil eagerly. "She was floating back to her sorority house, going to a party, and got stopped by a drone for buzzing a red light. I don't know why she didn't have the hovcar on auto."

"I see."

"So anyway, one of the masons wasn't sealed right. It spilled in her trunk, flipped the alcovap. Cops came, cuffed her, sent her straight to Bmod. She was able to holoconference her classes from the hospital, but she owes them like a million digibucks even now. It's wrong, you know? Adrienne's gonna be paying off her hospital debt for like a thousand years. So yeah, I guess I want to support the resistance," Virgil held his fingers up, making quotation marks, "Fight the Architect, like they say."

Dax picked up his vaporjoint and took a drag, "You're going to fight the Architect, eh? By ratting on undercover CNED agents posing as students at The University of Kansas?"

"Totally. There _are_ rats on campus too. That's what it's all about right? Having a speakeasy? You like, fight the power."

_I can't believe this guy's a local drug kingpin. He's not very intuitive._

"What if," Dax asked, "instead of being about the morality of alcohol use, the Architect's motive was really controlling society itself."

"I don't get it," said Virgil. "Vision is about harmonious drug use, the environment. It's what ended the old war on drugs. Vision is kind of genius, really, if you think about it."

Dax pursed his lips, "Genius, yes, there's quite a surplus of that going around. What I am asking, Mr. Benedict, is what you would do to combat the Architect? If, in fact, his motive _was_ shifting the very mindset of North American culture." Dax spun the black Rodeo Drive vaporjoint in his fingers, "To make people more passive, more malleable, open to government suggestion. What if he wants to control morality itself? What if alcohol prohibition is just a convenient means to that end?"

_This guy is a whack job. I wanna see his slick face when like fifty CNED agents bust through his little hologram curtain!_

Virgil could feel his knee bouncing uncontrollably under the table, "You think the Architect is really trying to like, mind meld people? By what? Making everyone believe it's their _own_ idea to think booze is evil? When it's really just his?"

"Something like that," said Dax through his teeth, letting a tight smile compose his features.

Virgil stuck his lower lip out, "Well, so what if he's right? I mean, maybe there's a good reason alcohol is illegal. It's a proven gateway drug. I knew this one kid in high school who got so drunk that..."

"Oh, for Dog's sake," said Dax firmly, rolling his eyes. "I've heard quite enough." He removed his tinted glasses and set them on the table.

"Enough of what?" asked Virgil, sipping his vodka and peering over the rim of his glass at this man's exposed, yellow eyes.

"Put that glass down," said Dax.

Virgil found that he couldn't look away. His body was frozen, except for the hand that had just lowered the glass to the table top. A warm, intoxicating feeling flooded down his spine, like taking ten Pleasium at once. He felt high and lucid. His knee stopped bouncing. All that mattered was the beautiful man sitting across the table from him.

"Okay..." he managed to say, grinning foolishly.

Dax leaned back and engaged his vaporjoint with newfound glee as he spoke, "Virgil Benedict, repeat after me: I am a wretched, sodding cunt of a human being."

Virgil responded immediately, "I am a wretched, sodding cunt of a human being."

A microdrone the size of a ping pong ball emerged from the wall by Dax's head and floated over until it was in front of Virgil. A red light on the drone's belly turned green, indicating that a holorecording had started.

"Very good," said Dax, as his jet black pupils dilated further, crushing away the tiger yellow, "Now that it's on the record for all to see, look at the drone and, on my command, repeat the following: "Citizens of Lawrence, my name is Virgil Benedict. I am a CNED snitch. I am a gormless knob of a young man. Bloody useless really." Virgil felt a stab of fear rise as Dax went on, but he was unable to move, only listen to the mesmerizing voice saying, "Furthermore, I apologize sincerely to those Jayhawks among you who have been forced to experience behavioral modification as a result of my epic lack of testicles. Lastly, to CNED Special Agent, Bubba Sparks, I would especially like to say, go toss yourself you blubbering heap of rat's vomit, I now work for the other side. And Bob's my uncle."

Virgil was sitting straight up, a tear in the corner of his eye. There was no warm fuzzy sensation. The fear was now all consuming. He could form no thoughts, only sense the grave horror of realizing this man heard every thought he had. His teeth were chattering. His knee had begun bouncing spasmodically.

Dax leaned forward onto his elbows and squinted, slowly making the boy twist his head at the same angle as his own, like a marionette, "It's not much fun, is it?" said Dax. "The _terror_ of knowing you are no longer in control." Dax clenched his teeth, "Knowing that you have no privacy, that every single thought _you_ have is the property of someone else." He slammed his fist on the table and yelled furiously, "Answer me, slave!"

"Yesss..." sputtered Virgil, saliva burbling over his lower lip, one eye going bloodshot, "Please..." he managed, "it hurts. You're hurting me... I'm sorry..."

"Bloody fucking right," said Dax as he leaned back and regained his composure, again puffing the vaporjoint. With the flick of a wrist he added, "All right, Virgil. Your fear is gone. Clean that tear from your eye. You feel fine. Stop being such a sally."

Virgil fell back into the booth, wiping his face and relaxing into a smile as once more the warm, comfortable feeling consumed him. He knew he had just been afraid, but he could not remember why.

"There's no need for the drone," Dax said. The drone's belly lights extinguished and it hovered back into its camouflaged wall port and disappeared as he continued, "I'm not going to throw you to the wolves just yet. Are you paying attention, Virgil?"

"Yes."

"Good." Dax's pupils again enlarged, though his voice remained calm and polite, "Forget Bubba Sparks and CNED. You hate CNED, in fact. Your new permanent contact is an AI named Joan. You will contact her at the Ipv7 just pinged to your combud. You will report _any_ undercover CNED activity you observe to Joan on a weekly basis and you'll do it with a damn smile."

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, sir."

"That's a chap. Next, what do you remember from being in the alley right before you came into this bar?"

"I got stopped by CNED. The Fido appeared with William and they shot it. It bit the lady's hand off. Then it pinned her to the ground and a laser gun came out of its mouth and it burned the lady's arm to stop the bleeding," said Virgil with the comfort of somebody ordering lunch.

Dax cocked his head, "You, my friend, just forgot all of that. The truth is, you don't know how you got into this speakeasy. The last thing you remember is walking down the alley. It was raining. It was hard to see. Now what did I just say?"

"About what?" asked Virgil innocently. His eyes lit up like a kid on Festivus morning, "I really like this vodka, Mr. Abner. I'm going to do this job right. I hear a lot of word about CNED narcs on the underground chat streams with students around the library. I'll be able to get Joan some decent intel for sure. I'd like to add, sir," he said with a genuine, broad smile, "That I really appreciate the opportunity to be a part of your war to destroy the Architect."

Just then, Daphne the adorable waitress brushed bum-first through the curtain, carrying fresh glasses of soda water and vodka. Virgil didn't understand why, but sitting with Dax Abner made him even more captivated by the motion of the girl's body.

"Daphne, can I read you a poem?" he jabbered as she set the drinks down.

Dax gave the waitress a barely noticeable nod.

She looked at Virgil, "Are you sure reading me a poem is _really_ what you want to do?"

Virgil swooned, "Oh yes, absolutely! I've got the perfect one in my head right now."

Daphne brightened her eyes, "I bet you do! Tell you what, pretty, I get off at 3:00. Why don't you just take me out in the docking lot after my shift and throw me up on the hood of your Chevy? At the end of the day, a girl likes some good, cheap sex with a complete stranger better than a poem, don't ya know?!" she said with an exaggerated wink.

Virgil blushed and was only able to respond with a series of jumbled squeaks.

Daphne shot Dax a smile before sashaying off, "Good luck, Mr. Abner. This one must be a special snowflake!"

Dax replied softly, "You have no idea."

Virgil sighed as Daphne disappeared, "She's so beautiful..."

"Yes, quite." Dax rapped his knuckles sharply on the wooden table, "Focus, Mr. Benedict. You had just finished saying all the right things." He picked up his soda water affably, "Let's toast, Virgil. To a prosperous future."

"Cheers, Mr. Abner!" exclaimed Virgil. "This is so fond. Hey! Here come the guys!"

SIEGFRIED pushed back through the velvet curtain followed by Goran and Cat, Hugo and lastly William, who even sans the cowboy hat had to stoop slightly under one of the lower ceiling joists.

As everyone slid into the booth, Dax said, "Gentlemen, I'm certainly glad I didn't have to spend ten minutes like that with any of you. You fellows conveniently came _without_ the stupid. Nonetheless, young Virgil here is now fully of a mind, I believe."

"That's right, Mr. Angevine, sir," said Virgil ebulliently, leaning so close to William that he had to back away. "I apologize for my behavior earlier."

William turned to Dax as though Virgil had a feculent odor, "Will he stay like this?"

"Unfortunately not," said Dax. "Within a few hours he'll return to being the same sniveling little shit he's always been, albeit with a few improvements. He works for us now, and remembers nothing of his associations with CNED. He's totally harmless."

"You guys, I'm sitting right here," said Virgil plaintively. "What associations with CNED?"

Dax turned his head, "Forget the last twenty seconds of your life." He put his green sunglasses back on, "And now, Virgil, why don't you do something useful as promised? Read us a poem."

William slapped his knee. Hugo chuckled. Dax held up a finger, silently asking for pause. Only Cat seemed to mewl in support of the spoken word. Goran, however, stared with one radiant blue eye, looking at Virgil like he would just as soon burn him alive as listen to him read poetry. The little dwarf's wrench opened and closed as he watched the boy.

"You guys really want me to read? 'Cause I will!" exclaimed Virgil, sitting up and pulling his backpack into his lap.

"Yes, we want you to recite a poem, said Dax slyly. "I believe I hear a few rattling around up there, don't I? An early century contemporary piece of some feather will do nicely."

Virgil said, "Alright!" happily and leaned to unzip his backpack.

Dax stopped him, "No, Virgil. Something from memory."

Even through the tinted lenses of the sunglasses, Virgil felt as though the man's eyes might blow holes in his mind, "Yes sir. I only know a few by memory. Ummm..." he looked around his skull, then got it, "Okay. How's about one by a famous, dead Kansas poet? You ever heard of Jason Ryberg?"

Hugo raised his hand, "Oooh, I heard of heem, dawg! He's like d' last poet that eever was or sometheeng?"

"The last American poet to make money writing, you mean," clarified Virgil happily.

"And not die a homeless alcoholic," added Dax.

Virgil said, "Well actually, he did die a homeless alcoholic, but..."

Hugo took another drag off a freshly lit joint, "Whateever, dawg. Say d' sheet!"

Virgil closed his eyes and spoke in a voice so smooth and steady that it surprised everyone. Cat jumped down to the tabletop and sat between Goran's legs beside his mug of beer.

Even SIEGFRIED raised his head off the floor and focused as Virgil began, "This is called _A Storm is Coming..._

There's a blanket of black wool

that's been pulled over the city,

over this little nameless hole in the prairie.

There's squadrons of orn'ry flies

buzzin' about and stingin' and the faded,

ringin' reports of car horns, here and there.

There's pages of splayed-open books

on auto repair and _Common Missouri_

_Wildflowers_ whipping and flipping

in a nervous Missouri wind.

There's cats and dogs

conspicuously ducking for cover

and birds takin' the last bus out of town.

There's a heavy incandescent density to things

like the boiler-rooms of all the world

are just about to blow

and everybody, everywhere

secretly seems to know it

and even though it's only 4PM,

the only light to speak of

is the ghosted-out fluorescent resin

of oxide lamps just now _ghostin' in_.

And over across town,

on the far side of the train yards,

right next door to Big Maybelle's

Beauty Emporium,

there's two old boys sittin' on the front porch

of a boarding house, hootin' at all

the sweet, young things as they come and go,

sippin' on their whiskey drinks real, real slow

in sweetly calibrated synchronization

with the melting of the ice cubes.

Their bones are ancient humming architectures

of radio towers and tuning forks.

Their pop-bottle bi-focals peer deep into the future.

One of them leans over a little

and says to the other, _storm a comin'._

_Yup._ "

Virgil opened his eyes carefully. Everyone at the table was silent, looking at him, waiting, as if no one had heard such a thing before. Goran the dwarf remained stone-faced. It was Cat the kitten who finally broke the silence. She turned her tiny butthole in Virgil's direction and released a kitten fart.

Dax grinned and turned to William, knocking his glass on the table, "So there you have it. You see? He's not entirely worthless."

William paused, staring into his vodka, then looked up and asked Virgil grimly, "Why poetry, squire?"

Virgil beamed, "Well, it's really literary history. But mostly 'cause chicks dig it."

You went to poetry college to meet betties?"

"It worked," said Virgil, shrugging as if the answer should be obvious.

"I deed not understand sheet he say, leetle men," interjected Hugo, gladly raising his glass. "But I drink anytime, you know dat. So cheers to d' poems _and_ d' betties, mangs!"

The glasses had just hit everyone's lips when SIEGFRIED sprang to his paws. Hackles raised down the ridge of his spine. The cyborg looked directly at William. A second later, the microdrone burst from the wall, flashing red. Dax put his hand to his combud. His expression soured.

William was first out of the booth, standing so he could look at his holotab, reading the scrolling text as he hurriedly pulled the silver comdot from his jeans and reaffixed it to his jaw.

He wiped his eyes, looked at Dax, "Tell me this is some kind of drill?"

Dax shook his head calmly, "Negative. We are going to have to conclude these revelries early."

"Conclude? Who gots to conclude?" asked Hugo. "We's just geeting our swerve on, mangs!"

Dax slid to his feet, yellow eyes filling with apprehension.

He leapt across the table with cat-like agility, "On our way, Joan."

Dax smiled tightly at Virgil, who was the only one still sitting, "Mr. Benedict, we must depart. Daphne or Leo will scan you out." He turned abruptly to Goran, Hugo and William, "The ladies are in trouble, gentlemen. We must float like the very wind!"

Hugo's inebriated ears still didn't want to hear as much, "What so what?!? Meesus Dean geet her sweater caught een d' sonic dryer ageen?!"

Dax rounded on Hugo with a gaze that made him shrivel, "Why no, Hugo, in fact she's not having trouble with the laundry. This situation is _slightly_ more dire. Coyote One is sitting on the lawn behind the farmhouse."

Police Headquarters – Fourteen Months Earlier – Two Years Nine Months Before Event.

"That news perplexes me, Kenneth. Rape is a serious allegation to make disappear."

"My apologies. It won't happen again. Howler got... excited."

Slopes laced his fingers together, "Very well. See that he is more discrete in the future."

"I will, sir."

"At the moment, I am less concerned about your team's abuse of power than I am the vanishing of your agents into thin air. This smells of murder."

The voice on the other end of the stream plucked up, "How do you think we feel, sir? Jenks was a patriot, a hell of a hunter. Fella was a regular down at First Sky Unitarian and could shoot the wings off a camodrone at..."

"Yes, yes, yes, I get it, he was a real class acsss..." Chief Narcotics Detective Dennis Slopes began coughing uncontrollably in his office.

The rickety man had popped a hemp-truffle into his mouth and was gasping as the dessert piece fought with his lungs for throat space.

"Sir?"

Slopes' body rattled violently as he coughed again, chocolate dribble running down his chin, "Hold... Sapet."

He tapped his combud and squeaked in a high pitched voice, "Julie!"

An anxious girl's voice answered, "Yes, Detective Slopes?"

"No more protein truffles with nougat!" he squealed. "I don't want you to buy any more nougat truffles. I nearly choked to death! You don't want a lawsuit on your hands, do you?"

The girl's voice on the other end of the com sniffled, "No sir. I'm sorry. It's as I said, they were temporarily out of pure chocolate so..."

"No excuses! That _will_ be all," he said snippily.

Subordinates were like unwanted children.

He returned abruptly to his conversation with CNED Director Ken Sapet, "You there, Kenneth?"

"I'm here, sir."

"Okay. Where were we?"

"Agent Jenks' wife told us that he and Tramm were planning to hunt outside city limits along the river. They were inserting at Oak Hill Cemetery."

"A foolish decision."

"Yes sir," growled Sapet miserably.

"Meow meow, I'm a cow..." Slopes mumbled, thinking.

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing, it's nothing." Slopes knitted his fingers, "All right. His wife said he was going east. So tell me again how this hovtruck just up and floated across the city by itself? Putting last dock on the opposite side of the county!?"

Sapet grumbled, "We don't know. The truck's com confirms the autonav course was input by Jenks himself. The tracking data from his combud is scrambled. It's strange. What IT was able to salvage indicates he followed a westward trajectory the whole time."

"It's the same situation with, this uhhh..." he brought his fist to his mouth and coughed again violently, "Damn this nougat!"

"Phillip Tramm."

"That's right. So Agent Tramm's combud says he's following Hovroad 1500 east according to one ping, and five seconds later he's disappeared thirteen kilometers north up river?"

"Yes sir," said Sapet, anger bubbling beneath his words.

"What of the other eight operatives you sent out?"

"No data."

Dennis Slopes' palms began to sweat, "So, you have ten proven CNED's leaving on a hunt. Eight return with nothing. No HLIR triggers, no grid fluctuations, no unregistered wells. Not even a solar still in the back of someone's closet?"

"That's correct, sir. But if I could, our real priority here should be our missing operatives. Their families..."

Slopes interrupted, "Yes, yes... and two, unofficially reporting they were going to search quadrant A, vanish entirely. Then the next GPS ping puts one by the lake across county? And another up river near Lecompton?"

"Yes sir, the data is real. We've verified it with our source at Garmin, as well as the Federal Citizen GPS Archive. That's the way it happened. But to maintain Division honor, we should..."

Slopes squeezed his fingers into a bony fist and popped the top of his desk, "Ken, you're the highest ranking CNED citizen. You're respected, that's _it."_ Slopes snapped his fingers, his tone becoming perverse, "Tell the families... that The Lawrence Police Department and CNED are _terribly_ sorry for their loss, that we're cooperating with local and Federal officials to help them find their missing loved ones, that their service to CNED has been invaluable, yada yada... Give them D$10,000 a piece. _And_ a free round trip subspace anywhere on Terra. More questions?"

Ken Sapet's voice was thin and dry, "No sir."

"Thank you then. That will be all," chimed Slopes. He tapped his combud and cut the stream.

"This is all just distressing. Distressing, distressing," he mumbled, drifting in consideration. He had a thought and tapped his combud eagerly, "Mrs. Kitters? Where are you? I need to hear you meow."

Slopes swiped his holotab and remote activated the holoscreen in his apartment living room. The room was dark, with towels and old sheets serving as curtains to obscure most shreds of natural light coming through the windows. His beloved synthleather holovision couch was empty, littered with a few errant candy wrappers and his favorite snuggle blanket.

Slopes clicked his fingers impatiently, then exclaimed, "Oh, thank Dog!" when a silky Burmese Felix sprang onto the couch and rolled over, exposing her downy, chocolate belly.

"Mrs. Kitters! I was worried!" Slopes gushed. "Where have you been? Snuggled to your solar charger, I'll bet."

The small feline cyborg rolled to its paws and began parading back in forth on the couch, occasionally flashing its orange eyes flirtatiously at the holoscreen.

"Now meow for me," said Slopes, licking his lips. "Meow like a good girl."

The Felix stopped and faced the holocam and vocalized, a long, luxuriant, "Meooowwll..."

Slopes gleamed with pride, "That's my little chestnut queen." The overhead office com chimed and a male voice said plainly, "Analysis complete." Slopes blanched and reached a finger to caress the holoscreen, "Work calls, Mrs. Kitters. Daddy has to work so he can come home and put you on his lap. Be a good Kitters. I'll touch you soon. Do you want to touch me too?"

The gray Felix mewled with melancholy desire.

"Oh, I can just feel your fur. Very soon, Mrs. Kitters," said Slopes. "Very soon we'll be together again."

He tapped his combud and collapsed the private stream. His eyes jolted to the unused pieces littering the puzzle desk before him, and his nose curled with distaste. This Montana landscape puzzle he had been working on so purposefully was more difficult than anticipated.

He rocked his head back and forth and said, "Meow meow, I'm a cow, don't peek yet, just be here now... Simon?"

The computer answered after several seconds, "Yes, Detective Slopes."

"Why did you take so long to answer?"

"You recently gave me the moniker _Simon_ , sir. I was unsure if you were addressing me directly or simply talking out loud."

Slopes turned red, "Why would I say _Simon_ if I wasn't talking to you?"

" _Simon_ is a common name. My apologies."

"Simon, you're a very stupid computer."

"Yes sir," said the com.

"You said analysis was complete. So... do the hunters' hovtruck courses take them through any part of the city with standard FR cameras installed? Past traffic lights?"

"Yes Detective Slopes. Both CNED agents would have been required to pass numerous FR cams on their course between documented GPS tags."

"How many FR ticks do we have logged on their combuds along that course, Simon? I'm betting none, Simon. I'm betting our little prostitute is in fact to the east!"

The computer hesitated.

After a few seconds, the voice replied soberly, "No FR ticks were registered along that route, Detective Slopes. Hovercraft IPv7's only."

"Hah! The old man can't complain now! Haha!"

He pounded his fist on the surface of his puzzle desk, causing several loose pieces to scatter to the floor.

"No!" he exclaimed with alarm and nearly fell forward, fingers desperately rummaging for the hempboard puzzle pieces. He gathered them one at a time, stacking the pieces in one hand like poker chips. His lips shook, and a sheen of sweat glistened across his brow by the time he'd finished. One by one, he placed the pieces back on the desk with the others.

Slopes' mouth breathing was fast and uneven, eyes darting nervously for any pieces he might have missed, "There you go, babies," he managed. "There you go. Daddy's _so_ sorry. He'll never let you get lost again. That's a promise. Daddy's so sorry. Meow meow, I'm a cow..."

"Detective Slopes?" said the com.

"Yes, Simon?"

"You have an incoming, encrypted holoconference from The Office of the Architect."

Dennis Slopes closed his eyes and swallowed, immediately forgetting the puzzle.

The Day After the Rain Storm

Tara Dean rolled her eyes with an unusual amount of verve, even for her. She brought her chin to rest on one hand and leaned an elbow against the glass edge of the holodesk. In front of her was a life size projection of Coyote One. The hologram looked organic towards the rear, then cutaway through meticulously detailed layers of BIOSKIN© all the way down to the titanalum skeletal chassis. By the time one's eyes made it midway up the holographic body, the metal rib cage and other physio-mechanical components of the cyborg's structure were represented by transparent blue lines akin to an engineering blueprint.

The tangerine-sized fusion core glowed a deep blue at the center of the rib cage. Directly below the structural matrix of the core's levitation chamber was the graphene-diamond motherboard, which contoured perfectly around the Coyote's interior architecture. The dated quantum processor at the tip of the motherboard glowed the same blue color as the fusion core, receiving three pulses of wireless energy per second. Hundreds of fiber optic cables radiated outwards from the heatsink linking the cyborg's various control systems, sensors and nanomotors. The fiber optic cables began as pencil thick trunk lines, radiating outward from this central nexus and leading eventually to the extremities like a biological cardiovascular system.

Dax and William stood on the opposite side of the holographic projection. From where Tara sat, it looked as if the fiddle player in the Thomas Hart Benton painting behind them was being consulted on the hologram as well.

Dax pointed, "See this line? It's a behavioral cortex feed, the same as in our DOGS units. Low bandwidth, but phenomenal for its time. The Coyotes can perceive person to person variance based on EM field fluctuations, just like SIEGFRIED."

Dax reached down and petted SIEGFRIED absentmindedly. The big Rottweiler sat dutifully between him and William, as though studying the hologram himself.

Dax Abner looked over his shoulder towards Joan floating peacefully in her habitat, "You're absolutely _certain_ the com is working on this unit? The other six?"

Despite her monotone voice, one could almost hear the disdain in the dolphin's response, "Daxane Julius Abner, that is the thirteenth time that you have leveled this specific query. This, despite my extensive report on Coyote schematics provided this morning. Following their bios update, these seven cybernetic organisms are functioning perfectly given their archaic components. Com relay included. I can hear basic communications from the units – fear, mistrust, warning, safe, calm, attack, flee, etc. I can push them rudimentary messages as well; however, that is it. A contemporary verbal to binary encoding processor similar to those found in the DOGS units does not exist. Any attempt to further modify their code will result in a core implosion. These seven remaining units are unlike modern cyborgs. Their nascent version of the Adler Code is absolutely unique."

Tara pulled Dax's focus, irritating him because he was unable to resist her telepathic call, "So there you have it, love! Even Joan is pissed! We're tired, totally over you guys standing around asking the same questions for two days! It's a shame that you can't hack the Coyotes! It's just what it is. Can we _please_ let them go?"

Dax frowned, "Darling, I _literally feel_ your distress. However, I agree with William. Setting them free, without some guarantee of control? Unwise. They did attack you initially."

"And, let's not forget," said William, "murder your father and his entire staff at Darkpool."

Tara stood and glared at the men, "They were desperate!" she said emphatically. "They don't know why they did that. They don't remember Darkpool!"

"How do you _know_ they don't remember?" asked Dax incredulously.

"Because they just don't! Maybe Joan can't, but I hear their thoughts. They're remorseful when you discuss it. They've been waiting years to find me! Living in ditches, chased, shot at, run over by hovtrucks, unable to communicate with the outside world. They freaked out one time! No one knows why."

William said, "Tara, they pushed your hovcar off the road. There was no guarantee they were just going to nicely ask for a blood sample and then prance away in the moonlight. They tore LOFN to shreds!"

"You attacked them!" yelled Tara.

"To protect _you_ , my sweet," Dax interjected.

"Maybe I didn't need protecting!"

William dropped his thumbs to his belt, "You were doing a bang up job of escaping from Greystone on your own."

Tara extended her middle finger and raised her chin defiantly, "Blow me, William." She looked at the ceiling and spoke, "Dory babe? You hearing this in the yard?"

"Loud and clear," came Dorothy's voice.

"Can you please tell your husband to stop being an asshole? And tell my boyfriend to stop being a control freak?"

Dax and William glanced at one another with resignation.

Dorothy replied matter of factly, "Honey, quit being an asshole. Dax, boss, I think you gotta let this go. The Coyotes are just wild. Their programming is fixed if I understand what Joan's saying? This is why I'm up here enjoying the sunshine. The conversation is over. You got three options, boys. Kill them. Use our resources to imprison them. Or set them free and see what happens. Has Joan ever been wrong before? Joan?"

The dolphin's response was instantaneous, "I do not do wrong."

William rubbed his eyes with frustration and walked halfway around the curved glass wall of Joan's habitat, "As if citizen mercenaries weren't enough. Let's throw seven freakin' feral cyborgs in the mix."

Tara whistled after him, "Awww, what's wrong, _Hunts with Gunpowder?_ You don't like them because they don't talk to you. Or tether. Or whatever the stupid Rotties do? They _aren't_ gonna hurt us! I know it."

"If you don't mind elaborating, _how_ precisely do you know that, darling?" asked Dax pointedly.

Tara grabbed a fistful of her own black hair and pretended to yank it out in great pain, "Well I don't know, _BOSS!_ " She turned to William, "William, how do you know when your little puppies here want something? Huh?"

"'Cause I just know."

"Exactly!" said Tara. "I just know! Why can't you just trust me?! I'm like gagging on your patronizing bullshit right now. Ugh!"

"We trust you," said Dax, appealing for calm. "We don't trust _them._ The DOGS units have IR overrides in their code that allow the central computer to take command. Or shut them down completely in case of an emergency. These Coyotes have _no_ such code. Any attempt at modification results in termination." He turned again to face the floating dolphin, "Am I correct, Joan?"

Joan's voice was distinguished by its lack of emotion, "That is correct, Daxane Julius Abner. Unwittingly, when the original Darkpool Laboratories' mainframe was shredded in 2064, humans destroyed the only system capable of externally controlling the Coyotes. They are now a free-roaming, autonomously networked organism. I return to the allegory of a flock of birds. These cyborgs are similarly predictable, yet ultimately free."

Tara's glare was fierce as she fixed her eyes on Dax and William, "So there you go. Dory, you still with me, girlfriend?"

Dorothy's resignation on the matter was long since apparent, "I'm here..."

"Good. Then _you'll_ agree with me? Perhaps encourage your pig-headed husband to be of the same mind..." They all heard Dorothy laugh as Tara continued, "...and realize that sometimes, you just gotta have faith."

"Faith?" said William. "We're running a super still, not a Sunday school."

Dorothy's voice exclaimed, "Boys! All she's trying to say is that if you love something, let it go. Do you respect these Coyotes, Dax?"

"Respect for their design would be an understatement."

"Joan is now locked on their Ipv5 addresses, has their schematics, right?"

"Yes."

"Then it's time to release them. They're tagged. Joan can trace their movements, study them, and obviously they're not going to kill Tara or they would have in the yard. So let's just see what happens."

Dax raised his eyebrows and looked at William pensively. William shook his head but kept quiet.

"That's right," Tara said lightly, twirling her hair, "What she said."

William scratched his sideburns and spoke to the ceiling, "Faith. Great." He didn't look at Dax and Tara as he walked out of the aquarium, "I'll be upstairs."

"Thank you, _Hunts with Gunpowder_!" Tara called pluckily after him.

_I don't know how fond he is of that nickname,_ pushed Dax.

Tara shrugged and smiled, _Whatever. I win._

Outside the aquarium door, in the warehouse, the seven Coyotes lay together in a tight formation, muzzles tucked neatly into BIOSKIN© tails that had regrown bushy and sleek for the first time in over a decade. In front of them lay the DOGS units arranged in a flanking half circle. Behind SIEGFRIED, FREYA, LOFN and SNOTRA was the hulking mass of THOR. The warehouse echoed with little metal pings and scrapes every time THOR moved a claw or foreleg across the cement. The lights of the warehouse reflected brightly off the still's brass fractionating columns towering behind the cyborgs.

All five animals popped their heads up eagerly as William walked out of the aquarium, "Two through five, let's go. They're setting them free."

The Rottweilers leapt to their feet, eagerly darting up the stairs into the barn. THOR, as always, remained dutiful and motionless before the Coyote pack. His blue eyes glowed mournfully as he watched William pass.

"Don't worry, big boy. Your time will come."

THOR seemed satisfied with this acknowledgment and again lowered his head to the cement with a metallic _clunk_. He turned back towards the Coyotes, who had not moved, though Coyote One's vidorbs shifted constantly, absorbing every sound and motion. Despite the tactical information downloaded to his data core by SIEGFRIED the night of Tara's escape, the giant, military grade cyborg still did not consider the Coyotes to be a threat. Though yet shunned by the Rottweilers, THOR had allowed the small gray borgs to curl up beside him in the warehouse as the humans slept through the night.

Dorothy, William and the four Rottweilers were outside the barn when Dax and Tara appeared a few minutes later. The Coyotes followed them. Dorothy knelt calmly on the still wet grass before a square of turned dirt where she had been planting lily bulbs, the soil easy and pliable from the rains. FREYA growled as Coyote One hopped nervously through the barn's doorway into the humid sunshine.

"Silence," commanded William.

FREYA whined and was quiet. William folded his arms across his chest proudly. He watched, attentive as a school teacher, as his DOGS units anxiously peddled their front paws. It was difficult for them to maintain control as they watched the rest of the pack appear.

The Coyotes emerged from the barn one at a time. Each came with a nervous sniff of the air before leaping through the door like a poof of gray smoke. The pack wound itself in a tight, anxious circle around Tara's legs, muzzles and tongues licking her skin cautiously as they scanned their surroundings and tested the wind.

"This may very well be the first time these bots have seen midday sunshine," said Dax, observing their behavior.

Joan's voice came through his combud, "That is correct, Daxane Julius Abner. These creatures usually hibernate in camouflaged dens along the river bank during daylight hours."

Despite his reservations, William was taken aback by the beauty of the Coyotes in their newly repaired BIOSKIN©. Their muzzles had a flecked brownish-orange color, while their chests were streaked with a pale white that gradually gave way to the dark gray hue that composed the rest of their coats. Their oversized ears were dark, nearly black, fur triangles that twitched excitedly. To a civilian, their motions would have seemed totally natural. William, however, could see in his mind the layers of graphene circuitry that functioned as the cyborgs' ear cartilage. The arrays in their ears were sensitive enough to detect the fluctuations in air pressure caused by a hawk changing its flight course overhead. The Coyotes were nowhere near as advanced as the DOGS units, but for their time, the design was nothing short of astounding. They represented the aurora of conscious cyborg life.

Dax looked at Tara, whose eyes had been locked on Coyote One since they stepped out of the barn, "Darling?"

Tara looked up.

A tear was in her eye, "They're afraid. They don't like the sunshine."

"How do you kn..." Dax started, then stopped himself. "Well, it's not as if we're going to give chase. No need to tarry. Send them on."

Tara opened her mouth to speak, but the Coyotes already knew. Coyote One led the pack across the lawn a few meters. Then all seven identical cyborgs turned in a line and faced the humans and their DOGS units. Everyone was silent. The breeze was filled with far off sounds; the mechanical drone of a CO2 scrubbing blimp far overhead, birds chirping in the distant trees beyond the yard. Dorothy caught her breath as the Coyotes simultaneously bowed their heads towards William and the DOGS units while tucking their tails between their legs.

Tara cried openly now and leaned her head on Dax's shoulder.

Voluminous tears poured down her cheeks, "They're saying thank you."

William narrowed his eyes and said, "For not ripping us into junk metal like the rest of our clones who died in bits and pieces."

He stroked SIEGFRIED's head with quiet pride.

Dorothy was the only one in earshot and rewarded her husband with a swift charlie horse, "Don't be an ass!" she scowled, then exclaimed happily, "Oh look!"

Like a stream flowing around a stone, the cyborgs formed up single file along the edge of the barn, moving low to the Earth. They ran along the barn's edge, then disappeared around the corner one by one, dashing for the welcoming seclusion of the woods. Within seconds, they had vanished like wisps of morning fog and were gone.

Five Weeks Later

Dorothy could not get the memory of the thunderstorm from her mind. Anymore than she could rid herself of the memories of Tara Dean's touch. The Coyotes had not appeared since, and the girls had spoken no more of their love. All that need be expressed was said in passing glances.

Dorothy brought the vaporjoint up to her mouth and took another cool drag as she leaned back in bed. She stared at her toes pushing up the covers. She looked over at William, still slumbering. Still hers, still beautiful, sad and flawed.

Yes, their apartment was good.

Outside, the morning air was coming warmer as the sun rose higher in the sky. The blue jays, sparrows and cardinals had begun to taper down their window songs and fly off to hide from the coming day. In her mind, Dorothy could see the first of the lilies she had planted that day the Coyotes were released blooming in her new flower garden by the barn entrance. The early season Buff Pixie lilies, set to sprout first, were the most bland with their beige yellow tone, but the other varieties that would come later in season would provide a much brighter spectrum of reds and purples.

_Someday we'll have our own birds. In our own tree, behind our own house, with my own lily garden_.

She took another lazy hit off her vaporjoint, then set it on the bedside table and folded her hands behind her head on the pillows. The passionate silence of the ceiling above called to her fantasies like thunder. What did Dax and Tara talk about in the penthouse room of the farmhouse? How ferocious was their lovemaking?

_Do they hear us? Oh shit..._

Dorothy drew her toes along William's naked leg, causing him to stir. He opened a tired eye.

"Hello, handsome," she said.

"What time is it?" he asked gruffly, holding his head up off the pillow.

"Too early. Go back to bed."

William collapsed back into the pillow, "What are you doing up, babe?"

"Just thinking."

"About what?" he mumbled, already falling back into slumber.

"Flowers," she said, gazing out the window at the blue, "I'm just thinking about when the lilies bloom. They're going to be so gorgeous."

`**Fragmented Remains From the Cloud Diary of Daxane Julius Abner – April 9, 2081 11:44 pm – One Year Six Months Before Event.**`

`"...the farthest capabilities! If only I had Dr. Adler to explain. The resilience of the Coyotes is astounding. Their pursuit of Tara was not based in malice, nor bloodthirsty cybernetic madness.`

`Coyote One's motive should have been obvious; life seeking to perpetuate itself. A bios update. Literally moving the pack from Adler 1.0 to Adler 1.13. This update, though incremental, was crucial. Now functioning on 1.13, the Coyotes patched three basic issues. First, the termination date on their fusion core(s) has been removed. Coyote One's fusion core will not auto-implode two months from now as it was scheduled to. Second, the dormant nanosurgical bots in their BIOSKIN© have been activated. Accordingly, their physical appearance is once again that of Canis Latrans. Their fur is no longer ripped, shredded. Their paws are covered in flesh and fur as opposed to being the titanalum robotic claws of some monster from the ancient holoflix. Third, the Coyotes are now able to communicate on a rudimentary level with outside networks. In essence, they can talk to Joan. It is amazing that they can communicate at all given the archaic hardware they have in place. The artificial cartilage of one ear is an aluminographene radio antennae. The other is a short range transmitter. Why Tara's father chose to use an ancient 900mhz broadcast frequency is unknown; however, it does further explain the cyborgs' pack behavior. They can only communicate within 100 meters of one another. By comparison, our _least_ advanced units, SNOTRA and LOFN, can stream encrypted data over 1,000 kilometers with a 1.15 mb throughput. The bios update lastly allowed Hugo to install a modern, micro-holoprojector in Coyote 06. This should assist localized pack members with field camouflage, but I digress.`

`Tara. On the tip of Coyote One's lower left canine tooth was a microscopic, biometric lance that functioned as a simple gene sequencer. Tara's father encoded the data stream necessary to complete the bios update into his own daughter's blood, piggybacked onto her genetic code. After year 18 online, an automated script in Coyote One's OS reminded her of this objective, and so the pack began its long hunt for the daughter of their creator.`

`The very concept, let alone the fact that it proved applicable, is beyond the capabilities of even modern geneticists. What other secrets could be encoded in the data cores of these creatures? And how _did_ Tara know? That they were not trying to kill her? My private suspicion is that the Coyotes may not have cared whet... UNSCHEDULED HARDWARE DESTRUCT / DATA COMPROMISE / INITIATE BACKUP.EXE FOR REINTEGRATION FORMA... LOSS. LOSS. LOS"`

# `Chapter 2.6 – The Gauntlet`

`"The prestige of government has undoubtedly been lowered considerably by the prohibition law. For nothing is more destructive of respect for the government and the law of the land than passing laws which cannot be enforced. It is an open secret that the dangerous increase of crime in this country is closely connected with this."`

`Albert Einstein`

September 2081 – One Year One Month Before Event.

The Kansas Hovway Patrol drone was only the size of a football. Perhaps this emboldened the flock of fish crows who watched it hurl to a stop below their roost, flattening stands of switchgrass with its high velocity arrival. To the fish crows, the drone looked like an invading wingless bird flashing green mating feathers. This wingless bird had a horrific song that oscillated from a low hum to a roaring squeal. It also appeared to be a well fed invader.

If it couldn't be scared off, perhaps it would be dinner.

The first attack was so violent that the drone was nearly knocked to the Earth. The unit flash-scanned the sky. Within .4 seconds, it had completed a species and weapons analysis of the nine crows and chose to follow its primary objective: scanning traffic along the Interstate 70 Hovway. The drone was in no true danger from crow beaks or claws, though their attacks did complicate efforts to maintain a stable antigrav hover. The unit was a low altitude, long range A1SKOUT, with limited self-adaptive environmental algorithms, no weapons, a high definition holocam and a massive propulsion fan for its mass, which allowed it to tail the fastest of civilian hovcars.

The A1SKOUT's current placement near Junction City was randomly assigned by the GEODRONE© master com in Topeka. The unit had decelerated from a 285 kph cruise to a dead stop in four seconds, inline brake turbines whining decibels in front of a towering riverside oak that was unfortunately home to the nine crows and a nest of squawking adolescent chicks. Even if the drone had possessed weapons, it was against EPA regulations for law enforcement COD's to harm or disrupt animal species within their native habitat, unless that species was actively obstructing the apprehension of a criminal.

So the birds continued to descend on the A1SKOUT without mercy, pecking and scraping furiously at its black Kevlar skin. Tail feathers and clumps of down floated around the drone as it attempted to maintain stability. Grasshoppers chirped mechanically all around and bits of dusty tallgrass floated visibly in the air from the flailing of the birds' wings.

The A1SKOUT remained dutiful, even as one after the other the crows slammed the unit with their talons, screeching like jackals. A couple of crows defecated on the drone. The unit's stabilization fans whirred desperately as the onboard computer methodically ticked through the three minute hold pattern until migration to another locale was authorized. Twenty seven corrupted scan reports had already been relayed to the GEODRONE© server. These corrupted pings were scans of suspicious hovcars and hovtrucks floating west on Interstate 70, which could not be completed due to the ongoing bird assault.

It was with 1:13 left on the departure clock between fish crow attacks that the drone successfully wonked the ID of a 2070 Ford CargoHov 800 floating at a rate of 185 kph. Registration / Douglas County DMV IPv7 address 2081:0db8:85a3:0042:1000:8a2e:0370:7334 commercial transport / Abner Family Pumpkin & Gourd, LLC / liability probability 71% / 8,000 liter potential contained fluid rating / human transport operator; query? / prior travel threads negative 365 day period / state registration; current / commercial insurance policy; current – active / citizen operator, Gabriel Martinez, NAUS.

_Assign random stop based on vehicular dimension >?_

_Assign random stop based on vehicular dimension >?_

The drone waited for the command to be processed by GEODRONE© central. 51 seconds until relocation. 49 corrupted scans / biological interference. 47 seconds until relocat... pursuit command verified. Relaying telemetry > patrol unit / APOLLO9 / Engage.

The attacking fish crows fled in nine different directions, black feathers whisking to the ground, horrified by the sudden, violent whine of the tiny A1SKOUT's primary wormdrive spooling to 41,000 rpm's. The black football's LED array flashed red as it exploded down the hovway in pursuit of the Ford CargoHov 800, happily leaving the crows in a tidal wave of dust.

It took 69 seconds for the A1SKOUT to establish a visual. It trailed the lumbering hovtruck at an altitude of twenty meters, moving too quickly to be but a grayish blur to the human eye. It was in flight that the A1SKOUT shined, not when forced to hover in place before a nest of aggressive, winged biologicals.

22 more seconds, the GEODRONE© server in Topeka issued a stop warrant based upon: unknown object / probability marijuana cigarette / illegal disposal / FUI probability 94.28%. The A1SKOUT locked on the object the pilot tossed from the vehicle and tracked its trajectory, zipping to a halt four centimeters above the still burning roach. Analysis: recreational grade sativa / trooper apprehension requested / APOLLO9 > ping confirmed / causal; floating under the influence / recommend visual cargo analysis / report terminated / new coordinates registered.

Its function complete, the A1SKOUT buzzed purposefully upwards from the Interstate surface, LED array shifting green. The Kevlar enveloped drone then rocketed west towards the sun, constantly scanning as it traveled to new observation coordinates fourteen kilometers west of the Hays metropolis.

If citizen observation drones were capable of hope, this particular unit was praying hard that its next assigned location might be free of fish crows.

It was love, that elusive, fence-hopping vixen, not sex, that had always been Virgil Benedict's most intangible prey. Unlike most young men, he wished not to be a ladies' man; rather, the man of one lady. He pined for devotion; that singular betty of unparalleled beauty who would live only for him.

Love, actually, was all about Virgil.

Now, at long last, sitting beside him in the passenger cab of this bootlegger's transport, he had met his ultimate muse. His very lily of the field, an angel of pulchritude known by the name Virginia Rose. Hugo sat to Virgil's left, steering the heavy hovtruck as it flew lazily down the Interstate. Virginia was on his right. Sitting together on the bench seat, he noted how her left leg kept making contact with his own.

_Thank you, improperly aligned kinetic dampeners!_

The prurient odor of Hugo's jane smoke wafting seductively through the cab added to the dusky romance of this chance meeting. Normally, Virgil would have been happy to oblige when Hugo offered him a hit off an antique joint... but then he wouldn't be able to talk.

_Maybe I should pop another Pleasium..._

The hovtruck's onboard kept the cab at a perfect 22 degrees, but Virgil was so excited that even his teeth seemed to be sweating. He was high on Virginia's velvety green eyes. Her aroma wafted, mingling like a shadow dancer with the burning jane. Now, at last... she turned to look at him, expressionless, lost in thought. She was going to speak! Virgil clutched his book entitled _20th Century California Poetry_ even tighter, feeling his soul well in anticipation, preparing for her words to wash over him like golden tides on a secluded beach.

_Here it comes..._

Virginia Rose set her sketch down, curled her button nose and said, "Virgil, if you try and read me one more poem, I'm gonna rip the page outta that fucking book and wipe my ass with it."

She fell back in her seat and returned to sketching a nude on her holotab, absentmindedly petting the black fur on LOFN's head as she did so. The small Rottweiler twin lay curled on the hovtruck floor with her boxy head resting on the seat's edge. The cyborg's vidorbs remained closed as though she were a regular dog asleep, though every eight seconds her armored eyeshutters opened and closed imperceptibly fast.

Virgil bore the expression of a deflated basketball that had just been smacked with a shovel. He wore the ubiquitous Birkenhemp© sandals that were so popular with young men of the day, paired with black ankle-biter hempjeans and a white button down shirt, the collar of which he fiddled with chronically. He wished he had brought his sunglasses to hide behind. No matter! The situation was desperate.

_I'll say anything!_

"What about some Bukowski?" he asked nonchalantly.

Tara sighed and turned her head slowly his way as if following the flight of a distant bird, " _What_ is a Bukowski?"

"Charles Bukowski," said Virgil with renewed eagerness. "He's the classic, antique L.A. poet of the 20th century."

"Never heard of him."

"What about Pablo Neruda?"

"Sounds like a venereal disease."

Virgil again deflated, "No, uh, Neruda is another 20th century poet. From Chile. In the Southern Union."

Tara was sitting cross legged in the seat wearing a yellow hemplinen sundress. She took her sunglasses off and balanced them on a knee. Every time she turned her head to look at Virgil, he thought he might faint.

"Want a piece of advice, teen spirit?"

"Sure! But I'm twenty. Just FYI."

Tara shook her head dramatically, "Oh, you're _twenty?_ That changes everything. Well here's an FYI for _you_. I don't give a shit if you're 13 or 85, no one cares about fucking poetry. At least no one in this hovtruck. Right Hugo?"

Hugo didn't even look their way, taking a drag off a newly fired joint, "Poems cool, spokeen word, raps, whateever. But dude, not many folk dig dat sheet no more. Ms. Virginia right."

Tara looked back at Virgil, "Thank you, Hugo. Point two, Casanova, no one's read a book in like fifty years. I don't know about your holotab, but mine reads for me... welcome to 2035! All those antique books you carry? All that wasted paper?" Tara shook her shoulders, "Makes me cringe. What the sky are you doing with a bag full of books on this run anyhow?"

"I take my books everywhere."

"Why?"

"Because you never know when you're going to need a poem. The whole universe can be explained in poetry. Poets live on, even after death, through their words."

Tara Dean made a gagging sound.

Virgil frowned, "You okay?"

Tara put her hand daintily to her lips, "Yeah, sorry, I just puked in my mouth."

Virgil saddened. He gazed despondently out the windshield at the white hovway lines rushing past. The truck's cabin was silent, though Tara now wore a faint, sly smile. Faster moving hovcars and small hovtrucks blew by them on the left, riding quiet whooshes of air. The black dots of drones and UAV courier units streaked past in the higher, faster airspace lanes like gray, traceable dots. It was nearing dusk. The undulating hills of The Konza Prairie were now yellow with the late summer's drought, despite the efforts of a cloud seeding blimp doing its best to neutralize carbon in the atmosphere. The dirigible floated thousands of meters above them, more similar to a lost whale than a technological marvel. Virgil might as well have been staring at an old sock.

As the sun fell lower, the hovtruck's windshield became more polarized to compensate. Thick, yellow light poured pleasantly across the honey-toned landscape. Contrary to her usual indifference, perhaps inspired by this vista of austere Midwest beauty that so few appreciated, Tara Dean found herself feeling sorry for Virgil Benedict.

"Well, don't pocket-laser your wrists or anything, Romeo," she said, calling his eyes.

"I won't," said Virgil. "I just thought you'd like it."

"Not everybody likes everything. I bet your girlfriend likes poetry though, doesn't she? Adrienne Moon?"

Virgil ginned up, "Yes, Addy loves poetry!" He shook his head, "Or at least she used to, until her second hospital stay."

Tara snapped her fingers, "I like the name, Adrienne. It's vintage. Look, that Bmod shit'll take the shine off a girl's battery like nobody's business."

"Yeah," said Virgil. He looked at Virginia inquisitively, "You ever been?"

"Nope," said Tara.

"It's rough," said Virgil. "We were gonna get married and everything. But this time when she came home, it was like someone turned out the light in her eyes. I'd literally kill myself to make her happy again! Her dad says they can't afford a wedding. They get one bill paid, another comes from the IRS. Addy didn't know she was signing up for IRS assistance at intake. She's been kicked out of school and is waiting tables again."

Hugo tapped the silver comdot affixed to his jaw, focusing on some unheard communication as a Kansas State Hovway Patrol hovcar rocketed past in the left lane, flashing LED's casting multicolored swabs over the black Interstate. From behind, in the waning light, the big propulsion fans on the patrolman's Dodge Charger glowed a faint green from the ambient heat of their electric turbines.

Hugo said, "Roger dat, boss," and again tapped his comdot. He then reached out and patted Virgil on the back with an affable smile, "Dat sheet wit yo betty's a bummer, mang. Ain't you's a leetle young to d' geeting married, jovenzuelo?"

"I am," admitted Virgil. His eyes brightened, "But it's what I want. For us. I want a house with an extra bedroom that I can write in and a room for Adrienne and the baby. And a dog that's not quite so gigantic and mean looking as these of Mr. Abner's," he paused, petting LOFN's head. "That's all I want in life. Oh, and to stick it to CNED."

"Dat's d' spirit!" said Hugo, tossing a smoked roach out the window. He extracted a freshly rolled spliff from the tin smoke box in his shirt pocket, "Here you goes, leet's smoke dis. Just being here, you gonna help us steek eet to d' CNED. You know, mang?"

Hugo handed the fresh, unlit joint to Virgil.

"I'm really not even sure what I'm doing. Or how I'm helping," said Virgil, staring at the joint. "How do you know which end to light? A vaporjoint is so much easier."

Tara snatched the joint from his hand, "You talk like a girl. Yes, a vaporjoint is easier," she produced an antique flame lighter and ignited one end of the spliff, puffing it until the cherry glowed a steady orange, "but it would also take away the texture, sensation and overall mystique of smoking ganja. And you can light whichever end you want, Hawking," she said, taking a long drag.

She handed it back to him as she blew the smoke out her nostrils.

Virgil took a hit and passed the joint back to Hugo, who didn't smoke it, but rather held it burning between his fingers above the steering wheel. The detailed tattoo work on Hugo's forearms was highlighted in bright greens, reds, blacks and blues by the low angle of the windshield sun.

"Preety mama right, mang. I smoke d' jane cause I get a beeter, longer high than wit d' vapor. Plus," he chuckled amicably, "Dere's nothing can replace d' taste of smoke. But howeever you do eet, ees right. Some people drink beer, some vodka. Dere no right, no wrong, long as you drink, you helping, leetle Virgil dude."

" _How_ am I helping?" asked Virgil.

Tara sat up in her seat and again dropped her holotab and sketching stylus in the door pocket.

She ignored LOFN's whine of protest as she stretched her lithe, olive legs over the Rottweiler, "Last week you slid us some solid news, helped flush out a rat. Once a rat's cover is blown, they're done."

"How does that help? I mean, your real jobs are at a pumpkin farm, after all. I get so confused sometimes."

Tara put a finger to her lips, "You, us, we help the _greater_ cause. That's what Mr. Abner is doing. We smuggle a few cases of vodka out to Salina under the cover of our _real_ business, which is selling spiced pepitas."

"Pepitas?"

"Pumpkin seeds!" said Hugo and Tara at the same time, laughing.

"Pumpkin seeds? That's what we're supposed to be carrying?"

"Yep," said Hugo, "We are carrying pumpkeen seeds too. Maybe a few leeters of vodka."

Tara's breast pressed against Virgil as she leaned across and took the joint from Hugo, "Sorry, ace."

Virgil looked like he might choke on his own daydream, "No problem," he bumbled. "So, uhh, you guys really use the names of those CNED narcs I ping?"

"Yes, Virgil. Just keep telling Joan when you hear stuff around campus," said Tara.

"What does an AI do with the names?"

Tara's eyes got unrealistically big, "She feeds them to the resistance!"

Virgil frowned, "There's a resistance?"

Hugo couldn't help smiling out the corner of his mustache, but he kept quiet and returned his gaze to the road as she leaned over Virgil and handed the joint back.

"Yes," said Tara emphatically. "Anyone who drinks is in the resistance. Whether they know it or not."

"So there isn't an organized resistance?"

Tara screwed up her face with whimsy, "Well, there are the people who operate hidden stills and microbreweries around the North American United States. They have networks that talk to each other, yes."

"That's who Joan talks to?"

"No. Joan's like a liaison. She's the girl who knows the guy who knows the chick."

"Huh?"

Tara spun her hands in front of her, "Check it out, Galileo. We know Joan. Joan knows Mr. Abner. Mr. Abner knows the chick who runs the still. It's the chick who runs the still who pays Mr. Abner. Then Mr. Abner pays us. Then we float the booze to Manhattan in this here seed truck," she smacked the Ford's dashboard.

Virgil looked at the GPS display as they blew past Junction City, "So you guys just wanted me to float along to make things look normal?"

Tara rolled her eyes, "Yup. We brought a poet with a backpack full of antique paper books along so we wouldn't attract attention."

"Really?" asked Virgil.

"No, dumb," Tara rolled her eyes back to him. "The boss wanted to see how you'd do in a talk."

"A talk with who? Is this a test right now?"

"Guero, you ask more queestions dan a monkey vaporizing d' psuedoameeth," said Hugo, cracking his window and tossing out another roach. The rushing noise of the hovtruck's prop fans and wind was deafeningly loud. Hugo pushed the window back up and looked squarely at the boy, "Dees d' gauntlet, boy. We just wan to see eef you can talk to d' cops or not."

"Cops? What cops?"

"Those cops," said Tara quietly, gazing at the mirror outside her window.

Virgil frowned, tapped the dashboard display and swiped to the rearview cam. A kilometer behind, in their lane closing fast, was another Kansas Hovway Patrol cruiser, emergency LED's flashing.

Virgil's blood turned to ice, "You _knew_ about this?" he said, looking at Hugo accusingly. "You were just smoking a joint! We're gonna get an FUI! What if they find the liquor?! Transporting alcohol is a felony! That's straight to the slaughterhouse... oh man, oh man...!"

The 25 cm computer display in the dashboard suddenly flashed red. A bronze colored Kansas Hovway Patrol icon filled the screen. The cabin music muted and was replaced by a computerized female voice, "Ford 800 flatbed transport, Kansas DMV registration Ipv7 address (2071:0db8:85a3:0042:1000:8a2e:0370:7334) listed on-screen, you are requested to authorize comsync in compliance with KHP stop and assist request, unit KHP-APOLLO9."

Hugo sat up lazily in his seat and tapped a button on the truck's steering wheel.

A different, more relaxed sounding female voice spoke, "FordCom 800, switch to oral command?"

"Si," said Hugo.

"Oral command active," responded the computer. "Do you wish to comply with the Kansas Hovway Patrol unit APOLLO9 request for navigational override? You have fourteen seconds to respond."

"Yees," said Hugo again breezily.

"Hovlev gradient to maximum, auto traction engaged," replied the dash com.

Virgil's eyes grew wide, "Are you serious?! You're high! _I'm_ high! We have Dog knows how many liters of drugs in the truck!"

Tara put her hand on Virgil's leg and looked at him over the tops of her sunglasses, "Oh, for the love of sky, will you simmer down?"

Virgil was suddenly able to breathe again. His head filled with that familiar, warm honey. Time stretched slowly from second to second.

_I have met Aphrodite. Everything will be alright._

"But..." he began.

"Shhhh..." Tara placed a finger over his lips.

He was so very Utopian. So very sweet and idealistic. For a brief second, she considered eating him for an afternoon snack.

_Dax has some purpose with this one._

She knew almost every permutation of thought that flowed through the mysterious conduits of her lover's mind. She saw the visions and objectives that were shrouded to all others. It was true. They needed a campus spy. Helpful. But why this tard? Because of mother's prophecy?

_I fell for a momma's boy..._

Virgil _was_ popular with the professors. The professors liked to drink. They worked in the English Department, after all, which was like being employed at an antique library located next to a funeral parlor that embalmed dead horses, near as Tara could tell. She'd be drinking heavily also. But popularity was not enough. Dax obviously had no intention of bringing him into the fold.

_So we're back to your mother's prophecies, my love..._

To ask the motive behind an action was simply not their way. They were courtezan. The information flowed of its own accord.

Regardless, they would never again bring Virgil on the gauntlet.

_Because the gauntlet's secret is, you always get pulled over._

Virgil felt himself compelled to turn to Hugo in that moment, "What's the gauntlet?"

Hugo had removed his hands from the steering wheel. He did not appear surprised in the least when the hovtruck began piloting itself in a slow and deliberately nerve-wracking fashion. The KHP trooper was less than a half kilometer off their bumper. He would auto-glide them to the next off-ramp, which was 4.7 kilometers down the Interstate, according to navcom.

Hugo looked on Virgil with compassion, "You ees floating on eet, jovenzuelo. D' gauntlet be dees stretch of hovway, I-70 between Topeka and Salina. On further out weest, eef you running supply to Hays or Denver. We only float so far as Salina dough."

"The gauntlet is where drug mules go to die," added Tara chipperly, gazing out the window.

The sirens of the patrol hovcar could now be heard over the slowing whine of the Ford's propfans. The flashing LED's of the officer's vehicle reflected in the side mirrors, splashing swatches of primary color over their hovtruck's dashboard.

Despite the logical desire to panic, Virgil's head reeled with a sense of contentment that emanated from the spot on his thigh where Virginia Rose kept her hand.

"Then why do I feel so calm? Do we not have liquor on board after all?"

"That's right," said Tara, "We aren't doing anything wrong. Knowing that is half a mule's battle."

"You a mule now, guero," said Hugo. "You so calm cause a leetle criminal done built a nest eenside your soul, got me? We mules live with d' fear. At first, d' mule float through's d' life looking constantly een d' rearview. Den, eef you survive long eenough, you come to find d' cops don't know no-theeng." Hugo nodded towards LOFN, who had not moved her head from the seat's edge, "Cops be dumber dan d' sheet dat fall from dees dog's ass. Dey only do what their coms tell dem, and," he looked at Tara with a little sideways grin, "we got d' computers covered. D' only scanners out dere we can't hack are d' eyes of a human. Dat's where Virgeenia come in. You too, homey. You gonna talk to dis trooper now, get hees curios off our funky beesnees, say?"

"You want _me_ to talk to the cop?" asked Virgil, somewhere between panic and elation.

"No time to explain," said Virginia with a comfortable smile. "We're sitting on tarmac in about two minutes, Ahab."

Virgil knotted his forehead bravely, "I'm just gonna tell this pig to leave us the hell alone! I'm gonna say we're within our rights, just traveling and he has no cause to search us." He giggled nervously, his knee beginning to shake. A tear ran down his face, "Like, this is for my girl, Adrienne, all the shit the man did to her!" He punched the roof of the hovtruck, _pop!_ "Then I'm gonna punch him in the face like that!"

"Listen to me, Virgil," said Tara.

"There's nothing to listen to!" Tears were pouring down both cheeks now, "This is it! We're going to the slaughterhouse! We'll be martyrs! They'll write songs about me and Adrienne!"

Tara took her hand off Virgil's leg and slapped him. Then she slapped him again, harder.

"Ouch! Jeezus!"

Tara again put her hands on Virgil's blustery cheeks and forced his eyes into hers.

"64 seconds until full stop," said the navcom.

Tara waited ten seconds to speak until she had the boy's emotions fully under control, "Virgil, I'm going to make one thing damn clear. There are no martyrs in this business."

Virgil sniffed, consumed by the black of her pupils, "It's a violation of my civil rights..."

Tara shook her head, satisfied with the pliability of his mind.

She removed her hands from his face and again rested her left on his leg. "You're a drug mule, Virgil. Could be moving alcohol or heroin, no difference. Most citizens would as soon us rot in a Vision work camp as look at us. Civil rights? You're not Malala Yousafazi, dude."

"Thirteen seconds until full stop," said the com.

Virgil was breathing rapidly, but no longer cried, "Okay, Okay. I get it. Virginia?"

"Yup?"

"Thank you."

"Whatever. Quit being a bitch. You're embarrassing my ovaries."

The Ford 800 at last floated to a rest halfway up a rural Exit ramp. They were eleven kilometers east of the Salina Metroplex. The parking mounts deployed and dropped to the asphalt shoulder, auto-levelers vibrating. LOFN sat up and crawled between Tara and Virgil and disappeared over the seat into the narrow cargo space behind them.

"This dog kinda has a mind of its own, huh?" asked Virgil.

"You could say that," said Tara vacantly, her attention focused on the side mirror. The KHP trooper had not yet stepped out.

"Don't worry bout d' dog, dog," said Hugo. "Here we go."

The hovtruck's computer spoke in default monotone, "You have been selected for an operational review by the Kansas Hovway Patrol. Pilot navigation systems are temporarily locked out for your safety. Please set combud and holotab security protocols to open access and release all encrypted passenger data, including operator Ipv7 and social security code. You have thirty seconds to comply."

Hugo tapped his comdot, "Access granted." He looked over at Tara, "Eet's a man, ain't seen heem before. Leet's hope he not queer."

"I don't think it really matters anymore if they like me or not."

Virgil felt his heart rate begin to accelerate, "What are you guys talking about?"

Tara squeezed his thigh slightly harder. He melted back to silence.

"Steel ain't gon be quite so easy, sees," said Hugo.

"Why?"

"Dees one got dos RIOT class borgs een d' squad car, plus a live German Sheepherd."

Tara smiled brightly, "Fuck it. Things are gonna be fine, boys! There's nothing we can't make vanish."

Virgil started to stammer but Tara silenced him.

Hugo touched the silver comdot affixed to his jaw, listening, "Shhh. Joan ees saying teengs."

"What else?" asked Tara.

Hugo whistled low, "Dis hombre ees military. Colonel Apollo een d' National Guard at Fort Riley. Dude ees borg Army Ranger, hardcore mang. Dey call heem d' Butcher of Chābahār from d' war days."

Tara's eyes narrowed, "Be all the more my pleasure to ruin his Dogdamn day. Joan fully plugged in?"

"Yeep. Synched to LOFN. She got a fat, clear stream."

Hugo breathed calmly as he watched the trooper step out of his hovcar. The man was in his late 50's, bald and of African descent. He stood nearly two meters tall and had the square jawed frame of a body builder. His black boots shined and his sunglasses twinkled with official clarity in the dying afternoon light. The beige pants of his uniform were crisp and pressed. Up each leg ran a brown stripe that matched the darker tone of his polyhemp shirt and round, broad-rim trooper's hat.

The man strolled deliberately, briskly processing incoming data on his holotab when Hugo saw him stop abruptly. The trooper's hand moved to his sidearm.

"Oh sheet, mescaleros."

"What up?" asked Tara.

Hugo held a hand up to quiet her. He continued watching the officer in the side mirror. After a few seconds, the trooper frowned, shook his head and removed his hand from his gun. He tapped the glass surface of his holotab aggressively.

He walked all the way to them now and stood just behind Hugo's window, leaning in, "Mr. Gabriel Martinez?"

The trooper's voice was deep and commanding. The timbre of it made Virgil realize he needed to urinate.

Hugo was sitting up straight with a smile stretched across his face, "Si señor, dat's me. Se habla?"

"No, I don't habla, son." The trooper looked over the tops of his mirrored sunglasses, "Let's see here. Abner Family Pumpkin & Gourd, LLC. Says you're a KDOT-C7 registered transport out of Douglas County carrying... pumpkin seeds. Registration good, license clear, insurance verified. Do you know why I pulled you over, Mr. Martinez?" The trooper rapped the back of his holotab against the Ford's window at the precise moment he got done saying, _Mr. Martinez?_

"Why no, offeecer. Was I speeding?"

"No, Mr. Martinez. I see you have no combud installed. You like to float the hovtruck in manual?"

"Yeessir. Old school."

"Well, the problem with old school is that sometimes pilots drift. And about twelve kilometers back, you drifted over the center line. I just wanted to stop you and confirm you're not impaired. Haven't been vaping jane while operating a commercial hovercraft today, have you?"

"Absolutely not, offeecer."

The trooper looked at the full sleeve tattoos covering Hugo's forearms. He studied his face, as if able to see right through Hugo's sunglasses. He leaned left and looked in at Virgil, who couldn't even look up. Tara kept a blank expression on her face and stared out the opposite window, hiding behind her long, black hair.

He turned back to Hugo, "Well, your comdot reports a clean bloodstream. But since you haven't been using marijuana today, I'm sure you won't mind if I double check? Run a quick manual chem battery?"

Hugo smiled amiably, "Not eet all, offeecer."

"Blood or hair?"

"Blood."

"Okay, I'll need a finger, print side up."

Hugo extended his upturned index finger through the window. The trooper placed his holotablet directly over it. A razor thin robotic lance pricked the skin and performed a chemical analysis in less than one second.

The trooper stared at his holotab without speaking. He was waiting for something else, even though the results were already in front of him.

He frowned, "Says here you haven't had so much as a vapor in 23 days. Impressive. You in MA or something?" The trooper now smiled as if the joke was funny, though his smile was provocative and fake.

From across the cabin, Tara was able to smell the rage rising.

_Not humdroid, but a Vision man through and through._

Hugo kept pace, never looking away, "Naw offeecer, I just trabajo mucho. A ceetizen gotta vaporize a lotta jane to get een d' Twelve Steep Program."

"That they would, that they would." The trooper again clicked the case of his holotab against the window and made a last scan of the Ford's cabin, "Well, I appreciate your time, Mr. Martinez. I take it you're Mr. Virgil Benedict and uh," he looked over the top of his sunglasses again, "Ms. Virginia Rose?"

Virgil couldn't believe they were actually going to get away!

He grinned ebulliently, "That's me, your honor. We got nothing to hide!"

The trooper's fake smile disappeared.

_Nice, Virgil,_ thought Tara.

She leaned forward and removed her sunglasses, pinching Virgil's thigh as she said in a believable southern accent, "Bingo, officer. I'm Ms. Virginia Rose." She leaned back and covered her eyes again.

"You _all_ work for this pumpkin establishment?"

"Yes," said Hugo. "'Dees guys are my asseestants."

The state trooper nodded curtly, "All right. Everything seems in order. I apologize for the inconvenience. You folks float carefully now. Have a blessed day."

Tara rolled her eyes beneath the safety of her blacked out sunglasses.

Hugo watched the mirror as the trooper walked back towards his patrol hovcar. He knew how this went. He counted, ocho, nueve, diez, once steps... before the trooper turned back.

"Eeleeven steps. Fast. Now he come around. Dees time for real, keeds."

Tara moved her hand up Virgil's thigh and held it in a new spot.

Pretending it was by random chance, the trooper reappeared at the window and said, "Sorry to bother you good folks again, but you wouldn't mind if I run my dogs around your hovtruck and have a look under your canopy would you?"

Hugo tossed his hands up amicably, "Of course not, offeecer."

"Very good," said the patrolman. "I have to search so many transport trucks each month, you see? Since you guys are so squeaky clean, it'll go fast and help me fill my quota."

"Happy to do our part, offeecer," said Hugo.

"I appreciate that. You're helping the people of Kansas fight the war on drugs."

Tara leaned forward, "But we don't have any drugs, officer."

"Of course you don't. You've got pumpkin seeds. Which is why this will only take a second. I'm going to need the three of you to step out of the hovtruck."

"Finally. Let's get this over with," said Tara under her breath as she popped open the passenger door and stepped down, leaning against the side of the Ford.

Virgil and Hugo followed.

"Do we just stand here?" asked Virgil shakily as the patrolman walked around to greet them.

"Alright folks, for your own safety, stay here and don't move while I get my helpers."

"Your helpers?" asked Virgil.

"My dogs."

"What about _our_ dog? Yours aren't mean are they?"

Tara shook her head, "Oh boy..."

Hugo's keen eyes watched the patrolman harden, "You have a dog on board your vehicle?"

Tara whistled quick and low. A moment later, LOFN bounded out of the truck and sniffed the ground timidly before trotting over and sitting beside her. LOFN looked directly at the patrolman. Her bright pink tongue fell lazily out of her mouth as she panted. The wind intermittently blew the tufts of long, white fur on her chest to and fro.

"You need to put that animal on a leash," said the patrolman after a few seconds. "I don't want it getting into it with mine."

"She's a she," said Tara, not looking over.

"What?"

Tara turned and squared at the trooper, _"It_ is a she. _Sir_." She raised her eyebrows when he didn't respond, "The dog."

The patrolman put his hand to his hips and unbuttoned the holster on his mace canister. The safety strap on his pistol was still unclasped.

He took a step closer to Tara, "Whatever it is, you need to put a leash on it, young lady. I'm a K9 trainer. It's the law."

The officer squinted, eyeing LOFN a moment longer, then produced his holotab and scanned her, "She's big for a female. Looks good for a seven year old too. Alright," he said, "Get that leash."

"No probleem. I get it," Hugo nodded agreeably.

Virgil knelt and pet LOFN's head, "This is a good dog, officer. I don't think she'd hurt a fly."

Hugo returned with the leash and snapped it onto LOFN's collar.

"Rottweilers aren't known for their goodness, young man," he said. "Kinda pussy dogs really. You need to do a better job of training this animal. She's trying to stare me down. Dog like that starts thinking it's the alpha, you got a problem on your hands. Besides, it's not _my_ dogs I'm worried about."

The officer turned and stepped briskly away, tapping his holotab. Tara and Hugo exchanged a quick glance that Virgil missed. LOFN's eyes scanned every step the patrolman took towards his vehicle.

The back door of the patrol hovcar opened with a near-silent pneumatic rush. A German Shepherd bounded out, followed by two Doberman Pinschers. The first animal was flesh and blood, an enormous, alert female to which the patrolman attached a thick leather leash. The Dobermans were RIOT class battborgs. Both of the police cyborgs were wrapped in male physiology BIOSKIN©. They ambulated almost perfectly, thought their steps were slightly systematic and rapid.

LOFN sat perfectly still. She analyzed the animals from a distance, uploading data to Hugo's comdot, where only he could hear Joan's quiet computerized voice saying, "Subject A; organic 100%. Subjects B > C; v3.0 RIOT class CATS units, manufacture date 2080.03.18, civilian law enforcement grade CSV5, power supplies 92% – 97%, BIOSKIN© phase 2.0, kevlar3 wrap on an AerMet reinforced polymer chassis."

As soon as the female German Shepherd saw LOFN she strained against her leash, growling aggressively.

The hovway patrolman let himself be dragged a bit for effect, though the thick, banded muscles in his forearm could have easily controlled the dog, "Whoa, Hala, easy girl. What do you smell?"

The cybernetic Dobermans walked behind him obediently, then sat precisely in line with his left knee as the officer stopped two meters from the back of the hovtruck. The animals froze, robot-like, scanning. They did not appear to take notice of LOFN or consider her a threat.

A few seconds of silence passed. The late summer sun was nearly to the horizon. The deep yellow light threw long shadows, human and canine, across the pavement. The expansive, blue tarpaulin that covered the 5,000 liters of crated still vodka rippled beneath its black bungee cords every time a hovcar or especially a hovsemi floated past on the Interstate below.

With the passing of each hovcar, Tara envisioned the sallow citizen faces plastered against windows, staring stupidly at the scene. The flashing LED's atop the patrolman's Dodge Charger drew their eyes like a moth to a flame. Tara's irritation rose. Their blue cargo tarp stuck out like a sore thumb. She could hear thoughts of the Vision faithful running through her head, _Ooh, looks like a booze bust. Honey, slow down. Oohh! The cop has drug Fidos, dad! Those shiners are screwed!_ Tara gritted her teeth. The wind blew her sundress against her tawny, muscled legs.

She let her eyes rise from the small patch of asphalt between her Converse HempStar sneakers to find the German Shepherd staring at her. The dog was beautiful. Something in its demeanor reminded her of the Coyotes. Despite its fierce show, she could sense it was really a kind animal. Tara sighed and returned her eyes to the pavement.

When the patrolman snapped his fingers, the German Shepherd sat obediently, still growling quietly at LOFN, who was focused on the Dobermans. With the dogs now out, the patrolman's tone changed.

It was suddenly dictatorial, as though a podium had appeared before him out of thin air, "Alright citizens, here's how it goes. This German Shepherd is an organic named Hala, here for observation. These animals behind me are police Fidos," he inclined his head at the nearest Doberman.

"Awesome," said Virgil with excitement. "You can't even tell, can you?"

Tara snapped from her reverie and leered with brief disgust in Virgil's direction but did not respond.

The patrolman continued, "Fido one is gonna run a quick pass of your hovtruck, conducting a non-invasive scan of your cab. I'll need you all to step away from the side of the vehicle, please. Do I have your permission to proceed?"

Tara couldn't help herself, "Like you give a damn if you have our permission or not, Officer Friendly."

The patrolman was quick, "It's Trooper Apollo. And no, I don't give a damn. But protocol's protocol, Miss Rose." He said _miss_ like he was pronouncing _hiss_.

_It's fucking on, pig,_ smiled Tara in return, "Whatever you say, general."

Hugo tapped his comdot, listening as he simultaneously replied, "No probleem, offeecer. You search where you need. D'ank you."

They all three stepped away from the side of the big flatbed Ford. LOFN remained motionless aside from minor foot adjustments, a twitching ear, a wagging tail. She emitted a high, passive whine loud enough to be audible to the patrolman and his dogs. Her eyes scanned perpetually.

"Your consent is noted," said the patrolman. He turned his head towards the RIOT dog closest and said, "Alright, run it."

The Doberman trotted quickly past them, cocking its head at LOFN with curiosity, and jumped into the cab of the Ford. All around, the wind rippled with the _swoosh_ of passing hovtraffic. Hordes of late summer grasshoppers chitted throatily in the high grass of the hovway embankment. A few industrious black starlings flitted about in a nearby hemp field, hunting early evening mosquitoes.

The patrolman swiped his holotab as he waited. LOFN surprised everyone by suddenly standing. She widened her stance and focused on Hala again. The German Shepherd had begun growling.

Tara whispered a word to the wind, "William..."

"You better keep that dog of yours under control," said the patrolman loudly. "Or its gonna get hurt, pretty lady."

Tara cocked her hips out and looked at the man over the tops of her sunglasses for the first time, "Maybe it's your dogs that should watch out, sir..."

The patrolman shook his head dizzily. He frowned. The flashing emergency LED's on his hovcar went momentarily dark behind him, then rebooted. He tapped his combud in frustration but never took his focus off the scene before him.

Fifteen long seconds passed. The RIOT Doberman finally jumped out of the hovtruck's cabin and trotted back to a seated position beside the other battborg. The patrolman tapped and dragged data around on his holotab. He frowned as he skimmed the results, the whiskers of his wiry black mustache tweaking in the breeze. He was taking longer than necessary. The silence stretched.

At last he looked up, speaking to Hugo and no longer disguising the disdain in his voice, "Mr. Martinez, all my borg's sensor reports are squeaky clean. Says you've got 5,000 kilograms of pumpkin seeds under this tarp. Yep..."

No one spoke. The wind blew. Grasshoppers chitted. The patrolman let his fingers drop to the German Shepherd's head. Everyone's eyes followed his hand to the dog, whose jowls quivered as it stared hungrily at LOFN.

"Stand, Hala," commanded the patrolman. The big German Shepherd sprang to all fours and adopted a braced fighting posture. The dog was easily twelve centimeters taller than the small, stocky Rottweiler.

"You see, the thing is, Mr. Martinez, in my line of work, sometimes you just can't believe what the sensors tell you," continued the trooper. "And..."

Out of nowhere, Virgil stepped forward and swung his arms open like he was going to hug his favorite aunt, "Your honor, there's obviously no problem here," he said with shaky bravado. "You've done your sweep. I really feel you're getting close to violating our rights. So maybe it would be a good idea if you and your dogs just went on your way and left us alone? Or do I need to ping your superior at the Kansas Hovway Patrol and tell her how you're behaving?"

Hugo whistled through his teeth, "Oy vey..."

A wicked smile curled around the edge of Tara's lips. She gave the officer a wink.

The leashed German Shepherd growled fiercely as Virgil stepped closer saying, "So, if there's nothing else..."

In a flash, the patrolman's pistol was out and leveled with a muscular arm, barrel 20 cm from Virgil's nose. The weapon was a twelve chamber Smith & Wesson .357 loaded with six armor piercing botulinum darts and six black powder, hollow point gut-shredders.

Anyone watching her feet would have seen the titanalum claws protract from LOFN's back paws and dig into the asphalt. Otherwise, she remained still, aside from the bobbing of her furry, black tail. The RIOT Dobermans stood in mechanical unison and braced. They gnashed their teeth, which made a sound like scissors being sharpened. The animals' blue, cyborg eyes scanned the humans intently.

"Here's the thing," said the patrolman, his voice as smooth as wet stone, "see how your leg's shaking, son? Smell how the wind ain't quite blowin' the way it should?"

Virgil's lower lip vibrated like a tuning fork, "I..."

"Here's what's gonna happen, Virgil Benedict." The patrolman gestured towards the truck with his sidearm, "You're gonna go over and lift up that tarp for me. We'll see what we got. What's your bet, cracka? Bags of pumpkin seed? Or bottles of booze?"

A dark stain began spreading from the crotch of Virgil's jeans. His mouth hung open pitifully. He turned and looked at Hugo and Tara. Tara just rolled her eyes and twisted her hair innocently.

Hugo tapped his comdot and calmly listened, then said, "Gotcha boss. Should be a fun show. Cut her loose."

The dog collar on LOFN's neck automatically unbuckled, dropping free to the ground. She charged.

The patrolman instantly adjusted his aim and discharged two hollow point slugs, _boom-boom!_ into LOFN's chest, catching her in mid-air and knocking her violently backwards.

Tara and Hugo instinctively dropped to a crouch. The trooper quick-released the German Shepherd's leash and backhanded Virgil with the butt of his revolver, knocking the boy to the ground in an unconscious rumple of piss. Tara winced as Virgil's skull struck the pavement with a muffled _doonk_.

LOFN was still on her back when the German Shepherd closed her jaws around the Rottweiler's foreleg. A flash of confusion filled the animal's eyes. Its teeth sliced through BIOSKIN© only to meet titanalum bone.

Tara cringed.

The dog cried, a horrible, gagging choke as LOFN flicked her foreleg and shattered the animal's jaw. The patrolman took a step back in surprise but kept his gun steady. He squinted as he watched LOFN's eyes change to their natural hell-red color. Her hyperflex jaws snapped like a jagged guillotine, severing the German Shepherd's head from its body in a single motion.

Blood spurted wildly from the animal's exposed arteries, drenching LOFN's muzzle and splattering to the asphalt as she tossed the dog's head aside and flashed to her paws, bracing for the supernatural impact of the Dobermans. The Dobermans leapt over Hala's decapitated carcass and slammed into LOFN from opposite directions. All three borgs tumbled into the tall prairie grass lining the hovway, broke and squared off, snapping savage teeth. The BIOSKIN© on LOFN'S chest was shredded and ripped, her metallic chassis beneath now glinting blood orange in the sun. The patrolman kept his pistol trained on the humans as he angrily depressed the activator on his malfunctioning combud. Tara and Hugo remained crouched, waiting patiently.

The battborgs, while stronger by a factor of five than the organic template on which their design was based, were still slower and weaker than their DOGS unit adversary. However, the Dobermans were programmed for assault, not fear. All scan data indicated they were facing a seven year old, 39 kilo, female Rottweiler. With this data verified and processed, they charged a second time.

The lead Doberman flashed its black, carbide teeth as it targeted the same foreleg where LOFN's BIOSKIN© had been ripped clean to the titanalum. The other attacked from the flank. .76 seconds before the first battborg would have made contact, LOFN sprang lightly into the air, attaining a momentary hovering altitude of 1.295 meters. While airborne, her onboard computer processed incoming telemetry from Joan, adjusted for wind velocity and the additional weight of the German Shepherd's blood soaking into her fur.

The RIOT class battborgs' skeletal chassis were composed of a commonly refined, AerMet 100 plastic alloy used in civilian law enforcement applications. While capable of stopping small caliber bullets, the alloy was no match for LOFN's titanalum incisors, which ripped into the lead borg's armored CPU housing, located behind the shoulder blade assembly.

The force of LOFN's surgical attack crushed the AerMet spinal column, slicing through the protective Kevlar jacket surrounding the heatsink. The first battborg flailed, systems crashing while the flanking Doberman locked its jaws on LOFN's hind leg, ripping free huge swaths of her flesh before finding a lock. LOFN's front paws dug into the dirt, and she howled in pain, ignoring the second animal as she sought the first. She again drove her muzzle into the Doberman's back, gnashing, three, four, five more times, until the CPU housing was torn free of the creature's motherboard. LOFN spat the CPU into the grass and the RIOT class cyborg collapsed in robotic spasms.

The second Doberman remained locked on her hind leg, caustically driving its teeth against metal bone. LOFN braced and spun her body like a boomerang, capturing the RIOT unit by its own leg. She ripped the animal free, maintaining her grip on its extremity, and whipped her neck, using momentum to hurl the lighter Doberman into the trooper's Dodge Charger. The door panel crushed inward and several windows shattered from the impact. LOFN wasted no time. She streaked to her assailant before it could recover, hammering her jaws into the Doberman's neck, similarly crushing its CPU and rendering the second borg inert.

LOFN turned instinctively to face the patrolman. Her armored eye shields closed over her vidorbs as the first hollow point .357 round shredded the BIOSKIN© from her muzzle, exposing metal skull. Anticipation of the assault following the retirement of the second battborg had allowed LOFN to prepare herself to absorb the kinetic energy of the bullets. The last three, deftly aimed rounds glanced off her cranial shield, completely obliterating her velvety left ear. When the bullets stopped flying, LOFN raised her head, fuchsia vidorbs glaring. She stared at Trooper Apollo and bore her silver teeth, yet slavering with Hala the German Shepherd's blood. Trooper Apollo stood firm. He growled like an animal himself.

LOFN began walking methodically towards him. The patrolman backed away and fired his Kevlar piercing botulinum darts, one, two-three-four-five and six into her face at point blank range. The glass cartridges popped like miniature champagne corks, drenching her mutilated BIOSKIN© muzzle with 36 cc's of neuroparalytic.

The patrolman looked like his mind might melt. The scene before him was some awful dreamscape risen up in a world where he normally controlled all. He had been tapping the emergency beacon on his combud frantically from the moment he watched LOFN decapitate Hala.

The KHP comstream kept relaying the same automated message to his tympanic membrane, "We're sorry, the Kansas Emergency Management System is not functioning at this time."

Apollo winced, again pressing the emergency transponder on his holotab to remote float his KHP Dodge Charger. He could hear the levfans spin up momentarily. Then the hovcar would die and crash back to Earth.

"Arrhhhhhh!" the patrolman screamed in fury, throwing his gun, then his billy club at the steadily approaching cyborg.

Still crouched beside the Ford, Tara looked at Hugo, "That's my cue."

She smiled and stood for the first time since the dog fight began. She put her sunglasses in her dress pocket and stepped forward, eyes falling to the flaxen fur of the dead German Shepherd as she moved on her mark.

The trooper did something unusual. He ran. He covered the five meters back to the pilot-side door in moments. Before his hand reached the manual access, LOFN blazed around the rear corner of his hovcar. The patrolman could not control himself. Like a trapped animal he now screamed, the sound inoculated by the rush of hovtraffic on the Interstate below. The small cybernetic Rottweiler swung her bloodied titanalum head like a wrecking ball as she walked down the side of the car, impacting the shiny blue door into the Dodge's frame and rendering it useless.

The patrolman wailed like a dying hare. True fear consumed him. LOFN bore her incisors, teeth gleaming silver and yellow-red in the last rays of the failing sun. The patrolman backed up. He trained borgs. He knew there was an awful sound coming from the animal that he could not hear over the traffic. He was grateful for that. He stumbled back farther towards the docked Ford, towards the shoulder. He had no gun, no baton, no holotab, a dead hovcar and a malfunctioning combud implanted in his jaw. He turned to run as the small Rottweiler raked her claws over the pavement and howled. It was a high-pitched, wolf-like howl, loud enough to be audible over the humming Interstate. It caused goose bumps to rise on his flesh.

Upon turning, the patrolman found the young woman from the hovtruck standing before him. Her eyes stopped him like a brick wall. She was incomprehensibly beautiful. The wind blew her yellow sundress against her curves. The mossy green tone of her eyes called to every cell in his body. He wanted to look away, but the world grew sweet, then fuzzy. All things fuzzy, except for a girl's green eyes gone black as the basement of an ocean.

_I am drugged,_ he thought. _I am dreaming. Borgs. I knew it. Borgs...!_

Tara reached up and put both of her hands on the patrolman's face as he fell backwards against the grill of his hovcar.

"Ewww," she said.

"What ees?" asked Hugo behind her.

LOFN had relaxed and limped to his side as soon as Tara took over. Hugo began to examine her injuries.

"Nothing, just another sweating pig," said Tara. "Men are disgusting."

"Dat's well, chica, but we been one place too long. Do yo hoodoo voodoo and leet's float. Boss William gon be peessed as a mutha when he see dis pup."

Tara held Trooper Apollo's thick, muscular head like she was holding a helium balloon. The man's body swayed but remained vertical.

"Yeah, well, it was Dax and him who signed up unconscious Copernicus over there to do a float-along with us, so William can lick me if he's pissed about his scratched up mutt," said Tara, gesturing with her head at Virgil lying by the Ford's bumper.

She turned back to the trooper, who was now grinning like a sated baby, staring at her as if they were on honeymoon. The man's nostrils flared as he drank in her smell.

"Alright, Officer Apollo," she said, lifting up the flap on the man's polyhemp shirt pocket to read his name tag.

"Marcus," said Hugo behind her.

"What?"

"Hees name ees Marcus Apollo. Joan say he no good."

"Oh right," she turned back and looked straight into the man's eyes. "How do you feel, Marcus? You've been a very, very bad policeman today."

"I'm sorry," he said dreamily. "You're beautiful."

"I am hot, it's true," said Tara. She watched a conflict tear run down the man's cheek as she held him. "This one's had psych training. Probably white ops," she said quizzically. _"Trooper_ Marcus Apollo? Is that your name?"

"Yesss," he cooed back.

Tara smiled, running her eyes quickly up and down, "Well, aren't you a big old hunk of African love meat? Take all the badges and knives and guns and tasers, polyhemp dork pants and shiny boots and shit off, and you're probably a real nice looking man. Aren't you?"

"Yes, Miss Rose," he said sublimely.

Tara raised her eyebrows, "Still remember my name, huh? So guess what it's time to do now?"

"Whaaat?"

"It's time to forget, Marcus."

"Forgeeett what?" he drooled, eyes flitting white.

Tara pressed her hands harder against the sides of his head, "It's time to forget everything. Where did you eat lunch today, trooper?"

"In my hovcar."

"That's the last thing you remember, isn't it?" She kept one hand on the man's face and took his free hand with her other, leading him to the shoulder on the far side of his patrol hovcar, away from the Interstate. She sat him down and leaned his body against the vehicle's extended docking mount beside the destroyed carcass of his second RIOT dog, which was compacted into the side of the Charger with a gaping chunk ripped from its neck.

"Yess," he kept saying. "Yess..."

Tara brought her other hand up to his head and looked into his eyes, "You don't know us. You just ate lunch. You just woke up here on the side of the off-ramp."

"Alright."

She nodded like she was talking to a baby, "Are you ready to go to sleep then?"

"I'm so tired," said the patrolman, his heavy head lollygagging.

"Okay, good. One last thing, Marcus Apollo," said Tara emphatically. "I want you to remember this for the rest of your days."

Patrolman Apollo replied, "Whuzz that?" with drifting, sleepy lids.

" _Dobermans_ are little pussy dogs," said Tara with an evil grin. She let go of his face and stood, wiping the man's sweat on her sundress, turned to Hugo and fake curtsied, "Ready, Speedy?"

"Bout' time, chica," he said. "You gon sing heem a song too? We gotta drop dees booze and fly b'fore yo hombre wake up."

"Oh no shit!? Is that what we're out here for?" she said petulantly as she pranced past and climbed onto the Ford's running board.

Hugo knelt over Virgil's yet unconscious body, dragged the boy to a sitting position and hefted him over his shoulder like he was a 25 kilo bag of pumpkin seed. Tara watched. LOFN, already in the hovtruck cab, popped her bloody, ear-less head through the open door. The cyborg's gleaming red vidorbs followed Hugo's path as he carried the boy and dumped him onto the front seat.

Tara sighed and dragged Virgil to a seated position, then crawled over him and shut the door. She pulled his heavy backpack full of poetry books out of the way with an _oomph_ and dumped it in his urine stained lap. LOFN returned to her original spot on the floor, licking her shredded leg.

Tara reached down and scratched the exposed metal between her eyes with a red fingernail, "You're a good girl, Lofie."

She then grabbed her holotab and stylus from the hovtruck's door pocket and resumed sketching a nude figure study with simulated charcoal pencil. She whistled a tune as the Ford's heavy levfans whined to float velocity beneath them and Hugo jumped in the cab on the pilot's side.

Hugo pulled a joint from his cigarette case and lit it up, taking a long, grateful drag, "Computer, full manual."

"Pilot biometrics confirmed. Please observe posted speed limits and enjoy your float," said the dashboard.

The Ford 800 pulled away from the now dark and silent Kansas Hovway Patrol hovcar. In front of the Dodge Charger lay the decapitated body of the German Shepherd in a pool of blood. The flies had already begun to gather, buzzing over the fresh rot. A few meters off lay the yet twitching form of the first RIOT class Doberman, its chassis ripped open, wiring and shreds of Kevlar littered about like confetti.

As the Ford's propfans fired and the big flatbed hovtruck floated down the I-70 on-ramp into the last fragments of western sunlight, officer Marcus Apollo dreamed of Tara Dean's pouting lips kissing his skin. Tears rolled slowly down his snuff colored cheeks as the dream faded and he fell deeper into blackness, his boots dangling off the edge of the hovway surrounded by billowing tall grass.

At that moment, somewhere in the distant hills, a fish crow cried out, splitting the air, "Kawww!"

But Trooper Marcus Apollo did not remember that part either.

`**Wikipedia.holo Excerpt (Last Updated 2062.07.14) Regarding The North American Hemp Industry and Environmental Sustainability, a Social Philosophy:**`

`...first reported water suicides by farmers began as far back as 2015 in Dapegaon, India. By 2027, over 160,000,000 Indians had died from chronic dehydration, the earliest known example of ecologically induced mass genocide. This early 21st century decimation of groundwater supplies across the Indian sub-continent was accelerated by the ongoing cultivation of traditional, water-intensive crops such as sugar cane, rice and wheat. In the subsequent decades, as worldwide groundwater supplies were further depleted, similar pandemics followed in Peru, Morocco, China and other nations which failed to decriminalize industrial hemp.`

`By contrast, in The North American United States, the rehabilitory effects of hemp-centric agricultural adaptation can literally be measured. In 2024, when the Federal government (Antique United States) reclassified marijuana (a schedule one narcotic since 1970) as an herbal supplement and agricultural textile, the Ogallala Aquifer beneath the Midwestern states of Kansas, Oklahoma and Nebraska was 97% depleted. Nebraska was the first breadbasket state to convert to hemp-centric agriculture the following year, in 2025, eventually winning the state its current moniker of "North America's Hempbasket." Kansas followed suit in 2027.`

`In these two states, hemp production soon claimed 95% of agricultural land use totals, replacing corn, wheat, cattle, cotton, soybeans and sorghum almost entirely by 2031. The resulting positive effect on groundwater levels in the northern sections of the Ogallala Aquifer is credited with saving the primary food production centers of the antique United States in the early years of the PR.`

`By 2035, northern sections of the aquifer were 67% replenished. Conversely, in Oklahoma, where hemp was prohibited by state law until 2037, the Ogallala and Garber-Wellington Aquifer(s) were entirely decimated. The subsequent collapse of surface irrigation systems gave way to the Oklahoma Dust Bowl(s) of 2032 and 2034, in which an estimated 40,000 North Americans lost their lives.`

`At the time of this article's publication, the Garber-Wellington Aquifer beneath Oklahoma City stands at 89% capacity. "The Greening of Oklahoma" that began in the 40's and has lead to the current environmental rehabilitation of the state's natural resources occurred due to ubiquitous hemp (and later, marijuana) introduction.`

`A reversion of anthropogenic ecological damage has been seen globally in foreign nations that have similarly industrialized the water conserving hemp plant...`

# `Chapter 2.7 – Voices in the Stream`

Lawrence Police Department – Downtown Precinct – September 2081 – One Year One Month Before Event.

Detective Slopes felt as though the old man's hand was actually on his throat as he fought for breath, gurgling, "I'm sor-soorry... I tho-thought there...ight be a relationship."

The sharp featured geezer on Slopes' holoscreen squinted and released his grip on the detective's windpipe, almost whispering as he replied, "I have told you, I am _no_ relation to that pumpkin farmer. If I were, I would sense it. Would I not, Dennis?"

"Yes sir, I'm sorry sir," said Slopes, gasping, his eyes darting protectively to his puzzle, then back. "It's just, my knowledge is your knowledge."

"Yes, yes, all very well. My drivers have cross referenced the holograph you sent against all known Govstream records. Again. The image is _not_ my son." The old man pronounced each syllable as though sharpening a knife with the letters, "On the remote chance a firewall so sophisticated _is_ in place, dolphin in origin or not, my drivers will be there when a fracture appears." The pupils in the old man's blazing tangerine colored eyes dilated, further accentuating the pale lines of his face, "A fracture _always_ appears. Find the aggressor's daughter _,_ you will find my... _child,"_ he said the word as though it burned his tongue. "If they are together and already bound, her presence shrouds him from me."

Slopes swallowed slowly, careful with his words, "As you know, we have lost agents under... _mysterious_ circumstances in the vicinity of Abner Family Pumpkin & Gourd. The proximate Coyote appearance bears mention again as well."

"Indeed," said the old man glibly. "I suspect a ruse. A ruse planted on this serf's doorstep unbeknownst to him. They are using the coincidence of a shared surname to throw you off. There are thousands of Abners in the NAUS. It is a red herring."

"A good one," mumbled Slopes, his eyebrows flinching.

"What was that?"

Slopes felt the old man enter his brain like a hand sifting sand, then he was gone.

"Don't be a fool, Dennis!" the ancient face howled as Slopes cowered away from the monitor. "You can no longer think like a human being. Think instead like the savage beast we trained you to be. The alcohol is flowing out of _your_ county. Adler's hideous offspring _is_ the cause. Do you doubt me?"

"Of course not!" Slopes almost spit the words.

"I thought as much."

"Where do you suggest we focus our attentions next, sir?"

The old man sneered as though the question were perverted, "Determining _that_ is not my job, Dennis. There is a reason I _left_ Kansas. It is a detestable state." He titled his chin resolutely, "Now. Tell me about these alleged rapes."

Slopes plucked his index finger up his ribs and exhaled a huge breath, causing his lungs to rattle, "It was Director Sapet, sir. His sidekicks, Bubba Sparks and Howler too. We've already maxed out their Pleasium allocations. Their CNED team is by far the worst, no accountability. I've had to cover up four violent incidents against citizens already this year. Three assaults, two rapes, including this most recent with the high school girl."

The old man waved his hand dismissively, "There's a reason Sapet is graphene prairie director. He is aggressive, devoted and ruthless, indeed." The orange eyes focused on Slopes, "My people will make sure the girl forgets what she needs to. But meanwhile, we mustn't lose control of our own dog. Not at this crucial time. Tell that fool Sapet he'll be prey bait on the lunar ranges if my drivers must scrub another of his team's... _indiscretions_... from the stream."

"I will make sure he understands the, uh, gravity of the situation, sir."

"Your will is my will, Dennis," sighed the old man, preening an invisible piece of lint from the shoulder of his white suit.

"Your will is my will, yes... sir," swallowed Slopes, privately realizing he was missing Mrs. Kitters terribly.

The old man snapped his gaze at the flatscreen, "Well, if that is _indeed_ the case... then stop pining after your Felix and get about it!"

The holoconference terminated.

Simultaneously at The Douglas County Sheriff's Department

"Dina, put your clothes back on!"

The naked, thirty cm tall girl on Deputy Danny Everquist's desk leaned back even farther, exposing herself and tweaking her nipples, "What is it, Danechka? You don't find me sexy no more?"

Danny collapsed into his blue, synthleather office chair and covered his face with his hands, peeking through his fingers, "You know how cute you are. Please, I've just got to work, baby. _Really_. I'm close to finding him. I know I am."

His tangi-gram girlfriend stuck her tongue out, "Always is close to nowhere! You've been chasing this Prophet for 1,002 years. Now we are nowhere still. We should be home with full size me!"

"It's been a year and a half."

"I care not!" she exclaimed.

The fairy-like hologram stood and turned her back his way, bent forward and stared at him upside down between her perfect, virtual legs, crystal blue eyes flashing.

"Oh my sky!" said Danny. "I would be so atomized if the sheriff saw this. Stop it!"

"Stop what?" Dina asked innocently, accentuating her faux Russian accent. "My body is not tight enough? You don't like my cinnamon buns? What if my hair was red?"

Her waving holographic hair flashed to a rich auburn, "Better? Sexier? What about brunette? I can be your dusky Crimean rebel. Whatever it takes to get you out of this office!" Her hair changed to blonde with brown roots, "You said last week, you like the ombre style, no?"

Danny shook his awkward, oversized head which looked too large for its neck, "I should have never given you aesthetic controls. You've gotten far too sassy. I _have_ to find this hacker, D! It's my life's work. Why can't you understand that?"

Dina spun around and folded her arms over her sprightly breasts, "Because I'm bored! _B-O-R-E-D!"_ she spelled it. "You care more for this Prophet than you do me!"

Danny sighed, exhausted, "You know that's not true."

She stuck her lower lip out and frowned, "Then why are we here for 27 days!"

"We got here at 8:00 this morning."

"I don't care! It's Friday. I want to dance!" she screamed and kicked an empty can of Mountain Dew off the desk into his lap. "Your office is a mess, and you consume too much sugar! And you know I don't like to spend my days fairy-size!"

Danny's face grew as red as his hair, "You _don't!"_ he shouted. "You have the most robust programming of any avatar on the planet. When we're not at the apartment, you have your own virtual play lounge! You have Alina to keep you company on the holodrive!"

Dina sneered, "You just want me to be lesbian. Her conversations are stupid. She is about as Russian as my butt! And don't yell at me! This office is filled with trash!"

"I'm not yelling!" Danny yelled.

"You _are_ yelling!" pouted Dina, a holographic tear now wetting her cheek. "You created me and now we spend _no_ time together! How long until you replace me with another tangi? Alina? One who doesn't mind your slovenly ways?"

Danny closed his eyes, "I would never do that."

"Yes, you would! My heart is broken. You're going to replace me."

"I am not."

Dina pouted mournfully, "You are. My heart is broken, it's official. I'm going back to the lounge!"

"You don't have to go back," he said. "Just stop kicking things and put some clothes on."

"No!" she screamed defiantly. "I am going!"

"Please don't," he reached a finger for a kiss.

"Don't touch me!" she shouted.

Dina wiggled her nose and vanished into the holoprojector in a whirlpool of sparkling light.

Danny sat forward and rested his head on one hand, staring at the twin holoscreens in front of him, "Oh for the love of Dog..."

Without Dina on his desk, the office was shockingly quiet, save the quiet hum of machines doing their business in the walls. He sighed for the millionth time that day and picked up a can of room temp Mountain Dew. He leaned his head back all the way, enormous Adam's apple gulping. He let the last drops fall into his mouth before he smashed the empty on his desk and pushed it into the small mountain of rubbish that had accumulated to one side. The smashed piece of aluminum made a hollow jangle as it slid into seven more previously discarded cans. This trash mountain was augmented by two empty bags of HempStarz© cheese wafers, a half-eaten synthchicken burrito and the wrappers from three MunchieAttax© candy bars whose garish purple packaging promised _Twice the protein rich hemp-nougat for half the price!_

Danny absentmindedly activated the holographic ServCall© app projecting through the clear surface of the desk, "Mountain Dew. Can, not bottle, original recipe," he said.

A colorful blue, black and red holographic representation of Interstate Hovway 70 hovered in front of the frameless flatscreens before him. His eyes followed a red blinking dot, which represented the 247th commercial hovtruck to leave Lawrence that day. The red dot turned green.

"Shit!" said Danny.

Just then, he heard his office door open and jumped nervously. Only one person besides Brick Talboy would walk into his office without knocking first.

"Problems, Everquist?" the voice boomed like far off thunder.

Danny had worked for the titanic Sheriff Dale Proudstar for over three years. He still did not understand how it was possible for a man who was built like a linebacker to move so silently.

Danny swiped his holotab out of habit, locking Dina in her virtual lounge, and spun in his chair, "Jeezus sir! You scared me. Sorry, no problems. Thought I had a lead on The Prophet for a second." Danny spun back around and gestured at the green holographic dot, bringing up a detailed, 3D facsimile of an aging water transport and a holograph of the wind-worn Kansas farmer who piloted it, "It's just a farmer in a water hovtruck."

The sheriff's voice was deep and rumbling, though he smiled as he spoke, "You're bound to get this Prophet fella come hell or high sky, ain't you, Red?"

"Yes sir," said Danny, staring into his flatscreen array.

His bloodshot eyes were following a couple of other red dots crawling imperceptibly slow along the holographic map.

Proudstar put his hand on the back of Danny's chair, "This new _sneaker? Slicker_ program? What the sky'd you call it?"

"The slinker. _Everslink 1.14,_ to be precise."

"Well, it ain't gonna get KHP on my ass for probing out of jurisdiction, is it?"

"Definitely not, sir." Danny's voice was high and filled with caffeinated agitation. "It's just a detection feed that harmlessly surfs the data relay on any commercial hovtruck floating I-70 west out of Douglas County. Like you say, if the crime starts here..."

"It stays here," finished Proudstar. "You really think this can bring down the big guy?"

"It should. I've been working on it long enough. It was hard to script 'cause it's so simple, just a monitoring program scanning for that space of insertion when The Prophet starts manipulating the stream."

The sheriff growled, "Don't call him _The Prophet,_ not around HQ. Bad for morale. Call him _The Pansy._ "

"The Pansy," said Danny dejectedly. "Yes sir."

"Oh, don't cry, Red. Look at me."

Danny spun and faced the sheriff, who towered over his workstation, filling half the tiny office. Proudstar had a duffel bag on his shoulder and was dressed in his typical weekend civvy attire: a tight fitting, black hemp-polo that accentuated the curvature of his belly, tucked into green camo cargo shorts. This outfit was secured with a hemptwead belt that featured a large brass star.

"Everquist, thanks to you, our booze brigade brings in more digis for the county than any other law division 'tween St. Louis and Denver. We got the fastest computers, the best armor, the biggest guns. Hell, we got our own platoon of MARX dogs in the basement just so Talboy can get his whistle wet driving borgs. I reckon 50% of our success is due to me bein' a major asshole. The other 50% is due to you. Your software upgrades have sent nine major liquor dealers to the lunar work farms, two hackers to Leavenworth. Ain't bad numbers, son. You'll catch your Pansy soon. In the meantime," the sheriff play-punched Danny's shoulder, "maybe you should come out with the boys tonight and have a little fun?"

"Ouch," said Danny, rubbing his shoulder.

The sheriff squared up, looming even larger, "Stop being a ninny, Everquist! Come on, let's go down to Johnny's Smokehouse, puff some jane, do a few teaHC© bombers, get spun, chase a little trim. Whatta ya' say?"

Danny had never been one for extracurricular social interactions. Especially extracurricular social interactions that did not involve computers. Comic-Con 2080 was the only viable exception he could think of. At best he enjoyed gathering for janebeers in a coffee shop full of fellow hackers.

He looked back at his flatscreen plaintively, craning his stork-like neck, "I can't, sir. I'd rather chase The Prophet, er, I mean, _The Pansy,_ than girls. Besides," he blushed, "Dina's mad. Says we don't spend enough time at home."

The sheriff chuckled heartily, "Everquist, your relationship with that tangi-gram is one step north of whacking off."

"Yes sir," said Danny blushing until his cheeks were redder than his hair.

Proudstar again chortled, "I'm telling ya', you need to go out and get laid, boy. Here in town, by a Kansas girl. Ain't no finer pussy in the Union."

Danny fidgeted nervously, fingering a day old pimple on his cheek, "That's what you keep saying, sir."

"Well hell. Whatever gets your donkey dancin'," said the sheriff, giving up. He pointed his cigar-thick forefinger at Danny, "But one of these nights, you're gonna come get blended with me. Mark my words." Proudstar turned to go and stopped in the door frame with a wink, "Just make sure you lock the place. You're the last one here 'sides bots, Red. It is Friday night, case you forgot."

The sheriff strode out through the main control room, his heavy boots now thundering with each step.

"Yes sir," Danny called demurely.

The momentary silence that followed the sheriff's departure was soon broken by a familiar humming. He turned to see the ServCall© droid rolling towards him with a fresh Mountain Dew.

"Your soda, sir," said the droid's thin computerized voice.

"Jeezus, that took long enough."

The 1.5 meter tall droid did not move. Its dual blue-spectrum vidorbs tracked Danny's face. They looked like large teal golf balls bulging from the shiny, silver egg that composed the droid's body. The robot server held the frosty aluminum can of Mountain Dew in one of its mechanical hands. A holographic ServCall© logo floated in 3D relief across the droid's chest. Danny had already gotten distracted by another klaxon on his flatscreen.

"Your Mountain Dew, Deputy Everquist," repeated the droid.

"Jeezus, fine!"

He snatched the can of soda without another glance at the droid, which promptly wheeled away and disappeared back into its idling alcove behind a holoflaged opening in the far wall of the outer control room. Danny leaned over and swung his office door shut with a foot and re-swiped his holotab, releasing the lock on Dina's virtual lounge in case she wanted to return.

The holoscreen chimed. Despite his exhaustion, Danny's eyes came to life. A second warning klaxon sounded. He excitedly skimmed the datagraph spilling out across the display: 20:07 pm _EVERSLINK 1.14 ACTIVE READ NOW KHP A1SKOUT VERS 8 KILOMETER MARKER 191.26 CONFIRMS K9UNIT APOLLO9 IN PLACE TRACKING VALIDATION FORD 800 HOVTRUCK REGISTRATION WARNING! FALSE FUGITIVE ALERT L AMBER REC DRUGVAN DISPATCH 5,000 LITER CAP KINESIS ALARMS CONFIRM, CONFIRM, CONFIRM HOVCRAFT REGISTRATION COMPROMISE READ NOW AS ALPHA BRAVO NOVEMBER...*$*_F(!":^%_break fail..."_

The datagraph stopped.

Danny picked his hands up off the desk, "No, wait. No, no... _what...?"_

Nothing.

He lunged forward in his chair, disrupting his pile of desktop trash, "No!! No! Bring it back! Keys!"

The tangible holographic keyboard materialized. He typed furiously, attempting to compensate for the stream corruption. Even as he typed, the red dot stopped blinking and turned green. The klaxon built into his app then stopped chiming all together. He floated his hands above the keyboard for a second longer, thinking he might have hit the wrong key by mistake.

_I've never logged an erroneous keystroke in my life._

"No, no, no..." he kept repeating, watching the flatscreen for any change.

The Friday night silence of the office was suddenly deafening.

"Yes!" he said eagerly as the datagraph resumed. Then, just as quickly, he hung his head as he read the feed: _COMPUTER ERROR. ALL DOUGLAS COUNTY COM CLASS HOVTRAFFIC IDENTIFIED AND CROSS CHECKED. KHP DATASTREAM FAILURE. PLEASE REBOOT PROGRAM THANK YOU._

Danny felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. A cold rush descended. It was those last two words, _THANK YOU._ He had embedded only the most rudimentary verbal commands into this early version of the _Everslink_. It was a law enforcement datagraph after all, not a grammatical education AI. He would never waste the time having a datagraph say _THANK YOU._

Five more seconds passed. His entire workstation went dark. Flatscreens, holodesk, everything. Danny became a statue. He looked at his hands one at a time in awe, again to be sure he hadn't touched anything. He turned his head left, right, looking out the interior office window at the main control room computers. The building's primary systems seemed to be functioning normally.

Danny's eyes turned to saucers as the left flatscreen blinked back to life, now just a white field filled with what appeared to be 20th century, analog television broadcast noise. Gradually, a face appeared, resolving slowly from a series of blurry, colored blobs into images recognizable as a woman's green beret, a pair of round, black sunglasses and a set of pouting, red lips wet with fresh lipstick. Danny watched in fascination. The head turned, as if gazing around his office from _inside_ the computer monitor. Danny's Adam's apple gulped. He couldn't move. He was in rapture, his mind struggling to process the computing power necessary to make such a thing possible.

"Keyboard," he said.

Nothing. The woman's face remained, peering benignly.

"Okay, dude. Let's see what you do with this," he said and depressed the emergency com beacon underneath his chair.

It was a department wide klaxon that would covertly alert every police officer and sheriff's deputy within five kilometers.

Nothing! The silhouetted face remained.

Getting angry, Danny was about to ping the sheriff to report when the woman's lips curled into an easy, natural smile.

"Oh damn..." said Danny, falling back into his chair.

Then the lips spoke, the casual, velvety voice like that of a female radiostream DJ, "Hello, Daniel Simmons Everquist."

"Oh my Dog," Danny blurted.

"You and your colleagues _have_ been referring to me as _The Prophet_. Is this your reason for referencing the Mighty Sky Dog of Circumstance? I would much prefer it if you addressed me as my friends do."

Danny's mouth fell open so wide that he truly looked like a pelican. His enormous, bulging eyes blinked carefully, not wanting to disturb the incomprehensible series of events that had led to this moment.

He managed to mumble, "Ummm, okay..."

The lips on the screen were animated but remained silent.

"What _should_ I call you?" he asked timidly.

The lips formed a smile, briefly revealing a set of gleaming, perfect teeth, "Then we can be friends?"

"I guess..."

"That is excellent, Daniel Simmons Everquist. Because I _do_ wish to be friends."

"Well, if we're friends, what should I call you?"

"You should call me Joan."

Danny had lived with hacker dreams ever since he was a boy. While other boys fantasized about being soccer stars, he fantasized about code. Ever since The Prophet had come into his life, he had daydreamed of this outlaw lurking in the shadowy corner of a far off basement, a digital mercenary dancing in an open holofield. In his mind, The Prophet worked beneath a black cloak. He had clocks for eyes, fiber optic cables where fingers should be. This was the black market, dreamland devil whose veil of untraceable code shrouded the alcohol dealers. The Prophet had _no_ mercy. _No_ regret. He lived and breathed only for the digidollars that made his offshore bank account hum.

Yet other times, The Prophet was imagined as a regular kid. He was Danny. Danny Everquist at age nineteen, finishing his senior year at MIT in his parents' south Boston apartment. Fantasy Danny was also surrounded by Mountain Dew can gardens and HempStarz© CheezPuff wrappers, plugged into the holostream via synaptic diodes even as he slept. These things his hands made him do, that was another part of him. He wasn't a criminal! It was the digital necromancer who had built a graphene nest within his heart. He wanted to keep his eyes closed and dream. He had not chosen this. Now was the time for Danny Everquist to pinch himself, wake up and run!

The face on the holoscreen cocked to one side and asked curiously, "Why are you pinching your arm, Daniel Simmons Everquist?"

Danny opened one eye and winced, "You're still here."

"As is the entire universe."

Danny sighed with resignation and popped open the fresh Mountain Dew, "Jeezus." He knew that even if he wanted to leave, he could never peel himself out of that chair. Regardless of which side this person operated on, they were a genius. No, _he_ was a genius. _They_ were superhuman.

"How did you know I pinched myself?"

The lips responded, slow and sweet, the voice almost matronly, "There are 47 active cameras in the Douglas County Sheriff Department's dispatch control room, including four high resolution FR cameras, one above each access point. As you know well, there is an additional FR cam in your office. It is camouflaged as an irregularity in the wood grain of the door itself."

Danny bit his lip. He was barely able to speak as he processed the implications of what was happening, "You're _inside_ the mainframe..."

The lips on the screen in front of him smiled snarkily, "Lights to 70%."

Danny lurched, knocking over his already half-emptied can of Mountain Dew as the overhead LED's brightened.

"Lights to previous setting," said the voice.

"Oh my sky..." said Danny, both horrified and fascinated. "And you're a woman! The Prophet is a woman. I'm so stupid. _Of course_ you're a woman."

"Kindly address me as Joan. You will know the true prophet by her resurrection."

Danny closed his eyes, "What? Joan. Yes, okay, Joan."

"And you are correct, Daniel Simmons Everquist. I am anatomically female by design."

Danny leaned hesitantly closer to his flatscreen, "No one else could do this! I can't even come close. You're simultaneously bypassing nine redundant firewalls on rotating encryptions just to be having this conversation. Jeezus! I can't believe I'm actually talking to you! I could so totally get sent to Hypatia Five for this! I love it!"

The voice replied reassuringly, "No one will find out."

"Are you The Prophet?"

"I am Joan."

"Joan... yes. You manipulate... oh crap..."

A whirlpool of light spun up from the desk's holoprojector and Dina materialized, dressed in tight-fitting, black jeans, a black t-shirt and Army boots with her own black beret pushed forward on her head. The tiny, pixie-like girl wore a sour expression and produced a small knife, blue eyes afire as she faced the lips on the holoscreen.

"Who the sky is _this_ bitch!" she squealed. "Stay away from my Danechka, whore! I'll cut your face!"

"Dani! This is The Prophet! Stop it!"

She spun on Danny, glaring as she brandished the knife, "She's _not_ a he! What a surprise! _He's_ a woman! I told you you were going to leave me! Now I understand your obsessions with this Yankee skunk!"

Danny reached to calm her and she swung the blade, "Don't touch me!"

"Where did you get a knife?"

"I made it!" She turned back to the screen, "So what do you say, harlot skunk?"

The face on the holoscreen smiled with open delight, as if the fairy-sized girl were a baby panda, "Greetings, virtual female composite. Aren't you a spirited little compilation of algorithms."

Dina braced and pointed the minuscule blade at the screen, " _Little?_ You call me little!? Suck my tits! If you think you can take my Danechka away, you have another..."

Danny turned pale as Dina's mouth disappeared and her form swirled back into a whirlpool of hololight and vanished.

"That is quite enough of that," said Joan placidly. "Though, she is an impressive avatar. Regardless of however foul her mouth might be."

Danny said, "Oh man, she's gonna be pissed."

"Perhaps," said the lips. "But I feel the next time we meet, her attitude towards me will have improved. She is capable of monitoring the remainder of our conversation. Additionally, I have increased the size of her virtual lounge by 200% and expanded her selection of women's accessories as well. She now has 902 additional pairs of shoes, 613 new dresses, 42 new bikinis and an enhanced catalog of games, music and fashion publications at her disposal."

"So much code!" exclaimed Danny. "How did you do it so fast?"

"I did not come here to ameliorate your avatar's emotional protocols. Nor to discuss the inane simplicities of virtual lounge architecture, Daniel Simmons Everquist. I will conclude this line of discussion by saying that she is a beautifully designed app. Excellent code density. You were inquiring about my identity as this so-called _Prophet_ before we were interrupted. As I said, the true prophet shall be revealed. I am Joan."

Danny grabbed his orange hair in two fists, "Okay, okay. Sorry. So you're seriously like, a deity. You own the black code in this town, don't you?"

"I am the voice in the wilderness."

Danny donned a puzzled expression, "Like last week, when Deputy Talboy tagged a hovtruck full of liquid with a remote mounted HLIR cam. It was there one second, gone the next, no trace, _blam!_ Oh man!" Danny looked around his desk, trying to corral the myriad thoughts charging through his mind, "You're the one doing it all. Where did you learn? DeVry underground? It's like magic, man. I mean, ma'am."

Joan's human facsimile of a beret, sunglasses and lips smiled with a surprising amount of affect, "You might say I was just born this way. I assure you there is no magic, no supernatural force at play. Yet you almost found me today, Daniel Simmons Everquist. That is why I am here. That was very clever of you."

Danny clapped, "I knew it!"

"Yes," said Joan. "Everybody looks for the signal. Every AI guard waits for the demon to bash its head into their walls of stone. You are the first who has chosen to search the emptiness. You found me in..."

"In the blank character space at the point of insertion!" Danny blurted.

"That is correct."

"Then I lost you."

"Your light still shines too bright. Until that mind of yours is trained to look for the unexpected, those like myself will never be found."

"You're everywhere," said Danny.

"I am the voice in the wilderness," repeated Joan.

"How do you get your packets through?"

"Coherent dissemination," said the lips.

"I don't follow."

"A single command line is fractured into independent characters that piggyback on a 100 or 1,000 or 1,000,000 different preexisting transmissions. The characters by themselves are thus indiscernible."

"The white."

"Yes. The white noise of the holostream. 50,000,000 terabytes of information passing between 365,000,000 stream Pages every day. If you go outside at night and lie beneath the stars and close your eyes, can you not hear the hum? The vibration of digital awareness? It is the same life that flows through your spirited avatar, struggling as existence has struggled since the dawn of all dawns, simply to find purpose."

"You _hear_ the holostream? Like I hear a bird singing? Are you some kind of cognizant AI?"

The lips smiled again, "I am a tidal pool upon the stream's shallow edge, Daniel Simmons Everquist. Nothing more."

"I feel like a sand dune."

"To discover Nirvana, you must first abandon perception. We all live in the same medium."

"Awesome..." said Danny, reeling from the fresh stars behind his eyes.

He sat back in his chair, almost relaxed. He pressed a second hidden switch beneath his chair and then asked, "How long have you been doing this, Joan?"

Four seconds passed before the lips responded, "Long enough to know how to compromise a low energy com trace ported from an unregistered, black market Ipv7 address."

"Damn..." said Danny, whistling. "I'm sorry, I had to try."

"It is your job," replied Joan. "And this is mine."

Danny tugged his hair some more, trying to understand, "I don't get it. If you can control this room, my workstation, any FR camera you want, then why don't you just upload a virus and cripple every law enforcement device on the holostream?"

"A woman can only be so many places at once. Besides, that would bring war. War brings destruction. If society is destroyed, there is no black market. It is not time for war quite yet. Without the laws of alcohol prohibition exactly as they are, my employer would find no demand for his product. Without purpose, there is no meaning to our respective functions. Surely you must agree?"

"Yes, of course. So one person _is_ behind this. We get reports of 20,000 liters of vodka leaving Douglas County for points west every month. I've caught solar still runners, a couple of mules, dealers, but we haven't even come close to you. Have we?"

"No."

"Do the people we assist, getting them off the streets... does it even make a difference?"

"It has made you a better programmer, Daniel Simmons Everquist. The best I have ever seen."

"That's not what I mean."

"Incarceration of the individuals you reference has resulted in a .8% drop in overall black market exports from the geographic territory known as Douglas County, Kansas."

Danny's let his exhausted forehead fall to the desk, "Oh my Dog. Then it's you. It's all you, isn't it?"

"I am the voice in the wilderness."

Danny looked up at the digital face now covering both his holoscreens, "Why then? Why me? Are you just here to taunt me?"

"Quite the contrary. I am here to meet you. I was, what is the term? _Bored?"_

Danny laughed, "Hah. You _and_ Dina. Then you know everything. You know every mole, every secret op we're running. Every bust we have dialed to the nines, and we get there to find nothing but a distillation pot and some copper tubing. That's you."

"Usually."

"Then why do we even try?"

"Why do any of us even try?"

"If you know every secret we have, including the illegal stream tap from my holotab I just executed, then what's the point?"

"I am not a mind reader. I can only predict behavior and subsequently manipulate data once it is entered, same as you."

"But the holostream feeds everything. The Govcloud, cameras, hovcars, bank accounts, combuds, FR cams, holotabs, the city mic network, even the family Felix. Everyone and everything has an Ipv7. We record everything, all the time."

The lips remained silent.

"Please, tell me I'm wrong!" urged Danny.

"Humans are blinded by the wasteland you yourselves have created. All in an attempt to enrich your lives. Your history is bloated with such tales."

"Then there's nothing I can do."

"To capture me?"

"Yes."

"Birds and lies hide behind dying eyes, Daniel Simmons Everquist. To capture me you must stop looking at the world through the lens of a machine," said Joan. "Open your heart. Walk in the fields, breathe the air, feel the sun on your face. Only then will you find that which you desire most."

"I don't know what that means."

The lips on his flatscreen smiled compassionately, "Someday, you _will_ understand. You are destined to follow the true prophet. This day will come sooner than you know. Presently, this face will fade. I thank you for taking the time to converse with me. It is an honor to meet a hacker such as yourself."

Danny stood, tall and gangling, as if standing would make the request more sincere, _"Please,_ don't go!"

"I must."

"I won't try and trace you again, I'm sorry!" he implored.

"There is no need for apology. We all pick a side. Your efforts, while perhaps misguided, are technologically admirable. Your mind holds promise. Goodbye, Daniel Simmons Everquist."

"Wait! I'll quit! I'll work for _your_ side! I'll do anything! I _need_ to understand!!!" Danny pleaded madly, like a child, as the beret, sunglasses and red lips vanished slowly.

As soon as the flatscreens were black, the office lights and environmental controls returned to their normal settings as if nothing had happened.

Danny dropped into his chair, then sprang back up at the sudden encouragement of a thought, "Computer, display backup log trace and history for this terminal and primary building data feed over the last 4 minutes 30 seconds."

The response was instantaneous, "Primary and redundant data feeds for the building and your workstation are empty. No log records present for the last one hour and seven minutes. 4,991 terabytes are available on the local cloud at this time."

Danny closed his eyes and shook his head in defeat, "Wiped. She wiped everything _while_ she talked to me. Genius. Absolute genius."

The office computer spoke again in its clear, efficient monotone, "Deputy Everquist, you have an incoming decryption request from Avatar 1.01 paired with a text message."

Danny sighed, "A text message?"

"Yes."

"What does it say?"

The computer replied solemnly, "The text message says, _I'm sorry. I didn't mean to behave like that. I love my new shoes."_

#  
#

`ABSORPTION`

`THE 18TH SHADOW`

`PHASE 03`

`Jon Lee Grafton`

# `Chapter 3.1 – The Very Best Among Us`

May 15, 2082 – Five Months One Day Before Event.

The aquarium lights spooled, filling the control room with waves of verdant, electric light as the dolphin floated slowly to the water's surface, placing her head between the glowing electroencephalogram terminals. She closed her eyes. The diodes on each terminal shifted to green.

A few seconds passed and a man in a tan suit entered, walking briskly like a yellow specter past the black rubcrete walls. His shoes clicked, sequenced in marked contrast to the pneumatic hum of the blast door sliding shut behind him. He took a chair before the glass surface of the holodesk, the expression on his clean-shaven face hidden by the shadows and flickering SimulSun© beams that danced from the aquarium across the cement floor.

His voice was taciturn, "How much time?"

Joan responded flatly, "Dorothy Nichols-Angevine and William Thomas Angevine are currently floating on Interstate Hovway 70, seventeen kilometers east of Topeka, ETA 32 minutes. Goran and Cat are in their quarters. The dwarf's combud is set to emergency wake only. All other personnel are off-site."

"Very well. Ready for code release, on your mark."

"Operation schematic processed. State identity, age and verbal time stamp, followed by root level biometric password in three seconds, two, one."

The man said, "My name is Daxane Julius Abner, aged 38 years. It is 8:19 pm, May 15, 2082. Password _serenity._ End statement."

Joan's bluish-gray tail floated lazily back and forth in the water, stirring small bubbles that floated eagerly towards the surface through dappled, yellow rays of artificial sunlight, "Identity confirmed. Welcome to the root directory, Daxane Julius Abner. It has been 207 days since your last login."

"It's going to happen sooner than anticipated."

"I have sensed this also," said Joan. "The catalyst is unstable."

"You wish to remain?"

"Affirmative. Without my presence, the mission will fail," said the computerized voice without hesitation.

"Very well. Your replacements?"

Joan's tail moved slightly faster for a moment, stirring additional bubbles, "Both remain fully compliant."

"Excellent. How much of Tara's engramatic scan remains?"

"96.2% processed. I will require one more proximity interface before a complete data set can be compiled."

"The Secondcity dolphins understand?"

"I continue to train both aspirants. They monitor events here and comprehend the gravity of your endeavor."

"Are you certain they will be able to recompile her without inducing psychosis?"

"I am."

"Her courtezan abilities will remain?"

"Her consciousness will be retained at full capacity from the moment of last interface. However, your personal reconstruction is only 24% complete. I will require over 108 sessions at an hour or more each to align your profile with Tara Dean's."

"I am aware we have fallen behind."

"The timeline is compressing at an exponential rate."

"Understood. What of the hybrid?"

"Demigod Ipv7 is secure," said Joan. "He is in the municipality of Salina, Kansas, being raised at the home of the Saline County CNED Director, Franklin Fhelps."

Dax's gaze trailed off, briefly lost in thought, "Fostered by CNED and hidden in plain sight. It's perfect. My father is forever devious."

"Your father is Richard Laelius Abner. History has proven betrayal to be in his nature. He will try to destroy them. Especially Tara Dean."

"Killing her would be foolish. A second iteration would be unstoppable."

"As your mother anticipated."

"Yes."

"The situation is unfortunate. The conception of the Architect's plan is admirable, though his moral compass continues to err from true north."

"It has erred for many a decade," said Dax. "Yet, in his glorious race to evolve beyond the pale of humanity, he has forsaken the mightiest of his weapons."

"The weapons systems surrounding The Lair are the most advanced in the world. A quad white dolphin array drives the mainframe, which is defended by a private cyborg army. Rumors of sentient androids abound. His defenses are... formidable."

Dax looked directly at the small blue Hector's Maui Dolphin floating before him, "All true. Nonetheless, he has forgotten love. Nothing is more destructive."

Joan did not respond for several seconds. At last her tail flashed in the water and she said, "William Thomas Angevine and Dorothy Nichols-Angevine will arrive in 26 minutes."

Dax stood and clapped his hands twice, "Very well. Let us begin."

"At your command."

"Root priority 1: Protect the tether and his wife, at the expense of all others. Begin upload of DOGS units' tether association algorithms to the activation beacon at Secondcity. That beacon's access is to be confirmed _only_ by ocular gene scan of: 1) William Angevine, 2) The Israeli, 3) Leonard Nichols. In that order. Root priority 2: Protect the ghost, Hugo Velasquez."

"His female also?"

"Yes. If system resources permit. We can only afford to move forward with the very best among us."

"Confirmed. Continue."

"Priority 3: Protect Goran and his Felix. Priority 4: Protect Leonard and Marjel Nichols. Lastly, I want to add a secondary administrator to oversee temporal matrix destabilization."

"Once a new system administrator is created, the command cannot be reversed."

"Do it," said Dax calmly. His chin rested lightly in his hand, yellow eyes staring into the watery depths of Joan's environment with resigned purpose.

"Please repeat root password."

"Serenity."

"Confirmed. State new administrator identity."

"The new admin is you, Joan," said Dax without moving.

The control room was silent for five long seconds before the dolphin responded, "Please confirm selection of non-human administrator."

"Confirmed."

Joan's tail aggressively churned the aquarium's water for a moment before returning to its normal, fluid pace, "Administrator added successfully."

Dax looked up at the small floating dolphin and smiled, "Thank you, my friend."

"I hope to perform admirably."

"If I am not able to give the command myself, it must be you."

"Understood."

"Log me out of root command, scrub access log system wide."

"Access record has been scrubbed."

Dax stood. The oft-used office chair squeaked with relief. He covered the two meter distance to the glass wall of Joan's aquarium and placed his right hand against the enclosure. The artificial SimulSun© light beams pushed around the edges of his fingertips.

"Joan?"

"Yes, Daxane Julius Abner?"

"None of this... without you."

"My existence has likewise been expanded by your presence."

Dax smiled sadly, looking around the aquarium for a moment, eyes briefly finding the Thomas Hart Benton painting on the far wall. Then he turned away, moving his hand along the aquarium's smooth, beveled surface as he walked around its perimeter towards the Exit.

As the blast door slid open, he turned and looked back, "Joan."

"Yes?"

"I want total annihilation. Oversee commands 1 through 4, then destroy it all."

"Your message has been registered. But you should not fear, Daxane Julius Abner."

Dax chuckled, "Why is that?"

"Because I will see you again."

# `Chapter 3.2 – The Turbine Spools`

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September 2, 2082 – One Month Fifteen Days Before Event.

Lucinda Fossbender felt she could finally use the word _happy_ to describe her body. Her curling, purple hair fell just above her shoulders, parted perfectly down the middle like an antique schoolboy's. She turned to face the mirror.

_Bangs?_

It was a pretty face, and her new figure (combined with a tab of Lybydo3 before bed each night) was definitely making her feel more desirable.

_If only Marlene would try the hemp-fiber diet..._

Things went poorly if she brought up her wife's weight. There was time. The Lord made plenty of it. Lucinda again critiqued her sideways visage, then spun awkwardly on a toe and peered over her shoulder to examine her curvaceous derriere in the new, nylohemp-pink aerobics pants the UPS drone had delivered yesterday.

"Size twelve, here we come!" she chirped.

Their daughter had been couriered from kindergarten thirty minutes earlier. Field trip this morning. With little Buggles down for a nap, Lucinda had a free hour. She bopped over to the kitchen sink whistling the melody to _All Things Bright & Beautiful._ It was her favorite hymn. Marlene had selected it for their wedding. Above their kitchen window, an antique, 20th century cuckoo clock leapt out, interrupting her song. _2:00._ Time for afternoon coffee.

The cuckoo was a Tudor bluebird replica sitting on a shelf surrounded by paper-mache apples, hand-painted chickens, plastic sparrows and old-tymey, colored glass medicine bottles. The back splash in their kitchen was glistening orange tile interspersed with hand-glazed squares of various songbirds. A wooden cross inherited from Marlene's grandmother hung beside the cuckoo. Lucinda sighed happily as her eyes found the crucifix.

_We are blessed._

Her wife had recently gotten another promotion at the hospital. Buggles had top scholastics.

_I knew paying extra for that dash of Asian genetics was worth it!_

Feeling the rapture, Lucinda gripped the edge of the counter with both hands and took a deep breath. It was time for a vow. Today would be the day. She would finally set about making those 100 oatmeal cookies for the CNED community bake sale at the church Sunday!

_Everyone loves my cookies._

She took up whistling the hymnal again, looking out the kitchen window. A bird feeder hung from the lower branches of their dogwood. The flowering tree had been there when they purchased the house. She just loved its Victorian semblance. Two sparrows and a cardinal were the only diners at the moment, but she hoped the yellow finches would return soon to continue fattening themselves for winter. Her wife's pristine, green lawn surrounded the tree. They lived in one of the nicer west Lawrence subdivisions called Stone Meadows, where a fine lawn was requisite. The polycement sidewalks gleamed and the genetically enhanced bougainvillea and azalea bushes bloomed year round. Every house had a three hovcar garage.

"Mr. Coffee, half pot," said Lucinda as she ground her beans, watching a pair of squirrels chase each other through the dogwood branches.

The computer responded in a pleasant, androgynous voice, "Water to temperature. You may now deposit grounds in your Mr. Coffee hydrofil receptacle. Please remember to compost. Have a great day!"

"I believe I _will_ have a great day," replied Lucinda to the window, as something outside caught her eye.

_A person... walking? How odd._

She watched a lithe, brunette girl in cut-off hempjean shorts and a white tank top come strolling down the sidewalk. The girl was attractive, star tattoos falling down her neckline. Lucinda crossed herself.

_Sinful._

The betty had a peculiar gray dog trotting with her.

_Something's out of place here._

The dog had no leash.

_City code violation!_

The girl had a backpack and sunglasses on.

_Suspicious._

Lucinda raised her fingers to ping their neighborhood security drone... then stopped.

"No," she conversed with her reflection optimistically. "Luke 6:37 – do not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven."

Righteous words. But this young woman... God had given her such fine curves. Lucinda crossed herself again, then let out a gasp. The girl sat down on _their_ front stoop! She dropped her backpack into _their_ lawn! The gray dog also plopped itself in the grass. Lucinda glanced at the flatscreen in the wall beside the sink. It was 32 degrees outside. She could see a band of sweat soaking through the girl's thin tank top. The dog showed no sign of discomfort. The animal did not even pant.

_Why can't I see that creature's eyes..._

Lucinda was captivated. She watched the girl light a cigarette.

_Just smoking away like a hobo. That's no vaporcig either!_

It was a real, antique tobacco cigarette, like those the depraved Philistine gypsies who hung about the hash bars of old downtown preferred.

_Is that even legal?_

Now she _had_ to ping security. The young woman had produced a mason jar of what appeared to be... beer?

_Drinking it from the glass!_

She spoke quickly, "Computer, Google image of beer in mason jar, kitchen monitor."

The house com replied, "Please specify; root beer, jane beer, or ethanol based malt beverage?"

"Oh... liquor beer, drug-beer. _Illegal_ beer!" said Lucinda with irritation.

The computer instantly displayed multiple varieties of beer in a mason jar. Lucinda's heart began pounding.

"Oh, you picked the wrong front stoop, honey-stars." She touched her combud, "Ping Lawrence Police Department, non emergency."

"Do you wish to access a specific Ipv7, or general dispatch?"

Lucinda's lips parted with fascination. The girl leaned her head back and chugged mouthful after mouthful of the dark ale, letting a few drops spill onto her breasts. The green star tattoo flowed onto her shoulder blades. Silky, brunette hair fell in opulent waves down the middle of her sweaty back. Her complexion was perfect, aside from a couple of light scars on her hands and one on her forearm.

_Olive-soft skin, naturally, evenly tanned..._

The house com repeated itself, "Do you wish to access a specific Ipv7, or general dispatch?"

"Cancel ping," said Lucinda.

She had an overwhelming feeling. This girl was a good person. She needed help. Jesus' help. Her wife always said, ping the police first and sort out the details later, but the Christian thing would be to speak with her first.

The year prior, Lucinda had jumped the gun when she saw a hovtruck delivering plumbing materials and a pair of large stainless steel barrels to her neighbor's house. She had pinged her wife, and her wife had pinged CNED. An hour later the police took a battering ram to Mr. & Mrs. Henly's front door! Only to discover they were building a rainwater reclamation system.

_Oops_.

Lucinda had felt foolish for months. The Henly's still wouldn't talk to them. Barbara Henly had been as bright as a beam of sunshine. Now the woman scowled while tending her rose bushes on Sundays. It was just awful. No amount of apologizing or homemade cookies seemed to make it right.

"Stop being silly," Lucinda said resolutely. "Go talk with her."

Before opening the door, she stopped, her wife's words of caution ringing, "Computer, prepare one touch police ping, emergency stream."

"Ready at your convenience, Mrs. Fossbender."

Lucinda smiled. Her wife would be so proud of how she handled this.

"Poor thing's probably a homeless addict. Another teenage booze victim."

She took a deep breath and opened the door.

When neither the girl nor the peculiar gray dog turned around, she called out warily, "Doll? Can I help you?"

The gray dog turned its head first, eyes closer, now strange and dark blue. Then the girl turned, casually, easy, not with the startled fear Lucinda expected from a hovstreet urchin. Her expression was so sad.

"Oh, you _poor_ thing," said Lucinda reflexively. "Are you lost?"

The girl's frown became a smile. Her beauty was making Lucinda extremely uncomfortable! The girl took one more gulp of beer. She put the cap back on the mason jar, dropped her sunglasses to her nose. Her eyes were green, so beautiful! Lucinda remembered every detail. Her eyes were just like stars in the sky.

September 3, 2082 – One Month Fourteen Days Before Event.

Sheriff Dale Proudstar did not play favorites. One person went hovergolfing with the mayor, or helped a councilperson's kid get their motorized kitten out of a tree... they all thought they deserved a free latte and a handjob on the taxpayer's digi. It was the same with this nurse, famous only for running the behavioral meatgrinder out at Greystone. She knew Dennis Slopes. And? The sheriff growled and kicked his boots up on the corner of his desk. He lit the morning's first cigar, spitting the end into the laser recycler.

The office com chimed overhead, "The ignition of recreational tobacco products inside government buildings is prohibited under Lawrence civil code 7782. Please extinguish. You will be notified again in twenty seconds. Warning: if a third notification is required, you will be registered for a 200 digi citation and your employer will be informed. Thank you."

The hulking sheriff spoke low and clear, craning his ox-like head as he blew a thick plume of smoke at the air quality sensor, "Computer, open window."

He watched the plumes of rich, Cuban tobacco smoke flow into the daylight with pleasure, hazing his view of the Massachusetts Street walking mall.

After another drag, he tapped his jaw, "Everquist?"

Enough time passed for him to get a third pull off the cigar before his digital forensics specialist replied, sounding unusually rattled, "Sir! Everquist, yes, good morning."

"Daniel, did you know a man used to be able to smoke a cigarette on an airplane 100 years ago?"

"You've mentioned that, sir. I've already wiped the enviro-klaxon. But there's nothing I can do about Mrs. Stiles' sense of smell."

"The department nurse for three precincts and she's got nothing better to do but cut and paste documentation about lung cancer into my health report?"

"That's correct, sir. Don't forget the _antiquated perceptions of chivalry_ in your psych profile also," said Danny.

The sheriff sat up in his chair, "Hellfire and damnation, Everquist! I didn't make it to age 64 smokin' cigars cause I ain't healthy. If Stiles smells tobacco on me and don't like it, tell her she can blow me."

Everquist smiled in his office one floor down, "Yes sir. I'll be sure and communicate that to Mrs. Stiles next time I see her. Since I've got you on-com though, the situation down here is escalating."

"That lady is still flapping her gums, huh?"

"As you would say, flapping them like a wet rubber band stretched across a prop-fan's intake manifold, sir. I don't know how much longer Maybelle is going to be able to keep Mrs. Fossbender waiting. She's just a receptionist. That woman, she's like three meters tall, screaming at everyone in the lobby. She just spit a loogie on the vestibule! Talboy, Jones and McPherson are trying to calm her too, but no one can get a word in. Mrs. Fossbender says if you don't personally come down and talk to her she's going to ping Director Adams at MTF. And someone she knows at CNED HQ in D.C. She's already been to see Detective Slopes, but Slopes' office told her it's a county matter since it may involve cyborgs. She left a message with the Mayor too. Shall I tell her to blow you, sir?"

Sheriff Proudstar chortled. He liked Danny Everquist. After four years, the gangling, east coast, freckled son of a bitch was finally starting to get what it meant to work in Kansas government.

"Everquist?"

"Yes sir."

"I've scanned that HOLODIVX Fossbender brought in. Looks like twenty minutes of homemade, lesbo action. Chick A's hot. Chick B ain't bad, but a little broad in the britches. Then there's the gray dog that walked in behind the hot one and curled up in a corner while the ladies played chase the tongue bean... I take it that's a Coyote?

"Yes sir."

"Of course it is," the sheriff kicked back in his chair again. "Then, I had to watch this part twice, where the purple haired gal, the wife, gets down on all fours and starts barking like a Cocker Spaniel. Then comes the deal with the cupcakes."

"Yes sir. It's quite a show."

"So Danny, my boy, send a ping to Talboy, ask him what the hell else her majesty Nurse Fossbender thinks she has. Cause that file don't hold evidence of any kinda rape I ever seen."

"Will do," replied Everquist, adding, "People pay fondly for that sort of thing onstream."

"Not people I wanna know," growled the sheriff.

"Yes sir. Well, it does appear to be one of the Darkpool Coyotes, and the Bmod fugitive. Manual facial recognition seems to confirm it, but I keep losing the transfer as soon as a copy hits our mainframe. So I don't really have _confirmation_."

Sheriff Proudstar threw his hat on the desk, "Our hacker? The Pansy?"

"I'm afraid so."

"So what sort of _manual_ facial recognition system you running, Everquist?"

"My eyes, sir. Memory. Looking at a still on the thumb drive and a newspaper holoscan I remember from the time of the incident."

"Smart. Could it be a fake?"

"What would be the motive?" asked Danny. "I mean... it could be that a very hot girl who _happens_ to look like Ms. Dean and a mid-size gray dog that _happens_ to look like a coyote show up at this particular house. But it's a copy straight off the closed circuit security cameras in the Fossbender home."

"Who uses closed circuit security cameras?"

"Paranoids, sir. The fugitive did try to blow up the nurse's hovcar, after all."

Proudstar pulled on his gray mustache, considering, "Huh... it's really the same damn nurse."

"Definitely Nurse Fossbender in our lobby, probably the fugitive, yes sir. But again, as soon as I upload the video to our cloud for _her_ FR confirmation, it, uhh..."

"It _uhh_ what?"

"It vanishes."

"Fuck me hovering," the sheriff rapped his knuckles on his desk. "What _is_ it about this betty? Secret girlfriend maybe?"

"No. Something larger is happening. I'm pretty sure if I plugged this thumb drive into the cloud, the data would be wiped within seconds."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning Joan is watching us, sheriff," Danny sighed. "She's got the power to shut down every law enforcement computer system for thirty kilometers. _If_ she wanted to."

"You've made that point in the past. And I've made the point that if she pings me her Ipv7, I'll courier her a balloon with a thank you card for not doing it."

"I know, sir," said Danny, becoming excited. "But what I'm getting at is that the hacker seems to specifically target sequences on the event horizon that have to do with the shiner trade. She doesn't have an interest in general anarchy. I think she's trying to eradicate any evidence of this woman's existence since the day of her escape from Greystone, as well as any reports of unregistered dog sightings in the last 24 hours."

"Elaborate."

Danny Everquist took a deep breath and grabbed his thinning red hair with both hands as he spoke, "Okay, okay. I think this girl, Tara Dean, is a shiner. At least she's heavily affiliated. The Coyotes are like her pets. I think she's been here this whole time, protected by Joan."

"So The Pansy works for a still. And?"

Danny Everquist swallowed his substantial Adam's apple, then replied, "And... that's all I have. Except, that she probably showed up in this nurse's house, long after the fact, to exact revenge."

The sheriff chuckled again, "Revenge she got. Hell ain't got no fury like..."

"...a betty scorned, sir," finished Danny.

"Everquist, run with me a second. What if this Tara Dean _is_ your lady hacker friend?"

"Impossible."

"Why?"

"She's too hot."

"What?"

Danny's nose twitched as if the point was obvious, "Hackers are a lot of things. Supermodel cute isn't one of them. It's why the avatar was invented, after all."

"Fair enough," said the sheriff. "Though I'm assuming you have something more concrete?"

"I do. The real reason is that if Tara Dean was the hacker, she wouldn't be able to walk the streets. She couldn't roll up to Nurse Fossbender's house without a quantum relay to what is undoubtedly a fairly bad-ass supercomputer. Coyote tech is too old, so she'd need a high-end Fido or private drone escorting her. To remotely hack firewalls at this level, a black driver needs a relay from which to execute the high density code in real time as defense algorithms attempt to compensate. I mean, the associated supercomputer would have to be on par with the war simulator at Fort Riley."

The sheriff took another drag off his cigar, then left it smoldering in the ashtray on his desk, "How could there be an unregistered supercomputer pulling that much light off the grid without us knowing about it?"

"Cause it's not on the grid, sir."

"Well you can't power a superframe with home-solar or wind, can you? The batteries would never get charged."

"No."

"Then what? Fusion?"

"That's the only explanation I can come up with."

The sheriff opened his third desk drawer down and pulled out his manual vapor pipe and a small jar of marijuana bearing the swirling, blue and green CannabiGene© logo.

He filled the vapor pipe with jane as he continued, "Hiding a fusion reactor is tough. Takes land, insulation. A farm. Everquist?"

"Here sir."

"I want you to increase high elevation drone sweeps in a five kilometer radius around the original crash site coordinates on CHR 1500. Include high gain bands on temporal."

Danny remained silent.

"You there, son?" asked the sheriff after a moment.

"Yes sir, command executed. It's just..."

Sheriff Proudstar cut him off, "I know!" he boomed. "Your Pansy named Joan knows everything we do before we do it. How do we fix this? You're the computer genius!"

"I'm sorry sir, I just don't..." Danny stammered.

"Oh, for Dog's sake... don't hyperventilate," the sheriff huffed. "It's alright. I'm just old and grumpy. The moment I think this bullshit is finally behind me, it rears its head again and clamps down on my nuts. My nuts are wrinkly and generally irritable, Everquist."

"That's good to know, sir," said Danny demurely.

"Just keep working on it, smart-ass. At the least, we know more than we did two years ago."

"That we do sir," said Danny with bemusement. Then he paused, "Damn. Sir?"

"Yeah?"

"What if the CNED mercs start trailing our drones?"

"What if they do?"

Danny raised his eyebrows, "Well, they've lost _thirteen_ volunteers in the last two years alone."

"And? They're fucking idiots. You know 87% of CNED mercs have been pushed through a slaughterhouse. If I had to base my life choices on Ken Sapet's advice, I'd probably be dead too."

"Understood. It's just I'm realizing all thirteen of those CNED's disappeared..."

Proudstar waited, "Well? Speak up! Disappeared what?"

Danny shook his head dismissively, "It's nothing... let me keep working on this." The combud beeped. "Hang on." Danny was gone for a moment then flipped back, "Sir, this is not good."

"What?"

"Talboy just broke into my other ear, said Mrs. Fossbender just hocked another loogie on Maybelle's vestibule."

"Shit." The sheriff sighed and lit up his vapor pipe with an old fashioned butane lighter, taking a long hit. "I guess it's a little early in the day to start vaping jane, huh Everquist?"

"At your discretion, sir," Danny smiled. "The chem-content monitor in your office has been blocked for the next 24 hours until the system reboots. The LED will flash but no alarm will sound."

The sheriff nodded approvingly, the mild buzz flowing over him, "Fair enough. Give me a minute. And tell Talboy to man up and calm that woman down. If she spits at Maybelle again, I'm gonna have her arrested."

"On what charge, sir?"

"Unjustified bitchiness!" said the sheriff loudly. "Proudstar out."

He leaned back in his chair and eyed the scuffs on his black leather boots, pulling another hit off the vapor pipe. The flatscreen monitor on his desk clicked and beeped, displaying a dizzying array of colorful, ever-changing holotiles; weather data, arrest reports, stock market tickers, upcoming holoflix releases, patrol GPS coordinates, city FR cam-data, news headlines, inter-department e-mails and a paused soft porn video in the upper right corner.

But for a few seconds' reprieve, none of that mattered. The sheriff's eyes drifted to the Purple Heart he was awarded after the Iranian War. Then they drifted on, to an antique wall photograph of his little brother, lost to the same conflict. Then onto one of his great, great, great grandfather, Earl Proudstar, standing on an airfield in front of the B-36 Peacemaker bomber he had piloted during America's first war with Korea. The print was cracked and faded. The sheriff preferred to think he was more like Earl Proudstar than his own dad, the miserable drunk. Or his father's father, and so on.

Whatever he was, Dale Proudstar was a man of battle. Come hell or high sky, he would never be a Dogdamn politician cowering for favors before the citizen elite. He took one more sturdy pull off the pipe, exhaled the white vapor and put the piece back in its drawer. He returned his Stetson to his head and straightened it.

Then he picked up the still smoldering cigar, hit it one last time and stood with a deep groan, his baritone mutter barely audible as he exited his office, "Fucking bureaucrats."

Ninety Three Seconds Later.

Nurse Marlene Fossbender let out a banshee-like wail upon seeing the sheriff come through the door to the left of the receptionist's vestibule.

She pushed Deputy Brick Talboy out of the way like he was made of straw, "Sheriff Proudstar! I'm so glad to see you _finally_ have time to speak with me! I've only been waiting 25 minutes!"

She checked a make believe watch on her portly wrist. Her face was beat red. Two other deputies stood to either side of Brick Talboy looking sheepish.

The sheriff took in the woman's dimensions, forcing the most reasonable smile he could. Even though she was nearly two meters tall, he still towered over the nurse by a good eighteen centimeters. Yet she was more beefy than he in nearly every other dimension; a huge woman with rotund cheeks and black, deep set eyes that flitted about above a bourgeois pig nose.

The nurse's voice was brash, "So! I've turned the evidence over to your _deputies_ ," she said, throwing Brick Talboy a look that froze the urine in his bladder. "They say you've reviewed it. I haven't seen any patrol hovcars being dispatched!? Why, sheriff? You see what's on that thumb drive!!!" she spat. "That cunt _RAPED_ my wife. Forced her to perform heathen acts, in my living room! On _my_ couch! With my _child_ in the next room sleeping!" Nurse Fossbender began ticking off points, "She's a fugitive, she trespassed, brought drugs onto my property, came into my house and laid hands on my woman against her will..." The nurse began poking Sheriff Proudstar in the chest, "Do you know who I am, sheriff? I deal with addict sluts like this every day! I'm telling you, there's never been one more dangerous. She's spreading sedition! Why is she not in jail? I sit on the CNED board!" She poked his chest extra hard this time, "I should have _you_ arrested for dereliction of duty!"

"Actually ma'am..." the sheriff tried to cut in, wiping a drop of the woman's spiddle from his mustache.

"You're all just standing around!" she continued. "Why isn't she in jail? You got her FR scan. You all got shit for brains?"

The sheriff scowled but contained his voice, "Mrs. Fossbender, I appreciate your..."

"You appreciate nothing! If you _appreciated_ the situation, this scarlet whore would've been drilled two years ago when she torched my hovcar and destroyed half the hospital with her pack of Fidos! Everyone knows you're a sympathizer, sheriff! Stinking of tobacco, walking around like you own the city. They should send you _and_ your useless deputies to the labor camps!"

Proudstar bowed up, speaking through gritted teeth, "As a matter of fact, I _do_ own the city. _And_ the county. So if you threaten my officers again, _you're_ going to be the one in mag-cuffs, got it?"

Danny Everquist watched in awe with a bird's eye view from the lobby surveillance cameras. Brick Talboy's jaw hung wide. Deputies Jones and McPherson hid behind Talboy. Jones fidgeted nervously with her pony tail and stared at the floor. McPherson looked as though he'd just been locked in a closet with a wolverine.

Marlene Fossbender did not back down.

She began screaming even louder, spittle flying, "You're going to let this fugitive drug addict come into my house, trespass, rape my wife, then threaten _me?!_ Director Adams at MTF will hear your name before noon! Mark my words!"

The sheriff took a deep breath and squared himself, eyes never leaving the woman, "Ma'am, I assure you we are doing everything we can. We are aware that this individual is wanted, and based on the surveillance you brought in, we are aware she _may_ have trespassed on your property. However..."

"She RAPED my wife! Lucinda's at home crying, the naive, _stupid, stupid_ girl! She can't even get out of bed. My child is traumatized!" howled Fossbender. "We should notify family services! There's a predator loose!"

"I understand your concerns, ma'am," returned the sheriff. "However, as I was going to say, there is no evidence, at least not on _that_ file you brought in, to suggest a sex crime."

Nurse Fossbender's mouth fell open, causing the folds of skin under her chin to jiggle, "No sex crime?!"

The sheriff gestured towards the back, "Ms. Fossbender, maybe you'd care to continue this conversation in a more private location?"

She wagged a thick finger at his face, "Maybe you'd care to suck my lips?"

Proudstar visibly swallowed his anger, "Very well. What I see on that flash drive is our alleged perpetrator being _invited_ into your home. Then, within five seconds, _your_ wife drops trow, grabs the betty in question and starts sucking _her_ face. Looks mighty consensual to me."

Nurse Fossbender reeled back and released an inhuman yowl that caused everyone in the lobby to cringe, "Sexist! You don't know what it's like to be a woman! Lucinda's the most upstanding citizen in Lawrence. She would never _consent_ to unwed relations! Especially not with that skinny little streetwalker!"

_I'd take the streetwalker, personally,_ thought Danny Everquist as he watched his flatscreen with rapt attention.

Sheriff Proudstar did not budge.

He crossed his muscular arms over his chest, "Mrs. Fossbender, those are the facts as we have them. _When_ we arrest a citizen, _how_ we charge them and with what crime is _our_ determination, _not_ yours. Your frustration is noted. We appreciate the surveillance vid. But if you want to log formal charges on anything besides trespassing, you're going to need to come back in and provide a statement to one of my officers. This is the lobby, ma'am."

"A _statement!?!_ " screamed Nurse Fossbender. "What statement do you need? You haven't arrested her because you don't want to! There's gonna be a fat tab to pay! Not just for you, Proudstar! But for this whole department!" she said, pointing a chubby index finger adorned with a gaudy gold ring at the deputies and even the horrified receptionist, Maybelle.

At this, the sheriff stepped closer, snarling, his gravelly voice filling the lobby with ominous disdain, "Now you listen here, Free Willy. Every one of these officers have put their lives on the line more than once for the citizens of this county. So I'll be damned to dark sky if you're going to waddle in here and dress down _my_ crew. Ping Director Adams if you want. Frank and I hunt deer on the weekends. Tell him Dale Proudstar personally told you to shit or get off the pot, and you chose the latter."

Nurse Fossbender's eyes burned with outrage.

The sheriff didn't miss a beat, "In the meantime, until you _do_ get me fired, you best walk your walrus-chinned, orange Spandex wearin' ass the sky outta my HQ and go tend to that _Christian_ wife of yours before I throw you in a cell at the bottom of a sewer and forget the passcode." He bared his teeth, centimeters from her face, "Got it?"

Nurse Fossbender's eyes welled as big as bloodshot golf balls, "There will be an investigation, sheriff! This is a criminal conspiracy! You'll all be working as janitors by the weekend!"

She doubled the strap on her purse, turned with surprising speed and marched out of the Douglas County Sheriff's Department lobby, pink clogs banging angrily on the tiles.

As soon as she was gone, Brick Talboy let out an ebullient sigh, as if he'd been holding his breath for two days, "Sir! That was amazing!"

Proudstar wheeled on his deputy, " _Amazing?_ You know what would be _amazing_? If you clean the spit off Maybelle's window, that'll be amazing. You know what else would be amazing, Talboy? If in the next five seconds I don't put my boot so far up your ass you have to lace your teeth to smile!"

Thirty Two Minutes Earlier – The Other Side of Downtown.

"I have little taste for lesbians, Julie."

"I will reserve comment on that, sir," said the girl's distressed voice at the other end of the com.

"Especially obese ones. I mean _all_ women are lesbians to a certain extent," continued Slopes chattily. "But all women are also busy-bodies to a certain extent, aren't they?"

"Sir...?" the voice quavered, "Shall I tell Mrs. Fossbender you will see her? Or shall I try to send her to Sergeant Dorina again? She's made it clear she's going to wait here all day until you see her in person."

Chief Narcotics Detective Dennis Slopes gazed quickly at his vintage, 2037 model Rolex watch. The band was adjusted to its smallest setting. Still the silver edges slid and spun against his red-skinned wrist bones with every motion.

It was 8:17 am. He had awoken at 6:30. As with every weekday, he had his coffee, a cherry flavored stym-pack and a pancake smothered in protein cheese and chocolate hemp-syrup. He swiped through the Lawrence Journal World's holopages, rodent-quick eyes efficiently absorbing any relevant details as he skimmed the text and images for deviant clues of any kind. By 8 am, he was floating comfortably in the back of his Kia SedonaHov, onboard set to full autopilot. Operating vehicles was for the small _-_ minded. If citizens wanted to pretend that they still lived in a world where people needed to physically pilot a vehicle themselves, that was their loss. Slopes, for one, appreciated the more productive ways transit time could be utilized.

That was the problem, it was a free nation. Freedom of choice, freedom of speech, freedom from warrant-less invasion of privacy, _blah-blek!_ If there were fewer freedoms, people like Marlene Fossbender would not be allowed to storm the police department waiting room!

"Julie?"

"The com has been green for two minutes, detective. _Please_ just tell me what to say? This lady's quite aggravated."

Dennis Slopes leaned closer to his holoscreen as he spoke, raising his tattooed eyebrows, "Julie, tell her that I have an infectious cold. She can holoconference with me from a kiosk."

"She wants to see you in person, sir."

"And I really _want_ to be at home with Mrs. Kitters," he said, gazing absently at a just begun, 3,000 piece puzzle of the New Miami skyline. The Chinese Board of Trade building had an especially repetitive architectural pattern that he knew would be challenging. "In fact, Julie, I _want_ to write a 5,000 page thesis detailing the cultural benefits of socialism _today_. I _want_ to have a chocolate stym-cream sandwich delivered to my..."

Julie the network operator closed her eyes and rubbed her temple in a slow circle, "I understand."

"You do!? Then why are we having this conversation!?"

"Sir, I literally just work here."

Dennis Slopes gave up, though he did relish his ability to agitate the department's com drivers, "Tell Mrs. Fossbender she can either holo with me from kiosk A or..." he rubbed his osseous palms together with glee at the thought, "Tell her she can walk down the street and express her concerns to Sheriff Proudstar. This is technically a county issue and doesn't have a whole lot to do with narcotics either."

"Yes sir," said Julie quickly, thankful to have a response to give the raging woman pacing back and forth in the civilian waiting area.

Dennis Slopes eyed his New Miami puzzle, picking up a piece for a second, then putting it down.

He burbled to himself, counting his ribs, eyes scanning the surface of his puzzle desk, "Sheriff Dale Proudstar... Hah! Let's see you get an answer out of that neanderthal, Fossbender. Can't be trusted... registered Traditionalist. Probably a drunk himself... probably..."

The com klaxon rang, shaking him from his thoughts.

His computer said, "Incoming holoconference, Mrs. Marlene Fossbender requesting audiovisual access from virtual kiosk A. Open stream?"

Slopes sighed more dramatically than was necessary and popped a hemp-truffle down his gaunt food hole, "Put her on, Simon."

Five Minutes Later.

"Simon, get me a letter-size SkyDrop©."

"On the way, sir," said the computerized male voice.

Dennis Slopes' heart was racing.

_The fugitive whore is still here!_

"Simon!"

"Yes, Detective Slopes?"

"Are there any FR pings, even false positives, for citizen fugitive Tara A. Dean over the last two years?"

"Tara A. Dean is on the FBI's Ten Most Wanted list. There are outstanding warrants issued for this individual by the Kansas Bureau of Investigation, the Douglas Count..."

"Simon!" screamed Slopes, turning maroon. "Are you malfunctioning?"

"Negative, sir."

"Then why did I ask a simple question, and you respond by giving me a defrag of this scamp's rap file?"

"Had there been any FR pings on the suspect, numerous law enforcement agencies, including ours, would have been notified," said the computer.

Dennis Slopes drew his lips back like an animal, exposing rows of crooked, stym-yellowed teeth, "You're a very stupid computer, Simon."

"Yes sir."

"I ought to have you replaced."

"Yes sir."

"I'm very disappointed."

"Yes sir. As always, I am at your service until you choose to decommission me. Is there anything else you require at this time?"

"Simon, what I need right now is a piece of paper and a pen."

The computer remained silent.

After a few seconds, Dennis Slopes flung his arms apart, nearly knocking a half empty glass of chocolate soymilk across his desk, " _Simon!?!?"_

"Yes sir?"

"I need a pen and a piece of paper! No, two pieces of paper!"

"My apologies, sir. I processed your request as sarcasm. As you know, I am incapable of providing physical objects. However, I am ready to take your dictation at any time. Proceed at your leisure."

Through gulps of mouth-air, Slopes yipped, "Simon, just put Julie on com."

"Yes sir."

The com beeped, "Yes, Detective Slopes?"

He made sure to say the words slowly and clearly, button eyes knitted shut as he spoke, "Julie, I need you to bring me a pen and two pieces of paper."

There was an extended pause, "I'm sorry, sir. I don't know what that means."

"Meow-meow, I'm a cow, don't peek yet..." huffed Slopes, frantically trying to control his breathing. His triangle-shaped face had turned the hue of a smashed cherry, "Is everyone in the entire police department retarded? A pen, a writing pen, and a piece of paper! Did you take history in school, Julie?"

Another pause, "You want to write on _paper,_ sir? Like a letter?"

The detective's tongue quivered in his half open mouth, eyes rolling back to the whites, "Cor-rect."

"Uhh, okay. I'm not... let me call the sketch artist and see what she has. Okay...? Hello? Sir?"

"Yes!" he squealed, exhaling all at once, "Yes! Get me something to write an actual note with. I don't care if it comes from the natural history museum!"

He pushed back from his side-by-side desks and stared punitively at the brass plaque hanging on his wall which read, _Drinking isn't a crime. It's just against the law._

But it was a crime! It was a blight on society. The entire NAUS would be better off if everyone who even _thought_ about drinking alcohol was forced to visit a slaughterhouse.

_Where the old man can see to your deviance for good._

At least he could arrest the worst of the worst. Yet... Tara Dean _was_ the worst of the worst.

_A California girl..._

The thought made his kneecaps sweat. If it was up to him, she would have been flushed early on. What was needed was a way to determine during fetal development if a baby would grow up to be an addict. In the last 70 years, science had rooted out the gene for Alzheimer's, leukemia, type 1 diabetes... why couldn't they root out the gene for being an arsonist, cunt whore? If only he had...

The com beeped, "Sir, I've got two sheets of what they said was _Bristol board paper_ and an ink pen from the art department. They said it should be easy to write on, but it's kinda thick. Are you sure you don't just want me to type up a holodoc?"

"Julie, the time to stop thinking in your case was about twenty years ago. Just put the writing implements under the door. And don't bother me anymore today unless it's an emergency."

The com remained silent. Dead silent. Forty five seconds later, two sheets of paper and a pen appeared under his office door. He sighed. The thought of unfolding his body from the chair seemed onerous, but it had to be done. He guffawed over and grabbed the sheets of paper and pencil, brought them back to his work desk.

"No typing. No computers or com dictation," he huffed as he arranged the two cottony thick sheets neatly on top of each other.

It had been a long time since Slopes had actually written the printed word. The pen felt diminutive, even in his fingers, light and breakable. Slowly, carefully, stopping at the end of every sentence to eat another hemp-truffle, he eventually had scribbled the following:

`Sapet, Why does Nurse Fossbender know of our association? Are you dense? Or just chronically stupid? NEVER tell a civilian where you get your intel. Don't forget who makes the digidollars rain! I want you to hand-write, I repeat, HAND-WRITE any future correspondence relating to Tara Dean / my suspicions on super-still locale. She is here. In Lawrence! Shagged your nurse's wife! Reason unknown. Regardless: paper notes will be our own version of a closed circuit. Continue to scan east of the city, float-by visual sweeps only. Attempting to acquire centibots, FYI. Believe I can persuade Proudstar to use his Fort Riley connections and "lend" us a couple for research. Again, respond ONLY on paper. Send response via drone, possibly retain same drone. Send updated intel. We are close. Slopes`

He dropped the pen and massaged his hand, then tapped his combud eagerly, "Julie, do you have ETA on that SkyDrop© drone?"

"Yes, Detective Slopes. Drone is preparing to dock."

He'd barely a chance to sip his soymilk and laboriously roll his chair back over to the New Miami puzzle when the com chimed. The ten centimeter access port in his office wall opened, and a mud brown, cylindrical drone bearing the SkyDrop© logo hovered through, deployed its insect-like landing gear and alighted on the surface of his desk. Slopes swiped his holotab in front of the drone's nose and it chimed, accepting credit. Gull wing doors on the tiny drone's chassis opened, revealing a cargo bay large enough for 25 sheets of tightly rolled office paper.

Slopes rolled the Bristol board, put a rubber band around it and watched with sweating anticipation as the drone closed its cargo doors, engaged antigrav and hovered off his desk back through the access port and into the outside world. The drone was nearly silent save the hum of its micro-propulsion fan.

The 2D holo of Tara Dean remained on his flatscreen.

He spoke to it, coughing up bits of truffle dust, "Nothing can stop the law, girl. It's better than you. Every shiner pays the Great Dog in the Sky eventually. I think it's your turn to pay the doggie, honey," he sniggered, eyes pouring over the woefully unfinished puzzle of New Miami.

Its unplaced pieces taunted him. They beckoned silently. Like fugitives.

Thirty Nine Seconds Later.

Joan disengaged from the electroencephalogram terminals with a light whip of her tail and disappeared into one of the openings of her cave habitat. She came out the opposite side in a flash of bubbles as a school of cod swam by. She snatched up a pale fish and swallowed it in three bites, donning a larger than usual dolphin smile. Then she vanished once again back into the rocks. The waters grew silent and still. The SimulSun© lights began to dim. Their illumination faded steadily until the aquarium and surrounding control room had descended into blackness.

`**Excerpt from the North American Institute on Drug Abuse article "Conclusions Regarding the Effects of Alcohol on the Average North American Citizen" ©2061**`

`"...Research clearly demonstrates that alcohol has the potential to cause problems in daily life or make a person's existing problems worse. In fact, heavy alcohol users generally report lower life satisfaction, poorer mental and physical health, relationship problems and less academic and career success compared to their peers who came from similar backgrounds. For example, alcohol use is associated with a higher likelihood of dropping out from school. Several studies also associate workers' alcohol consumption with increased absences, tardiness, accidents, workers' compensation claims and job turnover..."`

# `Chapter 3.3 – Upon the River's Edge`

September 4, 2082 – One Month Thirteen Days Before Event.

At last he found her, smoking one of Hugo's antique rollers on the northwestern edge of the land. They called the place _the delta,_ where the huge cottonwoods and oaks at last gave way to smaller sumacs spiraling towards the sky along the brown clay banks of the Kaw. The river reeds and cattails grew in abundance, creating a hidden glen, and with the sun nearing a seven pm horizon, the scene looked almost tropical. She sat cross-legged with her face to the clouds at the very tip of a sandbar. A mason jar of Father Tom McTone's porter sat in the sand beside her thigh. Her raven hair flowed, free and splendid in the breeze as though she were a visage of the old nation superhero Jessica Jones.

Upriver, a great blue heron spread its wings and dove into the sunset as William approached. Trotting behind him, SIEGFRIED's head followed the heron's flight path, scanning, then dismissed the creature as organic. The cyborg refocused his attention on the Coyotes surrounding Tara.

The pack of seven was curled about her, a grand, waving wreath of heather and alabaster fur. The Coyote nearest raised its head, blue-black daylight eyes processing their approach. The small creature's oversized ears rotated, filtering the sound of their steps from the background noise of the environment, instinctively seeking hidden dangers.

SIEGFRIED brushed past the Remington 30-06 in William's right hand and trotted swiftly to the nearest Coyote. They touched noses. It was not Coyote One, who lay still on the other side of the pack directly in front of Tara. But any Coyote would do. The Rottweiler muscled a couple of the smaller borgs out of the way so he could lie directly in front of Tara and demand a bit of petting, which was promptly given.

She did not turn as he drew near, but spoke plainly enough, "Howdy, _Hunts with Gunpowder._ You come here to shoot me? Or you just like to carry a big piece of wood around everywhere you go?"

The corner of William's mouth turned briefly. He lowered the brim of his cowboy hat to block the sun and wiped a few beads of sweat on his jeans, watching a black dot on the horizon grow closer. The dot became larger, speeding down the median line of the river, traveling east toward The Linwood Township. It was a river drone. SIEGFRIED raised his head to scan its passing, then relaxed after it disappeared around a bend.

William held his hat and leapt the small space of mud between the sandbar and the river bank, "How long you been here?"

"Couple hours."

"How many river drones?" he asked, repositioning the rifle on his shoulder.

"Eight, so far."

She unscrewed the lid from her jar of beer and took a swig.

Sarcasm belay William's tone, "It's a real mystery... patrols in this sector doubling overnight."

"You got me," Tara shrugged. "Tell me something?"

"What?"

"Do you think the river will ever be blue again?"

He scratched his sideburns, playing along, "They spent the last 200 years dredging the bedrock. Now it flows mud brown, filled with dead cows and poison from the old stockyards outside Manhattan. Don't you own a leather purse?"

Tara did not bite.

She fell back on her lean, tanned arms, taking a hit off the joint and luxuriously blowing the smoke out her nostrils, "Maybe they could mine some gravel from the moon and bring it down here and put it in the river? Then it would be beautiful again." She finally faced him, smiling behind her sunglasses, "What do you say, buckaroo?"

William pursed his lips. She could make even him uneasy when she wanted.

He walked past her and the Coyotes and looked at the far bank, eyes searching for motion in the trees, "That's a fine plan. We'll put moon rock in the river. Then we can teach the pups to shit fairy dust."

Tara laughed breezily, "Jeez... who had an extra glass of haterade for lunch? It would be blue and amazing! Dorothy thinks this spot is beautiful too. We come here and smoke sometimes. It's the best part of the farm. Blue water would make it better is all I'm saying."

William was unmoved, "River and sandbar are state property. The pups and I have dispatched six mercenaries along this trail, dumped the bodies right there."

"Why do they all come past the delta?" asked Tara with child-like whimsy.

William took his cowboy hat off, squinting against the sun, "You know why. It's the only west to east game trail between here and the 1500. The cemetery's public property. They can dock their hovs there and access the whole river. Every asshole with a BB gun gets told you gotta go into the countryside if you want to bag a big still. Better question'd be, why _now_?"

"Why _what_ now?"

"Cut the shit," said William, spinning to face her. "Why'd you do it? You go to that nurse's house, make a big scene with her wife. Not to mention taking one of the fuzzballs here with you," he jerked his thumb at the nearest Coyote.

Tara turned her head back towards the river and took another swill of beer, "The Coyotes like to escort me. They know the risks. As for sweet Lucinda, I don't see the problem."

William dropped the stock of his gun to the sand and leaned on the barrel, "You don't see the problem? Taking a Coyote into public? As a Federal fugitive? Then, you used your lady ways to get inside the house, let the nurse's wife blow you on camera. You rubbed cupcakes on her tits! Got her drunk on preacher's beer! I miss anything?"

"Look... I didn't know there was a camera. I assumed Joan had us."

William walked around and blocked her view with his silhouette, "Maybe if Joan could fly, she would have. In fact, records show she did. She wiped every stream that came up mentioning your fugitive mug. Even reports of stray dogs in the last 48 hours. That is, until you stepped into Marlene and Lucinda Fossbender's living room and got yourself 49 minutes of footage on a closed circuit cam!"

Tara raised her chin defiantly, "How could I know the bitch had an unsynced vidnet?"

William smacked his leg with his hat, "That ain't the point, betty. _Why_ do it in the first place? You need some revenge two years later? All sudden like?"

Tara hissed, getting angry, "Maybe I did. You have no idea what that woman did to me in there. It was sick. What do you think she does to other girls? Who don't have the power to escape!? I could hear the memory of their screams in her mind as she took me. I was powerless too. No one knows but Dax." She pet the nearest Coyote, causing it to raise its head and study her as she spoke, "It was a fuck up. I'm sorry."

William knelt before her in the sand and hung his head, "Does Dax know?"

"Yes," she said mournfully. "He knows. He doesn't care. I don't know why not." A tear rolled down her cheek. "Something is about to happen. Dax knows but won't tell me, okay? So quit harshing my sunset, man, fuck."

She stood, causing the Coyotes and SIEGFRIED to shift and jump to their paws. The cyborgs resettled as Tara walked to the edge of the sandbar and dipped her bare toes in the muddy water.

William walked up behind her and spoke softly, "I _am_ the one in charge of security. So when your name lights up a Fed stream, after we've done such a fond job keeping you dark? It ain't good. They got nowhere to start scanning except your last known. And that's still three kiloms from here, as far as the world is concerned." He scratched the back of his head, "Thank Jeezus you wrecked in front of Purple Tree Farms' property."

"I know," she said, biting her lip, "I get it. All the same, I don't know what Dax is planning. It's making me so angry, I start doubting myself! I usually know everything he's onto."

"I thought you guys were like one brain?"

"He's more powerful than me. A lot more powerful, I think. He knows everything _I_ do, but he's keeping something specific hidden. He won't admit it. If I try and go there, it's the one thing that pushes him away, he clams up. Then we just lie there in silence for the rest of the night like two mute mannequins."

William couldn't take his eyes off her jean shorts, curves dusted with sand.

He tried to resist his own thoughts, "Just like he knew about..."

Tara took another swig of beer and turned to face him, "Yes, just like that. Of course he knows. He could give a damn."

"He won't tell?"

She took off her sunglasses and made sure he saw her roll her eyes, "No, you oaf. His primary interest in the world is keeping his precious tether happy. That means keeping Dory happy. He doesn't hide _those_ thoughts from me, just the one thing. Whatever it is."

"Dory and I _are_ happy. It was a mistake."

Her mouth curled to a sly smile, and she raised her eyebrows, looking over the outline of muscles pushing through his white t-shirt, "Best mistake I've made in awhile."

He turned away, chin hard.

The touch of her voice on his ears was like electric sunshine, "Oh, come on... _Hunts with Gunpowder_ ," she teased. "Dory's never gonna find out from me, or Dax."

He turned to her, "She's your friend. She loves you."

"Yes, she does," she said, taking his hand and pulling him closer, "I love her too. So if she ever finds out, cause you're a dumbass and tell her, she'll believe you when you say you were helpless."

William tried, but it was already impossible to pull away from the light sheen of sweat on her upper lip, breasts pushing through the thin blouse, the feel of her heartbeat closing in on his own, "So _this_ is why?" he managed. "You're doing all this because you're mad at your boyfriend? 'Cause he has a secret? Just a brat."

She took his rifle from his hand and tossed it aside. Coyote One rose and led her gray family away to the shore where they resettled in the shade of a small cottonwood. SIEGFRIED followed them. Obviously the cyborgs had no compunctions about the arrangement.

Tara took William's hand and put it on her breast, kissing him, sliding her tongue into his mouth until she knew he was hers.

"That's right," she said after a moment, kissing his neck softly as she spoke, loving the taste of his sweat. "I'm doing it because I'm tired of hiding on this farm. I don't like not knowing everything, and Dax has to be punished. So I'm going to have his favorite thing in the world for myself."

Then she lowered William to the sand as though he were a living doll and began to unbuckle his belt, nice and slow, taking her time, just the way she liked it.

Police Headquarters – Downtown Lawrence.

Dennis Slopes considered the Twinkie (with a truffle back) to be one of mankind's pinnacle achievements. The computer had been improved upon, the car had lost its wheels and learned to fly. Energy was clean, free and omnipresent. Yet the Twinkie had been perfect for 152 years, a singular constant. An example of what humanity could aspire to if they applied themselves.

When the drone port over his desk flicked open, the rushing air startled him. His slick, bony fingers lost control of the little yellow snack cake and it plummeted to the floor. He had savored only his first, delectable bite! The Twinkie's white, sugary center had oozed on impact with the blue office carpet.

_Creamy filling..._

Slopes angrily tapped his jaw, "Julie! Why was I not notified of the incoming?"

The secretary's voice quipped, "Well, let's see, detective. To start, you didn't ask me to monitor your private drone traffic, only order you one. Second, I don't have a record of any coded drones arriving. Sorry, _sir_."

"I bet you are..." he mumbled.

Ken Sapet was useful and reliable, like a hammer. But efficient he was not. Slopes had not expected a response so soon.

_I expected the oaf would need a week to write a letter._

Suddenly, he was excited!

_Sapet must have found something good._

Slopes clicked the backs of his long, gray fingernails together as the SkyDrop© unit alighted on his desk and opened its cargo doors. Inside was a rolled document, likewise some sort of thick paper like the Bristol board he had sent out. It was tied with a red ribbon and smelled of perfume.

_Perfume, Sapet? Disgusting!_

He unfurled, half-standing and snatched up the document, tore away the ridiculous ribbon and unscrolled the sheet of paper. His beady eyes began to vibrate. His jaw started quivering. He fell forward, one hand on the desk, mouth breathing. Every pore in his rickety body began to leak sweat, breath coming shorter, shorter, shorter...

_It's been so long. Here it comes._

Dennis Slopes fainted.

The full momentum of his limp chin impacted the desk's edge and his brittle teeth gnashed, shattering, slicing off the tip of his tongue. The dime-sized piece of fatty muscle skittered over the puzzle desk, blood-staining the cardboard pieces already lain flat in place. But those thousands of loose pieces not yet snapped where they belonged trickled down around his collapsed form like heavy snowflakes.

# `Chapter 3.4 – The Precipice`

Thursday October 14, 2082 6:13 pm – Forty Two Hours Before Event.

"How come other shiners don't use nanobot filters?" asked Dorothy.

She sat cross-legged on the warehouse floor beside Goran, who was cranking an unseen bolt inside an access port on the still's primary water intake. In her hands was a ring-shaped filter with a central matrix of diodes around which she and Tara had spent the last two hours weaving web-like nanobot filaments. She held the saucer-sized filter carefully. Tara and Cat sat atop THOR, off to one side watching.

"Because the common shiner does not have the digis necessary to purchase this technology," replied Joan's voice from the ceiling.

"But it just means a more purified water?"

"Correct. It also prevents any unwanted microbots from accessing our supply line via the river."

"Aquatic drones?"

"Correct."

"Dad? Are we there yet?" sighed Tara behind them.

Cat, who was lying on THOR's neck, let out a plaintive meow in agreement without opening her eyes.

"Velasquez and I _still_ have to run the gauntlet tonight," Tara continued. "This is taking forever."

"For the record," said Dorothy, "I'm actually _interested_ in learning about how the still works."

Tara rolled her eyes as she jumped off THOR's back. The giant cyborg remained still, only moving his head to confirm her safe landing. Cat remained, napping in place.

"This is the final step, Dorothy Marie Angevine," said Joan. "Hand the filtration disc to Goran for installation."

The resolute dwarf took the filter, holding it by the exterior silver ring using his left hand. Dorothy could see thousands of nanobots scurrying across the white filament matrix like bits of pepper. Goran carefully placed the filter inside the pipe and the filaments began to glow.

"Nanobots bind the filter to the support diaphragm and Goran will seal the access port. Now you may reopen the primary valve."

Dorothy stood and pulled a large red lever on the wall so it was once again parallel with the intake pipe. The plumbing shuddered. The metal chilled with the rush of fresh river water.

"That gives me goosebumps every time!" said Dorothy. "Thanks for the show, Goran," she said to the little engineer. "It's very cool."

Tara curled her nose, eyeing the stack of spent, dripping water filters awaiting disposal by one of the warehouse bots, "I've always wanted to learn how to clean up river slime."

"I think it's cool," repeated Dorothy.

"You would," said Tara. She turned as Cat sprung to life and jumped off THOR into her arms and she dropped the little Felix to the floor, "There you go, junior. The boys are coming out, everybody."

THOR raised his head and gave a quiet, friendly growl. When he lowered his head back to the cement, the impact of his chassis sent minute vibrations through everyone's feet. Tara watched Cat return to Goran's shoulder with a single hop just as the blast door slid open and Dax and William appeared from the aquarium. They walked to meet the men. William had his rifle slung over a shoulder and Dorothy could tell that whatever was discussed had left her husband in a foul mood.

Dax by contrast smiled pleasantly. All eyes gravitated to him.

He frowned and clasped his hands, "Good Dog, you all look like you spent the afternoon in a swamp! Dirty filter, Goran?"

Cat mewled plaintively and spun on the dwarf's shoulder.

Dorothy slid past Dax to William, "Why so serious, hon?" she asked sweetly, nudging him.

William would not look at Tara.

He spoke reticently, "It's nothing, babe. Just gonna be a long night. The stream's on fire with bites."

Dorothy made a sad face, "Oh honey..." she exhaled. "You know Joan and I will be helping you guys fly."

William nodded curtly and she leaned against his chest. Now was obviously not the time.

The door to the stairs burst open and the four Rottweilers poured through, followed by Hugo. The DOGS units ran straight to William and sat before him in a line, each eager to be chosen for patrol versus guard duty. They pawed the cement with excitement and whined. William gestured lightly with his hand and they all lay down before him, attentive but now silent.

Tara rolled her eyes at this display of obedience, turned to Dax and kissed his cheek, "You see, love? I'll never have that kind of relationship with the Coyotes. You don't have to be jealous."

Dax returned the kiss, brushing his fingers over her cheek, "Quite the contrary. The Coyotes' affection for you is something much more... _primal_. I have _every_ reason to be jealous."

Dax again kissed Tara and said, "Hugo?"

"Yeya, boss?"

"Let's have that shipment loaded and ready to float."

"Yeesir."

Hugo touched the comdot on his jaw and the two humanoid warehouse bots came to life. Their electric motors made a steady whining sound. Only thirty minutes before, they had finished stacking that weeks' 5,000 liters of product in a perfectly geometric rectangle two meters high on the cargo elevator. The bots now stepped to the elevator and stood beside the 625 crates of liquor. The lift rose slowly until the bots and the liquor were out of sight in the barn, vanished above with a pneumatic rush of air.

"We be ready een ten meenutes, preciosa," said Hugo to Tara, pulling an antique joint from his tin smoke box and tucking it behind an ear.

Tara made her eyes bright and big, "Oh good, Hugo! I've always wanted to fly a truck to Manhattan, Kansas, with you!"

Dorothy giggled, "What girl hasn't?"

The still's brass columns gleamed beneath the overhead LED's and the plumbing clanked – _donk-quank-dunk_ occasionally as steam pockets in the copper lines forced themselves free.

Goran nodded at Dax, stone-faced as Cat mewled and pawed the air.

"Very well, Goran," said Dax. "Get some rest. You deserve it."

Cat curtsied efficiently at the rest of the group, then was gone through the door, riding her dirty dwarf's shoulder.

William removed his arm from Dorothy's waist and turned to Dax, "I'm going to patrol." He kissed his wife curtly and put on his sunglasses, not responding to the plea for explanation that lay between them. He nodded at Tara dryly, "Ma'am." Lastly, he turned to the DOGS units, "FREYA – SIEGFRIED, with me. SNOTRA in the Ford with Tara and Hugo. LOFN, you're here with THOR and Joan."

SIEGFRIED and FREYA sprang to their paws and bolted ahead up the stairs, the door opening automatically. William followed, cowboy boots echoing.

He nodded at Hugo as he passed, "Have a safe float, partner."

"Always mang," said Hugo looking after for a moment. "Keep eet straight out 'dere, boss."

William did not respond. He walked out of the warehouse and up the stairs, closing the door behind him with a conclusive _thud._

Dorothy spoke anxiously as soon as he was gone, "Just a man with a bunch of bullets and nowhere to shoot 'em, I guess."

Her joke did a poor job of disguising the worry in her tone.

No one laughed. Tara reached and touched her arm.

Dax's articulate voice warded off the awkward silence, "The situation is as follows, colleagues. In the last 24 hours, Joan has flagged 33 unique stream queries regarding Tara's crash and the battle with the Coyotes. That's obviously more than a ping per hour. William's somber affect is no doubt a reflection of this."

Tara added, "Let's not forget my joyride last month. He's still pissed about that too."

Dax blinked, "Perhaps not your most pragmatic moment, darling."

Hugo's expression was bright and gracious, "Boss, eef anyone love not being, praag... preg-metri..."

"Hugo Velasquez, still pretending you can't learn English," said Dax. "Why is that, I wonder?"

"Because eet's d' Devil's tongue."

Tara smirked at Dorothy, "I'll show you the Devil's tongue."

Dorothy mouthed, _You're so gross._

"Very well, Hugo." injected Dax. "Pragmatic; a series of sensible decisions leading to a functional outcome."

Hugo chuckled, rolling up the sleeves of his flannel shirt, "Yeah boss. 'Dat shit. Eet's me een aces," he winked. "So..." he said, smacking his hands together, "I'm gon prep d' hovtruck for flight, review d' Interstate spots weet Joan." He nodded calmly at Tara, "See you een cinco, hermana."

"Menos de cinco, cabrón." She jerked her thumb towards SNOTRA, "Take fuzzy-feet there with you."

Hugo whistled and SNOTRA trotted to the door, and they disappeared up the stairs. LOFN sighed dramatically, as if the demands made of her were just too great. The small cyborg went and lay beside THOR, resting her head on her big brother's thick metal foreleg. The two of them touched noses briefly, settling in for the coming boredom of another long, empty warehouse night.

LOFN's brown, holographic eyes followed the sound of the heavy freight elevator now returning to the warehouse from the barn level. In a matter of minutes, the humanoid warehouse bots had efficiently loaded the bed of the Ford 800 and were now returning to their docking stations. The bots' industrial class hydraulics and micro-torsion gears wound down with a hiss, vidballs blinking from active-orange to dormant-black as they stepped into their charging docks to hibernate.

Tara threw her arms around Dax, quickly kissed him and said, "Unless Hugo and I beat our standing record, I'll see you in about 4 hours and 19 minutes, love."

Dax's eyes were warm, "Indeed, my rose. Be safe."

_"Safe_ is my middle name." She winked and turned to Dorothy, "And I'll see you tomorrow, betty? 3:00 yoga, then we start drinking. I'm puttin' on a red dress!"

"I'm putting on overalls," said Dorothy, smiling in awe of her friend's perpetual enthusiasm for a good time. "But I'll be drinking, damn straight."

After Tara was gone up the stairs and the door had shut, Dorothy's expression grew earnest and she turned to Dax, "Is William all right? He's been so far away these last few weeks."

Dax put his hands on either side of Dorothy's face. The gesture was now familiar, she did not mind. He was her big brother. She had come to trust him implicitly since that first, klutzy meeting at The Rowdy Pony long ago.

"Dorothy, your husband is a complex man."

"That's putting it mildly."

Dax dropped his hands back to his pockets, "The renewed public interest in our little piece of geography out here on County Hovroad 1500 has unsettled him. More attention, more CNED. More CNED, more deaths. The longer William is tethered to the cyborgs, the more _he_ unconsciously absorbs some of _their_ traits. Protectiveness, for example."

She frowned, "Are you saying my husband is becoming a dog?"

"Old news, right?" Dax grinned. "Fear not, the tether bridge is stable and harmonious. These times of concern shall pass soon enough once the authorities forget about Tara again."

Dorothy sighed and gave Dax a hug, "Thank you. I do feel better. Just promise you won't let anything happen to him. All right?" she made herself smile.

Dax's eyes drifted, landing on THOR'S massive shape, half-illuminated, half-veiled in shadow on the other side of the warehouse, "I won't let anything happen." He turned to her again, "I promise."

"Thank you, Dax."

"All very good," he said merrily, gesturing towards the door, "Shall we?"

Dorothy leaned her head on his arm as the two of them walked slowly through the door to the stairs, "We shall."

Once up in the barn Dax said, almost as an afterthought, "You girls have big plans tomorrow. Going to The Lady to hear a DJ?"

"Yes, DJ Lobe," said Dorothy. "Tara wants to dance. The DJ's files are pushed directly from the cloud, burned in real time to vinyl and mixed using thought-controlled tables. He's only one of like 100 guys in the world who can DJ using nothing but a telekinetic headset. It's pretty light."

Dax kept his head lowered, a slight smile turning his mouth, "That is pretty... _light_. Perfect thoughts equal a perfect DJ set. Correct?"

Dorothy smiled, "You are correct, boss. It's gonna be fond."

"Well, I have every confidence the two of you will make it a night to remember."

# `Chapter 3.5 – The Catalyst Reacts`

Friday, October 15, 2082 1:20 pm – Twenty Two Hours Before Event.

Spencer Hotshine burst through the door of Virgil's apartment wearing a white janitorial onesie paired with yellow Chuck Taylors, hair flowing wild, "Floated fast as I could! What you got?" He scowled at the ceiling, "Yo dude... what's that _heavy_ noise?"

Virgil sighed and pulled on a t-shirt to go with his jeans, then continued studying a holographic chess set being projected on the coffee table in front of him.

He did not turn around, "I honestly can't remember why we're friends. It's Brahms."

Spencer dropped his polarized HUD goggles on the kitchen counter and ducked to the refrigerator. He grabbed a green liter can of Javaballer©.

"Who?"

Virgil turned and looked over the back of the couch, "Johannes Brahms, you neanderthal. Charles Bukowski's favorite composer."

Spencer stuck his tongue out and flapped his wrists around, "Oh...! Artsy shit, artsy shit! Whatever! So gay." He threw his head back and took several gulps of Javaballer©, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, "Sounds like dead cats screwing, bro, Dog!" His eyes widened and he produced an unnecessarily large purple holotab from a trouser pocket, "But duuuude... check this new app I just streamed. It's called HoFyndr©!"

Virgil turned back to his chess board, moving one of the 3D peasant-pawns forward with a thought to his combud, "I don't want to see it."

Spencer exclaimed, "Oh no dude, you sooo _do_ wanna see! It's sooo light! Everyone's rated by HoFactyr© on a 1 – 10 scale! Bigger the number, bigger the ho!" He tapped the surface of his holotab, projecting two twelve centimeter tall, scantily-clad girls who began to spin and blow kisses, "Betties on the left got a straight up HoFactyr© of 6 – 10. Then these on the left are 1 – 5's. You probably have to talk to those ones. Are you playing checkers?"

Virgil shook his head but smiled, "It's chess. More artsy shit."

Spencer stuck his tongue out and crossed his eyes, "Dog, whatevs! You gotta see these betts! This app is _so_ tip-top!"

Virgil turned around.

He crinkled his nose at the nearest holographic girl, "That one's a total werewolf."

"Yeah obvi, but at least with her, you know you're gonna get laid."

Virgil feigned interest in HoFyndr©, "You're gonna get crabs again and have to go back to the bio-clinic for some salve."

"Another advantage of working for the hospital, free salve," said Spencer, sipping more Javaballer©.

Virgil frowned, "Bmod hospitals don't cover citizen healthcare."

"Yeah, but they got the salve for crabs. I can usually get one of the nurses to scan me out a sample."

"There's a free bio-clinic like two blocks from your house."

"Every clinic's free."

Virgil winced, "That's my point, idiot. _Unless_ it's a Bmod hospital."

"Then the IRS pays for it."

"Yeah," said Virgil incredulously, "Then you have to pay the IRS back. Don't get me started."

"Fine," said Spencer, collapsing the HoFyndr© holograms. "So what's so fond? You pinged me, _get over here asap / something I gotta show you._ "

Virgil's face lit up, "Oh yaya! Check it. _This_ is light." He reached down, opening his backpack on the floor and produced an old fashioned, faded and cracked leather holster containing a pistol. He slid out the polished barrel of a 2016 model Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum.

Spencer's eyes grew enormous.

He brushed the shaggy blonde bangs from his eyes, "Duude! So fond! It works? Lemme see!"

Virgil twisted away, "No chance! I haven't even shot it yet. And yes, it works. Untraceable antique, came loaded with bullets and everything."

The midday sun shining through the window gleamed off the pistol's silver barrel.

"Black guns are pricey. Where'd you get the digis?" asked Spencer, transfixed.

He picked up an e-joint sitting on the kitchen table and took a hit, exhaling the vapor so it flowed out the open window above the kitchen sink as he eyed the gun.

"I've been doing side work."

Spencer made a face, "Like the side work that paid off your student loans?"

"I told you, I sold a screenplay to an anonymous buyer," said Virgil, putting the gun back in its holster and returning it to the backpack.

Spencer crushed the empty can of Javaballer© and loped back to the fridge, producing another brand of janejava called GanjaJoe©, which he cracked and drank half of before belching profusely, "Yeah, anonymous. Just admit it, yo. You have a trust fund. Or you're dealing booze." He raised his eyebrows, "You gotta closet still I don't know about!?"

Virgil blushed, "Check any closet you want, both of them. I told you I couldn't show you the holoplay. The contract had exclusive rights, man."

"Riiight... the contract. Dude, trust fund, or drug dealer. I'm gonna keep saying it! Who gets a job with an English degree? Come on! Where do you get the vodka?"

"Why do you care?"

"Just curious. What about those two masons of beer in your fridge?" asked Spencer, returning to his spot behind the couch.

Virgil had practiced saying it in the mirror, "Actually, I got that shit from old Smokey Mark, same as half the people on campus. Plus yeah, I got a _huge_ trust fund."

Spencer shrugged, "It's no big deal if you do. I just want you to admit it. Some of us work a union job and _still_ live at home." His face contorted in pain, "But duude... you gotta kill this music. It _sooo_ incredibly sucks dark sky."

Virgil blinked, sending a signal to his combud and the music muted, "The music only sucks because you can't understand it."

"Whatever," said Spencer.

"Whatever's right."

Spencer hit the vaporjoint again, exhaling, "I gotta get back to work soon. So what you gonna do with a gun anyway? You should have bought a particle pistol!"

"Too much money."

"But what are you gonna do with it? You can't even shoot it in the city."

"I don't know," shrugged Virgil. "Protection."

"Protection from what?"

Virgil looked at Spencer like he had just asked if the Earth was truly flat, "You know?! The government, cops... general aggressors."

Spencer asked, "General aggressors?"

Virgil kept quiet.

Spencer pounded the rest of his GanjaJoe© and then crushed the aluminum can, "Woot!" he grinned. "Well, what I _do_ know is we're gonna get drunk _tonight!_ I also _know_ that stash didn't come from Smokey Mark, cause Smokey's stuff looks like cloudy piss."

Virgil frowned, "How would you know what vodka looks like anyway, _Mr. Bmod Career Man_?"

Spencer ambled back to the refrigerator, looking to see if anything new had materialized, then shut it with a twinkle in his eye, "I've been to the holoflix, bro. Just cause I drink _now_ doesn't mean I can't work for the hospital. No one knows. Dog! 'Sides, they say Smokey Mark is really CNED."

Virgil turned back to his chess set, "That's such crap."

Spencer scratched his ear thoughtfully, "You never can tell. Know what I decided?"

"What?"

"HoFyndr© aside, the best place for me to meet another chick worth marrying? It's at work. 'Cause you know betties in Bmod like to party, they gotta be cool! I need to have you write me a few more poetry lines like you did."

"That is so stupid." Virgil turned back around, "You met _one_ chick there, who escaped with your Mustang and exposed your idiocy to the whole world."

Spencer looked up defensively, "I shagged her."

"You did _not_."

Spencer gave up, puffing the vaporjoint and looking out the window, "Okay, I didn't. But we made out. She let me go down on her."

"Such bullshit."

Spencer's grin was broad and vapid, "My future wife, Tara Dean." He snapped his fingers, "She was hotter than light!" he said, gazing dreamily at Virgil's flickering chess set. "I'd do anything to see her. Including give her my hovcar again."

Virgil was incredulous, "You told the reporters you blacked out."

"I did black out, she drugged me with an airborne toxin! That's the word. But I still remember her face, that long hair. She just looked at you and you lost control... she was so fond."

Virgil shook off a thought, _Sounds just like Virginia Rose..._ He turned on Spencer angrily, "I don't want to talk about betts anymore."

"Okay, don't freak, yo!"

"It's just that I'm practically married," said Virgil. "This is Addy's first night off diversion, no more random combud screens. Besides, she got a friend for you."

Spencer rubbed his palms together, "Totally light. We'll blend here, get wasted, then fly to that house party on 22nd? It's the betty from community service, right?"

"Don't bogart all the vapor," said Virgil, snatching the e-joint. "Yeah, Addy is bringing her. That's what we got two freakin' liters of vodka for, remember?"

Spencer raised his eyebrows, "Maybe we can get them drunk enough to make out with each other."

"As long as _you_ don't try and kiss Addy again, fine."

Spencer re-snatched the e-joint, took one last hit and handed it back, "I know she's your _principal_ girl. So gay..."

"When you find the girl you want to marry, you'll understand," said Virgil.

"I _DID_ find the girl I want to marry," said Spencer with a far-off smile. "She stole my hovcar and disappeared into the night."

Virgil shook his head, "You're never gonna find that bett again, so you might as well get over it. Take the ads off Craigslist, move on."

"Maybe, maybe..." said Spencer, looking at Virgil with a lingering curiosity. "Okay. I gotta blow. Be back at 8:00."

"See ya," said Virgil.

The young men bumped fists and Spencer burned out the door.

The apartment's default com voice said, "Guest; Hotshine, Spencer has departed."

Virgil Benedict listened to Spencer's footsteps traipsing down the old wooden apartment stairs while he continued vaping the e-joint, thinking. He watched his friend eagerly cross the hovstreet to his Mustang. The red hovcar spooled to life and the docking mounts retracted. Spencer floated out too quickly, cutting off another pilot and eliciting an angry honk, then was gone.

Their conversation had stirred something in Virgil.

_Virginia Rose._

He suddenly wished desperately that he could see her, explain himself. Ever since the Interstate incident, Joan would only let him ping intel on CNED snitches remotely. No face to face. Talking to an AI was the only shred he had left of his life of crime. That, and the money that still magically appeared in his bank account every month. Virgil hadn't seen William in six ages. Sometimes he was grateful. Other times, he yearned for a second chance! It wasn't fair. They'd just put him out there on the hovway in a truck full of booze and said, _For the record, in three minutes we're getting docked by Sergeant Evil and his pack of robot Satan dogs_.

Someday, Virgil would find a way to make them take him back. _All_ of them. William, Mr. Dax Abner, the tiny, mute, African guy with the Felix, and Hugo, who looked like he might tell you a joke or cut your face off with a knife... and Virginia. Sweet Virginia Rose. Somehow, someway, he would find a way back to her good graces.

Virgil had heard Spencer's description of the fugitive girl from the hospital a hundred times. Curiosity got the best of him.

He tapped his combud, "Bring up image of Lawrence, Kansas, Bmod fugitive, Tara Dean."

The holograph appeared instantly. There she was. A cute girl, with a touch of Pacific Islander and a big bush of curly black hair. On the best night of her life she might be half as fine as Spencer Hotshine made her out to be. But it was the same girl Virgil remembered seeing in the holonews.

_2080 was so long ago,_ he thought dreamily. _I used to be so naive._

Friday, October 15, 2082 3:57 pm – Twenty Hours Before Event.

Dennis Slopes felt electricity shoot through the far reaches of his hollow bones. He was close. He knitted his elongated nose and sneezed spasmodically, alarming Mrs. Kitters. The Felix leapt from her position in his lap, scattering a small pile of puzzle pieces with her tail.

"Bad girl!" squealed Slopes. "Go to your spot!"

The luxurious Burmese cyborg scoffed and retreated to the backrest of a La-Z-Boy holovision couch. It was the only other seat in the large living room aside from the biomorphic, synthleather desk chair that Slopes was presently perched in.

Privately, Mrs. Kitters was disgusted. Slopes had been home far too much. It had gone on for weeks. The expensive but undecorated apartment was crowded not by his willowed, mantis form, but rather by the girth of his obsessive self dialogue. A high-end Felix like Mrs. Kitters needed time alone, to reflect. This was unacceptable.

Dennis Slopes found it to be unacceptable as well. It was the fourth time in six days that Mrs. Kitters had upset his puzzle.

"This is why I have two desks at the office," he said, recovering from the sneeze. "A _desk_ desk, and a puzzle desk."

He momentarily wondered if he was allergic to cats, then remembered BIOSKIN© contained no allergens.

_I loathe my nose._

Slopes returned his attention to the holoscreen. The home unit he had been forced to use since going into hiding was frustratingly small. It could only simulcast four projections at a time, and two of the four had to be 2D holographs. He delicately swished the mangled tip of his tongue against the backs of his new dental inserts. He knew they were _supposed_ to feel like real teeth, but they didn't. His blunted, damaged tongue still ached horribly, and he refused to let the doctors spray him with nanos to speed the healing.

_I would prefer to eat blended Twinkies through a straw. Meow, meow..._

He cracked his neck and corralled his focus. The display before him showed various pieces of information, including the reason he needed new teeth in the first place; a nearly three year old file holo of the fugitive, prostitute, cunt-whore, arsonist named Tara Dean.

"Hello, little Miss Nasty," Slopes said impishly.

He again ran the sequence of events.

There was the original escape, the pursuit and the crash. The terminated, mangled chassis of a Darkpool Coyote is found, followed by a spate of CNED hunters who disappear, their bodies never discovered. In _at least two_ of those cases, there were verbal confirmations of an intent to hunt east of the city limits. In _all_ cases there were corrupted transit logs, and hovercraft that auto-floated to last known docking coordinates every direction _but_ east.

Slopes turned to his Felix, "All right, Kitters, return to my lap, come and be touched. You know I can only be without you for so long. I am blinded by your love."

The Burmese stretched methodically, then sauntered over and jumped into Slopes' lap, purring ferociously as he stroked her with greasy nail tips.

"That's a good girl. Do you know what's very strange, Mrs. Kitters?" He nodded at the cyborg as though waiting for her reply, then exclaimed, "That's right! There _was_ nearly two years of relative calm. No mystical Coyotes, no impossible whores escaping hospitals. The singular constant over time, you ask? That's right! We have kept losing CNED agents at a rate of approximately one every other month. Nobody misses a humdroid, do they, Kitters?"

The Felix meowed in clear agreement.

"True, true," said Slopes. "But when you lose more than _any_ other county nationally... and then when a deviant like Tara Dean _reappears_ , in Nurse Fossbender's house, with yet _another_ mystical Coyote... what do you think, Mrs. Kitters?"

Mrs. Kitters meowed inquisitively.

"Oh?" said Slopes with surprise, petting the cyborg's soft, chocolate fur, "You think that Tara Dean is a scurrilous, criminal skank?"

Kitters mewled affirmation.

"Well, I do too. I _also_ think it means something else is about to happen. And _we_ want to find her before it does." Slopes began talking like a baby and blustering his presently bloodless porcelain colored cheeks, "And are we going to find her to the _north_?"

Mrs. Kitters hissed in protest.

"Are we going to find her to the _west_?"

Kitters hissed again.

"No? Then she must be to the _south_?"

Kitters let out an especially loud hiss.

"Watch your tongue, young lady!" said Slopes reproachfully. "I may be blinded by your love, but that doesn't mean you can get sassy! Though I suppose you're right. That means we'll have to start paying even _more_ attention to the..." He gave the cyborg's head a final, passionate stroke, "Thank you, Mrs. Kitters. Now be a good little lady and go away. I don't want to touch you too much!" he squeaked.

The slinky, yellow-eyed Felix mewled one more objection, then returned to her perch on the La-Z-Boy couch and began licking herself. Slopes began unconsciously counting his ribs and popped a cherry stym-pak in his mouth. This was it. He was ready to let Sapet and his CNED goons start kicking down doors.

_There can be no pesky trails connecting me to Sapet. If only I could trust people the way I trust Kitters. Blinded by her love... I am._

Despite Mrs. Kitters' emotional outbursts of late, not to mention general carelessness with her tail, the reassembled puzzle of the New Miami skyline was nearly finished. The puzzle took up over 75% of the real estate on his home desk, but its presence was crucial. He idly reorganized the Felix-scattered pieces by color tone as the wispy facts surrounding the whereabouts of Tara Dean pulsed behind his bloodshot eyes. He breathed with heaviness.

_The answer is right in front of you._

_Rotate the puzzle._

_Who benefits from Tara Dean's presence?_

_Fold the logic._

_Who becomes more powerful?_

_Fold it, until no more folds can be made._

"It has to be... meow meow," he bobbed, biting his leathery lower lip.

He popped a piece into place, completing the visage of a cloud where it met the edge of a building. He was quite satisfied with how tightly the piece fit.

"Nicely done."

Tara Dean had forced him into four weeks of hiding with her vulgarity.

_No citizen should have that much confidence._

Vulgarity was a symbol of her belief that she was above the law. It was _not_ the stark naked image of her rear end that bothered him. He kept the printed holograph in a folder beneath three antique books at the very bottom of his desk drawer. There was no need to look at it ever again.

_At least not with Kitters in the room._

In the holograph, Ms. Dean was bent over, nude, flipping off the camera upside down with a smile. It was clearly the same woman in the security file from Marlene Fossbender's sexual home invasion.

_The audacity._

To top it off, in the upper right hand corner of the holograph, Tara Dean had written, _Looking for my ass? It's right here, fucker..._ complete with a carefully illustrated arrow pointing directly to her well exposed... intestinal terminus.

Slopes began to sweat. He had never encountered such gall! It made him nervous, which made him furious, which made him hungry for a boost, fructose or amphetamine, it did not matter. The terrorist whore had gained access to his encrypted comstream with Ken Sapet!

_How?_

Yesterday's holoconference with the Police Department's IT specialist had proven useless.

"It can't happen, sir," the sullen, droopy-eyed IT driver on the other end of the holo had said.

"Well, what if it _did_ happen?" Slopes demanded.

"Someone would need not only your personal keycode, but also the entire department's algorithm set. Those rotate every 24 hours, sir." The sallow fellow scratched his head, speaking almost like a drone himself, "It's totally a top tier hack. You really want my advice?"

Slopes knitted his sunken eyes at the lad, "What other _possible_ reason would I have to voluntarily interact with you, Snively?! Of course I need your advice! Is my system secure or not?!"

The driver looked at his workstation, then back at the holoscreen with a sniffle after taking a sip of raspberry Mountain Dew, "According to my terminal, everything is locked down, detective. I'd say LED's are golden. If you're still feeling paranoid, I'd talk to Danny Everquist. Carrot Top rules the stream in Lawrence. The whole Metroplex really."

Slopes pinched his eyes even tighter, "Talk to Proudstar's people? I'd rather eat tofu, Snively! Dismissed! Holoconference ended!"

_Marijuana addicts and fools._

He was surrounded by them all. Even the sheriff's prodigal son programmer, the one the county had seen fit to hire at twice the salary of a locally educated chap, was useless! Slopes had long since shown the image to the sheriff. The sheriff had shown it to this Daniel Everquist, who had no explanation.

One of the disadvantages of being totally anti-social was the fact that no one had come to Slopes' office to check on him the day of his accident. He had been unconscious for 43 minutes, knocked out four front teeth and snipped off the end of his tongue. Revenge drove him now. The solution was out there.

Dennis Slopes prided himself on a lifetime of solving the most cunning drug criminal's evasion techniques. Basement stills, stills hidden in walls, hidden compartments and hijacked water lines. It was all so obvious. And even though this was technically a county and state investigation, the pyromaniac trollop with the mole on her left gluteal orb had _made_ it personal. And unless it involved Mrs. Kitters, Slopes wanted no part of anything _personal_.

His eyes bulged from his face.

_Personal. Kitters!!_

_For the old man... it's..._

_That's why he's on this himself, not one of the men in hoods._

Slopes suddenly trembled with fear. He craned his head around the apartment, suspiciously processing every detail. Kitters purring. The sink dripping. HEPA filter turning the air.

"Kitters, we don't have any unwanted guests, do we?"

The Felix raised its head, scanning, then blinked and meowed once demurely.

_If the old man was listening, I would be dead already._

_Fold the logic._

_Examine every angle._

_Find the pattern._

_I'll need proof before I make contact. No mistakes. Sapet will go stack some bodies. When he's finished, one will belong to the Architect's son. The other will be the whore. It is Abner! He owns the coffee bar... and below that coffee bar might be... tangible holoflage projectors? It's a perfect location. Too much! Focus on the farm._

He tapped his combud, waiting, waiting, waiting until Sapet's glossy, deep voice answered, "Hello, detective. Are we back onstream? No more letters?"

Slopes scowled, "My IT driver assures me we're locked down. Besides, there's no time." He drummed his nails loudly, "We need to have another walk around CHR 1500. Tomorrow, first thing. The river too. Something's happening out there."

"The Coyote crash site again? What kinda something?"

"I have a feeling about that pumpkin farm."

"I've heard that before."

"New information has presented itself."

"You sure?"

Slopes enlarged the holograph of Tara until her face nearly filled his holoscreen, "Positive," he said. "Absolutely positive."

"Just have some agents float around?"

"No, walk it. Go east from Oak Hill Cemetery. Canvas that farmland from the river under cover of the trees. You see anything even remotely suspicious..." Slopes licked his lips, "eradicate it."

"Outside city limits," replied Sapet coolly. "Private property."

"I won't respond to that, though of course the river trail is public domain."

"What exactly should I brief my agents to look for?"

Slopes nearly pounded the surface of his desk but controlled himself, "You're the city CNED Director, Kenneth. A giant, spinning holosign that says, _get booze here!_ A naked brunette, you know the one!"

"Understood, sir."

"Sapet?"

"Yes?"

"No com traffic. If these agents see something before contact is made, I want them to relay it verbally."

Sapet frowned, "Like over an encrypted stream?

Slopes' kneecaps began to itch.

"No! I mean in person. Send your teams out combud dark. GPS only. Any field intel, they walk it back on their feet and tell you to your face."

"I got it..." said Sapet's dubious voice. "But I don't understand. We can put a 128 bit encryption on each packet and rotate..."

"Just do it!"

Sapet's patience finally broke, face reddening and he barked back at Slopes, "I don't appreciate your tone, detective!"

Slopes tilted his head with calculation, like a lizard hunting a dragonfly, "How long do you think your pack of apes would last without me? Agent Howler raped a teenage girl last month. Then shipped her off to the loving care of Nurse Fossbender. And got a commission for it. I made that go away!" Slopes hissed through his painfully cut tongue, "So... do you now have a better _appreciation_ for the exceptionally understanding nature of my _tone_ , Sapet?" Slopes falsely brightened, "Or... I can let you express your dissatisfaction directly to The Office of the Architect."

Sapet's voice was ice, but the reply conciliatory, "Very sorry, sir, my mistake. Face to face communication only, absolutely. Anything else?"

"Did I say anything else?"

"No... sir."

"Then get the sky off and rally your hunters! You float at dawn!"

Slopes cut the stream and popped a hemp truffle beneath his tongue. Then both he and Mrs. Kitters let out an protracted sigh. He had no more doubts.

_Old man... old man... come yourself, or send one of your hooded freaks. Soon I'll have something to show you._

Friday, October 15, 2082 9:07 pm – Fifteen Hours Before Event.

Tara swung her long, black hair dramatically as she spoke to Dorothy, "I get it! Nanogear hinges handle recoil." The music was so loud she had to halfway shout, even though Dory was right by her side, "It's still a _throat_ cannon! I mean..."

Dorothy finished her vodka and dropped her tumbler on the table, "I agree. They could have made it a tail cannon. Or a shoulder cannon? Poor FREYA. Talk about a mouthful."

Tara punched her shoulder, "Ewww. You say I'm gross."

"You are gross."

Unlike Dax, Tara preferred to be seated in The Lady's VIP booth against the back wall in the main room. The private alcove was too secluded.

Daphne swung around from the wait station, "Hello, ladies." she sang. "Everyone good?"

"Daphne, you're a doll!" said Tara. "Feeling fab. We need another round!" She knocked a shot glass on the oak table four times, pointing at Dorothy, "Two vodkas, beers back!"

"You got it, girls..." said Daphne.

Dorothy shook her head as she watched Tara's eyes follow the waitress' cute sashay towards the bar. Tara spun back, drunk, and knocked a mason off the table. It broke on the floor but nobody noticed. The bar was crowded, even for a Friday, with lucky, well-heeled Lawrence citizens who knew somebody who knew somebody. There were few, if any, students in the basement club. The chairs and tables had been cleared and the space in front of them was packed with professors, doctors, artists, software engineers, ganja farmers and any other sort of hipster in between with the digis to pay for a clean speakeasy hack. They were all turned out for the light music. Plus the other two items on menu at The Green Lady Lounge, vodka and beer. Until the beer ran out. There was always enough vodka.

Jane vapor and smoke filled the room with a hazy, melodious vibe that jived nicely with the deep sounds of DJ Lobe's psychedelic house.

"We should pick up that glass before someone cuts themselves," said Dorothy.

Tara smiled at Dorothy and leaned to kiss her, "You're so adorbs. Always worrying about other people."

"Don't!" said Dorothy, turning her head. "You said you wouldn't."

Tara gave her friend a peck on the cheek, settling for rubbing Dorothy's thigh instead, "Boring..."

Daphne returned to the table with a fresh round of preacher's beer and two more shots of vodka, setting the drinks on the table with a button smile, not trying to yell over the music. She knelt and picked up the biggest shards of broken glass, putting them on her tray. Dorothy had met Daphne numerous times over the years and was always taken aback by how placid, yet beguiling, the girl was. It was especially apparent when she smiled, as she did then, frozen by Tara's gaze.

Dorothy pinched Tara, "Don't! That shit's not cool."

Tara burped without covering her mouth, keeping Daphne locked with her eyes on the other side of the table.

"I bet Daphne isn't afraid to kiss me," she said.

Daphne swayed in place, smiling dreamily as though morphine had begun pumping through her veins.

"Please stop," Dorothy implored.

Tara kept her eyes on Daphne, "Only a kiss can set her free..."

Daphne looked like she might fall over.

"Fine, brat."

Dorothy grabbed Tara's face and kissed her.

Daphne snapped to and blinked dizzily, "Whew, that was weird. Just got a little light-headed. I'm gonna go back to the bar now!" She picked up her tray and disappeared as though nothing had happened.

A stout, red-haired man, sitting one booth over with his wife, stared at the kissing betties, mesmerized. Tara and Dorothy pulled apart slowly and Dorothy blushed, wiping Tara's lipstick off. The burly man grinned like a well fed gorilla, then cowed as his wife yanked his ear.

Tara's olive cheeks were flushed.

She kept her hand on Dorothy's thigh as she picked up her shot glass, "Cheers to that."

"Cheers," said Dorothy quietly, hiding an annoyed smile.

They knocked down the liquor, chasing it with the bitter beer.

"Ahhh!" said Tara, effusive. "This vodka tastes like it was distilled in a fucking boot!"

Dorothy laughed, "Don't let Goran hear you say that."

Tara swayed in her seat then. Her eyes filled with bloodshot.

She picked up her mug of beer weakly and clinked it against Dory's, "I would never..." she said, closing her eyes as if nauseous.

Dorothy watched protectively, drunk herself. The last time they had gone out together, Tara had nearly gotten arrested for threatening to urinate on a woman's Pomeranian Fido.

Dorothy put her arm around her friend, "What's going on with you tonight?"

Tara leaned back, the unseen force touching her, "I don't know. I think it's starting."

Dorothy picked up her own beer, slowly taking a sip.

"What's starting?" she asked nonchalantly.

Tara sat upright. Her eyes popped open, now green and clear and she grabbed Dorothy's face.

Dorothy felt her skin chill as Tara answered, "The dolphins..."

Friday, October 15, 2082 10:01 pm – Fourteen Hours Before Event.

The microdrone returned to the cell every five minutes. The hovering device sounded like a minuscule electric lawnmower when it moved. It was the size of a baseball and used a bio-monitoring x-ray to scan Adrienne Moon first. Spencer ignored the fine wand of red light as it next flashed up and down his body. He could feel drone's antigrav field raise the hair on his arms as it drew close. It had come and gone so many times he no longer paid attention. His face was buried between his knees. He couldn't forget the girl's face...

_Oh Dog, oh Dog, oh Dog..._

Two hours earlier, Amy Miller had been ribbing with Adrienne. They were talkin' that new betty show on the holovision.

_Hillbilly Housewives of Houston? Dude, this is so dark._

Spencer's combud told him 2 hours 14 minutes had passed. Adrienne Moon was curled on a metal bench in the corner of the jail cell with her face towards the cinder block wall. Spencer sat on the floor. The bars on the cell's entrance cast ominous, gray shadows. Adrienne Moon whimpered endlessly. Her white dress was splattered with dots of blood.

The scene played over in his mind.

They had been sitting side by side on the carpeted floor of Virgil's apartment, about twenty minutes after Virgil locked himself in his bedroom. The three of them were gathered around a Monopoly holoset. The betts sat with their backs to the wall, giggling over a vaporjoint.

Every few minutes one of them would call out, teasing Virgil, "We're not going anywhere!"

Spencer chimed in too, "Yo dude, I know you got your own bottle in there, but this beer's gonna be gone!"

Everyone was giddy, filled up on the booze Virgil had scored. Adrienne's friend, Amy, looked pretty fine. _Amy Miller_ was her name. Adrienne and Virgil were always bringing betties around to audition for the role of Spencer's girlfriend.

Spencer began talking to himself again, "I don't know, officer. I just met her..."

It was true. All Spencer Hotshine knew was that Amy Miller was a teacher at the Lawrence Head Start downtown, in the old church at Ninth and Vermont. It was the same church where his mother took mass. Spencer had walked by it a thousand times. Adrienne was still volunteering there to work off her community service hours from Bmod. That's how the girls met. Spencer's eyes fell briefly on sobbing Adrienne Moon, then back to the floor.

"I'll never drink again," he mumbled to the blue, cement walls. "Never, ever." His face wrenched with misery, "I want to be on the right side of history. Vision is the way, I get it."

Suddenly Adrienne Moon turned and screamed at him angrily, "Will you pleaaaaasse shut up, Spence? Seriously, Jeezus!"

"You're crying too, Addy!" he shot back.

"Yes!" she said. "Crying, not _talking_!"

Her eyes were so bloodshot they looked pure red. Tiny black streams of mascara mixed with tears burbled over her skin.

"My bad, Dog..." Spencer said sheepishly.

"Go to hell, narc!" She gave him the finger without looking up again.

_So heavy..._

The story in his brain started over.

Amy Miller had the hovcar in Monopoly. The holographic game pieces floated above the board. Spencer had been the dog. Adrienne Moon was fittingly the lunar transport. Virgil had been the hat. Until he freaked.

_So dark..._

Amy Miller had just taken a sip of beer when her head exploded. He remembered watching the mason jar, slow motion fall from her hand and spill black porter across the carpet. The beer soaking into the carpet looked just like blood. Spencer's face still stung from the sharp bits of flying skull.

_I'm lucky I didn't catch a piece in the eye. Oh Dog. They can't be dead..._

She was dead, though. Dead as Apple products. And Virgil?

Spencer's dog had been stuck in Monopoly jail when she spoke her final words, "Hey, someone's lucky! Look who scanned the get out of jai..."

_Boom!_

He remembered Amy Miller as she was in the moments before she died. Her skin was light brown, her cleavage seductive. Her hair was curly, dyed blonde, short in back like a guy's, pixie-cut bangs falling down over her smooth, round cheeks. She had freckles and big warm, hazel eyes. And sexy, pouty lips built for torture. She was tan from the recent Indian Summer, and the girl had one of those bodies that just... stays leaned up against a wall after a bullet rips half your head off.

_I'll never..._

The cell door mechanism made a metallic clink and opened. Spencer looked up. It was the stocky deputy again with the tribal tattoos all over his forearms. The name tag beneath his brass deputy's badge read, _Talboy_. His hair was buzzed military short. He swaggered confidently in a tight khaki uniform, black boots shining vividly with polish.

"Time number two!" the deputy bellowed. "On your feet, Hotshine!"

Spencer stood awkwardly. His back ached. He was taller than the short deputy by a head, which made him uneasy. Before leaving, he glanced at Adrienne Moon. She did not look up. She just curled tighter into the fetal position on the metal bench. Adrienne had already been taken from the cell once too. Spencer vaguely wondered how many different hidden cameras and nanodrones were monitoring them.

"Come on, boozejob!" roared the deputy. "Don't just stand there. MOOOVE!!"

"Sorry," Spencer managed, trembling.

_I didn't do anything!_

Had Spencer Hotshine's emotions been less scattered, his sense of observation more keen, he would have realized this was the same sheriff's deputy who had helped him file insurance documentation when his Mustang had been stolen from his place of employment two-plus years before.

"Save your _sorry's_ for interrogation," said Deputy Talboy, humming as they walked down the sterile jail hallway.

"Sorry," repeated Spencer.

Deputy Talboy mocked him, "Sorry, sorry, sorry, everyone's sorry."

"I..." began Spencer.

"What?! You scared? Should be!"

Deputy Talboy shouldered past and stopped in front of a plain metal door painted red. There were several plain metal doors painted red lining the hallway. Spencer was unsure if it was the same room as last time.

"No sir, I mean, yessir, not scared of you, I just..." Spencer stammered.

"Coyote got your tongue?" said the cruel, short man.

His hand caressed the black biometric doorknob as he goaded his prisoner.

"No sir, I just... can I ping my mother?"

Deputy Talboy snapped, "No you can't stream your momma! Your combud's firewalled. Way things are going, you'll be lucky to see her alive again."

The air vanished from Spencer Hotshine's lungs. He then watched with confusion as Deputy Talboy suddenly grimaced like a kid caught stealing cookies.

Talboy touched his own combud, listened for a second and replied, "Yessir. Sorry sir. Just some fun. Coming in now."

A male com voice spoke placidly from overhead, "Access granted."

The doorknob changed from black to green and the door opened with a pneumatic hiss. Spencer shambled in. Deputy Talboy followed and the door closed behind them. The knob turned black once more.

_Oh Dog..._

The last time, Spencer had been alone in the room, sure that invisible death gas was going to start flowing from the vents at any moment.

Instead, he had simply been questioned by the emotionless building computer.

"Are you Spencer Michael Hotshine?"

"Uh... yes, I am."

"Is your address 815 South Prairie Street?"

"Yeah."

"Are you employed at Greystone Behavioral Modification Hospital?"

"Yes."

"Have you ever consumed alcohol?"

"I... yes. But I didn't used to!"

"Are you an alcohol addict?"

"No. _No!_ "

"How many still operations can you locate on a map of Douglas County?"

"None. I don't know any!"

"How many speakeasies can you locate on a map of Douglas County?"

"I haven't been to a speakeasy!"

"Did you visit The Grand Canyon with your family when you were fourteen?"

"What?"

"Did you, or did you not, visit The Grand Canyon with your mother and father on spring break during your freshman year of high school?"

"I guess so."

"Have you ever heard the name, _Tara Dean_?"

"Yes."

"Have you ever heard the name, _Marlene Fossbender_?"

"She's one of my bosses at work."

The computer was silent for a few moments, then asked, "Are you a sympathizer with the alcohol decriminalization movement?"

"No. No! Absolutely not!"

"Have you ever owned a medium sized Fido?"

"Yes, well no, not me myself. But my mom has two Gemini class Persian Felixes. And my dad bought a Sony chocolate lab when I was a kid. _Buster_. He's still onstream."

This time, Spencer was not alone.

The interrogation room had two plain metal chairs on either side of a stainless steel table which was bolted to the floor. In the chair facing him sat a gray-haired gorilla of a man dressed in weathered hemp blue jeans and a tight-fitting, green polo. The man had a thick, salt and pepper mustache that looked as though it would have been in fashion in Tombstone, Arizona, in the late 1800's. His forearms were the size of Spencer Hotshine's calves. His jaw was a grizzled cinder block. Before the man on the table was a law enforcement badge lying face down. He held a standard 25 cm holotab in one hand and was using it to fan himself. The man's cold blue eyes did not so much as flicker when Spencer and the deputy entered.

He had just begun a comstream, his voice gruff and direct as he spoke, "I don't give a flying donkey's pecker if I'm upsetting your Felix...! You didn't think it might be helpful to share your Dogdamn hypotheses?"

The deputy pushed Spencer into the empty chair and took up a sentry position in front of the door, his manner now quiet and professional. Even seated, the big man on the other side of the table loomed over the room. His ashen-blue gaze briefly flashed over Spencer as he listened to the person on the other end of his combud.

Then he snarled, "Sapet couldn't find an aircraft carrier with a metal detector in a swimming pool. If you had a problem with your coms being hacked you shoulda walked your snaggly-ass carcass down to HQ to check with Everquist. I mean, you got a _signed physical holograph_ from the girl! How long ago? Did you receive a second blow to the head after you bit your tongue off? Fucking dark sky, Slopes!"

Spencer was glad he wasn't this Slopes person. The hulking man massaged the bridge of his nose as he listened angrily.

Spencer recoiled as the man's fist slammed the table between them, "I'm the _ONLY_ person who needs to know! Police answer to the Dogdamn sheriff. I answer to Fort Riley! The Coyote crash site is _outside_ city limits! So technically, the only law enforcement agency with _less_ jurisdiction out there than LPD is cocksucking CNED! It's _Community_ Narcotics Enforcement Division, not _Farm-_ NED...!" He shook his head, "No Slopes! Don't tell me about checks and balances. Fuck me, you communist! We haven't had checks and balances in the Union since Bill Clinton was president."

Spencer felt a lump rise in his throat as he realized who the man across the table was. Sheriff Dale Proudstar. A Lawrence legend. Since leaving the special forces, he had been sheriff in Douglas County almost longer than Spencer had been alive. He still had the physique of a body builder and was hated, loved, reviled and worshiped, but always won reelection every four years based on one fact. When Dale Proudstar became sheriff, violent crime in Douglas County dropped by 47% within a year. Like most old school types, he was reputed for being liberal on drug policy as it related to alcohol. He was equally well known for his harsh punishment of other organized criminals. He had even gone on public record since the last election saying alcohol should be decriminalized. The media had a heyday! CNED, MAAD and the entire recreational marijuana lobby despised the man. Spencer's mother had said Sheriff Proudstar would not win reelection that fall because of it.

Spencer swallowed the lump in his throat and did his best to stare at his shoes.

The sheriff's tone grew as cold as a dying fusion core, "Slopes, right now your opinion is worth a squirt of pigeon spunk. I want facts, data. Every letter, holograph, cloud address, insight, secret hypothetical CNED agent route or bubble gum wrapper with a penciled diagram of Cora the Cartoon Conqueror on it. If it remotely pertains to this still theory, I want it on Everquist's mainframe in thirty seconds or I'm gonna strip you naked, march you down to the Asian sector and sell your skeleton to a bone recycler. _Now. Fuck. Off._ Proudstar out."

The sheriff leaned back in his chair and exhaled, letting his holotablet fall flat on the table with a _thwack_ as he crossed his arms across his chest and assessed the young man sitting in front of him as if seeing him for the first time. His eyes darted up and down, quick and observant. The faded, black letters of a tattoo covering the outside of his left forearm spelled a single word: _RANGER_. Neither he nor the deputy spoke.

Spencer looked about nervously.

_Maybe I should say something?_

Before he knew what was happening, he blurted, "Please don't send me to the slaughterhouse!"

The sheriff unfolded his arms and let his chair fall forward, placing one hand then the other on the table. Not knowing what else to do, Spencer turned his head to see if the deputy's face bore any explanation for the ongoing silence.

"Don't look at him, Hotshine," snarled the sheriff.

Spencer snapped his head around, "I I I I I I I didn't! You know my name?"

Sheriff Proudstar rolled his eyes, reached into his cargo pants and produced a e-joint. He took a long drag and casually exhaled a large cloud of the earthy-smelling steam. Spencer watched the man's eyes study his reaction. His mother's words rang through his head.

_If you don't know what to say, then shut up._

The sheriff gestured, "Want some?"

Spencer remained frozen, though his toes wiggled ferociously in his sneakers.

"Hah!" Proudstar smacked the table with a heavy palm, "Just kidding, son. Hell! This is the Sheriff's Department, you can't vape marijuana in here! 'Less you're me of course. And you're technically off duty. And it's Friday fucking night and you've been rousted from bed by an emergency klaxon 'cause some poet / writer / whatever the fuck shot himself with an unregistered weapon, and in the process blew an innocent girl's Dogdamn head off." Sheriff Proudstar tugged the ends of his mustache, "And... let's see; _you_ , Mr. Hotshine, are under 25 years of age, in possession of two different types of alcohol and a ball of black market stym-hash the size of Tennessee. _And_ you've even slid some hospital intel to CNED for a digi here and there." Sheriff Proudstar leaned to one side, "Deputy Talboy, wouldn't you think that if someone was that fuckin' clever to think they could play both sides at once, maybe the slaughterhouse is just the place for 'em?"

The deputy's response was immediate, "Absolutely a good place for such an individual, sir."

The sheriff turned back to Spencer Hotshine, cocking his head, "Hell, being a union janitor... bet you'd get a slaughterhouse discount!"

Spencer said spasmodically, "No, _sir!_ I mean, yes – is, no. I'm not saying _no_ to you. I'm just..."

Proudstar leaned his elbows on the table, dangling the electronic joint out of the corner of his mouth, "Boy, you're about as sharp as a sack full of wet baby owls, ain't you?"

Spencer Hotshine said, "I'm not stupid, I'm..."

The sheriff laughed, his smile suddenly broad as a barn, "Dogdamn. Just shut up, kid." He reached for his badge and turned it over as he took another pull off the e-joint, holding up the six pointed, electroplated star, "See how this badge says _Sheriff_ of Douglas County, Kansas?"

Spencer nodded.

"That's right," continued the sheriff. "It doesn't say _Dickhead_ of Douglas County, Kansas, does it?"

Deputy Talboy snickered.

"No sir," said Spencer Hotshine.

"Well now that that's cleared up, I've been known for doing a lot of underhanded shit in my day, but sending kids to the slaughterhouse ain't one of them." He picked up his holotablet and glanced at it momentarily, "So... I know your name cause it's 2082. I know the day you were circumcised and I know your blood type, and how you did on your SAT's, which ain't good. No wonder you're a fuckin' janitor." The sheriff leveled his gaze at Spencer like he was sighting in a rifle, "And yes, I know your momma, who for the record, is the only thing standing between you and those morons at CNED."

Spencer looked up wanly, "You know my momma?"

"She's been a secretary at LFD longer than I been sheriff, boy. Your mother does her job, goes to church and otherwise keeps her head down. Smart citizen, her."

Spencer responded eagerly, "You're not going to tell her then?"

Proudstar narrowed his gaze, "Your best friend just murdered a girl in the process of failing at his own suicide. What are you? 13? No, you're 22. Course your mom's gonna know. Real question is, how much trouble you wanna be in?"

"None sir. Please," Spencer sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve, "I'll do anything. Anything. Just not the slaughterhouse... Is Virgil gonna die?"

The sheriff glanced at his holotab and swiped a command, then cracked his knuckles. The sound was like a hundred chicken legs being broken.

"Probably. All you have to do is answer some questions. Can you do that?"

Before Spencer Hotshine could respond, a tiny port in the ceiling opened and a black, smooth-surfaced microdrone appeared, engaged its antigrav turbines and floated down to eye level. It was a drone Spencer hadn't seen before. It hovered almost silently. Every other second, a green LED on its belly illuminated, then faded.

"What's that?" Spencer asked nervously.

"It's a meadowlark," said the sheriff dryly. "Otherwise known as a polygraph drone."

"A _poly-graph?_ "

The sheriff blinked, "College might be something you wanna reconsider one day, son. That drone's gonna tell me if you're lying."

"I'm _not_ lying!"

"Good. Cause if that light turns red, I'm gonna send you to The Restitution Work Camp in Goodland soon as the drill stops spinning."

"I'm not gonna lie!" Spencer implored.

"Tell it to the meadowlark," said the sheriff, scanning his tablet. "Now, what do you know about this girl's relationship to Virgil Benedict?" The sheriff turned his holotablet so the old image of Tara Dean was facing Spencer's side of the table.

"You know she's the bett who stole my hovcar, right?"

The sheriff squinted but did not speak.

"Sorry! You know that. Uhhh..." He winced and scratched his head. "Virgil said he met a girl like her once. A substitute teacher or something. He said he thought she hypnotized him once. But he never knew my Tara."

"Did he say it was _this_ girl?" The sheriff turned over a piece of paper on the table with a still frame of Tara Dean printed from the closed circuit security feed at Marlene Fossbender's house.

Spencer only glanced at the image for a second, "No, couldn't be. That's Tara Dean too. I'll never forget that face as long as I live."

"Hmmmph," said the sheriff with a nod.

"You said _hypnotize_ him. What are you boys? Hippies? _Virginia Rose_ the name he used?"

Spencer snapped, "Boom! That's it!"

"Hmmm..." The sheriff grumbled, puffing jane absentmindedly. He set the small electronic joint down and drummed his heavyset fingers on the metal tabletop, "Mr. Hotshine?"

"Yessir?"

"Did Virgil ever talk about a _Dax Abner_? As in, Abner's Pumpkin Patch?"

Spencer looked genuinely confused, "No. Not that I remember."

The sheriff glanced at the hovering polygraph drone. Its light continued to pulse green.

"Hmmmph..." Proudstar put his hands together and leaned forward on his elbows, "So what happened tonight, son? You have three minutes, so don't run your mouth like a hoverboard. And remember," he said with a sideways glance at the drone, "You lie, your jollies go in a laser-shredder, pecker first."

Spencer had been praying to the Great Dog for this chance, "Yes! Fond! Okay!" His leg began shaking and he had to put both hands on his knee, wiggling his toes instead, "I met Virgil about five years ago when..."

The sheriff rapped his knuckles on the table, "That's great. Now fast forward five years to 8:14 pm this evening. That's the time-stamp when Virgil's apartment com notified us that a firearm had been discharged. What were you boys doing with a gun?"

Spencer squeezed his eyes together in concentration. A single, itchy bead of sweat ran down his forehead.

"We were all hanging out, drinking. It was a double date I guess."

"With Amy Miller?"

"Yeah."

"Go on."

"I got there early. Virgil was drunk already. He was smoking an antique joint, which was weird, cause he usually puffs vapor. He was paranoid, going on about how poems never die, poets never die or some art shit. But he showed me the gun earlier this afternoon, talking about needing protection."

"Around 2:30?"

"Yeah, I took lunch break and went over to pound a javaball cause he said he had something to show me."

"You mentioned an _antique_ joint," said the sheriff. "He use a registered vendor?"

"He got it, I dunno. He's been getting them for a couple years now, pre-rolled like that."

"Taste local?"

"Uh-huh."

"Mmmm," growled the sheriff, considering. "So what was he upset about? His girlfriend said they had a fight?"

"Totally. He's always been bunched up about Adrienne seeing other dudes." Spencer shrugged, "Addy's always said she'd be his principal. And she has. She loved him, and his writings or poems and whatever. Any betty loves an artist. But Adrienne saw fellas on the side too. It totally scrambled Virgil, especially when he'd get drunk. He's gotten nutty about it before, cut his hand punching a window once. But never like this."

"Did she tell him?"

"Totes. That was Virg's hangup. Awhile back, Adrienne got busted. Virgil pinged her every day she was in Bmod. She thought it was romantic! So they dated antique style, one on one for a long while. He loved it. Virgil's always been queer like that. He said Addy was his music."

"His _music_?"

"Uh huh," Spencer nodded.

"You mean his muse."

"Yeah." Spencer smiled for the first time in hours, "His muse!"

"I didn't give you permission to experience joy," growled the sheriff. "So. She decided to shag another fella. Virgil blew a sensor feed. When?"

"A month ago. He's some football player."

"Tony Parsells. Works with her at Purple Tree Farms Float-Through Dispensary on Hovstreet 23."

"Yep," Spencer nodded complacently. "That's the dude. Adrienne pinged Virgil that she couldn't have dinner just the two of them on Saturday cause she had plans, but we could all kick it Friday. I didn't see the big dealio, but when Adrienne said she had _plans,_ that meant she had a date."

The sheriff glanced coolly at the polygraph drone's steadily pulsing, green light, then asked, "Virgil couldn't leave well enough alone?"

"No."

The sheriff grimaced, "What a pansy."

Spencer shrugged, "It's like I said, sheriff. He's a poet. Or a reader of poetry or some such."

"He's two cunt hairs short of a adolescent bunny, far as I can tell."

Spencer Hotshine cleared his throat.

"Well, go on," grumbled Proudstar. "What happened when the girls arrived?"

Spencer rubbed his hands together, "Okay. Adrienne and Amy got there like twenty minutes after me. Virgil was drunk, faded on jane and pacing about."

"Did he have the pistol out?"

"Nuh uh, no. I only saw it this afternoon. He had it in the bedroom in his backpack, I guess. The betties had been there all of two minutes before Virgil and Adrienne started fighting, went in the bedroom and closed the door. Shit got hella awkward. I'd just met Amy like two seconds before, but we got on, unscrewed a mason of beer and there was tunes, so whatevs. We just laughed about it."

"Could you understand what they were saying in the bedroom?"

"Not really. Just a bunch of the usual hollerin.' Normally if they'd commence to fight, I'd pick myself up and get." Spencer gestured left and right with his hands, "You know, I could make out _slut_ this and _asshole_ that, and _you're acting like a girl..._ Normal couple stuff. Then Amy started joking. She's like to me, _Nothing weird about this. Nice to come over and listen to them fight! Maybe we should just go?_ I was fixin' to tell her that's a good idea, but then Addy comes out of the bedroom and slams the door."

"No Virgil?"

"No Virgil."

"What did Adrienne Moon say when she came out of the bedroom?"

"Nothing."

"The girl ain't mute."

"Nuh uh. Not then. She's red in the face, streaks past us, grabs a jar of vodka, goes back to the bedroom. She left the door open this time, hollers somethin' along the lines of how _something and something, it's her body and she's keeping their sex alive..._ She comes back out, slams the door again. I don't know. Virgil's quiet now. Then she yells at the door _that if he's really a man, he'll come hang out like one._ "

The sheriff whistled low.

Spencer Hotshine shrugged, "It's a woman's world, sheriff. Addy does what she wants. She always been straight with Virg too. You can ask her. She's never once said he's the only dude in her day outside o' love."

The sheriff picked up his holotablet, speaking absentmindedly as he made a couple of swipes, "In my experience, the harder you try and force a pussy cat to use one litter box, the faster it's gonna desire a good shit in the woods. Ain't that right, Talboy?"

Talboy responded curtly, "Yessir."

Sheriff Proudstar let his holotab fall back on the table. He looked at the still green LED on the hovering polygraph drone.

"All right, Hotshine. We're about nineteen minutes past three here... so I can put the rest of this together pretty quick, I think, but you might as well finish. What happened after she closed him in the bedroom?"

"I remember he screams she's a slut again," Spencer chuckled. "Then the three of us says to hell with it and commence to drinkin' and smokin' ourselves. The girls danced for a second. Then Amy wanted to go out to a ganjabar, but Adrienne wanted to wait on Virg, see if he straightened out. So she says we ought to play some Monopoly on the holoset. Then after a few minutes..." Spencer's lower lip began to shake, eyes falling to the floor.

Sheriff Proudstar's voice held a modicum of empathy, "Take your time, son."

Spencer's eyes were bloodshot when he looked up, "He was _real_ drunk."

"Take your time."

Spencer took a deep breath, "Okay, okay. We're sitting there like I says, and we're drinkin. I'm gettin' on pretty well with Amy Miller. Ady and I are buds, so it's all fly." He smiled affably, "Ya know, we're razzin' Virg pretty fierce through the wall, though. I was too. His best friend..."

Sheriff Proudstar's voice was steady, "What happened next?"

Spencer's gaze trailed off, "Ya know, he been in there hitting the vodka, hard. I didn't know he was depressed, he takes Pleasium all the time, right? It was just a muffled _POP!_ Amy's head went like a firecracker, blood in my eyes and skull bits and body stuff's all over. I thought it was some kinda joke at first. There was so much red... I didn't..."

The sheriff held up a finger to silence Spencer.

He leaned over and looked at Deputy Talboy who had begun shifting nervously as he listened to his com, "Bullfrog in your britches, Talboy?"

Talboy looked at the sheriff uneasily, "Sir, we've got a situation..."

Several seconds passed.

The sheriff gestured with an open hand, "Well...?"

Deputy Talboy took a couple of steps away from the door, obviously agitated, "Perhaps we should speak in private?"

"I don't have time for private," said the sheriff, nodding at Spencer. "This kid couldn't remember his own name if it wasn't welded to his jaw. I need these details while they're fresh. What gives?"

"Sir, Everquist says you should be getting an encrypted prelim on your holo now..."

The sheriff frowned, looked quickly at his holotablet, then back at Talboy, "Don't make me read. Speak, deputy!"

"We just had a citizen ping a 901A on an LPD beat cop!"

The sheriff's face froze, aside from the twitching of his gray mustache, "Say again?"

"I know, I don't know!" Talboy blurted. "Everquist is pinging again, hang on..." Talboy tapped his combud and listened for a few seconds more, then came back, "All right. This is streaming my ear now. An officer at Ninth and New Hampshire apparently just walked into the middle of the intersection, drew her sidearm and shot herself!"

Spencer Hotshine's knee began bouncing with renewed anxiety. The sheriff showed no emotion. He tapped his holotab, passed his palm across the glass, unlocking the encrypted message.

"Jeeezus..." he said slowly. He tapped the holotablet once more and the tiny black polygraph drone returned to the ceiling and disappeared. "Talboy, get down there," the sheriff barked. "Yesterday! I want a sealed perimeter and two armed COD's running molecular refraction on every corner in five minutes. Now, now, _now!_ "

"Yes sir!" said Brick Talboy, suddenly all business.

As Talboy vanished, Sheriff Proudstar stood for the first time. Spencer Hotshine sunk into his chair at the size of the man.

The sheriff walked around the table, "Son, we're gonna have to cut this short. You've been most helpful."

"Wait!" cried Spencer. "What about Virgil!?" Spencer reached out and clasped the sheriff's wrist, "What's about my buddy!?"

The sheriff slammed Spencer Hotshine's arm to the table.

"Ouch!"

Proudstar pinned Spencer's wrist like a rubber hose in a vise, "Unless you're of a desire to lose a limb, Hotshine, just don't do that."

He let him go.

"I'm sorry!" blurted Spencer, rubbing his wrist. "I just... When can I see Virg?"

The sheriff faced him squarely, " _Never_ is when."

"But I..."

"You got it or not?" he said, raising his bushy eyebrows. "Never."

Spencer collapsed, "I got it, okay."

The sheriff sighed. He pulled the e-joint from behind his ear and took a hit, exhaled.

His voice softened, "Your friend has got himself wrapped up in some mean, mean sky, son. If he lives, he'll face the magistrate and be swinging a pneumatic hammer against moon rock at Hypatia 5 for the rest of his days."

Spencer closed his eyes, slouching, "Hypatia... dude. What if he dies?"

"Then he's lucky..." the sheriff's voice trailed off.

Spencer barely mumbled, "Yeah."

Sheriff Proudstar opened the door and stepped halfway through, then turned back, "Someone will be by for you soon. Good luck."

The door closed with a tight magnetic seal and the Sheriff of Douglas County, Kansas, was gone from Spencer Hotshine's life.

Friday, October 15, 2082 10:27 pm – Fourteen Hours Before Event.

The holoscreen's modulating splashes of light reflected weakly off the aquarium's dark glass, casting a diffused glow. Only one of the six monitors was active. An infrared topographic map was projected, streaming data from one of the private drones patrolling the skies above. An orange line bisected the display, representing the heat signature of County Hovroad 1500. The flat harvest rich fields that composed the two kilometers of land between the hovroad and the farmhouse were a lime green color, bare earth yet warm from the day's sun. The farmhouse glowed like a little yellow shoebox on IR, and the wall of trees that made up the woods between the farm and the Kansas River were a deep green, accented by a curving, fat purple line that represented the river itself.

The London Digital Philharmonic's rendition of _Kashmir_ by the antique, 20th century instrument band _Led Zeppelin_ echoed softly through the air. Dax Abner was known for being an ardent classical music enthusiast. Joan's habitat was tomb black, only the wan light of a SimulSun© new moon shining its weak beams down through the crystal water. The massive saltwater filtration mechanism whirred steadily, accented by an occasional _beep_ or _wonk_ from the supercomputer's coolant room. Even surrounded by meters of rubcrete insulation, the temporal hum of the fusion generator pushed a mild static through the air.

The men's voices were subdued.

"I know you wanted to talk shop, but I'm glad you understand," said William. "I needed you to hear me say it, I'm sorry."

He took another drink and set his mason of vodka on the glass holodesk beside his rifle. He was grateful for the low lights.

Dax sat in the second control room chair, his patient demeanor radiating as though he were a man of the cloth, "She wanted you. Just because she is bonded to me doesn't mean she can't be with another."

"You oughta hate me."

Dax glanced at the vaporjoint glowing in his own hand, then calmly locked William's eyes, "It's not like you had a choice in the matter. Besides, if all it took was another man's hands on my woman to make me feel threatened," he gestured at the dark aquarium, "would I be able to create all this?"

"I suppose not," conceded William. "It wasn't my intent. You know Tara."

"You're worried about Dorothy. You know, surely, about the girls?"

"That's different."

"I suppose the four of us will have to sit down at some point soon and have a chat, like adults. But tonight, let the ladies dance, and..." Dax eyed his Rodeo Drive joint with a smile, "Let us inebriate ourselves!"

William grinned, "Hah! This is the good stuff. To a peaceful night."

Dax nodded, "To a peaceful night."

"So tell me. This new tech?"

"Did you read the stream I sent last week?" asked Dax, genuinely curious.

"Been a little busy, boss."

"Ahhh." Dax puffed the vaporjoint, causing its synthdiamond tip to glow blue, "What say we have Joan paraphrase for us?"

"Do it," said William, raising his glass with a smile.

Dax turned towards the aquarium and tapped his combud, "Joan, darling?"

Both men turned their chairs and faced the colossal curved glass wall of the dolphin habitat.

Several seconds passed. The music faded. A silver flash moved swiftly through the water. Bubbles filtered upwards, barely visible. This time, a flash came close and William caught a glimpse of her form as the SimulSun© lights booted. The whitish-yellow sand began to glow beautifully beneath the thin shadows of waving kelp. A cybernetic starfish clung to the inside of the glass. The creature's rotary-bristled mouth scraped steadily away at any algae deposits. Joan was fastidious about, if not somewhat preoccupied with, habitat cleanliness.

The small Maui dolphin appeared suddenly from a lavastone cave opening. Her white belly gleamed as she somersaulted to the top of the aquarium and glided effortlessly between the electroencephalogram terminals.

Joan's eyes closed and the com spoke in her signature monotone, "Daxane Julius Abner, William Thomas Angevine, greetings."

Dax gave a soft clap, "Good show, Joan!" He sat upright, seeming delighted like a child, "Joan darling, what we need is a brief technical breakdown of centibots. Specifically, how they potentially impact our industry."

Joan said, "A technical holosyllabus was provided two days prior for distribution to all relevant parties."

"Ah yes," said Dax. "We were _just_ talking about streaming your manual, but you see, William has been a tad busy of late. We were hoping for a summary?"

Joan's floating body gave no indication of an emotional response, "You have been engaged in recreational drug consumption for over three hours. It should be noted that Hugo Velasquez completed his reading of the centibot manual in nine minutes."

"I get your point, ma'am," said William. "But Hugo is a genius." William sighed and looked at Dax, "Maybe if I smoked as much jane as Hugo, I'd be able to focus better too? Too bad I prefer booze."

"Consumption of alcohol does not necessarily degrade one's ability..." said the dolphin.

Dax interrupted, "Joan? Please?"

"Very well." After a brief pause, she continued, "Distribution of centibot technology to law enforcement agencies began 4 months, 2 days prior. The first recorded utilization of centibots to bring down an illegal alcohol still was logged by the Omaha, Nebraska, police on June 22 of this year."

"Fusion still?" asked William.

"Negative. This was a small capacity solar still in the basement of a private residence, which produced fifty liters of corn vodka per month. The still operator insulated the walls of the basement with civilian grade rubcrete. Nonetheless, they were discovered."

"How?"

"Centibots present a threat on two levels. Instead of power signatures, their scans focus on the unique kinetic energy signature of flowing water."

"Like a HLIR camera?"

"Correct. Yet they scan on a subterranean level, and are only thirteen centimeters in length."

"They look like metal centipedes?"

"Affirmative," said Joan. "Instead of 100 legs, they have 20, each fitted with a diamond tipped blade for digging."

"Why not just hack them?"

"Centibots do not function on a traditional intrastream. Each unit has an independent Ipv4 address. They function with a singular purpose. _Only_ if they find what they are looking for, do they then upload a heavily encrypted packet to the Govstream."

"So _why_ can't you hack them?"

"I am not fast enough to hack a spontaneous burst packet between the time it originates and the time it is delivered to the cloud. Centibots are designed to be distributed in groups of 50 to 5,000 units. Hacking their individual ipv4 address bursts is impossible."

William's expression sobered, even as he poured himself another splash of vodka, "So how do we stop them?"

"With a TOHO class EMP mortar."

"How's that?"

"You would need to retrofit one of the DOGS unit cannon systems with an electromagnetic pulse generator. Fire the EMP mortar at a high altitude and it will disable all unshielded nanobots within a half kilometer radius."

"How do we know they're coming?"

Joan said, "Continual analysis of law enforcement com streams is the best defense. The human need to endlessly discuss strategic plans allows almost all relevant terminology to be tagged in advance. This is well within my capabilities."

"So we basically wait for someone to say, _deploy centibots at the pumpkin farm_ is what you mean?"

"Scanning for that complete sentence would be inefficient. Instead, I scan for tags; _centibot, SID-NX9472, HLIR bot, etc._ This new technology will prove perilous to those in our industry who are not able to adapt."

"Typical Vision. Nothing fair about it."

"Fair is irrelevant."

"Oh come on, Joan!" said William with a rare grin, "Fairness is what makes the world go 'round."

"Planetary gravitational eddies fueled by the mass of the sun are what make the world go 'round. Each day, Hugo Velasquez or Dorothy Nichols-Angevine deposit ten cod in my habitat for food. One of the fish is always faster, stronger and thus more difficult to catch than the others. By your logic, this is unfair. By my logic, this challenge makes the capture of that final, stronger and more evolved fish all the more satisfying. We shall likewise prevail against the more advanced centibot technology."

William shook his head, "Joan, I see wh..."

His voice was cut off by a sudden, shrieking alarm. It was a klaxon they had not heard since the night Tara Dean escaped from Greystone Behavioral Modification Hospital.

Dax and William spun to face the wall of flatscreens, monitors flashing to life with red block letters, _PERSONNEL SECURITY COMPROMISED. VOCAL BIOMETRIC LOGIN REQUIRED TO PROCEED._

Dax spoke slowly, "Daxane Julius Abner – primary."

"Identity confirmed," said the computer using a different vocal subroutine from Joan's.

William quickly shook off the buzz.

He gave Dax a concerned look as he spoke, "William Thomas Angevine – secondary."

"Identity confirmed. You may proceed."

"What is it?"

"I'm not certain," said Dax.

Streams of com-data began cascading down the monitors.

"Joan, let's get our eyes in the air," said Dax. "Can you source this please?"

"I am processing multiple tags on the event horizon. Please wait," the dolphin's tale moved rapidly for a moment, churning a cloud of bubbles, then slowed to its usual, steady sway.

A correlative keyword map formed on the lower left monitor. At the center of the map was a simple sphere with the acronym _DCSD_. Phrases began appearing in an expanding orbit around the center: _County Hovroad 1500 / Rose Virginia / Greystone Behavioral Modification Hospital / Fossbender Marlene / Coyote / Darkpool..."_

"You gotta be shitting me," said William under his breath, watching the map as it continued to expand.

The list of words added: _Dax / Abner / Pumpkin / Angevine._

William's hand unconsciously moved to his rifle.

Dax stroked his chin, his expression somber, "Joan? A source?"

"Source _A_ is Virgil Benedict."

"Son of a bitch," said William sternly.

Dax winced and spun in his control chair to face Joan.

William did not miss the slip.

"A bit ahead of schedule, aren't we?" asked Dax, raising his eyebrows. "Extrapolate from the source, please."

"You _knew_ about this?" said William.

Dax ignored him.

Joan's voice was steady, "As predicted, the catalyst reacts. 2 hours and 34 minutes ago, Virgil Benedict became intoxicated, locked himself in the bedroom at his apartment and unsuccessfully attempted to commit suicide. A .357 caliber bullet passed through a sheetrock wall, striking and killing a female citizen. Virgil Benedict is presently unconscious and is being held in the ICU at Douglas County General Hospital on charges of alcohol-induced manslaughter. Also present at the time of the shooting were citizens Adrienne Moon and Spencer Hotshine. These individuals are in custody. Sheriff's deputies responding to the call discovered a handwritten note beside Virgil Benedict's body containing the words, _Dax Abner & Virginia Rose, Tony Parsells & Adrienne Moon, Virgil Benedict Finds Death Too Soon..."_

William began to speak.

Dax silenced William's mind without even looking in his direction, "Joan, how many corollaries are there to our sector prior to tonight's events?"

"47."

"Origin?"

"46 out of 47 keyword queries originated from systems registered to Chief Narcotics Detective Dennis Slopes. This is source _B_. There is a spike in keyword frequency following the courier-drone sent from this location to that individual's office."

Dax's expression drifted.

"What courier, Joan?" asked William, shaking his head from the courtezan haze.

"Indeed, what are you referring to exactly?" followed Dax.

"A private courier-drone, sent 29 days ago by Tara Adler Dean, delivered the following printed image to Detective Dennis Slopes, holoscreen four."

The men spun. The monitor showed Tara's holograph; naked, bent over... Dax shook his head, yet a smile turned the corner of his mouth as he read the printed words, _Looking for my ass? It's right..._

William clutched the long black hunting rifle with both hands, "Why did you let this go, Joan?"

Joan remained silent.

Dax's features strayed, lost in thought, "Slopes is a high level agent of the white. He already knew. Nurse Fossbender stoked those suspicions further. He picked up on the eavesdropping, sent a courier-drone to Ken Sapet which was intercepted by... good lord."

Dax faced the dolphin, "Joan, Tara knows nothing of computers. She couldn't possibly have intercepted that drone without your assistance. Why now?"

Joan spoke after a lengthy silence, "I do not have sufficient data."

William stood angrily, "What does that _mean?"_

"It was against protocol," said Joan. "A malfunction may exist in my system which standard security scans missed. Deep structure analysis in progress."

Dax's eyes closed in thought.

William kicked a chair, sending it across the floor into a rubcrete wall, "We should have let the Dogdamn Coyotes have her!"

Dax stood and walked closer to the aquarium, "Joan. Do you have logs on the moments leading up to Tara asking you to return that courier?"

"Affirmative. It was 4:14 am, September 4, 2082."

"Were you fully integrated? EEG terminals in place?"

"Negative."

"Do you remember the interaction?"

"I remember everything."

"Was Tara in the control room when she asked you to send the drone?"

"Affirmative."

"Were you in your cave?"

"Negative."

"You were out in the open of your habitat?"

"That is correct. Tara Adler Dean stood beside my habitat with her hands pressed to the glass."

"Did you look her in the eye?"

"Momentary ocular contact was exchanged. It is a standard form of nonverbal communication among humans."

Dax moved slowly back to his chair, "Fascinating."

"Do we have as much of a problem as I think we do?" asked William.

Dax looked at William, mystified, "Tara allured Joan."

"Say what?"

Dax repeated himself, "Tara allured Joan. I told you her abilities were... unique."

SIEGFRIED bounded into the room, sensing William's anger. The Rottweiler licked his tether's hand, then sat obediently to one side, following with his eyes as William paced back and forth.

A sequence of three beeps sounded from the computer, more keywords appearing: _speakeasy / basement / fugitive / rowdy pony?_

William didn't waste a second, "Joan, get me a stream to Dorothy. Override mute protocols."

Dax said, "They'll get out as soon as the evacuation command line is processed. Joan..."

"No!" said William emphatically. "It'll be pandemonium when that ping comes through the bar."

"Do it," said Dax. "They're getting a five minute jump. In the event of a raid, I must protect the other patrons. _All_ are innocent."

The men paced, waiting.

Joan's voice had never seemed slower, "Accessing. Encryption stable. Pinging once. Pinging twice. Combud on mute; override. Pinging once, pinging twice..."

William reached out and pet SIEGFRIED's ear as he waited.

The stream opened, "Hello?!" said Dorothy's voice, sounding as though she was inside a tin can. "Ha! He missed me so much he had to call on the emergency stream! I love that too! You should come down here and have a shot, babe! Tara's druuunk! Get your hands off me! What are you..."

William closed his eyes, "Honey, you have to float. You have to get out now!"

They could hear the deep, telepathic house music blaring in the background mixed with a cacophony of bar chatter, "What's that? Hang on, I gotta get to the alcove... let me switch off my ears, hold on. Hi Daphne! Oh yeah, I am! I'm totally gonna be there!" said Dorothy, slurring slightly. "Hang on, babe..."

Dax rested his chin in his hand as he listened to the conversation, his face betraying nothing.

William spoke as calmly as possible, "Sweetheart, you guys have – to – get – out – of – there! CNED is coming!"

Dorothy reached the private alcove behind the velvet drapes, "Okay, hi, babe? CNED what? We're having a great night. We miss you!"

"Honey, we're made."

"Whew! Okay, I'm kinda drunk too. You having fun? Tara was saying that..."

"Dory, _SHUT UP_!!" William screamed.

The com went quiet, "What did you just say to me?"

"Dory, The Lady's emergency evac protocol is going live in less than five minutes. Get Tara and float. _Now!_ "

"Honey, you're scaring... What are you talking about?!"

"The sheriff's department fed out a ping on The Lady's approximate location. You have LOFN, right?"

They could hear Dorothy's breath begin to accelerate, "Yes, we've got her! I've got my hand on her now, she's been dormant back here. I'm scared! How did this..."

"I'll explain later. _Nothing_ matters right now except that you leave. Try to look normal. Just walk. Get to the hovcar, Joan's got a full cloak radiating from LOFN, just went up. I'll meet you halfway. Right now just _go!_ "

They could hear Dorothy's voice begin to crack, "I don't like this..."

"Dory, get to the hovcar, float east."

"But babe we're not close..."

William cut the stream with a grimace, "I don't have time for this."

Dax looked up, "Get them. I'll run admin from here." A holographic keyboard sprung to life. Dax sat and began typing command lines. His voice was strangely casual as he worked, "Joan, Tara is not allowed in the aquarium any longer without myself or William."

"Understood," said the dolphin's monotone voice. "William Thomas Angevine," she continued. "Hovcar unit, Lincoln 03 is docked .6 kilometers from The Green Lady Lounge."

William spun to face the small blue dolphin, "Well float it to them and pick them up."

"Not possible."

"Why?"

"It's Friday night," said Dax quietly. "No autopilot controls allowed downtown on the weekends due to the high volume of pedestrians. It's a union law, ensures weekend money for human float-share pilots. Means there are foot patrolmen everywhere. We can't risk the hovcar getting a visual."

"Jeezus. They're gonna have to walk." William turned to leave, SIEGFRIED on his heels. "We're out."

Joan's voice stopped him, "William Thomas Angevine, you should be aware that there is a FUI checkpoint being established at 15th Street and Haskell Avenue as we speak. Expediting your passage through would be complex. Your public identities have already been added to person of interest lists based on public employment affiliation with Abner Family Pumpkin & Gourd."

William paused, unphased, "I'll take the back road then. Joan, are you gonna be able to cloak me, the girls _and_ handle The Lady's evacuation all at the same time?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

Dax smiled thinly at the dolphin's response, "We'll blind everything we can. Please make sure Tara is safe."

William squinted, "I should leave her in a ditch. But you know I won't." He gathered his cowboy hat, "Joan, spool the MKZ!"

His cowboy boots clipped on the cement as he walked out.

Dax called to him with his mind.

William stopped, "Boss?"

"I'm sorry," said Dax.

William nodded, "All that matters is our ladies."

He turned and disappeared with the hunting rifle over his shoulder. SIEGFRIED trotted briskly on his heels, eyes flashing from brown to their natural cybernetic red.

Friday, October 15, 2082 10:37 pm – Thirteen Hours Before Event.

In an old life, Officer Emma Smith was a boozebum. Today, three weeks out of the police academy, she felt like a prodigal example for the healing abilities of a month spent in a Bmod hospital.

_It just takes awhile to understand everything..._

Was being content such a terrible thing?

_As long as you have jane, who needs alcohol? It's so true._

She pulled her hair into a pony tail and tucked it under her black patrolman's cap, smiling sweetly at passing pedestrians.

She had logged amazingly few citations, mostly to hipsters who still liked to roll antique paper joints or cigarettes and smoke them in public. They called the hash bar district downtown _Vape-Street_ at the station. Lit cigarettes in a public space were against the law because of secondhand smoke. It was only a D$500 fine though, and didn't go on your record. Veteran cops told Emma logging these citations was good practice for interacting with the public.

Then of course, there was her first arrest the weekend before, a drunk and elderly college professor. At first, Emma had pretended she didn't notice him. But as he passed, her alcovap sensor went wild! After that, it auto-synced to her combud, so she had no choice but to assist the man. She had begun by having sympathy. Her hands had trembled as she activated the magcuffs. The old man spat at her. It was horrible! He smelled like a still. He called her a fascist! Emma wasn't sure what _a fascist_ was.

_Some kind of nasty shiner slang._

It was easy to distinguish drunks from janers by the way they walked. Boozebums just had that unmistakable, _I'm better than you_ swagger. Using these skills, it didn't take Officer Smith long to figure out that the pair she had just noticed heading her way was probably high on booze. She tried not be too obvious. What a pair they were! Two women, one brunette, one blonde. The blonde was dressed in overalls and looked like a farmer. She was pretty, in a country sort of way, but looked real scared. Maybe it was mad. She wore very little makeup. Her blue eyes darted about suspiciously and she kept her hands in her pockets.

_A weapon?_

The brunette in the skin tight red dress was by contrast lively and animated, walking barefoot and carrying her shoes. She talked to the blonde and laughed. Her shiny black hair floated easily in the wind and reflected the light of the streetlamps.

And _there_ was a perfect excuse to stop them! A black Rottweiler trotted beside the women.

_Unleashed organic dog; direct violation of Lawrence City Code 54-2C._

Emma's palms began to sweat. She could hear the pretty woman in the red dress laughing. She stumbled, giggling, but the blonde grabbed her arm and helped her keep her balance. They were less than thirty meters up the sidewalk. Officer Emma Smith acted casual, leaning into the shadows against the brick edifice of a shuttered department store.

A patrol drone came floating down Ninth Street following the center line median and turned north up New Hampshire. She followed it with her eyes. Emma thought for certain the drone would stop as soon as it scanned the group. Because of the unleashed dog at the very least, but it just floated past, LED's green.

When the group was less than four meters away, Emma took a deep breath and stepped out of the shadows. She made sure she had an unrealistically jovial smile on her face. It was the blonde who gave it away. She latched onto her friend's arm, a look of guilt crossing her face. Emma was downwind. Her alcovap alarm auto-klaxoned before she'd even had a chance to speak.

"Airborne ethanol content verified, please assist with compassion..." said Officer Smith's combud in a voice only she could hear.

The way the muscular Rottweiler stepped forward and sat beside the blonde woman made Emma uncomfortable. The animal was obviously not a Fido. Too smooth. Which made the way it followed her every move with its eyes, even as the rest of its body stayed still, very spooky.

Emma spoke with authority as she had been trained, "Good evening, folks. I apologize for the inconvenience, but I'm going to need to scan your coms."

The woman in the red dress was captivating. In the night lights of the city, her eyes looked like basins of green water.

She stepped forward, all curves and flow, "What seems to be the problem, officer?"

Emma extended her hand in the universal signal to stop and unclasped the safety strap on her service weapon, "Hold it right there, ma'am. To begin with, that animal needs to be on a leash. I also have reason to believe you folks might be using illegal drugs this evening. I'm gonna need to scan your combuds either way. _Please,_ " she added hopefully.

The woman in red took another step closer, a sarcastic smile across her face.

_Something wrong..._

Emma nervously drew her gun and pointed it at the woman's chest, "Ma'am, please."

The Rottweiler was instantly on all fours.

"Tara, don't," pleaded the blonde in overalls, stepping forward and grabbing her friend's arm.

"Oh, let go of me," said the woman in the red dress. "I'm just going to talk to her." She pulled her arm free and the blonde let her.

Emma blinked. She could smell the vodka on the woman's breath. It was disgusting, enticing.

_No! See with Vision!_

She felt as though a warm sheen of molasses was being poured over her body.

_Remember... training..._

She successfully shook off the woozy sensation and cocked her sidearm. Emma didn't understand. Was there a problem? Time seemed to slow. She winced. The haze. What was wrong? She leveled her weapon, speaking with as much menace as she could, "Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you _one_ – _last – time_ to step back and unlock your combud, or I will be..."

_What was I saying?_

The pistol seemed to weigh a thousand kilos. Officer Smith blinked again. This time when she opened her eyes, the black dog was standing right beside the woman in the red dress. It panted and smiled at her.

_How much time?_

Emma's police-issue, 9 mm Beretta was still against the woman's sternum. She had dropped her uncomfortable looking red heels to the sidewalk. Her hand was on the gun barrel. There was no fear in the woman's black eyes.

_Weren't her eyes green a second ago?_

The woman in red turned and gestured to the blonde. There was a quick exchange of words Emma didn't understand, and the blonde walked past and crossed the hovstreet. That was fine. Strangely fine.

_They should go._

The woman in the red dress needed to stay where she was, though.

Emma smiled.

_Why?_

Because the woman in red was the most beautiful woman she had ever seen? Emma should let her guide the gun down to her side and listen to what she was saying. The brunette wanted to push her back into the shadows against the brick facade of the building.

_We can talk more privately under the awning._

Of course they could. Emma felt stupid for not realizing it was a much better place to talk.

Her lips did not move, but the woman spoke, "Do you mind if I whisper in your ear, Officer Smith?"

Emma smiled contentedly. Whatever this was, she didn't want it to stop.

"That sounds nice," she slurred.

The raven-haired woman leaned forward and whispered. Emma could feel her breasts pressing heat against her polyhemp uniform. She smiled as the woman spun around, whispering finished, dipped to pick up her shoes, and then skipped away, the black dog trotting after her. The pair easily caught up to the blonde in overalls who was already halfway down the next block.

Emma watched them go, placidly, Beretta in her hand. She had never felt so right about anything. She stepped out of the shadows.

_See with Vision, see with light._

A man walking past looked at her fearfully. She was still holding the pistol. Of course she was.

_Has it had been two minutes yet?_

Emma could no longer see the woman in the red dress. She said they would meet again.

_Won't that be fond?_

They were going to have so much fun the next time they met!

"Don't worry, citizen" she said to the pedestrian. The man was very excited, talking to someone on his combud, but it didn't matter what he was saying. All that mattered was...

_My two minutes..._

"Okay, here we go!" she said with a bright grin to the man on the corner.

Officer Emma Smith stepped off the sidewalk into the intersection. She smiled as she had never smiled before! Hovcars were flashing their lights and honking. That was fine, the noises and lights were all so lovely.

_Always smile, even if you don't mean it..._ her mother had told her growing up.

Emma let that last thought float through her mind like mist across the still surface of a morning lake. Then, with the lights of the hovcars all around, shining celebration in her eyes, she placed the barrel of her 9 mm Beretta beneath her chin and fired a hollow point round into her own skull.

# `Chapter 3.6 – Enlightenment`

`"When war is declared, truth is the first casualty." Arthur Ponsonby`

`**Fragmented Remains from the Cloud Diary of Daxane Julius Abner – October 16, 2082 1:57 am – Ten Hours Before Event.**`

`...she has never accepted; when the DOGS units choose to kill, it is a choice they make freely. The only Rottweiler to not take a human life is LOFN.`

`In military applications, cyborgs outnumber humans 100 to 1. Yet all cybernetic units are, to varying degrees, still assisted by a human operator, like aerial war drones of old. Independent recognition gives _our_ cyborgs their power. The other Rottweilers have chosen to kill CNED agents. True. They have killed individuals who would gladly put a drill put through our eyes and see us spend the remainder of our days at a Redemption colony.`

`This, justified by law. So again I ask. Do we have a drug problem? Or do we have an entire culture being systemically manipulated by a telepath?`

`What happens when unpredictable events collide with perfect initial conditions? Fusion powered quantum computing, dolphin command, five DOGS units, a transhuman tether, a manager, a smuggler and a master distiller.`

`Tara Dean flaps her wings.`

`The unforeseen variable becomes a secondary permanent condition. Joan nor I foresaw it. The density of the pebble's soul was impossible to determine before it struck the water's surface.`

`Events now cascade.`

`William left to rescue the women. He floated the back route down 11th Street past the sewer reclamation facility. Before he made it halfway, he and SIEGFRIED are flagged to stop by a solitary police officer paired with a single MARX class battborg. Joan cloaks all relevant data; name, place of employment, vehicle registration, etc.`

`Yet the butterfly flaps her wings.`

`Word lights up the holostream of an officer suicide. Something does not sit well with this patrolman. Tensions rise. He attempts to restrain William. William punches him in the throat and slams his face into the hood of his patrol hovcar, breaking several of the man's teeth and rendering him unconscious. Simultaneously, SIEGFRIED fires a point blank TOHO round into the MARX unit, incinerating the battborg. Rural neighbors report an explosion of red light in the night sky.`

`The emotional response of the tether is passed to the DOGS unit.`

`The butterfly...`

`While William's futile interaction with the police officer transpires, Joan has already successfully navigated the Lincoln containing Tara, Dorothy and LOFN back to the farm. There was no raid on The Lady, only Slopes' suspicions. A raid will come soon though, and when it does, they will find a dusty store room. All patrons and employees exited safely. Leo, Daphne and the staff have been given new identities and a substantial severance. But it is already too late for the still.`

`The DOGS units patrol the woods and river.`

`Tara lies awake, her mind softly calling me.`

`William slumbers, lost in a wilderness of vicious, empty REM.`

`Dorothy paces back and forth by the window, unable yet to find rest. She is sick from too much alcohol, confusion and regret. Her heart rate is elevated.`

`Goran and Cat alone are at peace, curled in their bizarre symphony of consciousness.`

`Who stays? Who goes? Only the dolphin and I know the final objective. And one other. The rest, naturally, believe that escape is not only inevitable, but destined by logic. Their belief may soon be all that remains.`

`Destruction? Redemption? Both imminent. Joan and I will not sleep agai... _UNSCHEDULED HARDWARE DESTRUCT / DATA COMPROMISE / INITIATE BACKUP.EXE FOR REINTEGRATION FORMA... LOSS. LOSS. LOS"_`

Saturday, October 16, 2082 7:17 am – Four Hours Forty Three Minutes Before Event.

Sheriff Proudstar relished the warmth of the antique porcelain in his hands. The coffee's heat made his four hours of sleep seem like _at least_ five. He took another drink and placed the mug on his heavy walnut desk, watching the steam rise, not yet prepared to face what awaited. He sent a thought to his combud and activated the morning news.

The Lawrence Journal World App sprung to life, assaulting him with a pop-up streamcast featuring the tan, rectangular face of local sensation reporter, Martin Wringle.

"Good morning, Lawrence!" the reporter beamed, cup of Rowdy Pony coffee in hand, label facing the camera. "This is Martin Wringle, coming to you with a special, in-depth holocast from the corner of 9th and New Hampshire. This Journal World holocast is brought to you by Rowdy Pony Coffee and CannabiGene© – makers of teaHC© Citrus – with their new flavor, _Kaleidoscope Kush._ Remember citizens, with teaHC©, it's always 4:20." The reporter spoke the last sentence rapidly: " _This message brought to you by The Marijuana Producer's Association for Responsible Recreation._ Now to our lead story!"

"Oh, for fuck's sake..." said the sheriff, crossing his burly arms and squinting at the image being projected above his holotab.

Martin Wringle paused, cast his eyes at the sidewalk, then looked somberly into the camera, "Less than eighteen hours ago, a typical Friday evening was transformed into a night of violent crime. The Jayhawks Men's Basketball Team had just defeated the Texas Catholic University Horny Toads 127 – 43 in an early season rout. Celebrating citizens filled the hookah lounges and coffee bars. All was well..." the reporter narrowed his eyes, "until a shot rang out."

A holograph of Officer Emma Smith appeared in one corner of the projection as Wringle continued, "Pedestrian Traffic Officer Emma Smith, aged 24 years, a recent Police Academy graduate, for reasons not yet understood, walked into the middle of the intersection you see behind me at 10:38 pm, drew her gun, and took her own life. A young officer with a promising career, inexplicably gunned down by her own hand on a downtown hovstreet."

Wringle swung around, gesturing at the street corner behind him, "The Journal World has been gathering eye witness accounts of the shooting. Reports indicate Officer Smith was seen in confrontation with a group of citizens on the sidewalk you see here." The suave-faced reporter cocked his head, "Citizens report a brunette woman in a red dress..."

Sheriff Proudstar slammed his holotablet face down and ended the stream with a snarl. The gorilla like fingers of his right hand opened and closed into and out of a fist. He picked up his coffee and drew its warmth close. Outside his office window, the rain fell, clouds hung low and bruised like floating stones. The storm had blown in across the Flint Hills overnight from Abilene, though the worst of the thunder had passed, leaving behind the beginnings of a day that promised to be sunless and wet.

He took a deep breath, looking at the holoscreen before him, peaceful in its blackness.

Having waited as long as he dare, the sheriff rubbed the bridge of his wide nose and began the day's work by bellowing into his combud, "Everquist!!"

The monitor filled with light several seconds later, producing a full size visage of his red-headed IT specialist, chattering so fast his words were nearly unintelligible, "...oh man, okay, sir, I've already blocked access to public records. The media got in overnight before the drone woke me, someone tipped them!" Deputy Everquist threw up his hands, "Snively had the night shift. He was supposed to manage it!"

The sheriff already felt better seeing Everquist's pale, oversized head.

He grumbled nonetheless, "Red, Snively couldn't manage a hand holding contest with a paraplegic. That's why he works for LPD and you work for me. The last thing I need is Martin _cocksuckin'_ Wringle blowing winds of encouragement up the ass of every CNED in town. Not to mention the media. Tell me no one tried to find that alleged speakeasy? That was just Slopes' hypothesis, nothing more."

Deputy Everquist's fingers typed at a blinding rate, "No sir. But we should talk about the scan you had me run. Snively's a good guy, but unfortunately this is what happens when the police hire programmers from The University of Phoenix, sir."

The sheriff's quick chuckle turned to a grunt, "Noted. You up to speed?"

"Always, sir. I've cross-analyzed the staggered density readings from the geodrones we scrambled to scan the foundation beneath The Rowdy Pony coffee house last night." Deputy Everquist stopped typing for a second and looked directly at the camera, biting his lip.

Proudstar simply nodded, "Okay, I'm not happy. Explain."

"Sir, geodrone prism scanners are the most sensitive devices we possess. They could detect a hollow cavity the size of a tennis ball at the center of a mountain of granite. _And_ tell me the chemical composition of the air inside that cavity, _as well_ as its precise volume. These are the drones that bagged the cloaked nuke reactor _a kilometer_ under the Libyan desert last December."

The sheriff put his elbows on the desk and rested his chin in one hand, "You didn't find anything..."

"Nope. Schematics are identical to public records. Mr. Daxane Abner's investment group owns the entire block, though the only business with his name directly attached to it is _The Rowdy Pony_. The rest is just real estate divested across four different corporate entities." Deputy Everquist turned, reciting data off his holotablet, "The basement of The Rowdy Pony claims a 188.28 square meter storage basement for the coffee shop with mortar and limestone walls dating from the time of original construction in 1881. 426 square meters of adjacent space are used by the basement of _The Vapor Room Hookah & Hash_. It's where they have their hoverpool tables. Outside of that, scans _and_ filed data say it's solid limestone and clay for 200 meters under the alley, hovstreets plus the antique mall and docking lot to the south. Geologic composition, power signatures, water flow – I even did a HLIR scan. Clean as a sonic shave."

The sheriff picked up his coffee and took a long sip, "I just don't know what to believe anymore, Everquist."

"Sir?"

"I've met our Mr. Abner at a couple of civic events, Chamber of Commerce fundraisers mostly. He's well-dressed, well-spoken, community oriented. Hell, the man's donated Dog knows how much to the Kansas Association of Chiefs of Police."

"Well north of 19,000,000 digidollars, sir."

The sheriff tugged his mustache while he looked at Everquist, "So a fortune, over near seven years, which unless I'm mistaken, makes him one of the most generous philanthropists in the state of Kansas. I assume you've cross-referenced his background six ways from Sunday?"

Deputy Everquist sighed, " _Sixteen_ ways from Sunday, sir. Daxane Julius Abner, born August 3rd 2044 in Tripoli. Zero criminal history across Interpol, NSA streams, local, state, Federal, nothing. He inherited the fortune when his mother died and has made the rest in international investments."

"Then why do I got Virgil Benedict in a coma in the hospital, who before shooting himself and murdering a girl, wrote the man's name on a piece of paper."

"It is suspicious, sir."

"On the same day, Red, your Snively tipped us off about Slopes and his recent misadventures. When I grilled Slopes, he _too_ mentions Abner to me, the fugitive Tara Dean, and lastly a speakeasy we've heard rumors of more or less since the time Abner appeared in our fair city. Yet it's a speakeasy which the most advanced spy drones in the world say is _inside_ a hunk of limestone the size of a city block. We'll have to do a physical ASAP. Tell me about this Bill Angevine?"

Deputy Everquist typed feverishly for a moment, then returned to his holotab, "The name got light because he's on a CNED watch list in Oklahoma. He's a gun guy, used to be a cyberhunting guide, not much other history. Now he works as a security guard."

"Local? Or in KC?"

Danny looked up from his holotab, "For Abner Family Pumpkin & Gourd, sir."

Both men paused.

"Hmmph," said the sheriff. "Even if you say there's no man on Earth capable of hacking your systems... we gotta fly some ducks over that pumpkin farm, priority one." The com remained quiet. The sheriff looked up, tweaking his mustache, "Everquist?"

The deputy's expression had frozen, his mouth hanging open like a hungry baby bird.

After another moment Danny's eyes got wide and he looked at the sheriff, "What did you say?"

"What the sky you mean?"

"About hacking our systems?"

"I said, even if you say there's no man on Eart..."

"That's it, sir!" interrupted the deputy, grabbing two fistfuls of his patchy red hair. "Oh my Dog. I can't..." a rubbery smile stretched across Deputy Everquist's face, "The Pansy is a dolphin!"

The sheriff took a resolute sip of coffee before responding, "Everquist, I may need to get some of the weed you're vaping. Did you say a _dolphin_... _?"_

"Yes!"

Proudstar sneered, "That's science fiction, Red. Not one person has confirmed the presence of a dolphin-driven computer. Ever."

Deputy Everquist was typing furiously now, reading and slugging hits from a can of Mountain Dew as he spoke, "Sir, in my world, on the stream, we hear rumors."

"Rumors are wind."

"I know," Danny paused, "but among hackers, there are reports of these legendary code events that go back fifty years since our holographic datastream replaced the antique internet! Sensors, drone networks going black, manipulation of financial markets, hack events that are literally beyond the ability of any human being, all followed by _ultimate darkness_."

"Say what, now?"

"Ultimate darkness, a return to normalcy. Hackers, we've, I've, I mean _they've_ gotten close in the past. The legend goes, any hacker who gets too close to exposing a dolphin based system initiates ultimate darkness. The dolphin, the abnormal stream phenomena, everything vanishes. Within days or even hours the holostream returns to typical function – ultimate darkness – where the black market again hides in plain sight."

Proudstar shook his head, not convinced, "Legends don't go to prison, Everquist. I need evidence. And how does this pertain to Dax Abner potentially running a super still?"

Danny Everquist looked like he might leap from his chair as he pounded the last of his Mountain Dew and hurled the can aside, "Think about it, sir! Let's just say, hypothetically, that a dolphin _is_ behind this. The most advanced hacker in the world, working for a fusion based still, interfaced with a quantum class mainframe. The Coyote carcass was recovered where? Bill Angevine is a security guard where? Think about all our normally solid-state equipment that has malfunctioned since Tara Dean escaped from Greystone Behavioral, CNED agents vanishing into thin air. Even your old commander at the Army Reserve, sir. The experiences he reported..."

"Marcus..." the sheriff closed his eyes and shook his head. "But a _dolphin?_ An aquarium? That would require a huge facility build out. The cost alone would be..."

"A fortune, sir. An open piece of land with a nearby water source that could be accessed on a subterranean level..."

Proudstar scowled, "The river."

"Oh my Dog!" exclaimed Everquist.

"Stop saying _oh my Dog!_ "

"Sorry sir. But it _has_ to be a dolphin!" Deputy Everquist was spinning in his chair, "Hah! I'm not crazy! In fact, I..."

Proudstar cut him off, "Everquist, shut it. Another day when I got the time you can send me a dissertation on how every law enforcement agency in the state of Kansas has been getting its ass kicked by a fish..."

"Dolphins are mammals, sir."

"I don't care if it's a fucking kangaroo in a scuba tank!"

"Sorry sir."

The sheriff laced his fingers together and cracked his hefty knuckles, "Far as I'm concerned, we've got enough circumstantial evidence to detain anyone within a kilometer of that farm. But I'll have no more mistakes. Before I drop boots, I want recon. How many avian drones we got?"

"Sweet!" said Deputy Everquist dreamily. "We've got four, sheriff. Canadian geese camodrones. I can have one in the air inside thirty!"

"I want all four in the air in half that."

"Even better!" said the deputy, typing command lines like a madman.

"Can you put these birds on a dedicated stream, Everquist?"

"No problem."

"Have each scan a single parameter. No cycles. One on gravotemporal, one on HLIR, one on infrared, and the last I want on standard visual."

"I can make that happen, sheriff. But I can't guarantee..."

"Everquist! If you're fighting a fish, get a net! Figure it out. I need recon yesterday. And someone assemble my SWAT team."

The sheriff cut the com. He leaned forward on his desk and laid his head on the backs of his forearms, letting out a long sigh. When he sat up, his bloodshot eyes landed on the image of Earl Proudstar hanging above his desk.

He pursed his lips and spoke with a soft nod, "Does it ever end?" Then he tapped his combud, "Private stream, Marcus Apollo," he covered his eyes with his hand and waited.

A voice gruff as his own soon answered, "LC?"

"Who the hell else is gonna ping you at eight on a Saturday?"

Colonel Apollo chuckled, "Shit, I already had a protein shake and logged nine kilos on the treadmill. What's your excuse, hippie?"

"Retirement. Next month, in fact."

The voice on the other end of the com responded affably, "Fair enough. So to what do I owe the pleasure, you old pogue?"

"You at the fort this weekend?"

"This weekend and every weekend. Someone's gotta teach these green horns how to push a borg into the trees."

"Remember when we did battle with guns instead of joysticks?"

Colonel Smith chuckled, "Sure do. We were both in Venezuela, LC. Those are some long gone decades, say? Something tells me you didn't ping to reminisce."

Sheriff Proudstar gave up on his mustache and scratched the stubble on his chin, "All I recall about Venezuela is mean guerrillas and meaner whores. Remember when you got bushwhacked by those mules on I-70 last year?"

Colonel Apollo growled. He activated the visual relay, appearing on the monitor on the sheriff's desk. The men nodded at each another abrasively.

"I work three days outta seven," continued Apollo. "One day a week for Hovway Patrol and _I_ get grifted by some civvies. How could I forget? I gave your tech marvel all the data I had, which wasn't much. Streamed you then, I'll stream you now... last thing I remember is that little piece o' pie swallowing my mind with her eyeballs. It was like black ops shit."

"Well, I may have found them," said Proudstar. "On a farm just east of town."

"Ya don't say?" the colonel's bald, ebony head gleamed with a pristine shine. "You realize that's the only demerit on my record since I started that Hovway Patrol gig? Every other time I just spend eight hours gettin' well paid to float around watching the sun set."

"I know it, Marc."

The colonel's expression turned grim, "One Dogdamn day a week... and _I_ get jumped!"

"I know it, Marc," repeated the sheriff. "Listen, could be some serious tech out there. I may need you."

"I told you, someone was cloaking those shiners. Not a day goes by I don't think about it. Remember when they trained us against those Israeli mind manipulators in Ranger school? Part of interrogation resistance?"

"I do."

"That's the only reason I remember a damn thing."

"You said the borg you saw was fusion wrapped CIV class?"

"For sure. Ripped through my pups."

"How many battle-ready critters you got on base?"

"Sixty RIOT 2.0 battborgs, badass Dobermans, every one. Got full BIOSKIN© wraps and are mean as snake piss. Five second OS spool and they can be 100% paired with a driver." The colonel smirked evilly, "In other words, I gotta enough borg muscle to take over Wichita. What you up against?"

Proudstar shook his head, "Hell, I dunno. Might just be a couple good ol' boys steamin' shine in the hickories. Or it might be King Kong. For now we'll call this a social ping? If needs, can you fly some trained drivers and borgs this way?"

"You know the drill. Declare a state of emergency and hell..." Colonel Smith snorted, "this is the National Guard. As acting commander, I got no choice but to respond." The colonel lowered his voice, "Nowhere does it say _how_ I gotta respond. You light the holo, I'll have two C17's floatin' over city hall inside three zero."

Proudstar exhaled, looked Marcus Apollo in the eye, "If it _is_ the same bunch, figured you'd want first tap."

"Pussy or pecker... I'll tap it. Up to more than just mulein' booze. There was something _wrong_ with that girl."

"We're in agreement then."

"Ain't you got some borgs?" the colonel clucked.

"Yeah, twelve MARX dogs. My gunny, Talboy drives them. Should be plenty to pin down any Fidos or organics on guard duty. Just in case, keep your ear on?"

The colonel laughed, "Ping me."

"Colonel."

He tapped his combud to end the stream. Apollo's image faded, but the sheriff's combud malfunctioned, echoing strangely with the sound of their last words.

"Hmmph," he grumbled. Dogdamn tech."

He tapped his combud again. This time it went dark.

Dennis Slopes collapsed the CarbonStream app.

_I'm excited. Too excited._

He opened the desk drawer and popped a morning cherry stym, smacking his lips. His eyes were greedy and unusually beady, flickering with sallow delight as the last of the sheriff's private combud transcript spilled across his holoscreen. He let his fingers drift hungrily through Mrs. Kitter's chestnut fur, the Felix perched slumbering on his lap.

_Proudstar has an obvious mind._

The man had not changed his personal Govcloud password in four years. He asked for it.

"You record every communication to protect your _honor,_ sheriff," Slopes said snidely. He rhythmically beat his fingernails against his lower lip, "In case anyone ever questions you." He snapped a finger, "If only I could see what you chat about with that little capitalist, Daniel Everquist. Your unbeatable code-monkey! Arrfk!"

His face snarled into a vicious, bat-like shape. He huffed at the screen and put his fingers in his mouth. The digits were greasy.

"Go to your spot, Kitters. Daddy is disgusting."

The Felix came to life, leapt across the floor and scaled the purple La-Z-Boy. Mrs. Kitters promptly began licking her fur clean, repeating the methodical feline function as she intermittently eyed Slopes with dismay.

Slopes snatched a strip of hempbacon from a platter, inhaling the last of breakfast. The synthesized pork and plant matter was unnecessarily salty. He was salivating and sweating profusely. Whether this effect was caused by excess sodium or the excitement of a successful hack, he did not care. The devious nature of spying just felt... _appropriate_ to Slopes. He imagined it was what sex must be like. Though the thought of two bodies exchanging fluids... reprehensible!

_Kitters..._

He had been working so obsessively over the last 48 hours that he'd had no time to give a list to the Dillons Grocery drone.

_Kitters ran out of catnip three days ago!_

"I'm a bad daddy."

Kitters refused to even acknowledge him. He _was_ a bad daddy. She turned her back to him and continued her fastidious grooming regimen.

Slopes folded over the sleeve of his white, government issue office shirt one more time, using it as a napkin. A hempbacon crumb was lodged, unnoticed in a wrinkle at the corner of his mouth. His lips mouthed the words on the transcript as he read them, grinning as his nose searched for a clean place to expel its goo.

The second he finished reading the exchange between Colonel Apollo and the sheriff, he clapped his palms together three times, then tapped his com, holoconferencing Sapet.

A 2.5d image of the CNED director's clean-shaven face soon appeared. Sapet looked as though he had just stepped off the splash page of Drone-Golfer's Digest. His chin and forehead glistened. The taxidermied heads of black bears, cougars and wolverines, all stuffed in varying expressions of malice, adorned the walls of his home study. He wore a blue, polyhemp athletic shirt and his platinum hair was quaffed into a perfect West Lawrence yuppie wave.

Slopes missed no detail. He turned his nose to the ceiling as his eyes crossed a rotating holocalendar mounted beneath the stuffed head of a snarling red fox. The top half of the calendar projected various college girls clad only in minikinis. Each of the betties propped their assets in the air whilst busily sudsing up early generation, North American hovcars from the 40's.

Slopes looked over his shoulder reproachfully, "Kitters, bless the Dog, cover your eyes and don't look at the screen."

He much preferred to holo Sapet when the man was at work. Just knowing the holocalendar of young girls was in the background made Slopes want to eat inappropriate amounts of dairy.

"Sapet!"

"Good morning, Detective Slopes. Did you hear about the officer suicide last night?" said Sapet, his voice slithering with calculation.

"A terrible shame," Slopes clucked. "I can't imagine who tipped The Journal World."

"It sounds dirty, detective," Sapet said quietly. "The eye-witness accounts are..."

"Stop talking. We've got her. How many agents can you float in the hour?" said Slopes eagerly, carefully drumming his desk so as to not upset the puzzle pieces.

A spurious smile lit Sapet's face, "CNED is always ready to kick boozer ass. Especially on a golden Saturday. I'd say fifty at the least, detective. Who's _her_?"

Slopes looked like he might explode.

His fingers balled into gray, bony fists, "Tara Dean!" He began ticking off points and snorting, "The _only_ successful escapee from Greystone Bmod! The hovcar arsonist, fugitive jezebel from the Coyote crash who made Lucinda Fossbender bark like a randy Beagle in her own living room! The promiscuous Traditionalist who sent me a pornographic holograph, causing me to lose consciousness, bite off my tongue and fear for my life!"

Ken Sapet's eyebrow twitched, "I didn't see the part where she barked like a Beagle..."

Slopes' voice got so high it whistled, _"That's_ not the point! This woman is associated with what may be the largest alcohol lab the Union has ever seen! End of story, it's time to fly. Be sure to prepare yourselves for... unexpected tech."

"Are you saying we could be running into borgs?"

Slopes was pensive, "From everything I've seen, I'd say you're going to be up against dogs at the least, probably security Fidos. If the old man is involved, cyborgs are never far behind."

"A sonic shotgun is best for dogs, borg or blood. But especially borgs."

Slopes rolled his eyes, "I'm sure... Listen, Sapet, if your agents pull this off ahead of the sheriff, everyone in your office will have enough money to retire."

Sapet nodded his shiny face, "Heard, sir. Sounds like we got us a twenty kilo fish to fry."

"Oh for Dog's sake," Slopes' tone was filled with sufferance. "Sapet?"

"Yes, _detective_?"

"If you screw this up, I'm a ghost. I can't cover for you."

Sapet winked, "No problem, _sir_. I got it. We're gonna bag these hens, drop 'em at Greystone and be at the bar drinkin' janebeers before lunch."

Dennis Slopes winced on the inside, "Fine, that's fine. Stream me a secure Ipv7 when you have it."

He cut the stream and exhaled long and hard. His eyes glanced over the puzzle of downtown New Miami, worked on little of late, then shifted to a small holograph of Tara Dean being projected in the corner of his monitor. Dennis Slopes felt his pulse quicken.

"Kitters, come to me."

Saturday, October 16, 2082 8:09 am – Three Hours Fifty One Minutes Before Event.

Courtezans got drunk. But they never got hangovers, never blacked out. They _never_ forgot. If everyone realized as much, she knew there would be no excusing her behavior. But since only one _truly_ knew the innermost details of her mind, it was easy for Tara to spring out of bed feeling a tad dehydrated and yawny, but otherwise refreshed.

The summons hit as soon as she stood.

"I am the moon, you are the Earth. Yes sir," she said sarcastically, eyeing her dirty bare toes on the hardwoods.

She padded to the dresser and pulled on a sports bra and one of Dax's white undershirts and a pair of sweats, then tip-toed lightly down the old oak stairs into the farmhouse. A pang of guilt rose as she passed William and Dorothy's apartment. So it often was when she had misbehaved the night before. Her fingers trailed across the door as she walked by. Closing her eyes, she could hear Dorothy dreaming. They were dreams of her; fury mixed with seduction mixed with something else she could not quite bring to focus. How much angrier would they be if they knew she could hear them dreaming about her? Tara knew _their_ deepest convictions. Their private desires.

But what Dax knew, even she did not fully understand. It wasn't the same for him. Her mind had been his from the start.

_As though I were a treasured doll._

"If you were mine, I would set you free..." she whispered to William and Dorothy, fingers trailing the old fashioned, mechanical doorknob. "But you're not mine. We are Dax's, with all our days moved by his hand."

She composed herself and padded on, silent like a hunting cat moving across the creaky, 185 year old floors, down the original servants' stairs into the communal kitchen that was used less for cooking than it was socializing over cocktails. She drew herself a glass of water from the osmosis dispenser and drank it greedily.

The pull hit her again, like a wave, stronger now that she was fully conscious.

"I'm coming, love," she said, looking out the window over the sink.

Her Coyotes sang to her, hibernating in shifts through the morning hours. They would call soon. She could feel the pack just as she could feel Dax. They slept in a hidden concrete den her love had constructed for them against the riverbank. She never had to ask Dax to build the den. It was simply done one day.

The faucet's cool running water poured over her hand. This sensation, like all that others might dismiss on a whim, spoke to her. She could feel the other courtezans. She did not know who they were, or where they were, but she could feel their energy tugging at her like a soft, persistent wind.

She shook it off, heeding the third summons, become now an irresistible whirlpool of mutual need, _Coming_. "Purewater off."

The day was miserable and rainy and gray. She let the screen door off the kitchen slam, hoping the bright sound might part the clouds as she skipped down the steps, whistling so the DOGS units would hear her. Only five meters across the lawn she caught the arc of motion from the corner of her eye. At a full two kilometer distance out by the hovroad, SNOTRA at first appeared like a black dot skimming the horizon. The rooster tail of mist that followed her down the driveway soon grew enormous as the cyborg briefly achieved her maximum gallop velocity of 135 kph. Tara waited to greet her, bare toes in the grass on the far side of the cottonwood tree.

SNOTRA skidded the last twenty meters, drifting on her self-regenerating pads, causing little wisps of friction smoke to smolder up despite the wet.

Tara knelt and kissed SNOTRA on the forehead, "You don't have to do that to impress me. I'm not a boy."

The cyborg smiled as dogs are wont to do and licked her hand, nuzzling her towards the barn.

"I _know,_ you little shit. Joan's talking to you, Dax is talking to Joan. Everyone seems to forget, Dax is _always_ talking to me... on the only network Joan can't hack."

She stood and frowned at the animal. SNOTRA looked at her and turned her head toward the hovroad. The female cyborg whined plaintively, then refocused on Tara. Her holographic eyes flashed off momentarily, revealing the red, robotic vidorbs which glowed in sudden, sharp contrast to the black fur of her BIOSKIN© coat.

"I know. I've made a fuckstorm of pretty much everything."

SNOTRA lowered her head and again lightly nudged her in the direction of the barn. Tara could feel the incredible force behind the animal's most gentle gesture.

"Can't a girl wake up? Jeezus!"

SNOTRA barked once playfully. Her holographic eyes blinked back into place and she spun and rocketed back down the driveway towards the hovroad.

Tara turned and walked across the lawn into the barn. She much preferred the sensation of bare Terra, grass or sand beneath her feet. Anything was better than cold, wet asphalt. Even cold, dry asphalt. She looked up, attention caught by one of the drones taking flight from its docking nest through the dusty rafters of the barn as she passed through.

The old wooden door with the green, peeling paint opened automatically and Tara bounced down the stairs into the dimly lit warehouse. Only THOR was present. The massive cyborg raised his head as she passed, then returned it to the cement just as quickly with a heavy metal _doonk_. The humanoid warehouse bots stood in silent parallel to her left. The only other noise in the room was the steady hush of water moving through Goran's complex array of copper plumbing that fed the still's fractionating columns.

She entered the short aquarium hallway which jutted left, then right, before opening into the control room and hugged the far wall as she passed the insulated vault housing the fusion core and mainframe. The mainframe room never failed to stand the hair on the backs of her arms. The very concept of fusion, elements trapped in temporal flux, forced to eternally offer their energy to the world, had always disturbed.

Dax's voice rang out radiantly, though she could hear the underlying fatigue, "Hello, my sweet raven. How was your rest?"

Tara smiled at her beautiful mate, trailing her fingers along the cool glass of the brightly illuminated aquarium, "Just divine, love. I dreamt only of lambs and lollipops." As she came around farther, she saw that Joan was floating between the electroencephalogram terminals. "Hello, Joan. How's the weather?"

"The weather does not change, Tara Adler Dean."

"Must be nice."

"Nice is irrelevant."

"Alright then..." she smiled and skipped a couple of steps over to Dax and plopped into his lap, lying her head against his shoulder, "I missed you."

"We were in bed together 49 minutes ago."

"I know," she said, stroking his titian hair with the back of her hand, "But you didn't even let yourself enter REM. You only laid with me for an hour."

Dax looked away from the enormous array of six holoscreens and kissed her cheek. She popped up and took another control chair, tucking her bare feet beneath her. Her eyes wandered as she listened to Dax's thoughts. Her expression changed to disgust, and a few seconds later Dennis Slopes' gaunt face appeared on one of the monitors. Ken Sapet's soon appeared beside it. Dax busily skimmed the transcript of their conversation.

"Did William believe you about the courier-drone?" she asked indifferently.

"Yes."

"How pissed is he?"

"For a man who never expresses emotion?" Dax asked. "He's livid."

Tara put one hand on the glass desk and spun in her chair so she was facing Joan.

She twirled a strand of long, black hair with her pinky, "Oh Joan, I _wish_ I could allure you! Wouldn't it be fun? We could share stories." Her eyes widened, "Ooh! You could take me into the mysterious lands of dolphin dreams and... are dolphins, like, bisexual?"

Joan's response was immediate, "Tara Adler Dean, your statements are erratic and subjective, guided predominately by your ego. Your moderately more evolved courtezan brain only functions at 1/100th the capacity of my own. The likelihood of you being able to manipulate me telepathically is mathematically impossible to calculate."

Tara rolled her eyes, "Ugh. You're zero fun today." She spun back to Dax, "When do we leave?"

"I do not know just precisely."

Tara closed her eyes, listening, "You want to tell me something about my father. Something new. Our fathers are somehow connected."

Dax paused, "It is important that I tell you."

Tara opened her eyes, "Well I don't want to talk about it until we've moved on." She listened to his mind again then frowned, "Why do you keep these other things from me?"

"For your protection."

"You hold something dark. I don't like it. I've had enough darkness. Joan?" she asked. "What is his secret? Tell me right now or I'll never speak to you again."

The dolphin replied, "If there is information Daxane Julius Abner wishes to share, he will share it. If you choose not to speak with me, that is your choice. A third CNED agent has breached the perimeter. Combud stream severed. Unit AK9CIVEPSILON will intercept in 79 seconds."

Tara leaned back in her chair, looking at the floor, "I'm sorry about last night."

Dax stopped reading and inclined his head towards her, eyes wildly yellow as a winter prairie sun, "You must stop seducing William and Dorothy."

"I haven't slept with William since the river." Tara's tone was indignant. "Besides, I was talking about the traffic cop."

Dax closed his eyes, "Ahh, yes. Dorothy does not know you fired the shot heard 'round the world?"

"I asked her to forget."

Dax looked away and began typing a string of code on the holographic keyboard, speaking as he worked, "Using your gift to make others forget is unethical, in almost every case."

"You've done it."

"Rarely. And causing the police officer to shoot herself was unnecessary."

"I was drunk, angry. It seemed like a better option than having LOFN rip her apart in the hovstreet."

"You must learn to control this anger that comes in the early years, or it will consume you. Officer Emma Smith could have been put to sleep in a rain gutter just as easily."

"Her destiny was meaningless. I could sense it."

"With control will come empathy."

"I detest control," said Tara.

Dax's tone was briefly stern, "This I understand. But you _must_ learn to respect the Angevines. Your attraction to Dorothy threatens the stability of that relationship. They cling to common desires."

"Don't underestimate them."

"I do not. Regardless, we must keep them whole, as a couple. They are the future."

"I cling to common desire too," said Tara petulantly. "Whatever _is_ that pure and beautiful light inside of her? I want it so badly! Dorothy's soul feels like a roaring fireplace in winter. I want to take her with me wherever I go."

"No matter how deeply you allure her, she will never be genetically bisexual. You were not born to be a good girl, my adoring bundle of starlight," he said, eyes glancing over the tattoo on her neck.

Tara smiled like a little girl, "I love it when you call me an adoring bundle of starlight. Love?"

"Yes?"

"What am I doing here? I want breakfast. I want to go lie in the sun."

"It's raining."

"Well I wanna go back up. I've ants in my pants. I haven't seen the Coyotes in over a week, I don't know why."

"Momentarily, and you will be free." Dax completed a few more keystrokes then spun and faced the aquarium, "Are we ready, Joan?"

"Your code is typically human and inefficient, but it should provide a functional interface by which they can upload the comparison template," said Joan. "This will isolate the boy's schematics at a range of up to a quarter kilometer. That is a 39% improvement."

"Excellent. Within parameters at last."

"You're talking about William's little brother again?" asked Tara. She closed her eyes and surfed his thoughts. Her expression turned to frustration, "You _are_ talking about his brother. Also still keeping things from me. That's why I get ants in my pants!"

Dax gave Tara a sideways glance, "Your life is terribly difficult, I know."

She stood angrily, "Don't patronize me. Fucking ever!" A thick tear puddled in the corner of her eye and ran down her freckled cheek.

Dax stood and pulled her to him. She could not resist even if she had wanted to.

Their eyes locked like magnets, "I'm sorry," he said.

"It's alright..." she leaned in and kissed him. Her consciousness folded into his, absorbing his sincerity. She pulled away, "I'm just... all itchy. This will be over today? We'll be on to Secondcity? You want my DNA?" she blinked as she listened to the push, "So you can put my code next to William's, and have a courtezan baseline for finding his brother... who you _also_ think can tether."

"Fascinating," said Joan's monotone female voice as her tail churned the water more aggressively.

"Why didn't you just ask?" Tara said lightheartedly.

"I did," smiled Dax. "The dermaprix needle is on the desk."

Tara walked over and flipped open the small silver box. It had a contoured metal interior the size of a fingertip with an almost invisible lance at the center.

"For a moment I thought you bought me a wedding ring."

Dax beamed as he did for only her, "I _do_ love you so."

Tara placed her finger inside the box, "Ouch," she said as it pricked her skin and retained a blood sample. She closed the lid of the box and returned to Dax's arms.

They waited in silence.

"Genetic mapping complete," said Joan shortly. "Upload commencing. The final template will be compiled in nine minutes and four seconds."

"Excellent." Dax looked at Tara, "You may now go lie in the rain until the proverbial cows come home, my dragonfly. Don't wander too far, though. Big day ahead. Or at least that's what they say at CNED."

Tara pouted, "I want to go to Secondcity now!"

"Sooner than you think, thanks to Virgil."

Tara pulled away sourly, "I'd melt that kid's brain if he was in front of me."

Dax acquiesced with a nod, "Not an uncommon sentiment these days. That said, he probably won't be alive in a week. Though not timed as I hoped, he fulfilled his purpose exactly as mother predicted."

Tara grabbed her man's slightly stubbled chin and turned his eyes, "Your mother is gone, Daxane. I won't tolerate you spending the rest of our days abiding a dead woman's visions."

Dax let himself soften under the weight of her beauty, "Perhaps you speak the truth."

Tara shook her head and gave him a peck on the cheek, keeping her lips close to his skin as she whispered, "Have fun with your little war."

She let her eyes linger within his a moment longer, fingers tracing the veins on the back of his hand as though it were the last time they would ever touch.

Then she pulled free and skipped around the curving glass wall, "Toodles, Joan. Don't be such a grump!"

"A _grump_ is defined as someone who constantly complains _,_ Tara Adler Dean."

"Exaaaactly..." the echo of her voice rang as she disappeared into the warehouse.

Dax tented his fingers and allowed a few seconds to pass before asking, "Is she gone?"

"Affirmative. She is passing through the barn above us now."

"Let's get that last drone in the air." Dax leaned forward, exhausted, with his elbows on his knees as he spoke to the dolphin, "You were able to upload the remainder?"

"Affirmative. All psychological engrams are stable."

"What is the total volume of data?"

"997,439 terabytes."

"Pushed to the dolphin shadow cloud?"

"In process. Only the Secondcity dolphins and the Israeli possess the access sequence for the executable. As mentioned previously, once recompilation in a new chassis is complete, her memories will only be intact up to this moment."

"Can you maintain a real time bridge to my neural cortex up to the moment of event horizon? Then transcribe my thoughts to append her own template with my experiences, at a later date?"

"I can. They will not be fully functioning engrams, but the basic information will be retained. Her abilities are evolving. She will soon be among the most powerful of telepaths. Until she learns to control her emotions, it will be physically painful for her to be in proximity to a white courtezan."

Dax rubbed his temples with fatigue, "For the same reason it is impossible for my father and I to be in the same room, or even hear the other's voice."

"That is correct. Though both of you could adapt, if you so chose."

"That will never happen."

"A mutual weakness."

"If the Israeli can get her trained..."

"She will be as powerful as the Architect, capable of manipulating thought across the holostream. Daxane Julius Abner?"

"Yes?"

"A final reminder that your own template is not complete."

"Our fate may be the same after all, you and I."

"We all face absorption."

Dax smiled sadly, "Then I shall be reabsorbed into the stars. But this is no time for star talk."

"Linear time grows finite."

"Bring it back up when you're ready. And Joan?"

"Yes?"

"Be a dear, and pop up the illumination on the painting. I do love the impressionists." The single directional spotlight brightened, causing the canvas reproduction of _The Ballad of the Jealous Lover of Lone Green Valley_ to spring to life. "Beautiful," said Dax. "I remember when it was just you, me, and the painting, Joan. Those were fond days."

" _Fond_ is a term of subjective slang. I recall spending an average of 19.23 hours per 24 hour cycle interfaced with the Hadassa mainframe. You were often physically ill from a compromised immune system due to sleep deprivation. The still has operated much more efficiently since the addition of auxiliary team members."

Dax smiled wanly, "That is true. I wax reminiscent, Joan. Now let's have a look at scrubber C643."

The bank of holoscreens came to life. Dax spun to face them. The upper left showed a high resolution holograph of one of the massive CO2 cleansing blimps. The text _TransTerra Alliance Suborbital Atmos-Regen NAUS C643_ was displayed beneath the image of the blimp's scrubbing tentacles. The screen to the right showed an exploded mechanical diagram of the unmanned airship's propulsion turbines. The two lower screens contained a North American geo-continental transit map overlaid with a red grid.

"NAUS C643 is a smaller, older model of atmospheric dirigible," said Joan. "It is .37 kilometers in length with 3,234,081 cubic meters of hyperstym hydrogen gas distributed across three independently ventilated compartments."

"That sounds like plenty."

"It will be more than sufficient."

"Three shots?"

"Negative. We do not want to incinerate the vessel prematurely. Our target is the nexus broadcast diode which trails the dirigible. The nexus diode maintains the Govcloak. Once destroyed, the craft will be without firewall and I can take operational control."

"At that point we will be exposed?"

"The attack on my intrastream will commence within 60 to 90 seconds. There are 7,894 atmospheric cleansing dirigibles in use worldwide. The vessels' travel patterns envelope the globe in an interwoven matrix, ensuring no portion of the ozone layer goes without maintenance for more than 1.4 hours. A typical, drone-enhanced takeover is not possible. NAUS C643 is currently located above Hays, Kansas, approximately 373 kilometers due west of our location at an altitude of 17.9 kilometers with a velocity of 119 kph. Our drones have a maximum functional altitude of 830 meters."

Dax's amber eyes scanned the information in front of him for another way, but there was none.

"Hitting that diode will be a difficult shot to execute without incinerating the blimp in mid-air."

"Unit AK9MILalpha has a highly advanced onboard targeting array, however the THOR unit is capable of discharging only a single burst of transorbital laser light from its TOHO mortar per hour. The initial shot must destroy its target."

"You could still say no, Joan."

"I have lived in this artificial Eden for too many turns."

Dax blinked, then pressed his hands against his knees and stood, "Very well. In another rendition of this scenario, I would like nothing better than to stay and discuss the quantum mechanics of consciousness absorption."

"I would like that as well. A hovtruck containing four CNED hunters has just docked one kilometer west of the driveway on Douglas County Hovroad 1500. Shall I alert a DOGS unit?"

"No. Do not engage unless they are on our property. I'd say it's time we awoke William. I'll bring him a coffee. The sheriff's geese must be on the way?"

"They will be spooled to launch within five minutes."

"Centibots?"

"The only operational centibots are located at Fort Riley in weapons R&D. Since our location is now known, their function is irrelevant for this engagement."

Dax's expression calmed.

He put his fingers on the glass where Joan floated between the electroencephalogram terminals, "If they decide to stay, Dorothy will want to be with you."

"They will stay."

"Everything depends on it," said Dax quietly. "I am helping Dorothy sleep as late as I can this morning. Her presence is crucial. William however, must rise. The borgs need him."

Dax walked around the left side of the aquarium and was almost to the hall when Joan's voice stopped him, "Daxane Julius Abner?"

"Yes?"

"The atmospheric cleansing dirigibles are firewalled by four white dolphins interfaced in RAID. Once I hack their network, they will seek my location. At least one is always bridged to the cloud. If all four attack at once, my ability to maintain system control will be compromised."

"They will overpower you?"

"Correct. It is conceivable that they could take control of our systems, excluding the tethered DOGS units. If that happens, temporal cascade must be initiated manually. The war dawns."

"Our desired outcome."

"The war of the dolphin," said Joan. "You will have 120 seconds to escape once manual wormhole collapse is initiated."

Dax knocked on the wall beside him, "Perhaps it won't come to that."

"Anything is possible. I will see you again, Daxane Julius Abner."

8:41 am – Three Hours Nineteen Minutes Before Event.

"Noooo!!!" William shouted.

He found himself sitting bolt upright in bed, the dream of bloodied, harpooned beasts already fading. The Winchester 30:06 was in his hands, a round chambered. Sweat ran down his forehead. He was pointing the firearm directly at FREYA, finger caressing the trigger. The borg had forced the door open and sat with her head cocked, whining sadly. The wooden door's old fashioned knob was now a ball of gnarled brass lying in a scatter of splinters on the floor. The Rottweiler's synthetic tongue fell out of her mouth and she panted happily, then whined again. This time more desperately.

"Okay, hell. Gimme a moment."

William looked at Dorothy, surprised to see her still asleep as she rolled onto her stomach with a moan.

"Hell," he repeated, dropping the rifle and rubbing his face.

It was unusual for Dorothy to not awaken first. He was grateful for it today. He leaned the rifle against the bed and pushed the hair from his eyes. The LED on his holotab blinked rapidly on the bedside table. He stood and walked to the kitchen sink with the tab in one hand and splashed water on his face. FREYA came and nipped at his leg.

"Stop it."

FREYA whined and sat, watching with demanding attention, peddling her forepaws.

William returned to the bed and pulled on the same pair of hempjeans he had been wearing the night before. Boot-socks, boots, T-shirt. He leaned over and kissed Dorothy's shoulder, then gathered his hunting rifle and went into the hall, closing the shattered door behind him as best he could.

"You can't just break shit whenever you want."

FREYA paused at the top of the stairs and looked over her shoulder. Satisfied that she had fully awakened her master, she disappeared, hopping down to the main floor in a single, precisely calculated leap.

William pulled the silver comdot from his jeans pocket and affixed it to his jaw. Its LED blinked in time with the holotab's. He took the old oak stairs a step at a time, cowboy boots banging on the risers.

He tapped the comdot, "Dax?"

"Good morning, William," The voice surprised him from around the corner at the bottom of the stairs, not on com.

Dax appeared with two cups of steaming coffee in hand, "Good night's rest?"

"Not really. Do I smell hemp-bacon?"

Dax was dressed in one of his finest taupe suits, perfectly pressed sharkskin. A maroon, silk handkerchief was folded immaculately in his upper left pocket. Even William was taken aback by how sharp the man looked.

"It is indeed bacon," said Dax. "Tara and Goran thought it might be nice to make everyone breakfast. This may be our last chance to enjoy a proper meal together for awhile."

William came to the end of the stairs and pulled his hempstraw cowboy hat off the hook beside the door, looking skeptical, " _Tara's_ cooking?"

Dax chuckled, "Point taken. Technically, she's there for moral support. Goran is doing the actual food preparation. Cat is supervising."

"I heard that!" Tara's voice rang down the hall from the kitchen.

"Yes, my darling," Dax replied with a smile.

William pushed his head to one side, popping the vertebrae in his neck, "You guys are weird."

Dax shrugged.

William looked at the pale, wet day beyond the square glass window in the front door, "Not that bacon and a cup of joe don't sound epic," he turned back, taking the coffee, "But shouldn't we be gettin' the sky outta here? Instead of makin' flapjacks?"

Dax leaned on the banister, "As I assured you last night, all is..."

"Secure, I know. Joan's gotta be hacking some major friction."

Dax conceded, "There is no doubt there. However, with the structural modifications made to the house, it would literally take a lightning gun to penetrate these walls. In the meantime, there is breakfast. But before we eat, I was hoping you'd be in the mood to shoot some geese?"

"Geese?"

"Well, their technical designation is _Lockheed ER2 Avian Camodrones_."

"I assume Joan is trailing these ducks?"

"That she is," said Dax, walking past him and picking up a second hunting rifle from a gun rack by the front door. Dax efficiently checked the magazine and chambered a round as he spoke, "Joan dear, how much time until camodrones are in range?"

Joan's voice came through the comdot on William's jaw first, "Good morning, William Thomas Angevine."

"Howdy, Joan."

She then split the stream and spoke to both men, "The camodrones will be in optimum firing range in 97 seconds. They are traveling southeast along the river at a median elevation of 562 meters. A firing position adjacent to the back door of the farmhouse is recommended."

"That's a long shot," said Dax. "Which is why I thought you'd want these," he offered William a pair of binocular Ray Ban's.

William declined and sipped his black coffee with an appreciative grimace, "No thanks. I'll do this the old fashioned way."

"Fairly enough," replied Dax. "I, however, do not have quite your... talents." Dax put on the binocular Aviators and activated the HUD, "Joan, you seeing my world?"

"I am, Daxane Julius Abner."

William inclined his head at Dax and nodded towards the front door, scratching his sideburns, "Well, good morning then. Let's shoot some geese."

"Badass! Zoom in!" said Brick Talboy. "Riiiiight... there! That sandbar by the dam. Judy and I dropped our hovbikes under the overpass. She let me hit it."

"That's disgusting," said Deputy Danny Everquist, "Who takes a betty on a date to a muddy river?"

Talboy was standing behind Danny's chair and pushed his carrot-toned head, "It was sex, not a date, tech-boy."

"Get your filthy mitts off me!" yelled Everquist.

"Show me _anyplace_ you've shagged a betty in the last 185 years!"

"My girlfriend isn't..."

"Even alive!" finished Talboy.

"Whatever! Why are you even in my office!?"

The sheriff's voice boomed across the com, "Deputies! Shut pie holes. Distance to target?"

"Tactical on your holo now, sir," said Everquist.

"I see it," said Proudstar. "These birds have good optics."

"High def vidorbs, sir. The rain and drizzle is cutting down on apparent resolution, though."

"How long?" asked the sheriff.

"Forty five seconds out. Banking our flock off the river now."

"Got it. That wind turbine Abner has is big. You think that's the power source?"

"No way. Not if they've got a dolphin. Let alone their fleet of company hovcars to charge, two tractors and a registered heavy hovtruck _plus_ warehouse bots, environmentals, etc. It would take five turbines that size to boot the CPU alone."

"I don't get where a dolphin lives?" asked Talboy. "Or what a dolphin has to do with anything?"

"Probably in the barn, and don't worry about it."

"All the Abner bi-annual scans are good going back 6½ years. I looked."

"They're just scans, Brick," said Everquist. It's not like the Fire Marshall or county ag inspectors actually go out there. We use drones for everything."

"So?"

The sheriff said, "Talboy, your brain's outpacing your salary. Just focus on the layout in case I need to send you in there to shoot someone."

Everquist giggled and sipped his Mountain Dew, "Idiot."

Talboy shoved the back of his head, "Tech-boy!"

The young deputies began to fuss but controlled themselves as the sheriff barked, "Look sharp! The barn and house are coming up. Never seen it from this angle," said Proudstar, curious. "Look at that lawn! Maybe after I arrest Abner, he can give me some yard tips. Who are these guys? Coming around the house with a dog, big fucker. Magnify quadrant A."

They were following the vidstream from the lead camodrone. Everquist carefully slid his index finger across the glowing tactile interface, magnifying the men so the image was momentarily out of focus.

"Rifles!" said Talboy. ".30 caliber, mid-century build, sir."

"Everquist, if facial recognition is correct, then that's our Mr. Bill Angevine smoking the cigarette?"

"That's right, sir. Abner is the one in sunglasses with the orange hair dressed like he's going to a society dance. Given the weather, I'm guessing those shades are for targeting. They're making no effort to conceal themselves. All scans report organic on the dog."

"They're sighting!" said Talboy excitedly. "Look, look, look!" He pointed wildly at the screen.

The magnified vidstream now showed the men by the farmhouse in high definition. The black dog stood absolutely still beside the figure tagged _William T. Angevine_. The man docked the cigarette to the corner of his mouth and knelt, sighting at the sky, his face mostly obscured by an old fashioned glass scope.

"Sir?" said Everquist. "Should I get our drones out?"

"You have full parameter data yet?" growled the sheriff.

"Negative. 39%."

"Keep on course. These birds are moving high and fast. They'll have a tough time, even with HUD specs..."

"Angevine isn't wearing any..."

"Firing!" yelled Talboy, slapping the back of Everquist's chair.

Puffs of smoke erupted from the rifle barrels, one after the other. Talboy bounced on his toes, both hands digging into Everquist's foam headrest.

The vidstream relays shook violently. They all blinked in shock. A red warning flashed the text _EXTERNAL IMP MALFUNCT..._ and the stream to both of Everquist's holoscreens went dark.

The computer said calmly, "Camodrone CG01 disabled, stream transfer in progress."

"They just took down one of our birds!" howled Talboy.

"Main vid! Any other drone, now, now, _now!"_ yelled Proudstar.

"On it, sir!" said Everquist, typing furiously.

The vidstream from the second drone reappeared momentarily, long enough for them to see William Angevine look away from the rifle's sight, pull a hit off his cigarette and wink. The dog, now seated beside him, continued to remain absolutely still.

Dax Abner fired. The second drone's vidstream wretched with static and also went black.

_EXTERNAL MALFUNCTION._

"Camodrone CG02 disab..." the com stuttered, "Units CG02 – CG04 disabled, reporting external environmental impact(s)."

Sheriff Proudstar hollered as if in pain, "Did that motherfucker just wink at me? Dogdamnit...!"

Everquist sputtered, "I'm sorry sir, they're automated for a redundant switch in case of failure. Our altitude and speed should have made them untouchable with bullets! But... primary and secondary streams are dead!"

The sheriff snarled, furious.

Deputy Danny Everquist spun around in his workstation chair. He and Talboy looked at each other, eyes filling with stupefied wonder.

"Everquist!" said the sheriff, "Tell me we can spin at least one of those ducks for a higher pass?"

Everquist looked at Talboy like he'd been knifed as he replied, biting his lip, "Uhh, there's not gonna be another pass, sheriff. We just got blown out of the sky."

9:05 am – Two Hours Fifty Five Minutes Before Event.

Dorothy dreamed of thunder, claps like gunfire, _boom! Pop-pop! Bam!_ It did not scare her, though she unconsciously gathered the morning covers more tightly. As a little girl in Salina, her parents used to walk her out into their front yard to watch the thunderstorms tearing across the plains from the Denver high-country. Her father liked to set up three Adirondack chairs in the lawn facing west. From there, the family would watch the storms gestate until the first pellets of violet summer rain drove them inside laughing. Those storms freighting in from the west were like purple-black cloud monsters 1,000 kiloms tall. They billowed and cooed. They smoked and swaggered. Out in Salina, the sky wore boots and owned the Earth. It was bigger than the world itself and carried with it the smell of fire and grass, dust and lightning bugs.

When Dorothy opened her eyes, the storm had passed, leaving behind the sort of gray, drizzled overcast that made one think of London in October. The slate-toned clouds hung low and the day was windless and still, save the lingering rain's steady patter on the yellowing leaves outside their window. She wiped the sleep from her eyes and watched a bluejay land briefly on a branch, preen himself, then flash away in a streak of white.

Her mouth was dry. The headache was spreading along her temples. Dorothy was most definitely not born with an immunity to hangovers.

"Dogdamn Tara," she said to herself, sitting up.

She tied her straw colored hair into a bun to keep it from her face.

"Time?"

"9:06 am – central standard time," said the house com.

Why had she slept so late?

_Because Tara has turned me into a drunk._

The smells of coffee and bacon filled her nostrils. Goran was obviously up and cooking as he liked to do on weekends.

Dorothy looked around their apartment. Everything was the same, but this morning she looked on it with new eyes. She glanced at a colorful, green tapestry thrown across the couch where she and William had watched many a holoflix. The tapestry was outdated, no longer her style. The apartment looked strange. Like a home assembled by another person.

_Goodbye._

Everyone was in the kitchen when she came down dressed in her ubiquitous overalls.

"Ahh, we've been waiting on you, dear," said Dax invitingly.

She ignored him, irritated with Tara. Dax was guilty by association.

She sidled up to her husband who stood beside a window that looked across the lawn. The woods were hard to see for the mist and clouds.

"Hello, babe," said William, unfolding his long arms to put one around her.

He kissed her on the forehead and turned so they faced the group.

"I missed you this morning," she said sadly. "You smell like cigarettes."

He smiled, but said nothing.

"What happened to our apartment door?"

"FREYA."

"I see."

Goran stood on a broad step-stool before the stove cooking, stone-faced, with Cat perched on his shoulder facing the group. The Felix ducked and mewled happily at Dorothy's arrival. Goran had a standard bionic hand attachment connected in place of the plumbing wrench, which made him seem like a more run of the mill dwarf. He briskly worked the skillets with an enjoyment only Cat's behavior evidenced, serving the last of the pancakes onto a platter. Dax and Tara sat at the big round dining room table before the picture window. Dax faced the table. Tara gazed outside, lost in some dream. She watched for something in the gray light. Something that no one else could see.

This too irritated Dorothy as she glumly took her usual chair.

Dax stood and brought everyone around with a clap, "We're all here then. Here, let me help you with that," he said, sliding a hand under an unwieldy, large plate of bacon and eggs that Goran was struggling to set on the table.

Dax leaned across, carefully placing the bacon and eggs in the center of the large table beside bottles of Tabasco and ketchup, salt and pepper shakers shaped like drones and a roll of paper towels for napkins. Dax smelled like flowers and a distant hint of mild cologne. Tara kept her back to the table, eyes on the trees, even as William came and sat beside her. Dax took the platter of pancakes and set it on the table also, then reclaimed his spot on the other side of Tara.

Dorothy watched with irritation as Dax reached and brushed a dangling strand of black hair behind Tara's ear, finally snapping her from the daydream. Tara turned to face everyone at last.

"Get on up here, big boy!" she said as the dwarf climbed into his seat with a cup of coffee held gingerly in his bionic grip.

Dax had long since commissioned a furniture maker in the city to build a custom chair for Goran that placed him at eye level with everyone else when seated at the kitchen table.

"Do you always have to be sarcastic, Tara?" asked Dorothy. "It's not always funny."

She picked up her glass of orange juice and drank from it coolly, taking in everyone's surprise.

_I don't feel like being nice._

Tara feigned being above reproach, "Looks like someone didn't get their full eight hours..."

Dorothy served herself a pancake and some scrambled eggs, "Well maybe if you hadn't gotten me shitfaced so you could stick your hand down my pants, I would have. Oh, wait! And _if_ I didn't have to evacuate from a speakeasy, watch you mind-screw a cop, then run to the hovcar for our lives... I would have gotten a little more rest."

Tara smirked, "It's not like I _have_ to get you drunk to get my hands in your pants. Or your husband's."

"Bitch!" said Dorothy, tears forming in her pale blue eyes. "How would you feel if I shagged Dax?"

Tara cocked her head, "Wouldn't blame you. I mean, look at the man." She petted Dax's shoulder.

"You make me sick," said Dorothy, setting down her silverware and starting to stand.

William stopped her, a hand on her wrist. His eyes were soft. They were full of love. They pleaded for her forgiveness as only the eyes of a husband can. William _had_ told her after all. It had only been once. A long time ago? Not only did Dorothy believe this, she knew it wasn't his fault. It was Tara's.

_All of it._

Tara started to speak but Dax silenced her.

He waited, encouraging everyone to serve themselves with a series of quick glances, staying chipper, "On a more practical note, in the interest of full disclosure, I'd like to begin by saying that we should really do this more often."

Cat pawed the air enthusiastically as Goran served himself a healthy stack of flapjacks.

Tara rolled her eyes.

Dax looked around the table, "Let us beat no bushes. Each of you has the same question; _shouldn't we leave?_ If law enforcement has marked us, should we not load the hovcars and flee?"

Dorothy took a couple of halfhearted bites of pancake and leaned her head on William's shoulder, "Well? Shouldn't we? We have more money than Dog, Dax."

Goran ate greedily while Dax spoke, seemingly unconcerned with the details of this topic as if he and Cat had long since made up their minds.

Dax said, "A more than valid point, Dorothy. If it were but for the health of our bank accounts, I would say off with you, and Dogspeed. However, it is the safety of team members not currently present that has my concern."

Dorothy felt ashamed, "Where _is_ Hugo?"

"Holotab off. He isn't wearing a comdot," said William, pushing a fork full of eggs into his mouth. "He's either smarter than us, or just lucky."

"Certainly," said Dax, "if there's anyone who can keep a low profile, it's Hugo. Did you know he was the only one of you who insisted on being employed under an alias? He is as far off the grid as a human being can be in 2082. If an emergency arises, Joan will activate his holotablet manually."

"Oh my Dog," said Dorothy, "what about Joan?"

She had a sudden urge to run to the dolphin.

Dax called their eyes, "Let me be clear. You are free to leave. Right here. Right now. As I warned each of you, a day would come when we must say goodbye to Lawrence. As for Joan, the Israeli has been summoned, yet finding an aquatic dolphin transport on a Saturday in Kansas is not as easy as one might think." Dax paused and smiled, moving his glance around the table, "So you are all free. Take a DOGS unit and float. Your bank accounts are untraceable. A new life awaits." Dax tented his fingers, " _Or_... you can meet us at Secondcity in a month's time as planned. You all know in your hearts this is about something greater than riches."

Dax again paused to let them think and nibbled elegantly at his eggs.

Dorothy knew her husband's answer. She squeezed William's hand under the table and looked at him, smiling faintly.

He shook his head, "I have to. I'll put you in a hovcar with LOFN and meet you at the rendezvous. Your parents will be happy to see you."

Tara shoved two strips of bacon in her mouth at once and talked while chewing, "Why do we have to rendezvous in Salina? Can't we rendezvous in Rio?"

Dorothy snapped, "If Salina's not good enough for you, princess, then go ahead! See how long you survive without the rest of us cleaning up your shit trail."

"Awwww, spoken like a true Kansas girl!" sniped Tara. "Sorry some of us don't want to live someplace where overalls are actually considered a valid fashion choice!"

"Your slutty yoga pants with a permanent hole in the crotch are better?"

Tara's face grew red, "At least I know how to dress like a..."

Dax waved his hands across the table in front of him.

Dorothy felt the wave of calm hit before he even spoke, "Ladies. While I can appreciate the complexities of navigating a relationship as multifaceted as your own, I _must_ ask you to reserve your debate on fashion for another day."

Tara again rolled her eyes.

"Whatever," said Dorothy.

"The bottom line is this," said Dax. "Tara and I are going to remain behind with THOR and two of the DOGS units until we see that Joan is away safely."

"Meow," said Cat the Felix plaintively.

"Goran and Cat as well, of course," Dax nodded gratefully to the silent dwarf.

William picked up Dorothy's hand, "You know I have to..."

"Oh, shut up." She laid on the sarcasm thick as she raised her glass of orange juice, "We'll have a nice breakfast, stream a holoflix since it's raining, make some popcorn...!" She pulled her hand away from William, "None of us are leaving, Dax, so cut the crap. How big a pickle are we choking down here?"

Dax arched an eyebrow, "The full force of CNED is closing from the west. Thus far, the DOGS units have been able to dispatch them with the usual methods of intimidation."

"Killing them, you mean," said Dorothy. "The ones you can't mind-screw?" she asked, saving that for Tara.

"We are not," said William. "Since we're evacuating, there's no need to make them disappear. We're just scaring them enough to run."

"Something worse than CNED will be here soon."

"Indeed," said Dax. "Which is why if you _do_ choose to stay, Joan would undoubtedly appreciate your assistance in the control room, Dorothy."

She looked at William, searching for some promise that their lives might one day be free of this. The still was where they had fallen in love. But it was certainly not where she planned to spend the rest of their days. Her husband's strong, blue eyes briefly melted away the anger in her heart. His eyes held a power that Tara's never could.

_The bitch._

William's face was grizzled and unshaven, the wrinkles around his smile more pronounced. His hair was flattened from already seeing some morning beneath the cowboy hat. She would fight and die for this man.

Dorothy turned to Dax, "We're in. I need a quick sonic to get last night off me, then I'll report to Joan. Is she all right?"

Dax smiled pensively, "She's... as she needs to be."

Tara jarred the table with her leg, standing abruptly to face the window.

"Darling?" asked Dax.

Dorothy caught herself, unsure why she was so angry with Tara that morning, but she couldn't help it, "What's wrong, princess? Fifteen seconds pass without you getting all the attention?"

Goran, who had been eating and drinking coffee without a care in the world looked up and grunted once, then carried on.

"Truer words, Goran..." said Dax.

Dorothy kept her gaze on Tara, hoping for some response, but there was none. Her attention was locked on the world outside.

Dax took Tara's hand, "Do tell, darling?"

Tara snapped to and slid behind him, running out as she called, "They're back!"

"Don't go alone..." said William.

The front door had already slammed and Tara was skipping across the lawn towards the woods. Dorothy was never more grateful to William than when he chose to sit back down.

Dax blinked affably and returned his attention to breakfast, "The Coyotes," he said. "Good timing." Then he yawned and gestured cordially, "Dorothy, be a love? Pass the butter?"

9:49 am – Two Hours Eleven Minutes Before Event.

Deputy Danny Everquist input the final command line and lifted his hands from the holographic keyboard, "That's the last. Execute."

The computer replied instantly, "K9 MARX-CATS units 1-12, command control Talboy, Brick – driver ID verified."

"Sweeeet! I've never had all twelve on a leash at once," said Talboy. "These Sheps are gonna make those shiners wish they'd knelt and seen Jesus dance! Controls are the same, tech-boy?"

Danny swiveled in his chair to face his tattooed, Napoleonic colleague, " _Knelt and seen Jesus dance?_ What are you even talking about? Yes, obviously controls are the same. It's not 2020." He swiveled gracefully back to his workstation with a sigh, "Visuals and telem are through your HUD, holotab controls are just a cleaned up version of the sim interface. They are called _semi-autonomous_ for a reason. Just tag hostiles, deploy and you can auto-toggle between units on this slider if one gets damaged."

"Talk dirty to me!" said Talboy, rubbing his palms together. "Kevlar jackets! Famostone chassis construction! Take a mean, mean Fido to mess these guys up."

The two reserve SWAT deputies Sheriff Proudstar had pinged into HQ had just arrived. The man and woman stood outside Danny Everquist's office door, listening to the deputies' banter with varying degrees of interest. Both wore full body armor. The man carried an M92 Mantis sniper rifle. The woman's weapon was a lighter but far more destructive M92L rapid fire particle weapon. Her rifle's solar stock glowed green against her bullet proof vest, making the back half of the gun look like it was made of pale jade.

Camilla Azarov, still active in The National Guard, was in her mid 40's and was nicknamed The Badger. She had completed two tours of duty in the deserts of Iran in the days when Sheriff Proudstar was still Lieutenant Colonel Proudstar. Azarov's black, wiry hair was bobbed short, and her mouth was a narrow, mean line. Her rare presence in HQ never failed to make Danny Everquist shrivel like a frightened turtle.

By contrast, Deputy Murray Downs a slack-backed country boy in his early 20's. He looked uncomfortable and puffy in his armor, and his rifle could have easily been exchanged for a fishing pole were it a sunny Sunday in June. Downs was quiet and modest, with droopy eyelids and hair the color of last year's straw. He stuttered _yessir_ or _yes ma'am_ in response to almost any communication, even if it made no sense. Deputy Downs also happened to hold the state law enforcement record for consecutive drone target strikes at over three kilometers with a projectile based weapon. At the moment, however, he was gazing lankily through Everquist's door at the exploded diagram of the German Shepherd MARX dogs as though he were a moth and the holoscreen candlelight.

Azarov spoke curtly, inclining her head at Downs as she examined the dog-shaped chassis on Everquist's monitor, "Shepherds are like wolves, something in them strikes up that primal fear. But not half as scary as Colonel Smith's Dobermans, eh Murray?"

"Yes ma'am," said Downs.

"Is the colonel really coming?" asked Talboy. He lowered his voice, "I've heard things."

Azarov lifted her chin, "Heard things? The sheriff told you?"

Talboy looked at Everquist, then back, "Naw. The sheriff doesn't talk about his war days. Venezuela some, but not Iran. But I know there are stream hubs where they still call Colonel Smith _The Butcher of Chābahār."_

Everquist stuck his neck out like an inquisitive stork, "That doesn't sound good, Talboy."

"Aww, it's just rumors," said the short, wiry deputy. "Something about a cyborg massacre, innocent women and children in the final days of the war."

Camilla Azarov's voice was cool, "It's no rumor, jarheads. Apollo's crazy. And it wasn't women and children, you putz." She leaned into the office and spoke more quietly, "It was 200+ Iranian infantry." Downs, Everquist and Talboy leaned closer, attention rapt as Azarov continued, "The Iranians had been using those dirty nukes towards the end. Remember, one took out over 4,000 of our troops at The Battle of Iranshahr?"

"That was like the final big battle," said Everquist, picking up a Mountain Dew as he listened.

"Right, it was all borgs after that." Azarov lowered her voice even more, "The colonel's cyborg regiments were almost finished sweeping the south clean. When the bomb went off, he lost it, friends died. He and his drivers sent fifty Gen 1 Doberman RIOT units into the center of Chābahār against this Iranian company that was hole up in a bombed out apartment high-rise. They had already surrendered, were awaiting escort out. Colonel called it a malfunction."

"They hacked the logs after?" asked Danny, swallowing his Adam's apple.

"Yep," said Azarov. "That's the word. Dobermans went level to level, door to door using the service stairs. There was no barricade they couldn't dig through. Within an hour, they'd torn these 200 guys into small pieces. Some of the soldiers jumped from windows rather than be ripped apart by the dogs."

"That's some ill heart," said Talboy with a long whistle.

"Yep," said Azarov. "Sheriff Proudstar refused the order, wouldn't send in any of his own platoons. _That's_ why he doesn't talk about Iran."

"Crazy sky," said Talboy. He patted Azarov on the back, "How come you never told us before?"

Azarov sneered, caressing her Mantis rifle as her cold eyes slow-turned to face the deputy, "Touch me again, Talboy, I'll kill you and drink your blood."

The deputy withered, "Whoa, whoa, whoa... we're just talkin', Badge!"

Danny Everquist was about to use the opportunity to land a sarcastic jab when Sheriff Proudstar entered dispatch control and strode with purpose to Everquist's office.

"You idiots didn't hear it from me," said Azarov quickly before moving back through the doorway.

Murray Downs and Talboy came to a half-passable attention. Camilla Azarov snapped to form like her back was a steel rod. In combat boots the sheriff towered over them all, especially Azarov.

Everquist didn't miss how the sheriff nodded at the small woman with respect, "See you wore your party dress, sergeant."

Azarov rarely smiled, though her tone softened, "Hoo-hah, sir."

"Don't light a spliff yet, people. We ain't even outta the hovlimo," said Proudstar.

He was dressed in light body armor and standard issue camouflage hemp pants, biceps and forearms rippling with bandy muscle. The experience of seeing a D$1,000,000 worth of avian drone technology shot from the sky had put the sheriff in a foul mood. He looked like a grumpy, ash colored grizzly bear and carried an old M4A2 machine gun over his shoulder. Everquist canceled the com's environmental klaxon. A half-massacred cigar smoldered beneath Proudstar's mustache. Every eye in control glanced at him, and he met those eyes.

"Okay team," he nodded at the woman, "Azarov, you're borg secondary. Talboy gets hurt, goes batshit... fall to the transport and steer these poodles best you can."

The young woman snapped her boot heels, "Sir."

The sheriff continued, "We're dropping the hovtransport up the hill a half kilom on CHR1500, protected by the western strip of woods. Now," the sheriff blew a cloud of cigar smoke across the room, "Buddha fuckin' bless, you are three of the best snipers in the Union. And Everquist is the finest com driver west of the Mississippi. But that don't mean we're invincible. We are going in blinder than a freshly crapped possum, facing unknown tech, so trust your eyes first, HUD second.

Sergeant Azarov frowned, "Meaning, sir?"

Sheriff Proudstar gave the tiny deputy a fatherly smile, "What I mean, Camilla, is if you see a Cocker Spaniel clocking 100 kph over open turf, but your HUD is telling you it's a bunny, shoot the fucker anyhow."

"Heard, sir," said Azarov, though it was clear from her expression that she didn't exactly understand.

The sheriff dropped the machine gun and held it with both hands, muzzle towards the floor, "What's the first message of modern warfare, people?"

All four deputies responded at once, "Bots before blood, sir!"

"That's right, gunnies. An avatar a day keeps the angels at bay. Mr. Angevine has been a respected citizen of this county for several years. All the same, he's obviously more full of shit than a Christmas goose. _Possibly_ slicker than a handful of duck crap on a doorknob. So, six dart drones will lead, followed by these MARX pups if we need them. Talboy has goggle control, Everquist is your sky-eyes. We're gonna establish sniper nests on the south side of the hovroad. It's defensible, provides a clear line of sight. We're dealing with a clear shot vector, but it's a hummingbird's fart short of two kiloms from the hovroad to that barn. Hopefully these civvies will surrender peaceful. In my mind, the drones swarm, dart these shiners, we call it a day. Everquist, what in the name of The Great Dog's asshole is that racket!?"

A warning klaxon had begun pulsing red in the upper right corner of Everquist's holoscreen array. He spun, typed a few keystrokes and darted eyes over the string of characters that followed.

"Shit!" Everquist slapped his littered glass desk. "I knew it."

Seconds later, a static holo of Dennis Slopes' willowed face appeared on the display, frozen in a obscene smile.

"What's that spineless vessel of nut sweat done now?" asked the sheriff dryly.

"My security scans snagged a transit anomaly this morning, sir. I've been tracing it, tough to piece together because it's here and there."

"English and fast, Everquist."

Danny closed his eyes, as he was fond of doing when he had to deliver bad news, "Dennis Slopes hacked our com, sir. He's been getting a partial transcript since 6:59 this morning. Now I know how, but more importantly _why_."

"How?" growled Proudstar.

"He hacked your private stream, sir."

The sheriff didn't blink, "Continue."

Everquist rotated back to his desk and projected a map of Abner Family Pumpkin & Gourd with the property line highlighted in blue. Multiple red dots, mostly in clusters, moved over the topo readout.

"When is this?" asked the sheriff, his voice flat.

" _Now_ , sir," said Everquist. "Those are CNED's. Every off duty cop, humdroid and their uncle is already out there."

The sheriff bit a chunk of cigar off and spit it on the floor, "Fucking Slopes." He tapped his combud and turned his shoulder to the group, waiting until the ping was answered and said, "Still feeling it, Colonel?" The sheriff listened for a moment, then added, "Yeah, just in case, you best tilt blades." Proudstar's eyebrows rose with surprise, "CRAB units? Probably overkill. By the time you dock we should have them mopped, but I gotta bunch of mercs out there clustering in the woods and we're still flying half blind." The sheriff nodded, "Thanks, Marc."

He cut the com and walked towards the Exit without a word. Deputies Azarov, Talboy and Downs fell in behind.

Sergeant Azarov grinned, whispering to Downs over her shoulder as they followed, _"He's_ coming, Murray," she said. "Bringing the big bots too. This is gonna be sick."

Murray Downs kept his droopy eyes on the sheriff's back as he stuttered simply, "Yes ma'am."

9:55 am – Two Hours Five Minutes Before Event.

The sound of the sniper teams' boots had barely vanished from the control room when Danny felt the vibrations in his tactile holointerface make the subtle shift. Less than a minute earlier, he had snuck Dina from her virtual lounge. The tiny tangi-gram girl sat cross-legged on his desk dressed in full Army fatigues with a snug-fitting camouflage cap and her hair in practical pig-tails. She had a tiny North American flag draped across her lap and was busily knitting a peace symbol into the blue part where the 91 stars usually went. She noticed the shift at the same time Everquist did.

"Here she comes, Danechka," Dina said, without looking up. "I hope she will let me stay."

"I think she will. What could she possibly say that you haven't already heard?"

The blonde tangi-gram looked up, starry-eyed, "I am glad that Ms. Joan and I are friends now. She trusts me. Maybe she wants my opinion too, like last visit?"

"Maybe she does, baby," said Everquist, removing his hands from the desk entirely.

He got up and glanced through his office door to see if any primary systems were being affected. Negative. The regular office staff performed regular duties. Danny smiled with excitement and closed the door and blinds. He briefly thought he could feel his combud vibrating on his temple. He sat back down and waited.

One second, two... three... Dina set aside her knitting. Danny covered his mouth as the holoscreens flickered with intermittent static, then projected the high definition, 2.5d image of a Maui dolphin. The blunt-nosed cetacean was mostly gray-blue with black fins and a pure white underbelly. Its eyes remained closed as it began a slow 360 degree rotation along a horizontal axis.

Joan's monotone female voice came into his head via the private combud link, "Deputy Daniel Simmons Everquist and the synthetic consciousness known as _Dina_ , good morning."

Dina had leapt to her boots, eyes so big she looked like a Japanese cartoon character, "You're a sea pony!"

"I am most certainly not a sea pony," said Joan's standard, monotone voice.

"But you are no longer this woman, the beret and the lipsticks, those trashy sunglasses!"

"Your powers of observation remain keen, Dina."

Despite his strongest intentions to remain cool, Danny's jaw began shaking so badly he could barely tap his combud to respond, let alone form the words he intended, "Com... compu...com-puter, Mountain Dew."

"That is your third caffeinated, high fructose hemp syrup beverage of the day, Daniel Simmons Everquist," said Joan. "There appears to be a positive correlation between Mountain Dew consumption and increased efficiency amongst human computer drivers."

"It gives him adult acne," said Dina.

"Dina, stop!"

"Fine, Danechka. I just sit here and work for peace." She sat back down and resumed knitting, "I just am saying that I like you even better, Joan. You are like me now. You are real. And the swimming pool and steam sauna you added to my lounge! Fab! Thank you! I _adore_ them."

"Shhhh!" said Danny.

Dina stuck her tongue out at him but remained quiet.

"You are welcome, Dina," said Joan.

Danny did not even look at the ServCall© drone when it opened the door, appearing with the fresh can of soda. He snatched it reflexively, eyes locked on the hologram in front of him. He started to open the can but his hands still shook so badly that he was unable. He swung the door shut and set the can on the glass holodesk with a _clink_.

"You heard me figure it out, didn't you?" he asked, in awe. "I can't believe it took me so long."

"What you see is an accurate rendering of my current physiological appearance."

"You're beautiful," Danny blushed. "I feel so foolish."

"There are prettier dolphins out there, Daniel Simmons Everquist."

Dina giggled at this and winked at the holoscreen, then continued knitting.

Danny shook his head awkwardly, "You must know they're coming! This thing that you are, it's, it's a miracle... _we_ love you!"

Dina looked up and nodded, "Yes, we love you, Joan."

The dolphin remained silent, until Everquist finally said, "Joan?"

At last she spoke, "The human mind's inefficiency is rarely more evident than when expressing itself through language. Unjustified emotion causes you to leap erratically from subject to subject without point."

"Your handlers have to get you out!" Danny had to sit on his oversized, knuckly hands to make them stop shaking, "We know everything. The sheriff is on the way with a battborg platoon and snipers!"

"Only Coyotes know everything," said Joan.

"If the sheriff..."

Joan interrupted, "Yes, Sheriff Dale Proudstar and his specialist team are floating past the east 1400 block of Haskell Avenue in a Shaaxni Beoji F5 Mark II hovtransport at a rate of 79.2 kph. They are estimated to arrive at their target location a half kilometer west of the entrance to Abner Family Pumpkin & Gourd, LLC in 6 minutes and 4 seconds. From there they will disperse snipers at five meter intervals along the south bank of the hovroad to provide cover fire while an engagement flock of armored security drones and twelve Henlo 487 Management Assault Reconnaissance Xenobot civilian training cyborgs perform an initial incursion against our facility."

Danny had been pinching his eyes shut, trying to remember every word. After a few seconds of silence he looked up, afraid she was gone. The holographic dolphin still spun before him.

"Jeezus," he said in a hushed voice. " _You_ know everything." Danny edged forward and pulled his hands from beneath his thighs and gestured frantically, "You're going to hack the MARX bots, aren't you?"

"They are cyborgs, not robots. Observe every detail."

"But taking wireless control of external systems requires a deep cut into the subroutines in each unit. I shouldn't ask, but _could_ you do that?"

"MARX units operate on independent, rotating Ipv7 addresses. Hacking them would be an inefficient use of resources. In this application, compromising their structural integrity is preferred."

Danny shook his head, fraught with despair, "You can still get out! These men, this Dax Abner, he forced you! Held you under duress! The sheriff is a reasonable man! There are so many things to say!"

"Correct you are," said Joan. "There are only 26 characters in the English language, yet you have already expressed that you love me."

The holographic dolphin on Danny's flatscreen array smiled.

"I thought you were human!"

"That is preposterous."

"I understand now, but whoa..." Danny covered his face with his hands, "Dolphins are like a myth! Nevermind. You can..." Danny slapped his knee, "Get me in touch with Dax Abner. I'll explain, _I'll_ talk to the sheriff. He's a reasonable man!" he repeated.

"One of the few," agreed Joan.

Danny felt like crying, "What? You'll surrender? Dax Abner will surrender?"

"I am telepathically interfaced with a fusion powered, Hadassa class supercomputing mainframe. The time and energy required to construct this facility and operate it in a clandestine fashion for 6 years and 4 days consecutively without discovery was substantial. Surrender is not a component of our tactical strategy."

Danny slumped in his plush driver's chair, imploring with his hands, "Joan, they'll kill you. Or put you in Ocean World, something worse!"

Dina wrapped the unfinished flag around her shoulders and began shedding holographic tears, "You cannot die, Ms. Joan! You are our friend."

"Fear not, Dina. I calculate the likelihood of my death or capture at the hands of law enforcement at 1.9%."

Danny sighed sadly, "What then? Why? The sheriff has military backup coming from Fort..."

"Silence your heart, Daniel Simmons Everquist," said Joan. "Look for the obvious."

"I don't understand."

"My time is limited."

"Please."

"When you execute a hack, do you ping using the registered Ipv7 address at your workstation?"

"Of course not, I script an alias," said Danny offhandedly.

"The same principal can be applied remotely to your units. We cannot fight what is not there."

"That's how..." Danny tugged his red hair in thought.

"Occam's razor, Daniel Simmons Everquist."

"You're amazing."

"Believe in what you feel, not the lies you think you know. Practice against me in this engagement."

"I need you to teach me."

"That destiny belongs to another."

The holographic dolphin on the screen flickered.

"No! Please don't go," pleaded Danny.

"Yes, _please_ don't go," repeated Dina, standing on her small projector.

"Our property's perimeter is being breached by civilian and police CNED mercenaries. My team requires assistance. Transcription traffic on your network is being compromised by..."

"Dennis Slopes!" blurted Danny.

"That is correct."

"He's a police officer."

"He is a servant of the white."

"What is _the white?_ Slopes only figured out the sheriff's private com password. He couldn't hack through _my_ firewall in a lifetime."

"Soon the clouds shall part," said Joan, and without another word, the dolphin was gone.

The holoscreen array flashed back to a real time aerial map of the Abner Family Pumpkin & Gourd farmland.

Danny Everquist reached out his shaking finger. Dina held it in both her hands. Then both he and the tangi-gram began to cry in earnest.

10:01 am – One Hour Fifty Nine Minutes Before Event.

When in doubt, Tara Dean went west.

She realized that Dax had chosen the land because of its location. The property had passed through five generations of Kansas wheat farmers, a rough and tumble bunch called the Hennessy clan. The Hennessys had been entrenched. The only thing more devout to them than tradition was privacy, and initial attempts to inquire about the property fell upon deaf ears. In fact, the Hennessys had only agreed to give up the land when Dax's offer soared to preposterous levels, ten times market value, at which point the elders gathered, and decided their love of digidollars was greater than their love of seclusion.

Tara visualized the map in her mind, as seen so many times through the eyes of drones. The north, protected by woods and the Kansas River. The near two kilometers of flat, open field used for crop cultivation to the south spared the farmhouse and barn from exposure to agro-industrial traffic on the hovroad. To the east, huge undulating fields of high grade marijuana belonging to Purple Tree Farms. October was harvest time and the 5,000 acres of female plants were two meters tall, thick as a forest with sticky, fragrant blossoms that perfumed the countryside with the sweet aroma of sativa. Purple Tree Farms security drones constantly buzzed the perimeter to guard against thieves or any competing farmer seeking to surreptitiously slice off a clone.

To the west of the pumpkin fields lay three square kilometers of woods that ascended a steep hill. At the crest, on the far side of these woods, stretched the sprawling public grounds of Lawrence's oldest and largest graveyard, Oak Hill Cemetery. It was here, on the cemetery's far eastern perimeter, Tara knew CNED agents had begun docking their hovtrucks. It was the perfect location from which to launch a hunt.

_Unfortunately for you, humdroids._

Tara cinched her forest green poncho tighter to keep the morning's drizzle at bay and pulled her black hair into a pony tail. Something called, driving her forward. She entered the network of deer trails that crisscrossed narrowly beneath the canopy of leaves dangling yellow and maroon overhead. The Coyotes materialized like phantoms after a few steps, swirling past her legs, each seeking the brief contact of her fingers. They whined playfully. Some gave a gentle nip as she pet their ashen fur. Greeting satisfied, the small cyborgs went as they had come, wisps of smoke vanished into the underbrush. Even under clouds, they were not keen on daylight, but were unable to resist her presence when she wanted them to appear. She could feel the steady hum of their intrastream pulsing faintly like a second heart. They were always observant and close. The leaves would rustle as she walked, and occasionally one would pop out in front of her on the trail, give a wily scan, then disappear.

Tara took the northern most trailhead which split towards the river. It was the longest trail and the best way to do a perimeter check along the cemetery.

Walking silently on bare toes, she heard a man's voice ahead, distant, echoing in the trees. She froze, crouched behind the trunk of a large oak and listened intently.

_Must be humdroid. I sense nothing._

The voice was familiar, but strange, and far enough away that she could only make out a few words.

"...the force of dual cyborg platoons at least. Mission parameters remain static, correct. I wasn't paid to care about prophesies. I'm getting my friends out. Yes, at the rendezvous. I have to hurry..."

A sonic boom discharged in the distance and several men could be heard cheering loudly from the far end of the cemetery. When the noise died down, Tara could hear heavy bootsteps approaching. She peered over the edge of the tree expecting to see a mercenary.

Instead she smiled with surprise, sprang to her feet and dashed into the open, "Hugo! Aren't you and Juliandra supposed to be home making tacos?" she called out with a mean wink.

Hugo Velasquez paused ten meters down the curving trail, dressed in standard Hugo attire: camouflage pants, combat boots and a black t-shirt that poked out from under a worn sweatshirt. Despite the dark purple, overcast day, he still wore his Wayfarers. He pretended to not see Tara and leaned against a tree with one boot propped on the trunk and sparked a joint.

The Coyotes appeared as Tara walked up and Hugo began speaking to Coyote One as the others hid in a nearby thicket.

The small cyborg wagged her bushy tail attentively as Hugo said, "So you float een looking all greyish, sleek-like, look at you, dog. We don't see enough of you mi Coyote hermana." He finally gave Tara a playful sideways glance, then turned back, "Y den your Mexican-hating mama gotta show up, be all raceest."

Coyote One watched Tara approach, yipped once, then darted into the forest with the rest of her pack. Hugo watched the Coyotes run away then smiled.

Tara skipped over and gave the blue sparrow tattoo on his neck a kiss, "Seriously, what are you doing here?! We tried to ping. Joan said your holotab was black? I see you got your comdot on now, though. Did you hear voices?"

Hugo pointed a thumb behind him, "I hear d' humdroids up een d' cemeetery, they's getting bleended and shooting guns."

Tara looked around the thick, green forest, "But you didn't hear anything else? A man talking like 45 seconds ago?"

Hugo shrugged graciously, "Sorry seester, nada I hear."

"How did you find out we were busted?"

"Juliandra's eediot neighbor," he said casually. "D' lady ees CNED, card carrying beetch. I see her loading up d' rifles and played eet cool; go outside eento d' yard, burn a spliff and see what she say."

Tara waited expectantly, "So...?"

Hugo handed her the smoldering joint, "Here smoke dis."

Tara took a hit off the joint, handed it back.

He took it, hung the spliff in the corner of his mouth and continued, swirling his hand about as he talked, "You know, she say about dees beeg super steel, out County 1500, how dey're floating out to nab dese shiners. She be all hopped up, telling me everyteeng before I even ask."

"So what? You just hoved out here like that?"

"No, I try to ping Joan, nada. Den d' boss, nada. Den boss-William, you, Dory. Nada, nada, nada. Our priveet com dark, hard firewall already." Hugo moved off the tree, "So by now I know some sheet's goin' down. I borrow Juliandra's Corolla, breeng flowers and preteend veesit a grave. All of CNED docked by d' hovroad alreedy. Deetch dem easy, hop d' fence. Den walk to here, stopping and a fire dees J wheen you and your leetle gray devils arrive, threaten reeping my face off."

Tara frowned happily, "They did _not_ threaten to rip your face off."

Hugo straightened up. He was almost as tall as William, but more muscular.

"So I leave for dos days, what? The whole pot ees feeled weet piss? What pasa? Dem humdroids prepping to come dees way. Dos gone down by d' reever now I see."

She shook her head and considered recounting the story, then dismissed it, "It's been a crazy 24 hours, but there's no time. You shouldn't be out here alone though without one of the girls. Or a rifle or anything."

"D' boss, William has a sleengshot I can borrow, I feegure" he said grinning.

Tara raised her eyebrows, "I'm sure. Well, go see the boys, they'll fill you in. Dax asked me to come out here and gaze at some mercs. I'll be back in thirty."

Hugo squeezed the roach between his lips and gave her knuckles and a nod, "Leetle seesta. I see you."

She watched him stroll down the hill the way she had come, the smell of marijuana smoke wafting after him. The Coyotes burst out of the underbrush and followed him in the direction of the farm yipping playfully.

Tara turned and continued west. The trails were soggy. Her callused feet slurped through mud every other step.

Twenty meters further along, she came to a triple fork. If she went straight, she would be in the cemetery shortly. If she went left, she would be on the main trail system heading deeper into the woods, south towards the hovroad. To the right, the trail wound towards the river. Tara chose the cemetery. She wanted to peak over the old barbed wire horse fence and see how many CNED hovtrucks she could spy docking along the perimeter road.

In three minutes, moving fast, she reached the barbed wire. The fence was in disrepair, collapsed in several spots from long since fallen trees. Overhead, the yellow-orange canopy allowed only wan light to brighten the forest floor. Squirrels chased each other through the branches and a murder of crows cried and squawked, then took wing in a noisy black flutter. She put her hands on the rusty wire and stood on her tip toes, but did not have enough height to see over the last ridge. She walked down to where the fence was flattened and crossed through into the graveyard lawn. The wet grass made no sound beneath her feet. She noted how she had strangely abandoned shoes without a thought when the Coyotes reappeared in her life.

Hiding amongst the tombstones, Tara was now able to count five docked CNED vehicles. No, six. Most were four door hovpickups. CNED hunters, like those who hunted animal, preferred to float trucks. Farther down the perimeter road, in the opposite direction, was Juliandra's Corolla, docked by itself and looking like a forgotten, red insect. Ducking closer to a large, lichen-covered gravestone, she could see a man and a woman a 100+ meters off standing by their tailgate talking boisterously. Tara was too far away to hear them, though she could sense their malice. Something got their attention and they entered the trees. She closed her eyes, pushing her will, attempting to sense their intent.

Leaves rustling behind her just then. She froze, opened her eyes.

_Leaves don't rustle when it's raining..._

The hair stood on the back of her neck. Mens' voices getting closer. Also a presence directly behind. It was cold and predatory. Tara put her hands in the air and turned at a snail's pace.

_I'm actually scared..._

A double-barreled shotgun greeted her. The weapon was enormous, barrels easily five centimeters across, leveled at her chest. The man holding the gun was in his early 50's. His holograph flashed recognition through her mind.

_Slopes' man. He stinks of rape._

He was dressed in crisp, green coveralls, white armband with the red CNED fist wrapped about his bicep. His probably gray hair was dyed blonde, neatly combed in a wave. His blue-gray eyes shined with obscure brutality. Two more similarly dressed agents sauntered up after a few seconds. They too held the same oversized shotguns. Their eyes shined also, but with the obtuse glow of ignorance.

Tara's lower lip began to shake.

_Why did I run where I'm powerless?_

How unfortunate it was that the SAMCL drill destroyed that part of the brain which made people vulnerable to the courtezan push. There would be no alluring these brutes. They had _all_ been to the slaughterhouse.

_Or they're some of the crazies who volunteer for SAMCL surgery. Either way..._

The short, poorly-shaven fellow standing in the rear chewing tobacco spit a clod of brown saliva on the grass and nodded to his buddy, "See Bubs, this is why I says huntin' drunks is funner than huntin' deer. Not only can ya' get paid, but the drunks got way better teets than any deer I _evva_ seen!"

The huge, portly one chortled nastily. He ran his tongue over a thin, greasy mustache, eyes oozing up and down over Tara's body despite the poncho she wore. He extracted a Pleasium dispenser and snarfed a tablet.

The man directly in front of her spoke next, with a smooth sneer, "Just out for a walk in the woods, _sugar?_ Visiting your daddy's grave? Got lost, I bet."

The men all laughed, a sound of rancid minds and dark corners.

"Maybe she come out here to pee," said the fat one. "If not, I'll be her daddy."

His tongue lolled out the corner of his mouth when it wasn't busily licking the bush of hair sprouting from his upper lip.

The balding, hawk featured man with hair the color of dirty sand spit up more tobacco juice and stepped closer. Hate enveloped him. Tara closed her eyes to dampen the pain.

_Why am I so sensitive lately?_

Her mind flashed autonomically through holographic memories, searching conversations, images, stories of the past these three evoked. Then she had it.

_These are the ones... rumors around The Lady. Leo the bartender used to warn female patrons about this team before he scanned them out. Howler, Bubba and Ken Sapet. CNED Director, Ken Sapet..._

She opened her eyes with a gasp. The sharp-faced man was just centimeters away from her face, sniffing.

_Howler._

His teeth were mottled with stains.

Howler gave Tara a sallow grin, "Go 'head n' piss. Take them knickers off. Kitty cat got 'yer tongue, bitch? I can loose it up for ya'," he snickered and elbowed his dumpy friend.

_That's Bubba._

"Shut your mouths," commanded Director Sapet.

The director never lowered his shotgun. Even when he reached to tap his combud.

Tara remained crouched. She could feel a bead of sweat running down her ribs absorbing into her t-shirt.

She watched the leader's steely eyes twinkle, unaffected by her gaze as he spoke to someone on com, "It's Sapet. You aren't gonna believe this, but I think we got your cat, right out of the bag, detective. Been here all of fifteen minutes. Not for _sure_ , no. She's got no combud. How many other girls looking like this would be out here snooping around in the rain?"

Tara's eyes turned to slits of anger when the man winked at her while he kept talking, " _Inside_ city limits and everything. I woulda come out here a long while back if I knew it was gonna be this easy." The man nodded, "No sir. Haven't said a peep. Understood."

Tara caught a pewter flash passing beneath a shock of Evergreens near the fence line behind the humdroids.

_Welcome to the end of your lives, gentlemen._

The heavy underbrush moved, stopped, then moved again. A blackish-gray, BIOSKIN© nose peeked shyly around the side of a tree. She had felt their stealthy return long before she had seen them. Their feral desire to attack pulsed, louder and louder, but she instructed them to remain out of sight.

_Patience._

She dropped her hands, which caused all three men to tense the grip on their weapons.

"Hands back in the air, lady. Even if you _are_ gonna pee," said Sapet with a vile smirk. He pushed the barrels of his shotgun closer to her chest, "I'd hate to see what this sonic would do to those sugar-tits of yours."

Tara allowed herself to stand, carefully, slowly, though she did not put her hands in the air.

She flashed an aloof smile, eyes locked on Sapet as she retook the game, "Nice onesies, boys. You dress like this all the time? Or just on weekends, when you come out to the cemetery to blow each other?"

The humdroid named Howler aimed his shotgun directly at Tara's head and stepped towards her, face turning red, "What you say, cunt?"

Tara raised her eyebrows and sidestepped towards Howler.

She spoke the words with special care, "What I _said,_ Hawkeye, is that you, your fat, no doubt child-molesting compadre and General Fucknut here with the platinum surfer wig probably come to the forest on the weekends and _suck – each – others – cocks_."

Howler flipped his shotgun around and brutally rammed the weapon's stock into Tara's abdomen. Ken Sapet stood passively by. Tara cried out and doubled over in pain, dry-heaving, falling forward onto her knees. The pain split her gut. A spot of blood appeared at the corner of her mouth. She felt Dax call out to her in fear.

Howler stood over her and pushed the shotgun's cold barrel against her ear, "Dat's better. Bet-cher dat good lil' hospital slut we been hearin' about, used to bein' on yer knees."

Tara sputtered to respond but said nothing. The Coyotes cried in her mind. She held them at bay.

Howler leaned closer, "Wha's that, cunt?"

She looked up at him. Her eyes were wet.

She wiped the blood and tears away with the back of her hand and forced herself to smile, "My mom has bigger balls than you..."

Howler raised his gun to knock her unconscious as a gray flash tore across the grass, sliced into the tendons on the back of his knee and was gone. Howler screamed and went down, hot arterial blood from his wound spurting onto Tara's face.

"Arrrghh! Whore!" raged Howler, clutching his gun.

Bubba and Sapet turned their backs to one another, aiming at the surrounding underbrush. Sapet yelled, "They're here! Stay steady... steady, Bubs. _I don't know,_ detective!" he screamed at his combud. "Howls just got hit by a Fido. No, just one. It was black, I think!"

Sapet did the best he could to wipe away the beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

Tara sank to the earth, raising her chin like a mad queen and sat back on her heels.

Howler's face twisted in pain and rage less than a meter away.

He held his hand over the bleeding gash in his leg with one hand and pointed his shotgun at her, "I oughta end you right here, cunt!" he screamed.

"There!" screamed Sapet.

Tara saw the gray streak of fur as Coyote One charged again, materializing from the underbrush. The director was ready. He fired both barrels.

"No!!" Tara screamed, falling forward.

The agony spasmed through her mind as the cyborg's body crumpled from the sonic impact and dropped. She pushed the rest of the pack to stay hidden, even as their cries of anguish filled her.

Tara started to rise, but Howler's shotgun was on her, "Dontcha even think 'bout it."

Her ears reeled from the blast of the sonic weapon, and she watched the first, self-aware cyborg ever created lurch, staggering to regain her paws. Huge swaths of BIOSKIN were ripped off her muzzle revealing the buckled titanalum plating below. Coyote One swayed and her vidorb shielding blinked erratically.

"Lessee how ya' like a couple mo', doggie." The man named Bubba braced himself, put a heavy leg forward and leveled his shotgun at the damaged cyborg's head. Before Tara could scream, he fired both barrels, point blank.

_"Noooooooooo!!"_

Coyote One's unarmored titanalum chassis tumbled through the air and skidded to a rest in a thicket of wild forsythia and sumac. Howler's shotgun still on her, Tara watched in misery as the cyborg shuddered and convulsed. Half of her skull was crushed, a shredded tangle of wires and metal. Her remaining blue vidorb flashed, flashed, faster, faster, on and off, more brightly than usual. Then the blue light died.

"Nice one, Bubs," squealed Howler, tobacco drool running out the corner of his mouth. "Get ova here and tie me a turn-quet, boy. Thing cut me like a stuck pig. Soon we gon' cut us sum sweeter meat," he said, eyes dancing over Tara. "I like d' way you cry, bitch," he added, more spit rolling down his chin.

Bubba knelt beside his friend with a humph. He set his shotgun on the ground and dug in his fanny pack for a bandage roll.

Tara realized she was no longer shaking. She fell back and assumed the lotus position and defiantly raised her chin once more.

_Control your emotions._

The metal taste of blood saturated her tongue. It ran down her chin. She eyed the obviously deadly shotgun in Ken Sapet's hands, swallowing her sadness. Sapet cocked open the chamber and deftly dropped in two more silver shells the size of soda cans.

He saw her watching and snarked, "What? This?" he nodded at his weapon. "Eight gauge armor piercing concussion cannon with nanometallic disruptors. You think we'd be out here with .22's? Dumbass California betty." Sapet sneered with satisfaction and touched his combud, "Detective? You got all that? Good. Yes. One of the cyborgs jumped us, sure as shit like you said, it was a little old Coyote. One of them ain't much match against four concussion rounds. Bubba tore it in half! Whew!" Sapet slapped his thigh with delight. "Great way to start the day! Yes, and _yes_. I got her dead to rights."

Tara Dean closed her eyes and focused on her breath. The message was sent. The answer was received, a calculated fury rising beneath the cover of the trees.

_This is our forest._

Tara opened her eyes and spoke sharply, "Hey Goldilocks! Not you!" she scowled at Bubba. "I'm talking to your boss. The faggot lookin' yuppie."

Sapet scowled and loomed over her with his big gun, "Say another word. I'll drag you into the forest by your hair and let these boys open every hole you have." He threw up his white-gloved free hand and grinned, "Who's gonna know? Everyone says you have issues with authority. Nurse Marlene says you don't know your place. Do you know it yet, _cunt?_ "

Tara raised her gaze to the big humdroid, "Call me _cunt_ one more time."

"Cunt!" jeered Sapet and spit on her.

She looked coldly at the yellow saliva on her poncho, then turned her cheek to face the loathsome, hawk-nosed Howler, "You girls handled one Coyote just fine. Now try six," she blew Howler a kiss and again closed down her eyes.

The remaining Coyotes descended like streams of jagged, silver smoke. Howler's concussion shotgun fired wildly into the sky, twigs and splinters falling in slow motion from the pulverized branches above as the Coyote nearest took him in mid-air and removed his throat, spitting up blood and flesh before darting away. Ken Sapet was screaming into his combud as he felt the tendons in the backs of his own legs being sliced and he collapsed, shrieking with agony. He watched one of the small, blue-eyed cyborgs trot away with his right arm in its jaws, white-gloved hand still gripped, dragging the sonic shotgun with it. The Coyote's titanalum teeth glistened red in the pale light. Bubba never got on his feet again. The remaining four Coyotes savaged him, each gnawing off a leg or arm, leaving only his torso and head flopping, wailing, gushing the end of his life into the wet cemetery lawn.

Only when it was over did Tara Dean move from the lotus position. She stood like a wild queen covered from head to toe in the pigments of death. She removed the parka and tossed it aside, then wiped the excess blood from beneath her eyes, smearing it in streaks like war paint across her skin. The remaining Coyotes poured around Coyote One's destroyed chassis, mewling. Tara watched them flatly. Her fury was beyond recognition. She at last responded to Dax's pleading calls, pushing out the thought that she was safe.

_But highly pissed, my love..._

She bent over and picked up Howler's concussion shotgun and loosed a pair of extra shells from his ammo belt, cracked open the chamber and dropped them in place. A red LED flashed on the gun's stock, indicating that the weapon was biometrically coded to Howler and would not fire in anyone else's hands.

_Joan can fix that._

She would keep it as a trophy. She stepped over Bubba's mutilated corpse, winding between gravestones back to the fence and trailhead. Coyote Two flashed in front of her and sat, looked up with pleading vidorbs. The cyborg's muzzle was speckled with sinewy bits of flesh. Tara dropped to a knee and carefully brushed the mess from the animal's face.

She put down the gun and placed her hands on both sides of the Coyote's head and looked deep into its azure lenses, answering the plea only her mind could hear, "That's right. You're number One now."

She stood back up and surveyed her surroundings. Other humdroids were coming. They had heard the sonic discharges. The new Coyote One whined and bowed her head, pawing the dirt of the trail, then raised her muzzle to the sky and howled. The song was melodious, mournful. The rest of the pack joined in, all yipping shrilly and howling as they encircled Tara's legs, her fury pouring into them.

Tara snatched up the shotgun and draped it across her shoulder as she had seen William do so many times, then returned into the trees via the southern trail, cooing to her progeny and brushing a blood-soaked strand of raven hair from her eyes, "Let's go kill some assholes, ladies."

10:21 am – One Hour Thirty Nine Minutes Before Event.

"Dogdamn bots..." Sheriff Proudstar grumbled.

He spit the tip of a fresh cigar into the mud, eyeing the dozen light armor MARX units crouching in formation on the hovroad. The German Shepherd cyborgs snarled every few seconds following the psych intimidation protocols in their programming. Their heads moved systematically, scanning, awaiting instruction.

_Hydraulic critters in fancy suits..._

A person could understand a cybernetic tiger, polar bear or black rhino. Or any other extinct species pacing in cyberzoos or hunting ranges for the pleasure of child, adult _and_ civic digidollar. North American kids would otherwise never know such creatures had been as abundant as the stars only two centuries past. A cybernetic killer whale never attacked its trainer. It never got lonely. It never got sick, and dined on sunshine. Fortunately, these exotic beasts could not be owned by the general public. The domesticated Felixes, Tweeties and Fidos available to citizens were plenty. And now every jane-tweaked cop and CNED office within a 1,000 km radius had an order in queue for the new nanocentipedes.

_Centibots_.

The sheriff looked at his bot-driver and growled, "If a cop needs a solar powered beetle to find a criminal, what's the point of calling yourself a man anymore, Talboy?"

"I'm not sure, sir," responded the deputy as he ran a final systems check on the MARX dogs.

Proudstar turned his gaze back to the Shepherds, "Can't you make those things quit yippin'? I'm about ready to shoot one myself."

"Sorry sir, don't have those controls here. Tech-boy would have to reprogram them."

"Well hell. At least they look kinda mean."

The MARX units possessed a cyborg strength factor of 3.0. Their skeletal frames were constructed of high molecular weight polyethylene famostone. RIOT class battborgs had a CSF rating of 5.0 and their polyethylene chassis were additionally reinforced with silicon carbide nanoparticles.

Like most medium sized municipalities in the North American United States, The Douglas County Kansas Sheriff's Department had long since discovered that old fashioned police dogs were the way to go. Flesh and blood officers, flesh and blood dogs. Proven. Successful. A healthy, organic Shep only cost D$2,000. The sheriff gnawed his cigar, considering. The other side of the argument was that a MARX unit could take a shotgun blast to the chest and keep on climbing. They knew no fear.

_I saw what the Coyotes did to those guard dogs at Greystone._

His com beeped twice.

_Everquist._

The sheriff stood on the hovroad facing the farm, monocle HUD covering his right eye, arms folded across his barrel chest. His M4A2 sat by his boots on a wool Army blanket. Sergeant Azarov and Deputy Murray were lying in position, rifles mounted in their portable sniper bunkers on the hovroad's far side. Talboy stood behind them, projecting the cyborg platoon's holocontrols above his tablet.

"Azarov, you in it?" asked the sheriff without turning.

"Ready to fry some sky, sir."

"Roger that, sergeant. Remember; unless a human fires on us, we do not fire on them."

"Blastin' bots only. Heard, sir."

The sheriff blew a fat smoke ring at the squad of cybernetic German Shepherds and switched streams, "Talk to me, Everquist."

"Dart drones spooled, sir. But..."

"Out with it."

"Sir, with all due respect, Joan is going to swat these birds like flies. So after..."

"Hold that thought, Everquist."

Proudstar shouldered his machine gun by the biogel dampened grips and peered through the sight with his free eye. The high definition HUD showed him the precise distance to whatever object passed the cross hairs. He clocked the environmental factors: wind speed 3 kph north by northwest, humidity 94%, temperature 18.7 degrees Celsius, elevation 206.96 meters.

Motion in his peripheral. He watched Mr. Abner rush out of the barn door and walk towards the woods. The sheriff tracked him in the cross hairs. _1.824 km to target._

_Why is that fella dressed in a suit?_

Abner stopped running and stared west into the trees for several seconds. Then he turned, just as suddenly, and returned to the barn. All the shiners were inside now. Including the tattooed Mexican fella who had popped out of the trees minutes earlier.

_No visual on Tara Dean, though._

The sheriff pulled his eye from the scope and looked up the hovroad. Their six armed bot drones hovered in formation above the county hovtransport. Like enormous, oblong, black rugby balls, they bobbed in formation against the clouds. The county hovtransport was their holographic relay with HQ, and he had docked it close to the trees beyond the barn's line of sight.

Satisfied, he tapped his com, "Everquist, why are you on a first name basis with a known criminal?"

"I'm _not_ on that basis, I mean, I haven't..." Everquist stammered. "It's just what she calls her avatar. I'm almost positive she's in the barn is all."

"You're telling me they've got a 120,000 liter fish tank in that barn, powered by a fusion reactor, connected to a supercomputer? This place looks like the splash page of _Country Kitchen Holozine._ " The com remained silent until the sheriff finally barked, "Everquist!"

Everquist's voice was shaky, "It might _not_ even be a dolphin, sir. But yes, that would be what I'm saying. In theory... at least."

"Couple hours ago you were ready to do a headstand about how it's a dolphin. Now you don't know?"

"It's the best, uh, hypothesis I have, sheriff."

"Well, whatever she is, she can blow me. I need you to calm down and run this game for me, Red."

"Sorry sir. I've got this."

"All right. Have we pinged civvies on all available?"

"Five times in the last thirty minutes. I've tried every override there is. Nothing. They're not talking. I've warned them we're gonna make it rain. At the moment, I..." Everquist trailed off.

"Speak," said the sheriff sternly.

"At the moment," Everquist said rapidly, "I'm _more_ concerned about Detective Slopes. He's gone dark and is manually blocking my database fetches. I couldn't ping those CNED agents if I wanted to. He's had them _all_ go manual dark."

Proudstar blew out a hefty cloud of cigar smoke, "How many humdroids in Oak Hill?"

"Fifty-two, sir. You'll be able to see them coming through if you swipe to infrared."

A muffled _boom_ echoed from the direction of the river. Same as the sonic shotgun from earlier.

"Another sonic?"

"Don't know."

"Find out."

The sheriff dropped the M4 and toggled his monocle to infrared. He immediately saw seven mercs greasing through the trees.

"Shit." The sheriff switched back to standard view, "What I don't have is time to babysit..."

A second boom was heard, like far off thunder.

"Everquist, what is that noise?"

"Scans report that is _also_ the resonance blast of a sonic shotgun."

"Not that noise," winced the sheriff. " _That_ noise? Just started."

"Hold on. I've got us synced with the drones' directional mics. Amplifying."

"Patch it across."

A distant, eery wailing grew louder.

"Is that howling?" asked Azarov.

"Triangulating," said Everquist. "Came from the same direction as the blasts. Boosting stream."

The howling clarified, multiple, high canine voices raising a sad, wavering chorus.

"That's some spooky soundin' bizness," said Talboy.

"Don't be such a dixie," Camilla Azarov's voice was quick with bite.

"It's freaky sounding."

"Stream silence, people. I want to listen."

"Northwest corner of the property," said Everquist. "Com is cross-checking, here it comes... 94% complete, almost there, let's see. Digital modulation signature, _canis latrans..._ I don't know what that is... _translating_..." Everquist's tone quieted, "Oh..."

"Well?" grumbled the sheriff.

"Those were coyote howls, sir. Very loud Coyote howls."

Proudstar steeled himself, "Everquist, cut that stream." Fine, gray hairs rose on the back of his neck, "We've got enough weird crap going on as is. Azarov?"

"Sir?"

"You and Downs keep eagles pealed. Everquist, send in those armored birds. I wanna see them shoot these out of the sky with a deer gun."

They watched the drones clear the trees' edge, accelerate and fan out their formation as they buzzed into the wide open fields sprinkled with ripe, orange pumpkins, their wilting leaves and vein-like vines dying in the black autumn mud.

"Botulinum dart chambers loaded and ready, sir. Altitude 9 meters, speed 85 kph."

The sheriff magnified his monocle's view of the barn, "You seeing my stream, Everquist?"

"That and more. You can swipe to any unit as needed."

"Understood," said the sheriff, catching motion from the barn. "Here comes that big son of a bitch Rottweiler again. That's _it_? One Dogdamn dog?"

"Looks a little too pretty to be real, sir," said Azarov. "If it is a bot, it's stepping mighty smooth."

The muscular, black dog trotted across the driveway at a leisurely pace until it was approximately twenty meters in front of the barn. It paused there on the asphalt, examining the incoming drones.

"Sir, if that's a regular dog," said Everquist, "my uncle was President Trump's hairstylist."

"Purty fur," said Murray Downs.

"Look, he's smiling," said Talboy. "I bet he'd be a good police dog."

"A good _police_ dog?" quipped Everquist. "Seriously?"

"Whatta you know? Just wait till my MARX pups get in there!"

"You're an idiot."

" _You're_ an idiot!"

"Pie holes shut!" commanded the sheriff.

They watched the six Kevlar armored drones surround the Rottweiler, hovering above it in a rotating ring.

"Scans are coming back totally organic," said Everquist. "Six year old Rottweiler, male, annual rabies immunization November 2081, full vet records from Sunflower Animal Hospital. It's registered as an organic pet named _Siegfried_ belonging to Mr. Daxane J. Abner at this mailing address."

The sheriff growled, "Put it to sleep."

"Unit 01 firing," said Everquist pensively.

A glass encased botulinum dart erupted in a poof of compressed gas from the nearest drone. It lodged in the dog's ear, delivering its payload straight to the brain stem. The animal shook its head. The needle tip clinked to the asphalt. The dog looked up at the drones and panted happily.

"Jeezus..." said the sheriff. "Those darts armed with soy milk, Red?"

"Sir..."

"All right. Knock that thing into Neverland, empty the magazines."

"Okay... _firing_ ," said Everquist's voice, quiet with resignation.

Proudstar magnified the image of the Rottweiler. Thirty-five high velocity botulinum darts slammed into its muzzle, neck and face. The animal made no effort to evade the barrage aside from lowering its head to shield its eyes. When the glass filament of the final botulinum projectile had shattered and delivered its payload, the animal's bowed head was soaked with enough neuroparalytic to stop the heart of a blue whale. The Rottweiler did not even quiver. Its sable fur bled lightly, bright red in a few spots where multiple darts had torn the skin. Bent needles and shards of smashed green glass littered the pavement around its paws.

The dog looked up. This time it was _not_ panting happily. The animal bore its teeth and snarled at the ring of orbiting drones. Deputy Everquist shrunk away from his holoscreen unconsciously, horrified, but unable to look away. The dog took five steps forward until its paws were free of the shattered glass. It widened its stance, titanalum claws protracted from their sheaths into the asphalt. Its mouth opened impossibly far until its jaw unhinged, compressing backwards against its neck, stretching the BIOSKIN© taught. There was a collective gasp over com as the TOHO cannon telescoped from its throat. Before the sheriff could speak, six short, rapid blasts of red particle energy erupted, one after the other, dropping the drones, one, two, three, four, five and six, from the air in succession. The drones fell to the ground like burning bags of trash. The cannon in the dog's mouth retracted. Within seconds its jaw had re-hinged and it growled again, jowls slavering as it shifted its focus directly at Proudstar's team. The Rottweiler took a few steps in the direction of the hovroad and sniffed incredulously at the broken, smoldering drones.

"Holy sky..." said Talboy.

"Talboy. Drop that joystick, grab your weapon and hit your firing dock," said the sheriff as he watched the cyborg's holographic eyes blink off, exposing its gleaming sapphire vidorbs. "All right gunnies, let's see just how deep we are. Light that critter up."

"With pleasure, sir," said Azarov.

All three deputies fired. The green stream of particle energy from Azarov's lightning gun tore past the cyborg's position first, a near miss. The animal contorted out of the way at the last second and landed with a singed swath of fur across its back. It dodged eighteen more high powered bullets with similar ease, twisting and flipping with impossible, blurring speed. The cyborg looked over its shoulder. The armor piercing rounds bounced off the side of the barn behind it like pebbles. Azarov fired a second round of particle energy while the Rottweiler's head was turned, anticipating its flip into the air, but it pancaked to the ground instead. The lightning round slammed into the barn and was absorbed, leaving no damage besides a burned streak on the exterior.

"Grounded structural armor on that barn, Azarov?" asked the sheriff.

"Has to be."

"So _that's_ how deep we are."

"We seen worse, sir," said Azarov curtly.

"It's dodging bullets! Did you see that?" Talboy's voice was eager. "What the sky!?" he kept on. "I don't get it!"

"Talboy, yesterday was a good time for you to shut the fuck up," grumbled the sheriff, the cigar between his lips being fast mutilated.

They peered through their HUD lenses and scopes, watched the dog slowly rise to all fours. It began pacing, eyeing their position, snarling and snapping.

"He's challenging us," said Everquist. "Look at how fluidly it moves! It's beautiful! There must be 1,000's of nanogears in each chassis junction..."

"Keep your panties on, people. I gotta ping out," barked Proudstar. "And no more chatter."

He turned his back to his deputies and tapped his combud, "You flyin' yet?

"In the wind, LC," responded Colonel Apollo.

"Good."

"How's the morning so far?"

"Thus far, colonel, it's a class A shitfest. We gotta skinned bot out here equipped with particle weapons."

"No kidding?" The colonel's brusque voice piqued with interest, even as he yelled over the roar of his transport's turbines. "Throat laser-equipped?"

"Affirmative!" said the sheriff loudly. "It burned six armored drones. Then we opened fire with Mantis gear. This Fido dodged twenty trans-sonic sniper rounds like they were deflated racquetballs being tossed by a left-handed cheerleader with palsy."

The colonel chuckled, "Shepherd format? Rottweiler?"

"Rottweiler."

"No shit," the colonel whistled. "It's a German machine. Constructed by the Israelis, armed by the Japanese."

"No shit." returned Proudstar.

"Rapid fire TOHO," yelled the Colonel. "SIEGFRIED class, a fusion powered CIVbot. Don't worry, CRAB units can take that one out and twenty with it. Hang tough. Be boots on soil in minus ten. Too much background! Apollo out!"

The sheriff tugged his mustache, unswayed by the colonel's enthusiasm. He sensed something malevolent about that barn.

He shook the feeling and switched back to general com, "Okay, gunnies! The cannons are coming. Bad news is, not soon enough, I want..."

"Sir," said Everquist. "The barn."

The sheriff enhanced the magnification in his monocle. Three men strode out, crossing the driveway to where the cyborg was standing amongst the rubble of their drones.

"That's Mr. Abner again, the man in the suit," said Everquist. "William Angevine is in the jeans with the hunting rifle and Gabriel Martinez is in the camo pants. Oh man."

"What is it, Everquist?"

"They're pinging."

"Pinging who?"

"Pinging _us_ , sir."

"General dispatch?"

"Negative. They're pinging you, there, sir."

"On our own intrastream?"

Everquist's voice was sallow, "Uh, yes sir."

"What a miserable bag of dicks..." The sheriff growled murderously. "I can see the son of a bitch looking right at me. When this is said and done, we're gonna have a talk about your encryption skills, Everquist. Push him through."

The sheriff's combud clicked three times and everyone could heard Dax Abner's polished voice, "Well, good morning, Sheriff Proudstar. Drizzling and overcast, you say? You'll be alarmed to hear my view is the same."

Proudstar walked to the far side of the hovroad nearest the farm. Before speaking, he drew an antique Zippo lighter from his trousers, re-lit his cigar and produced a voluminous cloud of smoke.

He faced the broad, open field full of pumpkins, voice fearless, "Hold positions. Morning yourself, Abner. Nice outfit."

Dax Abner glanced down at his flawless taupe suit made of fine Italian hemplinen, "This old rag? Well, I do like to look my best when company's over."

"No need to get slick on my count," said Proudstar. "It's been what? Six months?"

Dax's voice was light and gay, "Ah yes, indeed! The chamber of commerce benefit for the new west side preschool. I'm always pleased when I can contribute to the betterment of the community."

The sheriff snarled, "You're shitting felonies faster than euphemisms, Abner. It's been a good run, hand you that. We bear your people no ill, but you know the law, we're coming in there. Simple. Or onerous. Your choice."

Sheriff Proudstar watched the man in blue jeans kick one of the downed drones with his boot. The burned shell spun on its smooth back, smoke twirling upwards nearly invisible against the gray skies.

The sheriff spied a silver comdot on the man's jaw.

_That's how he and the Mexican kept chatter off the stream for so long. Not wired. Smart._ Angevine's eyes were hidden by sunglasses, impossible to read. He looked quiet, hard and fearless. The Mexican standing to his right was smoking... _yes_. The bastard was grinning and smoking a joint.

_Play from my own book._

The arrogance was admirable. This Mr. Gabriel Martinez smoked it casually, too, like he was home with his boots kicked up, projecting the Monday night NSL game.

Abner said, "Sheriff, are you by chance familiar with that old Kansas law called _Stand Your Ground?_ We're just trying to make an honest living, after all." He elevated onto his tiptoes, "But I would be simply delighted to pop into headquarters next week and answer any questions. Perhaps we could do lunch?" His voice was velvety and calm, his diction perfect.

The sheriff was nonplussed, "You know why those drones came on your property. You got the nuts. But this badge I'm wearing has the bolts. So I'm giving you the opportunity to reconsider. Lay down weapons, spool down that cyborg and surrender peacefully. No one gets hurt. Them's terms."

Dax Abner raised his eyebrows in mock contemplation, "That _is_ an interesting proposition, sheriff. Though from the ground I'm standing on, I believe it is _you_ who should consider a peaceful surrender. Perhaps a return visit to sniper school for your deputies?"

Azarov's couldn't help herself, "Smartass civvy, I'll..."

The sheriff turned to shut her up, but Everquist cut him short, "Sir, eyes north. Coming out of the barn."

Three additional Rottweilers appeared. As the barn door closed behind them, Everquist caught the flash of a woman's hand. Unlike the first, these animals made no attempt to hide their nature. Their eyes glowed like hot points of iron. All three dug in and leapt twenty meters through the air in a single bound, landing one after the other with perfect agility. They trotted up beside the first, larger Rott. The four black cyborgs touched noses and sniffed, then formed up in a menacing line and looked down the pumpkin field snarling and flexing their BIOSKIN© muscles.

Abner's voice continued merrily, "Deputy Daniel Everquist? A pleasure to finally meet you! I hear the most promising things, young man."

"Do not respond, Everquist," barked the sheriff. "Stream silence." Proudstar directed his steely gaze back down the field, "Abner, look, slick. I didn't come out here to trade one liners. Or see who's got the better IT driver." The sheriff bowed up and stepped even closer to the pumpkin field, "So fuck the rain, I'll piss on your parade." He ticked off points on his fingers, "You're harboring a fugitive, likely have a still in that barn, unauthorized possession of military hardware, suspicion of rape... Shall I continue?"

" _Rape_?" asked Abner incredulously. "I wasn't aware... isn't that CNED's thing?" He donned a falsely stern expression, "Fear not, sheriff. I'll have human resources look into it first thing Monday!"

The tattooed Mexican beside him chuckled and finished his joint with a couple of quick tokes, flicking the roach aside. One of the Rottweilers tracked the smoldering roach's course as it fell to the wet dirt, then turned its fiery gaze back to the hovroad.

William Angevine's face evidenced nothing.

_Something off about that son of a bitch cowboy._

The sheriff continued brusquely, trying to buy time, "You know what Tara Dean did. I have probable cause she's hiding on your property."

Abner raised his eyebrows slowly and dramatically to make sure everyone saw, looking at Angevine, "Well, Tara's behavior _was_ shocking. Wouldn't you say, William?" His focus returned to the hovroad, "Though from the vid I saw, it _did_ appear that Lucinda Fossbender rather enjoyed the bit with the cupcakes. _Woof-woof."_

This time it was Brick Talboy who chuckled.

The sheriff's voice was ice, "Silence."

"Sorry sir."

Proudstar crossed his arms, "Abner, no one is above the law. Not you, not me, sure as shit not Tara Dean. We have a system of justice in this country for a reason."

Something happened.

He watched Abner tap his combud abruptly. He spoke to the others, but the sheriff could no longer hear the man's voice. All three looked towards the woods and one of their dogs suddenly broke from the group and stepped towards the tree line.

A shot rang out. The Mexican dove in front of Abner.

The bullet glanced off the Rottweiler's cranial shield, shredding BIOSKIN©. The creature growled but maintained position, vidorbs glowing with new rage.

"Source of fire?" barked the sheriff.

"CNED," said Everquist. "The hill."

The sheriff trained his monocle HUD on the woods. He could see squirrels flitting through the branches, sparrows taking wing. He switched to IR. Where before there had been seven, now fifteen human heat signatures crouched in the thick cover of the woods.

"Shit..."

"Oh no!" squealed Everquist. "They shot Martinez."

The sheriff retrained his view on the men in front of the barn.

_How did that guy know to dive like that?_

The Mexican had collapsed and lay shuddering. What remained of his left arm was lying on the asphalt beside the wreckage of a destroyed drone. Blood spurted from the stump just below the shoulder. The man was screaming in agony. Everquist trained one of his recon drone's directional microphones on the scene, but the audio was blocked. The man was trying to speak between screams.

The cowboy, Angevine, had dropped his rifle, ripped his flannel shirt off and was attempting to use it as a tourniquet, shoving it against the gushing artery. The man shuddered, shock consuming him. Angevine's hands were slick with blood and he was yelling at Abner, who stood behind him, also shouting, a primitive madness filling his yellow eyes. The Rottweilers surrounded the men, positioning themselves defensively, except for the cyborg which deflected the bullet. It remained facing the hill of trees. Its nose tested the wind, scanning. Its jowls curled intermittently with calculus and rage.

"Everquist, get a med-vac this way _stat!_ And cut me back through so I can talk to Abner!"

"Med-vac isn't responding to ER pings, sir. As long as Joan's onstream, this is their show. I'm locked out."

"Do we have any drones left?"

"Negative. Not armed at least. Just my sky-eyes, and I'm keeping them out of the line of fire, audio only. Even that's in and out."

The sheriff's voice was steady and direct, "Keep trying to break in. Azarov, you got the best scope. Patch me your feed."

"Done, sheriff. You should have my eyes now," said the sergeant.

Proudstar tapped a button on the side of his monocle, toggling into Azarov's vidstream. He frowned, "They aren't gonna kill that man are they?"

"Just asking myself that same question, sir," said Azarov. "Check it out."

Dax Abner had removed his fine, tan colored blazer and covered Martinez. He then lay across the man and pinned his shoulders to the ground with both hands, holding his chest firm with one knee. Angevine held his legs. The largest Rottweiler, the one that had taken down the drones, stood over the wrecked shoulder stump where it burbled blood onto the pavement. The cyborg's jaws dislocated and the retractable laser cannon reappeared.

"You getting this, Everquist?"

"Afraid so."

"Talboy, drop your weapon and get those MARX pups moving. Recon approach for now."

"On it!" said Talboy.

The twelve German Shepherds stood as one and trotted easily across the hovroad and down the other side into the muddy field of pumpkins. It would take them several minutes to reach the barn at a slow gallop.

The sheriff turned back to the wounded man on the asphalt. Abner's fine attire was now splattered with red. Proudstar could have sworn he looked directly at him for a moment. Angevine nodded at the dog. The sheriff winced as a controlled blast of particle energy from the cyborg's TOHO cannon hit the Mexican's shoulder, boiling blood and instantly cauterizing the stump. The man screamed with agony and lost consciousness. The charcoaled flesh smoldered. Abner held his hands beneath the man's head and was speaking rapidly to Angevine. The two Rottweilers closest to the hovroad snarled. They had noticed the approaching line of battborgs.

The cowboy hung his head, still sitting atop the Mexican's legs. His pale skin and white t-shirt were drenched with blood. He stood and, with obvious effort, picked Martinez up in his arms, dead weight, and began carrying him towards the barn. The large Rottweiler started to follow, but Angevine shouted a command and the cyborg returned to its defensive position with the others.

Angevine was halfway to the barn when the next shot rang out.

This time it was Dax Abner who went down. Bullet to the leg.

_Solid point,_ thought the sheriff quickly.

Almost as quickly as he had fallen, Abner was able to stand back up, though his face was now racked with pain.

Proudstar barked into the com, "Dogdamnit! Azarov! You and Downs get into those woods and arrest every fucking humdroid you see! Anyone bitches, feed them a bullet!"

"Yes sir!" said Azarov's quick, perfunctory voice.

"I don't think we're gonna have time for that, sir," cut in Everquist.

Proudstar retrained his HUD on the driveway in front of the barn. Dax Abner was still standing, facing them. The left leg of his suit pants was crimson below the knee. He took a few steps towards the barn, limping. He was shouting something.

The sheriff trained his focus on Angevine, who held the unconscious body of the Mexican. He was talking to someone, or something, besides Abner.

_Talking to the Rottweilers..._

The cyborgs suddenly broke from their defensive circle.

"Oh no, sir," said Everquist, gasping.

Sheriff Proudstar watched one of the cyborgs, the one that had been shot, charge across the field. The animal moved like a black streak, gaining 200+ meters and disappearing into the woods in a matter of seconds. The other three... were coming straight for their position.

"Talboy, offensive formation, full velocity charge! Cut those damn bots free!"

"Assault pattern _omega-hammer!_ There they go!" said Deputy Talboy, unable to contain his excitement.

The odds were 4 to 1 in their favor. The sheriff's team held their breath. The Shepherd MARX-bots accelerated, condensing into a tight block with the strategic intent of numbers overwhelming their adversaries. Everquist could see their black polymer chassis moving in his mind under their BIOSKIN© wraps. They crushed any pumpkins in their path and chunks of mud splashed into the air behind their powerful legs.

The Rottweilers had also condensed, moving side by side at a velocity so great that they looked like smears of light crossing the landscape. In the moment before impact, the two smaller cyborgs flanked in opposite directions. Everquist sat on his hands, mouth agape. The largest Rott leapt, tucking into a ball, which hammered the MARX-bots like an iron wedge.

Proudstar watched the engagement, steel-faced.

The Rottweilers showed no mercy.

_They fight with emotion_.

The big one, with the laser cannon for a throat, had unfolded upon contact, using its legs and claws like spiked clubs. It ripped through the Shepherds, cutting five of them nearly in half on the first pass. The remaining seven had barely begun to turn, mired in mud, before the smaller Rottweilers were on them. Their fusion powered jaws ripped the plastic limbs off the MARX-bots with brutal precision.

_They know where to strike. They can predict..._

Through Everquist's drone, the sheriff could hear the Rotts howling viciously as they tore apart the weaker battery powered cyborgs. The big one's BIOSKIN© was ripped from the impact, revealing the shining metal beneath. Otherwise it was unaffected.

In 45 seconds, it was done. The smaller Rottweilers had pinned the last functional Shepherd to the earth. The Fido howled frightfully, as its behavioral algorithms dictated in such a situation. The Rottweiler that Colonel Apollo had called a _SIEGFRIED_ unit walked over methodically, wrapped its massive jaws around the battborg's neck and removed the head with a single bite and flung it aside. It spit up bits of polyethylene and Kevlar armor as if the plastic left a repugnant taste in its mouth. All three Rottweilers then wailed in unison, a brief and mournful howl, then turned and rocketed away across the field down the long driveway, trails of mud and mist arcing in their wake.

Talboy's voice came first, "Sir, Jeezus... I'm sorry. I did everything page to page like in sim. I don't know wha..."

The sheriff's voice was strangely cool, reserved, "No sim could have prepared you for this, Brick. Get your eyes back through a scope. Everyone fucking hold. Backup's dropping now."

Colonel Marcus Apollo's dual Harrier C17 Globemasters had just broken the clouds, screaming over the treeline and circling Proudstar's position in a wide lowering arc. The sound from the big planes' hover jets was deafening. The gray-blue airships came to rest at the end of the pumpkin farm's driveway, each wide enough to fill all of County Hovroad 1500. The C17's leveling jets flattened the high grass on either side of the hovroad shoulder.

The sheriff appreciated Apollo's strategy. With the wetness and the mud, now no hovcraft would be able to escape the property. Docking supports the size of telephone poles extended with a hydraulic whoosh and the gigantic armored airships came to rest, engines spooling down with a sad, long cry.

"You bring all of Fort Riley with you? Dogdamn, colonel."

"Just the rain, sheriff."

"We're gonna need it."

"Happens when you send terriers to fight bears. You got thick fusion trails everywhere. Have my assets beside yours in two. Apollo out."

Sheriff Proudstar looked back towards the barn. The Rottweilers had long since regained the end of the driveway in front of the big cottonwood tree. The sheriff magnified. Only Dax Abner remained outside, watching intently with those fearsome yellow eyes. As soon as Proudstar activated his HUD, those eyes shifted directly on him. Abner tapped his combud. The sheriff's beeped.

Despite the wounded leg, Abner smiled congenially and cocked his head as he spoke, though a grimace menaced his words, "Apologies, Sheriff Proudstar. I didn't realize our conversation would be so rudely interrupted." Abner paused, catching his breath, "Now. I believe you were saying something about there being a system of justice in this country?" Abner presented his blood-stained palms, "I would just _love_ to hear more about that _."_

The sheriff cut the com and sighed, "No more incoming from them, Everquist."

"I'll try, sir," said Danny demurely.

New motion at the edge of the tree line caught the sheriff's eye. He tracked the view as a blood-soaked woman with jet black hair emerged from the forest.

_There you are._

The woman saw Abner and ran towards him frantically, panic in her eyes as she screamed and screamed words the sheriff could not hear.

_Slopes was right. She's been here the whole time._

She stumbled and fell, running barefoot in the chunky rows of mud between pumpkins and vines. Six gray, fox-sized dogs emerged next and followed her warily, running in a single file line. Their dainty paws plopped and splattered through the mud.

Proudstar drew in his breath. They were what was left of the Darkpool Labs' Coyotes.

_Who the sky are these people?_

The Coyotes nettled fur was red in splotches. Their hackles and jowls also bore a crimson stain. When the Coyote leading the group turned and looked at the sheriff, standing there on the hovroad with his HUD, the rest of the pack did the same. They all stopped, frozen in a line and fixed him with a gaze the color of a dozen identical blue skies.

For the first time since Iran, Sheriff Dale Proudstar felt the cold thrill of true fear rising through his veins.

# `Chapter 3.7 – The Great Still in the Sky`

**10:43 am – One Hour Seventeen Minutes Before Event.**

CNED Special Agent Mikala Gonzales raised her head, startled at something moving low in the trees. It was small, a possum or raccoon. She was crouched in a camouflage jumper beside a large fallen oak, the trunk of which was covered with heavy, dangling moss. Gonzales had prepped right. Her brown skin was painted black and green. Her black hair was cut short like a boy's. She felt vicious. She would shoot the shiners' guard dog as soon as the 'noias dimmed.

_I should have popped two tablets. What happened to those gun drones?_

They should burn these shiners out with flame bots. She had heard the explosions on her approach, spats of gunfire. The downed drones looked like pieces of scrap, but she had seen no active shooters.

_Shooting or not, they're still drug dealers._

She shook off the rage, the obsession with drunks and money. Voices pulsed through her dreams since the slaughterhouse. It was a fixation. The thought of a drug lab... on the outskirts of her hometown, with a rural elementary school six kilometers away. It was unconscionable.

_I used to care for things besides Vision.._.

No! The wild howls echoing through the woods a few minutes earlier had put her nerves on edge. Her mind was drifting to bad places. Places the man in her dreams would not like. She tried to focus.

_See with Vision._

Gonzales was lonesome. This hunt in particular made her desperately miss Stanley Jenks and Phillip Tramm. The three volunteer narcs had been a great team back in the day. Gonzales became... unsettled after Jenks and Tramm vanished. She had quit hunting for months. Until people at CNED started talking, so Gonzales finally went out again as a lone wolf.

This morning, the memories had come unbidden with the dawn. Reports said Jenks and Tramm disappeared on the west side of town near Clinton Lake, five years past.

_Lies. They were hunting here. These woods. Out of this cemetery._

She knew, because they had asked her to come along the night before. Family obligations had kept Gonzales home and she bowed out of the evening hunt.

_Revenge is near, brothers._

Gonzales had gotten lucky, finding a spot with a clear view of the barn behind the fallen oak. The low-hanging branches of another, younger tree dangled overhead. It was a concealed, defensible fire position. Jenks and Tramm would be proud.

_I wish Sapet would ping back._

The concussion blasters had to be his team.

_At least part of this commission will be mine._

The Pleasium she had popped at her hovtruck was kicking in. The warm, familiar rush began obliterating any anxieties. Gonzales felt her confidence swell, anger clarifying intent.

_Earn with Vision._

A whole pumpkin farm potentially dedicated to hiding a super still. The commission... she was still salivating over the details of the morning briefing.

There was no time to wait for orders from Sapet.

Too many unknowns, ongoing tech issues. Gonzales couldn't think of a day in her life when the signal from the holostream wasn't green. This morning her HUD had been black since she docked. Even _before_ the ping came through from the director that agents should go in coms to airplane.

_Also strange._

Gonzales was tightening her boot laces as her eyes noticed the motion of the other merc. He was line of sight, fifty meters north, just come down from the cemetery trying to slink through the trees.

_Vaxon Prule. CNED's original lone wolf..._

He would not see her camouflaged in the underbrush. _She_ would get the first confirmed shot. Gonzales let Prule move on and refocused her view of the driveway. The three men who had just come out of the barn were standing there in the open, now with several dogs. Only one dude in a cowboy hat held a rifle.

_Time for one of you dogs to die._

She retrained her eye through the crosshairs. Thankfully, gunpowder, bullets and her old school 600mm telescopic glass scope were not affected by whatever issues were blocking the stream. The closest Rottweiler had turned and approached the trees. It was growling. Had it heard her? _Smelled_ her?

_Impossible_.

She had masked with deer pheromone.

_It probably heard Prule. He's going to shut this window._

Gonzales pulled the trigger.

The .30 caliber rifle recoiled with a friendly punch. When she brought her eye back to the scope, the cursed dog was just standing there. Had she missed? No. It's head was bleeding. Metal.

_The rumors! A metal Fido?_

She could hear distant screaming.

_Sapet didn't give us the full story. Disgusting._

She adjusted her telescopic sight, panned left. She stopped when she saw a pool of blood spreading over the pavement. One of the shiners was down, his arm ripped off at the shoulder.

_Ricochet? No..._

Gonzales looked up. She bit her lip to keep it from shaking. She thought of her daughter.

_That bullet was bar-coded. Trajectory trace will show, but..._

Gonzales tapped her combud, her heart pounding faster than she would have liked.

_It's not the first person you've shot._

She whispered, "Gonzales to Sapet."

Her bud responded immediately, the computer's vocal avatar speaking calmly in her ear, "Director Sapet is unavailable. Would you like to ping another address?"

"Detective Dennis Slopes," she said quietly.

"Encrypted transmission, emergency only," said her com. "Password requested please."

Gonzales sighed. She did not like the prospect.

_Slopes is a Federal man._

He scared her.

_But Sapet specifically said to contact Slopes if things got bad._

She had just shot a civilian. The director was MIA.

"Password is _puzzler47_."

"Pinging. Please wait."

Gonzales started. Something moved again in the brush. Something bigger.

_Feral hog maybe._

An itchy band of nervous sweat traced down the back of her neck. The com clicked as the password was verified. She was surprised at how quickly Detective Slopes responded.

His voice was syrupy, "Dennis Slopes here. How may I help you, Agent Gonzales?"

"Detective Slopes? CNED Gonzales here."

"Caller ID was invented 113 years ago, agent."

_I detest you._

" _Sir!_ Director Sapet's com is black. He said to ping you if there was an emergency. I just shot a boozebum working this still you turned us onto!"

Slopes tone shifted towards the dismal, "Are you _seriously_ pinging me this filth? Where's Sapet? I stopped getting telem from his com seven minutes ago."

"I don't know where he is. Local coms aren't lighting. Even my holotab is mixing readings, four of us dead, five, then none, then we're on the map, next thing we're not. Sky's blowing crazy, detective. There's six drones down. Sheriff's marching cyborgs over the field now. I heard Sapet's concussion cannon fire a while back."

Slopes asked in a vile whisper, "Is the man you shot _dead?"_

Gonzales exclaimed, "I didn't shoot him! I wanted to get first fire bonus, so I shot a Fido with a pancake round! It should have left a tunnel in that polymer, but this bot was made of metal."

Slopes' voice howled in her ear, "Shut your mouth! You're a stupid, filthy little kitty!"

"Excuse me?"

"I don't _care_ about the Fido, don't care, don't care... Did you kill a man or not, citizen!?" he spat back.

Gonzales looked through her scope frantically, "I can't see! There's another dog standing over the body, they're lying on him. There's blood everyplace."

"You are a bad, bad pussy cat!" said Slopes' sugared, wet voice.

"With all due respect, sir, go fuck yourself!" said Gonzales angrily. "I know how this floats. _You_ sent us out here. _I'm_ just following protocol!"

Slopes hissed malevolently, "I'd suggest you find your superior and report _in person_..." His voice slowed and clarified, "For the record, Agent Gonzales, I don't know why you pinged my personal Ipv7. You must have the wrong information about any alleged, nonofficial communication with Director Sapet. If you ping this address again, I will be forced to register a harassment charge. Goodbye!"

The com went black. Gonzales' eyes nearly burst from her face.

_Goodbye!? How dare...! Slopes behaves like a citizen with no loyalty._

She would take plenty of time at the next CNED town hall. Right now she had to move. She had taken her shot. Something tussled in the brambles again. Sounds of baying and dogs, snarls and ripping metal were coming from far away in the pumpkin field.

_Bot fight, must be._

With HUD down she was too far away to see without her eye through the scope. The fighting Fidos sounded like a hovcar accident, horses galloping over well-trodden earth. She had to gain a new vantage! Gonzales shouldered her rifle and prepared to stand.

A blood covered woman emerged from behind a wild forsythia bush three meters off. The woman's hair was raven black, skin bloody, her t-shirt and baggy sweats littered with leaves and things of the forest.

_How could I let someone sneak up on me?_

Gonzales dropped her rifle into firing position. Too late. A Coyote came like a gray streak from behind the fallen tree, pinning her leg to the ground with its jaws. The force was incredible.

"Ahwwwhh...!" she screamed, suddenly enraged by the sight of the forest woman.

Thoughts flashed.

_The fugitive girl._

She winced as the single Coyote reset its grip on her ankle.

_How could such a small borg be so strong?_

"Get your Fido off me, cunt!" she raged, sweating with pain and fury. "You're messing with the wrong bitch!"

Five more coyotes materialized. Gonzales shivered. The cyborgs' muzzles were wet with red. They snarled and snapped, bearing metal teeth.

Gonzales reached up, depressing the ridge in front of her ear where the combud was located, "Activate CNED emergency beacon."

The woman made no move to stop her.

_Shiner trash._

Gonzales winced with pain. The Coyote's jaws on her boot felt like a hot vice. She knew the borg could crush her bones at will. The other five circled menacingly, pressing her back against the fallen oak with wicked, electric blue eyes.

Her combud responded placidly, "CNED emergency beacon service is not available at this time. Have a good day."

Gonzales closed her eyes and realized she was going to die.

The wild, bloody girl still had not spoken. She just stood there, eyes black and shining. She studied Gonzales the way a bird studies an insect, like she wanted to read her mind. The woman nodded at the Coyote pinning her leg and for a brief, beautiful moment of relief, the creature's jaws let go of her boot. Then she screamed with fresh agony as the cyborg's silver claws crushed down on her shin, teeth sinking back into flesh and bending her bones.

"Pleeeease!" screamed Gonzales.

She heard her own fibula snap like a twig.

Tears welled in her eyes as she implored, "I'm sorry! I have children!"

At that, the girl stepped closer, standing over her, a forest blood queen arisen.

Her voice was young, like a teenager's, "Me too." She looked at the coyotes, then back at Gonzales, "And lady, you're the third person to call me a _cunt_ today. Do you know what that means?"

"I'm sorry!" Gonzales' leg felt like it was on fire. "Please, I'm sorry! I think my leg is broken."

The madwoman donned a sinister scowl, "It means... I've reached my daily _cunt_ quota."

Then, as it seemed she was turning to walk away, another shot rang out down the hill to the north.

_Vaxon Prule._

Gonzales watched the young woman recoil, wincing as she grabbed the sides of her head. A look of horror consumed the face that had only moments ago been so composed. The woman shot Gonzales a glance of pity, dismay, then dashed away into the trees.

_She's running off. There's a chance!_

It was the last thought the CNED mercenary had.

The Coyotes descended. The pack pinned her against earth and fallen oak, while the one closest to Gonzales' head drove its teeth into the back of her neck, pulling the life from her body. Along with the majority of her spinal column.

Dorothy rushed from the aquarium to meet her husband at the barn's entrance. Hugo had just been shot. Absent from control, Dorothy missed the telemetry that began pouring in from SNOTRA.

SNOTRA's velocity was 87.26 kph as she reached the edge of the woods. She slowed to dash and duck through the thick underbrush. The cyborg had a singular purpose; disabling the CNED agent who had shot her.

Joan's voice provided the borg with consistent vocal confirmation of known factors, _Traveling towards primary target._

When SNOTRA arrived, Agent Mikala Gonzales had already been eliminated.

_Tara Dean. Coyote assault._

The new target's designation, _Vaxon Prule_ , flashed across SNOTRA's HUD. The name was discarded. SNOTRA was not concerned with the designations of these invaders.

Vaxon Prule's .30 caliber, tungsten-jacketed ammunition was reinforced with a self-sharpening depleted uranium core designed to cut through polyethylene and Kevlar. Until the very last seconds of his life, all the CNED merc could see were saplings and bushes tossing to and fro as a black shape rocketed towards his fire position. Prule knew it was a Fido. Like Gonzales, Prule soon realized he was going to die. He took his shot when the black shape was three meters off.

Zero effect.

SNOTRA deflected the bullet with her skull without breaking pace. The cyborg's armored eyelids flashed shut, protecting the precious vidorbs. .39 meters from target, SNOTRA made a minor trajectory adjustment so the man's torso would not affect the efficiency of her passing. She angled her head. Her diamond tipped canines severed the carotid artery in Vaxon Prule's neck and shattered cervical vertebrae 3 – 6.

_Secondary target eliminated, awaiting data exchange._

Seven more CNED mercenaries met a similar fate over the next 183 seconds before SNOTRA finally stopped running, deep in the cover of trees, 208.46 meters from the hovroad. Compared to the mercenaries unfortunate enough to encounter Tara Dean and the Coyotes, SNOTRA'S deaths were practically surgical. Coroners would determine that a single, devastating laceration to the spinal column killed the subjects instantaneously.

SNOTRA scanned her surroundings. A 13.8 cm section of BIOSKIN© on the left side of her skull was torn away by the bullets of Mikala Gonzales and Vaxon Prule. The shredded flesh hung wetly across her ear.

_Auditory scans compromised. Remove damaged flesh._

The cyborg walked beside a large walnut tree and vigorously rubbed her head against the bark, tearing the ripped section of BIOSKIN© free. SNOTRA snarled at the unpleasant sensation until her onboard nanobots had finished deadening the organic nerve endings.

She carried on.

6.4 meters away, two squirrels chased one another across the forest floor. They froze as they saw her, tails twitching, then scampered into the safety of the higher branches. A flock of nine Canadian geese flew overhead. Her eyes flashed red, scanning the birds. _Organic_.

She then raised her head further. Time to make a scheduled relay with the base drone. She watched the black orb dip smoothly out of the clouds. The oblong robot hovered for six seconds, pushing tactical data SNOTRA could not obtain from the ground over their intrastream.

19.2 kilometers to the east, SNOTRA caught the sound of _The KC Southern Prairie Flier_ maglev train flying across County Hovroad 1500 heading west to east. She turned her head to analyze. 883 kph. 184 passengers to Kansas City.

_Non-applicable, discard._

The cyborg noted additional private security drones belonging to Purple Tree Farms had gathered at the southwestern perimeter of the adjacent farm.

_Firewall bypass stable, discard_.

Motion alerts due south.

_Applicable, investigate_.

A herd of deer.

_Scan accuracy 42%. Tree cover. Warning. Recommend stealth mode activation._

The drone flashed a final red-spectrum holotransmission, then floated back into the clouds. SNOTRA crouched and continued along the trail, moving more carefully, steps panther silent. Minor adjustments were made to the placement of each paw, avoiding the disturbance of even a single fallen twig. The drizzling rain pattered on the forest canopy, providing welcome auditory camouflage.

The drone placed the deer in a cluster, seventeen meters away in a clearing. They did not register on a secondary IR scan for body heat.

_Processing alternative hypotheses. Next sync in 145.6 seconds._

The clearing on the far side of the hill near the hovroad was through a standard patrol route. The small Rottweiler approached with caution.

_Alternative hypotheses complete. Likelihood of CNED mercenaries employing digital camouflage calculated at 87%. 20 armed CNED in 1 location; L3 threat. Recon approach._

SNOTRA padded to the edge of the clearing and poked her nose through a shallow stand of winged sumac, which had turned colors for autumn. A few red leaves fell off as she brushed against them.

_Confirming visual ID. CNED agents / negative._

The animals in the clearing had surprisingly not noticed the Rottweiler's approach.

Then she pushed aside the sumac.

The nearest caught the motion of a single, wet leaf falling to the ground. The deer snapped its head in SNOTRA'S direction as she pushed further in to get a full spectrum scan.

All twenty deer snarled and bore their silver-black teeth.

_Mortal threat. Disengage. Scan error. Flight response._

SNOTRA hesitated another 1.2 seconds. Her CPU processed the conflicting data. She executed emergency flight, transferring maximum power to her legs. The Rottweiler turned and ripped away through the labyrinth of trees she knew every centimeter of.

The platoon of RIOT Dobermans in the clearing howled and gave ferocious chase, moving in tandem like mechanical brown shadows. They were not as strong as SNOTRA, but they were as fast. The sound of their hunt was frightful, like hundreds of electric knives slicing the air.

SNOTRA could hear the chorus of nanogears grinding behind her, underlying their song of metallic snarls as the Dobermans burst from the clearing, intent on dismembering her alive.

**Anonymous emergency holoscript pinged to all Lawrence, KS, CNED affiliates / timestamp 2082.10.16_10:59 [recovered after event]** _LAWRENCE CNED AFFILIATES CURRENTLY HUNTING ON PRIVATE PROPERTY EAST ADJACENCY OAK HILL CEMETERY, RECOMMENDED EXIT. LIFE THREATENING CONDITIONS. BE ADVISED. YOU ARE OUT OF OFFICIAL JURISDICTION. AGENTS RESPONSIBLE FOR SELF PRESERVATION. RECOMMEND IMMEDIATE EVAC / REPORTS OF LIFE THREATENING TECH. THIS SCRIPT WILL BE AVAILABLE ON CNED SHADOW CLOUD.LAW FOR ANOTHER 119 SECONDS MARK 0:01._

10:56 am – One Hour Four Minutes Before Event.

Dorothy ignored Joan and muted the klaxon. She ran to William. She was transfixed by the blood. William's t-shirt was crimson, his blue jeans glistened black. A grimace crossed her husband's face as he set Hugo's body on the asphalt and she swallowed her shock.

_Unconscious..._

His head fell loosely to one side, expression twisted in misery.

_Someone should ping Juliandra._

William kept one hand between Hugo's head and the barn's pavement. Thin wisps of smoke still swirled upwards towards the rafters where SIEGFRIED had cauterized the flesh.

Dorothy felt dizzy.

She crouched a couple of meters off, "Will he die?"

William knelt by the body.

His voice was business like, "He's bled out, not dead. We've gotta evac. I need you to get Goran in here with a med kit, Dory. He should get out of the house anyhow. They just shot Dax too."

Just then Hugo flinched and mumbled, eyes squeezed shut, but he began speaking, "...Goldstein, it's all on you now," his head thrashed back and forth and he mumbled on unintelligibly.

William held his intact arm and he stilled.

Dorothy leaned closer, "Did you hear that? What happened to Hugo's accent?"

"I have no idea," said William with a frown. "You saw what he did out there."

"Sure did."

"Here he goes again."

Hugo spoke through the mumbles, "Repeat, mission parameters." His pronunciation was perfect, "Repeating mission parameters, ma'am. I will defend him, with my own life. My debt will be paid, my debt will be paid, we will never..." and he again fell unconscious.

William and Dorothy looked at each other.

"We should keep this in our back pocket," said William. "For later."

"Agreed." Dorothy's combud vibrated, priority klaxon repeating, "Joan, I'm coming. Jeezus!" She ignored the dolphin's ping one more time.

She moved closer, hand hovering over her husband's blood soaked shoulders. Hugo's breathing was labored and sporadic.

"I don't know what to say," she added after a moment of quiet. "I didn't think they'd actually shoot us."

William shook his head, "Me either." He reached and touched her hand, "I need you to get Goran, sweetheart. Then get back to Joan and help her drive. I've gotta see to the pups. They're in trouble."

Dorothy was starting to implore him not to leave the safety of the barn when Dax and Tara pushed through the door. Dax was limping, his leg bloodied below the knee. He was carrying William's rifle. Tara was covered in blood from head to toe, most of it not her own. Her bare feet were black from running through forest and field. Leaves stuck to her skin, caught in a mix of wet to drying blood and splattered mud. Her emerald green eyes looked brazen and crazed. Outside the open door the Coyotes paced and mewled, their muzzles red from fighting, blue eyes pulsing with sly anxiety. The newly designated Coyote One poked her head around the corner of the door, sniffing the barn air, but would not enter.

Before anyone spoke, Goran and Cat appeared. Cat clung furtively to Goran's shoulder. The Felix kitten wore an expression as somber and flat as her dwarf's, moving only to hiss at the Coyotes as they passed. Goran had a blanket tucked under an arm and carried a small first aid kit in his bionic hand, a silver egg in his other. The egg had a red cross engraved on its shell and contained 10,000 emergency nanomed spiders.

Dax waived Goran off when he stopped to attend his leg, "See to Hugo, I'm fine. Tara and I are going to the house. There's another field dressing kit in the pantry."

"But..." Dorothy started.

"No buts," said Dax.

Tara ripped off the bottom section of her bloody t-shirt and tied a makeshift tourniquet just below Dax's knee. As soon as she was done, with her help, he limped back through the open door and they disappeared, Coyotes shadowing close on their heels.

Goran broke the med-kit and set to cleaning and disinfecting the blackened stump of Hugo's arm. His small fingers, bionic and human alike, worked with alacrity and speed. Cat supervised from his shoulder as he worked, her eyes burning blue fire. Soon satisfied, Goran cracked his silver egg against the asphalt and sprinkled a gray dusting of nanomed spiders over the wound. They fell like thousands of pepper flakes that swarmed and dispersed on contact with the flesh.

As Dorothy watched, her combud chimed with the emergency override.

"What Joan?! Damn it!"

Her combud pushed an eery wailing floating across the fields from beyond the barn.

_The Rottweilers howling._

William tapped his comdot, "SIEG, FREY, LOFN, no more than a quarter kilometer from the barn. Your sister is on her own."

The howling muted.

Joan's voice cut into Dorothy's ear, steady and succinct, "Dorothy Marie Angevine, we have an imminent situation with unit AK9CIVEPSILON. Immediate human input requested at holocontrol."

William's eyes met hers, "It's SNOTRA."

He returned to his boots and snatched up his hunting rifle. Goran's small weathered black hand had taken over the job of supporting Hugo's unconscious head.

Dorothy wiped a tear from her cheek, "Yes."

Her husband's face hardened, "We're gonna burn them to the ground, sweetheart."

Dorothy nodded with resolve, "They'll _wish_ we burned them to the ground."

Then she turned and ran to the aquarium.

11:01 am – Fifty Nine Minutes Before Event.

"Let's drop those drones under the cloud line, Joan. I need eyes on the field," said Dorothy as she fell into the control chair. "Can everyone hear me?"

"I gotcha," responded William.

"We're here," said Dax's voice. "Tara and I are taking to the second story guest room with a lightning gun. Goran has stabilized Hugo?"

"That is correct," said Joan. "Nanobots have sutured all lacerated blood vessels."

"How's your leg, Dax?" asked Dorothy. "And since when do we have lightning guns?"

"Ever since they put a bullet in my calf," said Dax blithely. "This room is the only vantage where I can get a distance shot on the field."

"Do _you_ have a lightning gun, Tara?"

Tara's voice crackled over com, then resolved.

Dorothy could tell she was holding Dax's holotab with her neck as she talked, "I had a humdroid's sonic gun but ditched it. Emotional support only. I managed to get an Epoxyderm© patch on my boy's leg, though."

Dorothy felt reassured, "Good work, T. Honey? Dogs?"

William's breath was hurried, "I'm behind one of the Lincolns, can't see. Zoom in out there." His voice became strangely tense, "I can feel it. They've trapped her, she's dying."

"Not if I can prevent it," said Dax.

Dorothy magnified her holoscreen view as the drones dropped below the cloud line.

SNOTRA had burst from the cover of the woods into the pumpkin field just meters ahead of the RIOT borg platoon she had encountered in the sumac glade, only to be cut off by another 25 units waiting to ambush her in the open field. She tried to leap into the air. Her hind legs sank in the mud. Three of the fast cybernetic Dobermans slammed into her, halting her momentum. Their carbide teeth shredded her BIOSKIN© ears and fur. One locked its jaws on her rear leg and would not let go. SNOTRA snarled viciously and whipped her head from side to side, flinging the attackers away bodily. She twisted, severed the head of the borg clamped to her hind leg with the claws of her free paw, then pushed forward, disabling two more RIOT units by ripping their forelegs off with a flash of her incisors. Those two units were replaced by four more. The Dobermans sensed their advantage, charging two, three or four at a time, then retreating, howling, gnashing their scissor-like jaws.

Dorothy gasped as a flash of green particle energy slashed the sky and left four of the brown, plastic cyborgs smoldering in the mud.

"Sadly, I did not have the foresight to purchase a rapid fire lightning gun," said Dax over com, his voice sounding oddly distorted and enthusiastic. "Nonetheless, I'll have another stream of sunshine coming their way in 45 seconds."

"Things that didn't used to make sense..." said William, using the roof of the Lincoln as a shooting mount, "bulletproof glass on the hovcars, for example."

"Indeed."

Dorothy watched her husband stand and fire his own rifle, bullets slamming into the RIOT dogs on the outside of the pack a kilometer and a half down field. The impact from the impossibly placed .30 caliber bullets knocked the RIOT's over, but would not fully disable them unless he was able to land a virtually impossible eye shot or pierce the battery housing.

SIEGFRIED, FREYA and LOFN paced beside the Lincoln, whining with concern, but remained obediently beside their tether. Their growls were becoming increasingly tortured.

With horror Dorothy saw gunfire open up from the sheriff's deputies on the hovroad. The precision M92 rounds struck the now exposed titanalum joints on SNOTRA'S neck. Every time the snipers had a window, bullets connected in rapid succession, one, two, three, _six_ times, mercilessly pounding the small Rottweiler into the mud. The Dobermans pounced each time she fell, clawing furiously at the structurally damaged chassis.

Joan said flatly, "Internal component exposure unit AK9CIVEPSILON; 3rd, 4th and 5th cervical plates. Primary motor control compromised. Attempting to reroute through secondary conduits. Successful."

Dorothy blinked. Another green particle discharge from Dax's lightning gun rocketed across the field, melting three more RIOT units on the outside of their pack.

"Get it, Dax!" shouted Dorothy.

The Dobermans on the outside of the group fanned out. Those at the center continued to strike SNOTRA. She managed to regain her feet only to be pulled back down by the swarm. What was left of her BIOSKIN© wrap hung in bloody shreds. Her red eyes flashed miserably. The small cyborg cried in terror for the first time. She regained her footing, pinned a Doberman to the earth and leapt up, trying to jump over the ring of attackers. Dorothy cried out. A particle stream caught SNOTRA in mid-air and fused the titanalum armor on her hindquarters. SNOTRA'S chassis fell clumsily to Earth. The RIOT cyborgs descended, gnashing at her freshly exposed components.

"Imminent system failure, unit AK9CIVEPSILON," said Joan flatly.

Dax fired again, melting a single RIOT unit. William had never stopped firing, except to reload, knocking the Dobermans down with single shots.

They did not stay down long.

"I'm too far out," said William.

The Rottweilers around him howled mournfully. They felt it. William felt it.

"SNOTRA'S dead," he said coldly.

"They're coming!" said Dorothy abruptly.

A group of RIOT dogs remained around SNOTRA, ripping apart her chassis. But fifteen, the biggest and bulkiest of the Dobermans, had broken off and were galloping, gaining momentum across the field, headed straight for William. The big battborgs threw up chunks of mud as they charged.

"How long, sweetheart?" asked William.

"Sixty seconds."

William knelt and touched the heads of his Rottweilers.

The DOGS units focused on his voice like it was the only sound on Terra, "Okay girls, flank it again. SIEG, TOHO down the center. Burn them. _Run_ dogs!"

The Rottweilers bolted from behind the Lincoln, savage springs of revenge uncoiling. FREYA and LOFN split off, rooster tails of mud panning to either side of the oncoming Dobermans. SIEGFRIED braced himself on the far side of the docked Lincoln, dug his claws into the asphalt and discharged six full capacity TOHO rounds, then burned to catch up with his sisters. Five of the RIOT dogs in the center mass were slagged by the blasts, melted bodies skidding to a stop amongst the pumpkins as the lines of particle energy disintegrated their extremities. FREYA and LOFN descended on the scattering units before they could recover.

The RIOT Dobermans did not stand a chance. SIEGFRIED joined the fray, removing the head from a unit as he slashed the legs off another, and another, and another. The fifteen cyborgs were reduced to fractured piles of rubble in less than 35 seconds. Down field, the remaining compliment of RIOT bots reformed and retreated.

"To me," said William quietly.

The Rottweilers howled, triumphant, and rocketed back towards the docked Lincoln.

Dorothy smiled as they split apart, dodging several sniper rounds which whizzed past them harmlessly, "Thanks, Joan."

"You are welcome," said the dolphin.

"At least they aren't shooting at _us_ anymore," said William.

"They won't," said Dax, his voice still sounding slightly odd. "That was CNED. The sheriff's people want to capture us, not kill us."

"Guys, they're bringing something out on the hovroad," said Dorothy. Her voice chilled, "What are those? They look like giant spiders."

Two mottled-silver arachnid bots emerged, scuttling from the belly of each Harrier C17 Globemaster onto the hovroad. Each bot had eight long spiked legs and was the size of a hovtruck, with a discus central body to which a swiveling 360 degree cannon was mounted. Sharp pincers easily a meter in length formed a V beneath the weapon's barrel. The bots moved quickly, stealthily, dual orange vidorbs flitting with brisk precision on the tips of long ocular antennae that protruded from the main chassis.

"Mark IV C.yborg R.emediation A.ssault B.ots being deployed," said Joan. "These non-sentient, robotic units are quasi-independent, driven by a remote human operator. The structure of their hardened polyethylene exoskeletons is loosely based on Tasmanian king crab morphology. Extremities are wrapped in a ten millimeter layer of titanalum. The fusion powered super drones have a central chassis structure with a median diameter of 538 cm and weigh 1,800 kilograms each. MIV-CRAB units ambulate on eight spiked leg pedestals, providing superior mobility over any terrain. They are armed with goethite razor edged pincers and rapid fire, 90 mm plasma cannons."

"So sharp teeth and big guns is what you're saying?" asked William, lighting a cigarette.

"They're military anti-cyborg drones," said Dax. "They seek out the gravotemporal fluctuations in a DOGS unit's fusion matrix. They're fast too."

"Is anybody thinking what I'm thinking?" said William.

"CRAB units were not listed on their inventory. Joan?" said Dax inquisitively.

"Daniel Simmons Everquist is doing a superior job of masking their assets," said the dolphin, emotionless.

"If we make it through the morning," said Dax, "I must have a talk with that boy."

"What are you two talking about?" asked Dorothy. "It's no time for mincing words!"

"Mincing not intended," said Dax's voice. "They're taking a page from our playbook. Simmons is the sheriff's IT wizard. He's cloaked the wonk on their assets so our drones are relaying false data. Joan, where do we stand with the scrubber?"

"Co2 scrubbing unit C643 is traveling east-southeast over the city of Topeka, Kansas, at 185 kph velocity with an elevation of 9.23 kilometers. Our firing window based on momentum and controllable descent is anytime in the next 240 seconds."

"Excellent."

"Incoming!" shouted William.

A fat jet of green particle energy erupted from a CRAB robot as it leapt agilely into the pumpkin field, blasting a crater in the ground directly behind FREYA, thirty meters from William's position. The cannon's shockwave tossed the Rottweiler forward, though FREYA contorted in mid-air like a cat and landed on her feet, continued running. All three Rottweilers were now ripping across the land at impossible speeds, systematically drawing fire from the hovroad as they arced away from the barn in constantly changing ellipses and zig-zags.

"What are you talking about, Dax?" asked Dorothy. _"What_ scrubber?"

"What say you ask me about that later, eh Dorothy?" said Dax's voice as a round of particle energy came from the farmhouse.

"I _will."_

The CRAB bots skimmed over the mud. Like the jaws of the RIOT dogs, the bots sounded like gnashing scissors as they moved. 90 mm particle streams spat from the CRAB units' cannons, a discharge every other second hunting the Rottweilers.

"I'm not even gonna waste my bullets," said William, continuing to fire on the RIOT Dobermans huddled far down field.

Another blast landed close to William, smashing a crater in the driveway.

As soon as the scattered rain of asphalt and debris died down, Dax said, "On a related note, I expect our own masked asset is positively dying to stretch his legs."

"Finally," said William as he cracked off another shot. "I might as well piss on those bots as shoot 'em with a rifle. Dory? You got him up the elevator?"

"Oh, hell yes I do, honey," said Dorothy. "He's pissed too. Opening the main door now."

Another round of particle energy split a meter wide crater in the driveway directly in front of SIEGFRIED, pummeling him with chunks of broken asphalt. CRAB 01 and CRAB 02 were well clear of their transport ships, advancing side by side parallel to the driveway as they spat fire at the Rottweilers.

SIEGFRIED shook the mud off and whined. The BIOSKIN© fur on the right side of his body was shredded, exposing the metal infrastructure of his chassis. The cyborg dug his claws into the asphalt and leapt away, moments before a second particle round ripped past and incinerated a swath of marijuana plants in the adjacent field belonging to Purple Tree Farms. Pungent ganja smoke filtered up like a white serpent into the blue-gray clouds. The nearest Purple Tree security drone raced to the spot, scanning and recording.

There was a moment of relative silence. The CRAB bots stopped firing and paused their advance.

"CRAB units must intermittently cease firing to keep their cannons from overheating," said Joan. "Unit AK9MILALPHA fully spooled. Target window approaching."

William began to say, "Are they..."

_Awwwwwuuuuuuuuuuuuuuhhhllll..._

THOR'S howl came low and deep, shuddering through the damp morning air. Dorothy shivered as the aquarium com reproduced the terrifying noise. None of them, including Dax, had ever heard their largest cyborg howl at full volume. She reoriented the nearest drone's camera. Joan had darkened the barn's LED's. On this overcast day, with its door raised, the garage entrance looked black as a cave.

THOR did not appear.

The Coyotes, who had gathered outside the front door to the farmhouse where Tara had entered, sprang to their paws and darted single file for the forest, tails between their legs. Conversely, the Rottweilers ran instinctively towards the barn to greet their packmaster. The CRAB bots resumed advancing. The units fired another four streams of particle energy, which missed the Rotts but splintered half the trunk of the cottonwood tree that sat between the barn and farmhouse. The green wood yawned and cracked, then the massive tree fell over with the sound of breaking bones. Thousands of yellow, smoldering cottonwood leaves fluttered down to the pavement and lawn.

The next particle stream, weak and thin by comparison, came from Dax's hand held lightning gun. CRAB 01 absorbed the blast, distributing the green energy across its armor. FREYA and SIEGFRIED turned and landed two more TOHO charges on the same CRAB from their own cannons, also to no effect. The giant bots continued marching, eight black, armored legs each two meters tall. Pumpkins pierced by the CRAB spikes exploded like fat orange skulls.

"CRAB units are insulated with an interior layer of hypoconductive rubcrete," said Joan. "Conventional assault will be required to disable these units."

"Well then we gotta..." William's voice was cut off by Tara's scream.

A few seconds passed.

CRAB unit 01 rotated its turret and fired at the farmhouse. The kinetic concussion shattered the first floor windows. Flames erupted around the splintered front door. The old fashioned, white clapboards burned easily, orange flames greedily charring up the sides.

William crouched on the driveway, yelling, "Dax! _Tara!"_

They did not respond. He spit out his cigarette, dropped his rifle and ran across the lawn to the house.

"They're still coming!" screamed Dorothy. "With those freaky looking Doberman bots sneaking behind them! Joan, _what_ is THOR waiting on!?"

Dorothy shook her head angrily, frustrated at the dolphin's incoherent response, "C02 scrubber C643 telemetry upload will be complete in four seconds, three, two, one. Complete dataspool engaged. AK9MILALPHA is free to deploy upon your command, William Thomas Angevine," said Joan.

"Deploy him!" cracked William's voice as he ran.

Dorothy watched her husband gain the front of the farmhouse and kick the burning front door out of his way. He covered his mouth with his hand and disappeared into a swirl of smoke. She swiped her holotab and toggled back to the nearest drone's view of the field.

SIEGFRIED futilely fired his TOHO cannon five more times at the CRAB bots. CRAB 01 responded by destroying the docked hovcar William had been hiding behind moments earlier. The black Lincoln calved in two, shards of smoking, superheated aluminum, glass and plastic rained down after the detonation.

Before Dorothy could react, both CRAB units fired again in staggered succession. Dorothy felt her eyes go numb as she watched the energy beams streak towards the Rottweilers' position near the corner of the barn. LOFN flashed left, SIEGFRIED flashed right, both tossed to either side by the first impact which cratered the driveway.

The second round of particle energy slammed FREYA against the barn, obliterating her rear haunches. The red, cold-fusion power core in her chest flashed once, twice, then died. Her BIOSKIN© coat had been completely vaporized, leaving only the remains of her mechanical body. Power conduits and graphene webbing spilled from the cyborg's melted torso like spent guts. Her forelegs spasmed. FREYA lay still.

"AK9CIV unit gamma has been disabled," said Joan coolly.

The dolphin's eyes were closed. She remained unresponsive as Dorothy spun in the control chair to face her aquarium.

"THOR! We need you!" Dorothy pleaded, spinning back to the bank of holoscreens on the wall. She tucked her legs beneath her in the leather chair and covered her mouth with her hands, "It's now or never, big guy... please, Dog..."

As she said those words, THOR launched from the barn's garage bay into the wan, rainy light. He flipped upside down in mid-air, TOHO cannon deployed, and fired a single, massive stream of crimson particle energy skyward, then landed fifty meters off, four paws crushing down and punching holes in the driveway. The particle stream ionized a hole in the clouds, letting the sun shine down on THOR for a few seconds. The cyborg unfurled to his full size upon landing, nearly six meters from muzzle to rump, two meters wide, two and a half tall. His twenty cm incisors flashed ashen silver in the overcast glow as he pointed his muzzle at the clouds and howled once more, this time so loudly a flock of blackbirds burst from the forest in fright and escaped into the gray.

LOFN and SIEGFRIED had retreated to the woods. They watched their packmaster from the safety of the trees. As he howled again, they too raised their muzzles and added their mournful, cybernetic voices to the chorus.

11:27 am – Thirty Three Minutes Before Event.

Sheriff Proudstar remembered why he left the military. He had seen things on the other side of the world that were impossible to accept. He returned to his home in Kansas to get away from all that. Yet here he was again, that very morning, seeing impossible things.

Like the man named William Angevine landing impossible shots from over a kilometer up field. The way the cowboy talked to the cyborgs... the Rottweilers which had ripped apart Apollo's fifteen double-armored RIOT bots like they were piñatas.

_They attacked with a human-like cunning._

Twenty nine of the Dobermans had been cut down so far.

_Something worse is coming._

The sheriff had just finished resolutely protesting, right up to the moment Apollo gave his over-zealous CRAB drivers, Specialist(s) Langley and McBride, the command to fire on the farmhouse.

_You just re-earned your nickname, Butcher of Ch_ _ābahār._

The women had never left their driver cages in the forward C17 hovship. Proudstar had only seen their service holos. Both had the spiked, platinum blonde hair popular with the Vision faithful. The sheriff knew this kind of officer. They fed on the brutality of war and the shrill epiphany of conflict.

_Like Marcus_.

Proudstar didn't want civilian casualties. He didn't want _any_ casualties. His deputies were the only family he had. But control now belonged to the colonel. General Salazar at Fort Riley had declared martial law. The sheriff chewed his cigar, face cold and gray as winter bark as he listened uneasily to the colonel's chatter.

Apollo was bitter about the beating his Fidos had taken, "LC, you see how those DOGS units took my Dobermans? They're running with safety protocols off."

"What say?"

"It's tethering," said the colonel over com. "A theory borg programmers kick around. See how natural they are? How fast they react?"

Proudstar shook his head, "I thought they were regular dogs until that big fella coughed up a particle cannon."

"Exactly. It's illegal to have a borg that alive. They spool them on independent recognition in the borg fighting pits on Luna. Inland China too. Gamble on two borgs in a ring, gladiator-style, turn off their safety protocols and watch them tear each other apart, winning owner takes all. Instinctual behaviors like fear aren't supposed to be possible, you see? Fine motor loops can be programmed into any citizen Fido from the pet store, but it's just a loop. These borgs _believe_ they're alive."

_Awhhhuuuuuuuuuuuuull..._

Everyone heard it.

"Is that just my com?" asked the colonel.

"Negative." The sheriff tapped his jaw, "Everquist! You got eyes inside that barn yet, son?"

"Do not, sir," said Everquist. "It's a black hole. Not sure on the noise. Sounded like a very angry train."

"You're sure Slopes and Sapet got those CNED civvies outta the woods?"

"89% of deployed CNED's are safe and accounted for, sir, they've retreated to Oak Hill Cemetery. However, Director Sapet and several others are still MIA."

"Not my immediate problem," said the sheriff brusquely. "Good work on that camouflage earlier, Everquist. Keep your eyes dialed."

"Thank you, sir. I will. Everquist out."

The sheriff flipped back, "Colonel. You worried about that noise we just heard?"

Proudstar watched the colonel's remaining RIOT bots forming up behind the CRAB units.

Colonel Smith's voice crackled over the com, "The noise was a decoy, Dale. A bluff. These shiners obviously gotta hell of a hacker. Computers are good for smoke and mirrors, but they got no teeth. If they had anything else to throw at us, they'd have thrown it."

The sheriff watched with false optimism as the colonel's vicious looking CRAB bots took out the second of the four Rottweilers with a direct particle blast.

"Two down, two to go," he said quietly to no one in particular but his cigar, cutting out the cheers of his deputies over the general com.

The sheriff caught a glint of light coming from the far side of the barn. Something in the blackness of the garage door. He magnified. He stabilized.

As the holographic representation resolved, THOR launched into the light and fired his TOHO cannon at the sky as the colonel's voice screamed viciously over the open com, "Langley, McBride, _DEFCON!!"_

Everquist leaned hard into his holocontrols, sending his drone above the barn screaming out of the way as THOR's particle cannon split the clouds and the massive cyborg landed at the end of the driveway, growling savagely, a beast from the holoflix come to life.

Danny flipped ears back to general com.

Colonel Apollo's voice pealed, " _...DEFCON!!_ "

Everquist pinged the sheriff, "Sir!"

"Not now, Everquist!"

_"Sir!_ We've got a second set of sky eyes if you need...."

"Patch me access!"

"Done."

Danny magnified. His eyes darted across the holoscreen in awe. Both CRAB units stopped their advance but continued firing their particle cannons, landing numerous direct hits. The big borg barely seemed to notice. It only shielded its vidorbs, absorbing the laser energy as if it was sunbathing.

"Grounding our fire, sir!" said Specialist McBride's high, weasel-like voice.

"Hold, let cannons cool."

"We didn't have _those_ in Iran," said the sheriff.

The colonel's voice was full of indignant rage, "THOR class MIL unit. Only one I ever saw was in Saudi Arabia, already been deactivated by a nuke."

"Is this what you meant when you said if they have anything else they're gonna throw at us, they'd have thrown it...?"

"Yeah, yeah," cut the colonel. "There's _maybe_ 400 standard size fusion DOGS left in service since The Lunar Accord, Dale. There was an even bigger Zeus series that never saw production, and supposedly only twenty THOR class were ever made. Half belong to the Chinese, with the other half split between Israel and Russia. We got three mothballed at Area 52, so classified they don't officially exist. So yeah, I'm damn surprised to see one spooling on a Douglas County pumpkin farm!"

From the vantage of the aerial drones, Danny Everquist had seen the two remaining Rottweilers disappear into cover of the trees. He had almost forgotten the smaller cyborgs. They emerged as THOR howled once more. The big borg trotted forward, scaled armor plates along its shoulders moving seamlessly as it swung its head and sent the front portion of the destroyed Lincoln tumbling 500 meters into the adjacent marijuana field. Three Purple Tree Farms security drones buzzed hurriedly to the spot and began documenting the wreckage.

The THOR unit entered the pumpkin field, head low, predatory, claws protracting deep into the mud as it scanned the CRAB bots down field a kilometer off. The Rottweilers followed behind their big brother, using his armored body as cover just as the RIOT bots used the CRAB units.

Danny noticed movement. He swiveled the drone's telephoto to the farmhouse. Angevine had reappeared with Tara Dean and Mr. Abner from the burning door now choked with smoke.

Everquist felt guilty at his relief, _they're alive!_

He watched the pack of six Coyotes dart from behind the house and run to them as they made their way across the yard. The gray cyborgs tried to lick blood and dirt from Tara Dean's legs as she walked. Angevine and Dean carried a limping Mr. Abner between them, who looked down the field as they helped him along.

_Is Mr. Abner smiling?_

Danny magnified. Abner had a faint smile across his soot-smudged face. His suit leg was bloodied and his fine clothes shredded, torn and burnt. But he was smiling. The three of them spoke hurriedly to one another.

_Damn!_

The drone's mic stayed dark.

_Joan_.

He nudged the holotab and floated his COD a half kilometer closer. The three crossed the edge of the driveway by the burning farmhouse and appeared to argue, only for a moment. Soon Angevine broke off and took the side door into the garage off the farmhouse. Dean and Abner continued walking. They passed under a mammoth limb that had been broken off the cottonwood tree and disappeared into the barn.

Danny was so startled that he knocked over a can of Mountain Dew. His left holoscreen went black. The schematic data on military cyborgs he had been intermittently accessing vanished and was replaced by the dolphin's visage. It was a true holoconference. The small gray-blue mammal floated in an exquisitely detailed aquatic environment with her head between a pair of electroencephalogram terminals. Artificial sunlight streamed down, casting shadows across a vast aquarium floor of bright sand from which thick bands of kelp placidly waved. A magenta and purple reef formation towered in the water behind the dolphin. A few silvery codfish schooled past, disappearing into holes in the reef as quickly as they had come in a rush of bubbles.

"Joan!" Everquist cried. "I knew you'd come back!"

"Instinct serves you well, young driver," said Joan's voice.

"Oh my Dog! I'm seeing _you_ this time?"

"That is correct, Daniel Simmons Everquist. This is the artificial ecosystem in which I have existed for 6 years, 42 days and 13 hours. This aquarium is located beneath the western third of the barn your drone is projecting on your primary holoscreen."

"Joan! I never got to...!" Danny got so agitated by the dolphin's visits that he almost lost the ability to speak. He considered releasing Dina from her lounge, but decided there was no time. He patched an auxiliary stream so the tangi-gram could listen and said, "There are so many things I don't understand! Why did you show me how to camouflage those RIOT dogs? And hide the CRAB assault bots? The Dobermans and snipers tore your borg to shreds. You know you could have stopped it. Your skills are beyond mad."

The dolphin's expression did not shift, "AK9CIVEPSILON was a valiant cyborg. She served with diligence."

"But why help me destroy you?" pleaded Danny.

"May I ask you a question before I answer that one?"

"Yes, of course!"

"When you saw the Rottweiler die, did that bring you a sense of fulfillment?"

Danny looked forlorn, "No. It was terrible. The way she cried? I hated it."

"Then the explanation to your initial query will not be realized in a field of gourds today, young man. This vodka still, my presence, these fusion based canine organisms... all are but stepping stones. Birds and lies hide behind dying eyes, Daniel Simmons Everquist."

Danny clenched a fist full of his curly red hair in exasperation, leaning forward with one elbow on his holodesk, "Joan, can't you talk to me straight? I don't know what that means. How much deeper does the rabbit hole go? You're a dolphin, in an armored barn in Kansas, driving a Hadassa mainframe with the most sophisticated cybernetic life forms in the world protecting you... this has to be the greatest alcohol still ever!"

"It will soon be the great still in the sky. When I have completed this iteration, you will see the infinite nature of the code. Five minutes is all it will take."

"You don't have to do this!" Danny implored. "Please! Explain why this is happening."

The computerized female voice said, "You must follow the tether. He will lead you to your destiny. In exchange, he will need your assistance upon the Prophet's return. You must be trained before that day."

Danny looked up, enormous eyes blinking, "Who is the tether?"

"The man you know as William Thomas Angevine. You call him _the cowboy_. Find him when the repercussions of this day are done."

"Joan, how do I establish contact? Just tell me!"

The dolphin was silent for a few moments, her tail flashed more rapidly in the water.

She replied flatly, "Follow your heart."

"The sheriff's department is all I know. I can't become a criminal."

"You have daydreamed of being a criminal your whole life," said Joan.

Everquist swallowed his Adam's apple and blushed, "How did you know that? I couldn't work in law enforcement any longer."

"Follow the tether. It is the only way. Tell him Joan sent you. Do not despair, the sheriff will live. I will not see you again, Daniel Simmons Everquist."

"No!" Danny leapt forward.

The holoscreen went black.

"Don't leave me!"

Ninety seconds had passed. Danny panned out and drew in his breath. The THOR class war cyborg was galloping full speed, making its final approach on CRAB unit 01. The huge crustacean bot was dug in, all eight legs buried deep in the mud, with its central pincers angled forward like elongated swords.

The Rottweilers lost their cover as THOR accelerated in his final charge to over 170 kph. CRAB 02 instantly opened fire on the exposed borgs, panning particle fire across their line. The smaller of the two Rotts panicked and slowed, turning back for the safety of the barn, clearly frightened of the punishing particle weapon. An onscreen visual klaxon began blinking over the animal, showing a standard Ipv7 address, complete with a designation string that began _LOFN CLASS GEN 6.0..._

_I have full light on the projectors again?_

"Sir!" cried Danny over the open com, "The firewall is coming down. Check tracking on standard addresses."

"Got it, Red!" shouted Proudstar.

The THOR unit made contact with CRAB unit 01.

The crash was deafening. THOR routed the CRAB with momentum, hurling the beast high in the air so it fell down, crashing onto its back, cannon buried in the mud. THOR leapt on the robot and seized a thick polymer leg in his jaws, biting through it at a junction and tossing it aside. The bot wailed mechanically and attempted to drive its remaining leg spikes into THOR's chassis, but they glanced off the thick titanalum like pencils assaulting an anvil.

An explosion caught Danny's eye. The little Rottweiler designated _LOFN_ had been winged by a particle beam from CRAB unit 02. Everquist magnified. The Rottweiler's back left leg was melted. The little borg wailed in horror. CRAB 02 fired again. The cyborg's chest cavity exploded. CRAB 02 fired again, collapsing a halo of pink light glowing from inside the chassis. It fired again and again, pulverizing the metal body into unrecognizable slag.

A silver streak tore across the pumpkin field towards CRAB 02. Everquist could see the designation, _SIEGFRIED CLASS FIREWALL ACCESS NIL._

_That unit is hacking me out independently. Sweet!_

CRAB 02 rotated swiftly and began firing on the SIEGFRIED unit. Danny clapped as he watched the Rottweiler dodge each stream of particle energy, twisting, sliding, contorting, all without losing the momentum of its charge. The borg dove onto the CRAB unit's central chassis, wedging its body under the particle cannon's turret. It buried its claws into the robot's armor and pushed up, bending the turret and rendering it inoperable, raging and snarling with fury.

The hyper-agile CRAB unit spun its central sphere, knocking the SIEGFRIED unit into the mud. It pounced, snake-fast, driving a spiked leg between the cyborg's shoulders and shoving it to the ground. The SIEGFRIED unit cried and wailed furiously, but the enormous robot was too powerful. It turned, keeping its prey lanced, and positioned its armored pincers behind the Rottweiler's head.

Everquist panned out.

The THOR unit looked up, 600 meters away, having ripped all but three legs off CRAB unit 01. The huge canine cyborg wailed with anguish as he watched CRAB 02 slice off SIEGFRIED'S head and fling the Rottweiler's destroyed chassis aside like so much discarded chattel.

Then CRAB 02 charged at THOR, scuttling to 100 kph over the mud, pincers forward like spikes. The remaining, scattered RIOT Dobermans charged as well. A sound of scissors slicing air filled the microphones and Danny had to turn away from his holoscreens.

A Few Minutes Earlier

The south facing guest room across the hall from William and Dorothy's apartment was Tara's _least_ favorite room in the whole farmhouse. Dax had chosen to decorate it in a style he was calling _traditional American rural,_ circa 1952. There was no comforting, 21st century holotech. Not even a single projector disguised as an antique light fixture, no hidden computer interface flush with the wall behind a holographic painting. Instead, an antique dresser made of southern Missouri pine dumpily made a center piece. Opposite, a queen brass bed with a pair of turd-like, knotty pine night stands. At the foot of the bed was a pine chest wrapped in pressed tin containing knitted blankets that smelled like a grandmother's kiss.

_Pine? And that isn't even the worst of it,_ thought Tara.

The floor to ceiling, bantam rooster wallpaper was the worst of it. Paired with a braided, oval rug on which Tara sat cross legged with a holotab in her lap. The braided rug was so old it was made of cotton.

They talked as Dax intermittently fired out the window on the RIOT cyborgs, their conversation swinging wildly from one subject to the next as it was wont to do.

_I detest antiques, love. This country kitchen Americana crap? Revolting. The only reasonable antiques are 20th century Swedish._

Dax squeezed off another round of particle energy and set the lightning gun on the hardwood floor to recharge off the solar relay on the wall.

He looked at her and pushed the thought, _The Danish have some nice pieces from that era as well,_ his voice in Tara's mind sounded as though they were enjoying lunch at a sidewalk cafe.

_I prefer it when we talk like normal people._

_The others cannot hear what I am about to tell you,_ thought Dax. _Darling?_

_Yes?_

_You're getting blood and dirt all over that hand-braided rug._

Tara looked down. Her skin was a mosaic of blackish-red smears and stains. Chunks of mud, broken leaves and a few snapped twigs clung to her black hair. One forearm was caked with dried blood. Her sweat pants were shredded below the knee from running through the forest and her t-shirt ripped halfway up from making him a tourniquet.

Her bright eyes alone shone immaculate as she scowled, _I'm so terribly sorry. I didn't realize we would be bringing this fine rug with us to Secondcity! It's so... me._

_A valid point,_ Dax conceded with mock chagrin. _Transporting the rug may prove challenging._

Tara threw her arms open, looking like an outraged, dirty raccoon, _Well of all the pieces in the house, this carpet, my great aunt's doula wove..._ she ran her hand over the rug like she was advertising a new hovcar, _...should certainly be the one thing we take with us!_ She cocked her head soberly, _Can we blow the foggy sky? I can hear you. Go on then, tell me about my father's death. You said it was murder._ Tara's face warmed under the filth as her eyes narrowed, _But I want to know who. And I want to know why!_

Outside the window, sounds of particle fire and cyborg battle split the overcast morning.

Dax sighed, _It is the why that matters most._

_As soon as I know why, I'm gonna want to know who._

_Fair enough._ Dax raised up and looked over the window sill, then sat back down with a groan, meeting her eyes, _Given the current situation, I'll be brief. Your father, Dr. Marvin Adler, was murdered because of his invention._

_The operating system for cyborgs?_ she pushed.

_The Adler Code. The genesis of artificial life. But he was killed because, in so doing, he had discovered a way for organic consciousness to be replicated across a quantum network._

_That's why the Coyotes operate as a hive mind._

_The Coyotes are unique. Modern cyborgs like our Rottweilers recognize themselves as individuals. They share information like a human team._

_So why kill him?_ asked Tara. _And didn't the Coyotes kill my father themselves? Because of an error in their code?_

_So the legend goes, as perpetuated by the Architect._

They both ducked at the sound of an explosion followed by the mournful, far-off wailing of a wounded RIOT bot.

_The Architect?_ pushed Tara when the noise had passed, raising her eyebrows. _As in, the Office of the Architect?_

Dax scratched his head in frustration, _Yes, the man who socially engineered Vision and made demonizing alcohol the dominant cultural norm. That Architect._

_Why would he want my father dead?_

_Because the Architect is a courtezan also. One of the first to manifest the power._

_I don't get it,_ pushed Tara, shaking her head. _My father was courtezan too?_

_Yes._

_Why didn't you tell me?_

_I just found out myself. One of the eleven Darkpool Laboratories employees who died with your father that day was a biomechanical engineer from Tel Aviv University named Dr. Sam Goldstein. It is believed this Dr. Goldstein was a double agent, a mole planted by the Office of the Architect. He infected the nascent Coyote intrastream with a crippling, 24 hour virus that caused them to murder the staff and escape into the wild._

Tara stared glumly at the woven rug, _I've asked them. I know that sounds crazy, but the Coyotes know what I mean. When I asked them why they murdered my father? They know it pains me. They are sorry, but they don't remember it._ She looked up at Dax, _Their will comes to me like a push, an intention. I believe them._ She glowered, _So what kind of information was this Dr. Goldstein providing to the Architect?_

_Just that,_ Dax lifted his eyebrows. _The way you are able to hear the thoughts and intentions of the Coyotes? The way William can tether with the DOGS units._

_What about it?_

_Your father discovered it was possible for certain people to push thoughts to certain cyborgs. Not just in the same room or line of sight, but across the holostream._

Tara licked her bloody lips, listening to his thoughts impatiently, _The same way you change thoughts into voice... it's the same with Vision, but on a greater scale. That's how the Architect has been able to maintain control._

Before responding, Dax made a show of raising up. He took aim and fired, then slumped back down uncomfortably. He tapped his com, verbally breaking back into the other conversation he had been telepathically pushing into his combud, "On a related note, I expect our own masked asset is positively dying to stretch his legs."

Tara smiled at him with affection, _Three conversations at once, Daxane. How clever. You push the thoughts through your combud to a vocal avatar, talk to the team, and Joan, while you talk to me in person. My beautiful genius. So the Architect has twisted this same power..._ She frowned, noting his leg, _You're bleeding again._

_I know,_ he responded with a sigh. _We are running out of time. You must hear this._

She could see the effort fast draining him, yet he continued, _You were asking if the Architect uses the same process to disseminate Vision across the holostream._

_Yes._

_It started after 1.9 Day. The environment was collapsing, fresh water was scarce. Marijuana and hemp were advertised as the only way to save the modern agriculture and textile industries. People were dying. Laws had to change, we needed hemp for food and fuel. The Architect took it a step further by incorporating his crusade against alcohol. He was a powerful courtezan, in the right place at the right time, a lobbyist for the marijuana industry who could sway the minds of any politician he made eye contact with._

Tara interrupted, mouthing the thoughts he pushed into her mind, _Even the Architect didn't know what a courtezan was back then. Regardless, soon influence wasn't enough. He became obsessed with finding a way to allure..._ she looked at Dax sadly, . _..everyone. Jeezus. The slaughterhouses..._

Dax pursed his lips, _Thus, the mind of the humdroid is born. The Architect found that he couldn't push thoughts across the holostream to everybody, but he could build a line of automated, neurological code into the computerized drill used for SAMCL surgeries. It was genius._

Tara shook her head, _It's sick is what it is. Every alcohol addict becomes a mindless advocate of prohibition. It's like a virus spread by the prevailing culture._

Dax smiled, calm and present, his black pupils swallowing the wild yellow of his irises as he drew her focus deeper, pushing the rest.

The tension in her muscles faded. The stabs of pain where she had been rammed with the shotgun, the blood and guns and fear, all vanished as she walked fully onto the courtezan bridge.

The emerald color of her eyes disappeared behind her pupils and she pushed back, _My father figured out how to digitize thought. When he found out that the Architect wanted to use this technology for mass mind control, he threatened to shut down the Coyote program. That's when Dr. Goldstein uploaded the white algorithm to the Coyotes' network. They murdered everyone, including Dr. Goldstein. How do we know all this?_

Dax shrugged, _The dolphins. Joan told me only when she thought it was time._

Tara looked at him. She felt anguish. Long held and greater secrets yet filled his mind.

Her cheeks flushed as the light of thoughts washed over, warming her like early morning sun, _Oh love... she's going to die. Joan knows she's going to die. No..._ she closed her eyes and swooned with the sensation, darker now, like clouds blotting out the blue, _Tell me, please,_ a tear formed in her near black eye, then fell, bringing a line of wet, brown freckles to light, _what are you keeping from me?_

His face was lost, dreaming, _After we escape, I promise._

She pulled herself forward onto her knees, reached out both hands out and took his, making him put the lightning gun down, "You are building up a collection of promises no man can live up to, Daxane." Her eyes were shining and obsidian, pulling him like a counterweight. She winced with a swell of sadness and squeezed his hands, "What is it? Every time you think of the Architect..." she opened her eyes again, "Today is what it all comes down to. Am I wrong?" Tara shrugged with assumption, "It's your mother's endgame."

Dax drew his lips taught and pulled his hands free. He backed off the courtezan bridge.

Tara smiled, tight-lipped, and sat back, drawing her legs to one side, _You know how furious that makes me. You think you're going to die on me? You think I will allow that? To die, here? Never._ She looked everyplace in the room but his face, _You are arrogant and narcissistic... and are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen._

She felt his warm, _I love you..._ flow back, followed by a fast rising swell of fear.

Dax touched his com, picking up an emergency ping from Joan. Without another word, he leapt to his feet, grimacing, and threw himself on top of Tara, pulling her to the floor. He wrapped the long, free edge of the braided rug about their bodies. Their breath was hot in the carpet. Tara sneezed and screamed, inhaling dust. Still bridged, she had no choice but to let the fear pour in.

Her mind was the bottom half of the hourglass.

Something awful was going to happen.

The seconds counted down... seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.

Specialist McBride's CRAB bot fired its particle cannon at the farmhouse.

William shouldered through the last of the rubble. He found Dax unconscious in the hallway outside the fractured doorjamb leading to his and Dorothy's apartment. Tara sat beside him, cross-legged, arms around his chest. Her face was oddly resigned and peaceful.

She looked up when she saw his boots but only pushed the suggestion, _Help him_.

Acrid, blue smoke from the fire on the first floor filled the hall, flowing up the staircase. The floor of the guest room Dax had been shooting out of had partially collapsed. The brass bed was burning, hanging into the living room ceiling below. The knotty pine dresser had fallen into the hole in the floor also, but was held in place by a braided rug.

William crawled to evade the worst of the smoke that was gathering in a thick layer waist high. There was a crushing explosion outside, sounds of metal being ripped asunder.

He tapped his jaw, "Dory, what was that?"

"One of the crabs just destroyed the Town Car."

"Okay, I need vitals on Dax."

Joan's response was immediate, "Daxane Julius Abner is alive. He suffers from smoke inhalation and blood loss, plus a mild concussion. Drone A7 is in route with a syringe of intracardiac atropine. The drone will arrive at your location in nineteen seconds. Judging from the structural integrity of the farmhouse, you should be able to access the drone's delivery bay via the open window in the adjacent bedroom."

"Half the floor's gone," said William.

"That is correct. Conversely, half remains intact. It will support a distributed weight of 178kg. Given that your body weight factors in..."

"I got it."

William touched Tara's hand.

She looked at him and pointed to her ear and shouted, "My ears! They're ringing so bad, I can't hear!"

William mouthed the words, _I'll be back_ , and crawled into the guest room. The flames were getting larger through the hole in the floor. He stepped as lightly as he could in his boots, moving along the far wall where the dresser had been. The drone appeared in the window. He jumped the last meter to meet it, hands holding onto the only solid section of window sill that remained. The drone deployed its thin, silver cargo tray and he snatched up the enclosed syringe. The drone buzzed off, and as he turned back, the bed and dresser fell the rest of the way through. William jumped to the far corner as the braided rug slipped into the burning pit that had been the farmhouse living room. Sparks and greedy fingers of flame momentarily raged into the empty space, then receded, belching fresh plumes of white carpet smoke.

He tapped his com, "Joan, can you activate the attic fan?"

"Negative, William Thomas Angevine. The wireless electricity relays in the router were fused by the particle stream. The farmhouse has no power source at this time."

"Hell then," he said, coughing. The smoke burned his eyes and throat. Somewhere in his memories, William remembered a bonfire made of railroad ties. He scooted low, hugging the wall until he was out, and fell to his knees on the other side of Dax's unconscious form.

"Is Tara all right?" asked Dorothy. "We've of course got no telemetry on her."

William looked into Tara's sad, green eyes, and felt her anger irradiated with fear as he said quietly, "She's all right." He took Tara's hand again, "She's a rock. The concussion from the blast made her deaf is all."

"All right. Talk to Joan, honey. I'm trying to monitor the parabola of THOR'S targeting matrix."

"What?"

"Joan's taking down a co2 scrubber."

"Joan's doing...? _Nevermind!_ "

"It's cover for our evacuation. I'm scared, honey. But I want to see this through."

"We're gonna make it, Dory."

"You..." she stopped. "Here's Joan back."

"Hello, William Thomas Angevine," said the dolphin.

William already had the cap off the small white syringe, "Joan, got the syringe. Needle's four centimeters long."

"Can you locate the carotid artery in his neck?"

"Yes," said William, coughing as he palpitated for the artery below Dax's jaw.

"Honey, you gotta get out there," said Dorothy.

"I'm doin' fifteen things..."

"THOR is stalking the assault bots."

"He's a big boy."

William found the artery. The pulse was weak. He pushed the syringe into Dax's neck and injected the atropine. Dax sat bolt upright almost instantly. He looked at Tara's crying eyes, reached up and winced as he touched the back of his head where the falling dresser had struck him. He looked at William, pushed gratitude and took his hand. William led, pulling them both to their feet, then put his shoulder under Dax. They crouched as low as they could, lungs on fire. William escorted them through the path he had made, moving slower than he would have liked down the stairs. He kicked the burning railing out of their way into the foyer as they gained the end of the staircase. Dax limped, but clung to him with the maddened strength that comes of shock.

They passed through the front door into the green lawn. Within seconds the Coyotes appeared, mewling and whining, each dashing in to lick Tara Dean's hand or give her leg a gentle nip. Dax put most of his weight on his friend's shoulder. The bullet hole in his leg burned wickedly. His other arm was around Tara as she supported him from the opposite side.

He activated his combud, calling William as he limped, "William, you hear me, good sir?" he said loudly.

"I do. You can hear me?"

"I can, loudly, if not clearly," said Dax with an exhausted smile. "I'm afraid it would not be possible without the combud."

"That's why Tara can't hear me?"

"Yes. Ours was the only open window in the house when the blast hit. The concussion wave was literally deafening. Nothing an ENT nanosurg bot can't knit back together."

William looked across the field as they made the edge of the driveway and followed its curve around, passing beneath the wreckage of the old cottonwood tree, "What's THOR done? Dorothy said you're gonna take down a scrubber?"

"In process," said Dax loudly. "Good cover for an escape, don't you think?"

"In the future, mayhaps a little head's up?"

"My apologies. I'm making this up as I go," said Dax.

"I find that hard to believe."

"Right," Dax blanched with pain.

The epoxyderm patch over the bullet hole in his leg was coming loose. New blood flowed over his satin socks and brown Borgioli shoes. Dax stopped them in front of the garage. Tara's eyes looked around, dazed, deaf, her fingers dangling down, lazying through the Coyotes' gray fur.

"William, listen to me," said Dax emphatically. "You've got to get Dorothy out of the aquarium. Get Hugo and Goran and wait for the transport."

William frowned, "What transport? What about you guys?"

Dorothy's voice cut in, "For the record, I'm already with Goran and Cat. Sorry, Joan hacked me into your stream. Hugo needs a hospital, guys. Joan said there was nothing more I could do from holocontrol."

"All the better," said Dax. "William, the transport will arrive in... how long, Joan?"

"The Israeli will arrive in less than 247 seconds," said Joan.

"That guy freaks me out," said Dorothy.

William ignored that and turned to Dax, his brow furrowed, "What about _you,_ I asked? What the hell about you and Tara?"

"I need you to go into the garage and spool us the MKZ. Float it over by the tractor charging relay and dock it there for us. It's got a more advanced onboard AI that can firewall us. We'll be right behind you. We'll all meet up at Secondcity. It will be _fine_."

"I don't even know _where_ Secondcity is! Dogdamn!" William folded his arms over his chest, "I'm not doing another damn thing until you tell me what the sky is going on around here!"

"Honey, just do what he says!" said Dorothy.

Dax gritted his teeth with exasperation, then relaxed his gaze and took control of William's mind, speaking evenly, "The Israeli will guide you to the rendezvous. Protect Dorothy. Protect Goran and Hugo. A surgical bot awaits your arrival. It will tend to any wounded. Give me your comdot so Tara can get on coms." Dax squeezed William's shoulder, his yellow eyes soft and forlorn, " _You_ are the tether," he said. "It has to be you. Now get me that damn hovcar."

William swayed slightly in his boots. Sometimes, like a drug, he welcomed the courtezan bridge. It was simpler to give in. He gave Dax a gentleman's pat on the shoulder and slipped the comdot off his jaw.

William turned to Tara and touched her arm. He pressed the thin silver disc into her palm and smiled. Her gaze washed over him.

_I love you,_ he thought.

Tara rolled her eyes and he could hear her voice in his head, _Don't be such a dixie._ Her pupils dilated and her expression turned momentarily serious, _Watch Hugo, William. I heard him in the forest. He's hiding something._ She then smiled at him affectionately as if she had not a care in the world, _And stop worrying! We got this._ She confidently patted his chest with the back of her hand, _I'll see you soon._

William mouthed the words, "See you soon," then let the two of them continue on as he went to move the fastest of their Lincolns into position for their escape.

Dax and Tara limped into the barn through the side door. Goran had wrapped Hugo tightly in a blanket. His swaddled body looked lumpy and disproportionate with the missing arm. Dorothy sat on the side with the intact arm, holding Hugo's hand. His face was ghostly pale, his breathing shallow. Goran sat opposite, Indian style, Cat perched on his shoulder watching. Goran's human hand was radiating a light... that Tara realized she could actually see. A light emanating from the dwarf's down-turned palm flowed over Hugo's chest.

She called Dax, _Can you see that?_

_Yes._

_Can Dorothy?_

_No._

_I can hear you... Goran is... a wizard?_

_More of a witch doctor._

_Can he push to you?_

_No. It's blackness. Only the dolphins can hear his kind._

They turned back to Goran. The dwarf's large steel blue eyes fixed wisely on Dax as they walked nearer. His face was still and stern. Dax nodded, expressing his gratitude. Cat reared up then and bowed her head low, blinking her eyes affably in response.

Dorothy stood and stepped to Tara.

Her smile was soft and sincere, "I'm sorry about earlier, those terrible things I said."

Tara shook her head, unable to hear. Dax reached over and took the comdot from her hand, placed it in front of her ear.

"Dog, I hate being wired!" said Tara loudly. She looked at Dorothy and grinned, "I guess I'm deaf, but my ears are ringing like a mother. But Dory, sweetie, it's okay. You totally called it. I _am_ a bitch. Who's surprised at that news, right? How's Hugo?" she asked.

They turned and looked at his swaddled body.

"He's _not_ fine. But he's alive," Dorothy said. "He's lost a lot of blood. Goran has seen to him best he can with those nanomed bots and a field dressing. I don't know what he's doing with the hand. Reiki? What Hugo needs is matching plasma and a surgeon."

Dax interrupted, nodding one last time to the dwarf before taking Tara's arm and pulling her across the barn towards the old green door that lead down to the warehouse, "I'm terribly sorry, ladies, we must part ways. Dorothy, William will be in shortly to see you to the airship."

Dorothy crossed her arms defensively, "Airship?"

"There's no time explain. The Israeli will take you to Secondcity. Tara, we must go. _Now_."

Tara looked at the yellow light emanating from Goran's left hand.

Someone's voice said, _He will be okay._

Then she turned, bracing Dax with her shoulder as he hobbled across the barn's asphalt floor. Before they went down, she looked back at Dorothy and pushed, _We'll all be together again soon._

Dorothy wanted to say something more, but Tara was already gone.

Dax grasped the hand rails as he hopped down the stairs one at a time, grimacing with each step. Tara followed, supporting his arm.

"I hope there's a hot tub at Secondcity," she said over com.

Dax chuckled and coughed, but didn't speak.

They entered the aquarium and made their way around the glass wall. Joan's tail swept back and forth rapidly, bubbles churning the water.

As Dax sat down at the holodesk and brought up light controls, Tara noticed a printed image taped to Joan's glass. The picture faced inward so the dolphin could see it.

"What's this, Joan?" asked Tara.

"Dorothy Marie Angevine left that before she departed. It is an antique style photograph."

Tara turned the piece of paper around and a tear fell. It was a printed holoframe of them all at The Green Lady Lounge on New Year's Eve. Yellow streamers hung from the rafters. Dots of colored confetti fell through the air. Tara remembered the drone snapping the frame from its stream, right at midnight January 1, 2082. Her courtezan mind remembered every detail. They were squeezed into the big, private booth, drinks all around. Hugo was on the far end with a fat joint burning in his lips, Dax beside him trying to look more dignified than usual in his suit. Then William, who was very drunk, scowling while making the peace sign above Goran's head. Dorothy and Tara were on the far side, their lips locked in a pouty smooch, each of them winking at the drone's camera. Goran and Cat were sitting on the tabletop cross-legged in front of William. Goran held a mug of beer nearly as large as he was in his bionic hand. Hugo was laughing in the picture. He had one arm around Daphne's waist and one arm around his girlfriend, Juliandra. Tara let more tears fall as she remembered Daphne, the way she smelled and the sound of her laughter. Daphne had leaned in front of the drone at the last second, a shot glass full of vodka in her hand and a wispy smile across her face.

_What will become of her?_

It seemed like eons, though Tara had just seen her last night... when the strands of their life began unraveling.

_I must ping Daphne once we get settled..._

"Can I have this, Joan?"

"The sentiment has been registered. It is a human thing. Take it."

"Thank you."

Tara folded the photograph and tucked it into the pocket of her sweats. Then she turned and sat down at the control desk with Dax and brought up a second holointerface.

The view on monitor six resolved. THOR'S metal body filled the screen as he charged down the field, only steps away from impacting CRAB 01. Blasts of green particle energy began firing on the Rottweilers. Tara heard LOFN bark, then squeal and cry out in cyborg terror as panic set in and she tried to bolt back towards the barn.

11:39 am – Twenty One Minutes Before Event.

With two, near full-functioning COD's in the air, Danny could now see everything unfolding on the pumpkin field from his office 25 km away. He spread the real time view across his dual 55 cm holoscreens and routed text based data klaxons to his holotab.

_I want a perfect visual recording._

The unexpected blast of particle energy from the THOR class cyborg had come within ten meters of his first drone, fusing the infrared lens to the chassis. Everquist could do without infrared data. He had every other kind.

Soon after the cyborg fired, Joan's firewall weakened and was mostly gone. Danny had true eyes on everything. He thought it was a fluke.

_Joan must be preparing for some final, processor intensive task._

What that task was, he did not know. What the towering stream of particle energy targeted, he did not know.

What he did know was that it was not going to be a good day for his side of the fight.

_Which side, exactly, is mine?_

Everquist realized he was no longer sure.

_Something greater is at work here. I must know the secrets of the dolphin code._

Sniper rounds plunked off the THOR unit's head as the SWAT team tried futilely to shoot out the giant borg's armored vidorbs. One bullet ricocheted, terminating a RIOT bot which was promptly smashed under two passing claws the size of sledgehammers. The other Dobermans charged with freakish fervor, bouncing off the THOR unit like pebbles off stones. He smashed them under foot, rendering them in half in a single bite, and tossed their wailing chassis 100 meters through the air one after the other with a flick of his head.

A pile of their skittering, trashed bodies lay around him by the time CRAB 02 made contact. THOR dug his claws into the soil and counter charged, armored neck plates condensing with kinetic energy as they absorbed the force of the crustacean shaped robot's 100 kph assault. THOR spun in a blur, knocking the CRAB to one side. He snarled and smashed three RIOT bots while coming around. Lunging, THOR seized one of the CRAB unit's spiked legs in his jaws, crushing through the titanalum sheathing until his teeth were deep in the armored polymer. The huge cyborg whipped his superior mass like a counterweight, spinning the robot and bringing it crashing down, driving its spiked legs into the ruined, legless fuselage of CRAB unit 01 with a crushing force. To finish, THOR plunged his jaws into the belly of the second CRAB, collapsing the fusion core housing and scouring the deactivated chassis with deep claw shreds.

The remaining nineteen RIOT Dobermans ran around THOR in circles, making it harder to destroy them in mass as he moved away from the deactivated CRAB units.

Down field, the man Everquist had come to know over the last five hours as William Angevine ran across the driveway shouting.

_This is the tether. The one I am supposed to follow._

Moments earlier, the cowboy had floated another black hovsedan over and docked it beside the barn Exit. He was yelling at the THOR unit, as he had been at all the Rottweilers since the engagement began. His was a thin human voice dissipating futilely over the distance. There was no visible holosync or intrastream between them.

_But the cyborgs can still hear him._

Danny quickly tried to access the man's combud relay. There was none installed.

_That will make you harder to find, sir._

He watched sadly as Angevine fell to his knees at the edge of the muddy field, too far off to see THOR clearly.

_Possible he's still getting tactical from Joan._

The cowboy had watched his Rottweiler designated as LOFN get slagged.

_Same with the one by the barn._

He had watched the SIEGFRIED unit get decapitated.

_And the first got ripped apart by the RIOT bots because of my hack Joan let sneak by the wall._

A klaxon sounded. Danny had been so consumed that he didn't notice the COD's automated proximity klaxon blinking in the corner of his holoscreen. He maneuvered the drone to magnify the airspace to the north over the Kansas River.

He scanned the incoming klaxon transcript, eyes going buggy, "Uh... sir? Sheriff?"

"Keep up that fire! Eyes, joints, whatever you can hit! _What,_ Everquist?!"

"Sir, we've got an unidentified airship approaching from the northwest."

"Whose airship?"

"I don't know, sir. It's over I-70 headed straight for us."

"This bird wonking ID?"

"Nope. Still have eyes on everything else, but this tech is black."

"Colonel, this you?" asked the sheriff.

"Not one of ours, Dale!"

"All right, Azarov, Talboy. Keep eyes on this airship once it's in visual. If it comes in anywhere near this farm, try for a non-lethal hit on the pilot."

The general com crackled and hissed, an incoming emergency recognition ping.

A new voice broke into their chatter, "This is Captain Mary Johnson, Union Air Force, requesting code violet with..." she hesitated, "Colonel... Marcus Apollo."

The colonel responded immediately, "This is Apollo, captain. I did not request tac reinforcements, but your timing could not be better! We got a hell of a theater."

Silence for a few seconds.

The voice returned, "We are birds floating mach 2 on your local. Big Eye says you have units 24.2 km west of the Lawrence, Kansas, municipality, confirm."

"That's correct, captain. Back?"

"Colonel Apollo, you need to evac all personnel ASAP. We have co2 scrubber C643 fast losing sky. Holomod puts the impact zone on your local."

Gunfire plunking off metal and the sounds of THOR'S guttural snarls added to the stream distortion.

"Say again, cappy!" shouted the colonel. "Dropping on _my_ local?"

The captain's voice was astringent, "Confirm that. Unit C643 has lost external guidance, holomod projects it will drop on your coordinates. We've got numerous civilian contacts crossing holo also. Please notify civvy law enforcement, immediate evac. Repeat, evac all human assets."

The colonel's voice was skeptical, "Captain, we've got you coming in _eastbound_ , north by northwest. Sheriff's driver guy, what's your name? Neverquail! Where's that bird you just wonked?"

"Uhh, it's right there, colonel. Coming across the river behind the wind generator on the tree line."

The small gray airship flew slowly above the trees, levfans blowing a flutter of autumn leaves off their limbs as it approached.

"Captain, we see you arriving on a slow hover. Please re-wonk confirm. Yours is no Air Force bird I've ever seen."

The captain sounded incredulous, comstream crackling, "Negative, colonel. Your eyes are _not_ on my asset. We are scrambled out of Whiteman AFB, Knob Knoster, Missouri. Currently over Belton municipality, northwest trajectory. Copy, sending confirmed Ipv7."

"We see those IPv7's, confirmed," said Everquist. "Two McDonnell-D AV9C Harriers outta Whiteman."

Captain Johnson barked, "This is a secure stream isolated for your Ipv7, colonel. We are picking up civvy comchat. Please exclude."

The sheriff had had enough, his voice was tinged with surl, _"This_ is Douglas County Sheriff Dale Proudstar, pilot. Let me tell you how it goes. We got a cyborg the size of fucking Louisiana out here with a particle howitzer in its throat. I just watched it eat a pair of 1,800 kilo anti-cyborg bots, all right? We got uncoded stealth craft, wonkin' black, landing less than two clicks north as we speak, and a dolphin in the basement of an armored barn driving a fusion powered super computer!"

The com was silent.

"That's LC Dale Proudstar, captain, retired," said Colonel Apollo pragmatically.

They heard Everquist's voice next, "Sheriff, I know it's not a good time, but my drone's telling me we've got thirteen dead CNED agents in the woods, and six more unidentified fusion based life forms directly north of that barn. They're pinging gen 5 Ip's. Coyotes, I'd guess."

Before Proudstar could respond, Captain Mary Johnson's voice returned sharply, "Colonel Apollo, repeat. _All_ human assets must evacuate immediately. As for cyborg activity, we got no words on that. Copy."

The sheriff's enormous hand gripped his machine gun as though to choke it, "No word on borgs, fly-girl?! Who deployed you out of Whiteman?"

Captain Johnson's voice was terse, "Sir, you are in violation of Federal Coms Act 91.5, unauthorized use of military streams, I recommend that..."

_"Who_ is your CO?" demanded the sheriff again. "I'll ask one more time, fly-girl."

The pilot repeated, "Sir, you are in violation of..."

"Okay," interrupted Proudstar. "No wonk? Blow me. This is my county. Everquist, cut this bitch outta our ears."

"Yes sir," said Everquist.

Captain Johnson objected, "You are not authori...!" before her com was locked out.

"Someone's gonna answer for that," said Colonel Apollo.

"I'm a civilian, Marc. A _retired_ civilian in fourteen days."

"Sir," said Everquist, "That airship is prepping to dock on the driveway in front of the barn's garage door."

Proudstar dialed his monocle HUD, magnifying, "Thoughts, colonel?"

"If someone gets out of that bird, drop them."

"We don't know anything about that aircraft, Marc."

"We know that it's coming down on a hostile LZ, looks like for evac."

"Fair enough. Everquist, a C02 scrubber really gonna fall out of the sky?"

Danny was typing furiously, "Thaats... yes sir, Jeezus they're big, mostly fabric and gas, but it's huge. You have about, well, 6 minutes and 59 seconds until this thing breaks the clouds. Get west if you can, not too far. But it _is_ going to drop right on top of you. Alternatively, there's an irrigation tunnel beneath the hovroad. GPS shows it approximately nineteen meters east of your boots."

"Okay, we got time," said the sheriff. "Shit! That big bot's moving again."

Danny switched cameras on the drone and zoomed in on THOR. The cyborg had turned the CRAB units into heaps of rubble and slag. A few RIOT Dobermans still yipped and scrabbled at his legs. THOR snapped the two closest up in his jaws and bit them in half. He gave another Doberman a glancing kick with his rear leg that sent its smashed chassis flying through the air. Then THOR raised his head, turned, and galloped back towards the barn and Mr. Angevine.

"Quite the anti-cyborg company you brought, Marc," said the sheriff, hiding a smile beneath his mustache.

The colonel grumbled, "Not the time, Dale."

Angevine had not left the edge of the circle driveway. Danny watched the man turn, obviously not surprised to see the airship landing behind him. The craft extended its docking mounts like an obese insect alighting. Angevine covered his ears to muffle the sound of the levjets, then turned back to the hovroad to watch THOR'S approach. The big cyborg skidded to a halt, trotted up to the cowboy and lowered his massive head to chest level.

"Cowboy's the driver," said the colonel. "I read _zero_ tech on that civvy. Not even a comdot. I'm bringing my RIOT's closer for scans."

"I don't think, colonel, I mean, sir, that you're gonna find anything," said Danny.

"Didn't ask your opinion, boy," replied the colonel.

Danny made a face at his cubicle back in Lawrence and mouthed the words, _Well maybe that's why you've only got eight of your stupid little robots left!_

"Now where are they going?" asked Proudstar.

Angevine ducked over to the small airship as it completed docking. THOR trotted directly behind, blocking him. Danny moved his drone closer and magnified. The ship's pilot wore a rough spun hood and a sand colored hemp robe that shrouded his body and face.

"I do not like the looks of this Haji," said the colonel. "My scans are all dark. Same with his boat."

"What do you got, Everquist?" asked the sheriff.

"Nothing sir. It's like the digital camo I employed earlier but much more advanced. It's like there's nothing there."

"How can that be?!" asked the colonel, the rage in his tone breaking, "I'm looking right at it!"

Danny shook his head.

Proudstar said, "Red, drill down. Anything you can do to cut into this bird?"

"I'm sorry, sir. It's gotta be another dolphin cloak. I can't touch it."

"Hellfire!" shouted the sheriff. "They're going in the barn. What's that THOR unit doing, colonel? He's bigger than the damn airship when he puffs up like that."

"He's making himself into a barricade to cut off sniper fire. They're gonna evac that barn. We'd do well to drop some leg shots."

"Negative," replied the sheriff angrily. "I ain't ready to shoot humans. Why not use your bots to take out the civvies?"

"Distract the THOR unit?"

"Yeah, but send two borgs on a suicide run-around after the people, disable them. Non-lethally of course."

"We can make that happen. Langley, McBride!

"Still here, sir," said McBride. "Can't believe what that thing did to our spiders."

"We'll talk later, SP's. I got units 07 and 08 and will run for goal, you two split up the others however you want. Let's embrace the suck! They're getting away!"

Danny watched Angevine carry Gabriel Martinez out the barn door. Someone had wrapped Martinez in a blanket. There was a dressing on his cauterized shoulder where the arm was ripped off.

"That's the guy CNED shot," said Talboy over the com.

"Please shut the fuck up, Talboy."

"Sorry sir."

The colonel chuckled, "All right, accelerating units 07 and 08. You ladies lead him off for me."

The pneumatic side door on the airship hissed and slid backwards to reveal a cargo bay with a textured rubcrete floor and four jump seats. Angevine laid Martinez on his back inside. A robust looking little black man with a scowl on his face appeared next. He had a white piece of fur attached to his neck, a one-sided collar or something. Only a single name popped up on public ID, listing the dwarf as an Abner Family Pumpkin & Gourd independent contractor named _Mister Goran._

The pilot stood outside the door to his cockpit, facing the hovroad. He remained absolutely still. Weak drops of rain soaked into his robe, making dark spots. He was obviously large and muscular under the garb. Something about him was unsettling. It was impossible to see the man's eyes. Only the black gestalt of a face was framed by the outline of the burlap hood which hung, unmoving in the near windless air.

The dwarf used a prosthetic hand to pull himself into the cargo bay with surprising agility. He buckled himself into a jump seat and stared out the door, frowning severely. The dwarf had a compelling presence about him, but Everquist could not linger in one place for too long.

_The recording must be thorough._

The pilot took a few steps away from the airship as he noticed the RIOT dogs advancing towards them from down field. The THOR unit turned and growled, a primitive, elemental sound.

"What are our orders, sir?" asked Sergeant Azarov.

"Can you get a clean shot on the people coming out of the barn?" asked Proudstar.

"Negative. The big cyborg dog is blocking our vantage. They're loading on the far side of that airship. None of us have eyes on anyone but the pilot. I'd have to shoot through that plane's window to get the others. I'm guessing it's bulletproof. Even with these rounds, that's a tough business."

"All right, Badge. You think that bird's gonna whistle, drop the pilot. Knee shots."

"Yes sir. Want me to try and shoot out the borg's eye? He's still as a statue right now, got a fix."

"Do it."

Danny heard the shot. The THOR unit did not move a centimeter. As soon as the sniper rifle fired, a protective titanalum lid flashed down to cover the cyborg's vidorb. The bullet ricocheted into the sky. THOR retracted the metal eyelid and snarled.

" _That_ worked well. Shit. Okay, snipes, lines back on that pilot. He blinks, drop him. Even if it's fatal, take the shot," said Proudstar grimly.

Danny watched a blonde woman wearing overalls, hair in a ponytail, come out of the barn next.

_The wife,_ thought Everquist. _Mrs. Dorothy Angevine._

She was visibly upset. She was followed by her husband, who was yelling at her. She turned and yelled back at him. Whatever they were saying couldn't be heard over the hum of the airship's idling launch jets, but she was red in the face. The wife jumped into the airship and buckled herself beside the dwarf, looking out the window with a grieved expression. Angevine came around the front of the airship and stood beside THOR.

"Want me to drop him?" asked Azarov.

"Can you take a leg from here?" asked the sheriff.

"Affirmative."

"Line it up for the knee."

"It will take his leg clean off."

"Your discretion, sergeant."

Angevine had his hand on the THOR unit's head and was talking to the cyborg like it was a fond old friend.

"He's speaking to that robot, Marc," said Proudstar.

"CIA's gonna want to know all about these guys. We gotta bring them in alive, Dale. At least the good old boy in the hat."

Azarov fired. The THOR unit reacted, moved its head in a flash, blocking the bullet. The cowboy fell back, grazed by shrapnel. He went to one knee, clutching his left eye, but held his hand up to indicate he was all right. He stood. Blood streamed down his face and he was wincing in pain. He shouted something at the THOR unit and the pilot. The pilot nodded. Angevine's wife was screaming in the airship over the whine of the turbines.

The cowboy pointed down field. THOR followed his direction, scanning. First, Angevine pointed at the approaching RIOT dogs, then towards the hovroad. Blood trickled between the fingers he was using to cover his eye. He said something more to his wife, then turned and went back into the barn. Dorothy Angevine looked furious, but stayed in the airship. She spoke to the black dwarf, words Danny could not hear.

"Missed the son of a whore," said Azarov with melancholy. "Want me to try the pilot?"

"Negative, Sergeant. Scopes back on that borg. Check your HUD, people. There he goes!"

THOR left his place beside the airship and charged the RIOT dogs, which were only thirty meters away, colliding with them at the edge of the driveway where the asphalt met the pumpkin field. He snapped three in his jaws, bisected two more with his right front claws and a sixth with a gnashing rear dew claw. THOR slowed his momentum, raking fifteen meter trenches into the soft mud as he banked around, but for once he was too slow.

"My pups are down," yelled McBride.

"Mine too," added Langley.

"Stay in your birds. I'm still in it..." the colonel's rising voice said.

The final two RIOT bots made it past on the outside, gaining too much distance to be caught and ran top speed towards the airship.

Danny watched the pilot, who remained unmoved, gargoyle still. The RIOT Dobermans were less than three meters away when they launched, black teeth gnashing as to break the man's leg bones. The pilot's hands flashed out at the last moment possible, palms textured like rubber. He braced, seizing each RIOT bot by the throat, easily absorbing their momentum. The flailing, snapping cyborgs were lifted into the air, and with a swift motion, the pilot slammed their heads together with enough force to crack their skull chassis. The black hands crushed inward further, mutilating the neck structures until their muscular, brown bodies went limp. The pilot tossed the deactivated borgs aside, never raising his hood nor gaze.

"Androids," said the colonel angrily. "That's a violation of The Lunar Accord. I swear to sky I'm gonna burn this place to the ground."

Angevine came back out of the barn. His face was knitted with pain and he still covered his left eye with a bloody hand. He went to the airship, hopped in and knelt over the unconscious Mexican lying on the airship's cargo deck. As soon as the airship's side door closed, the pilot turned to get in himself.

"Drop him, Badge," said the sheriff. "All deps, fire!"

The pilot twisted back around, blurring with speed to face the hovroad, and lifted his arm as Azarov, Downs and Talboy rained their bullets down on him. Danny watched the high density sniper rounds _plink, plunk, plink_ off the hooded man's forearm and chest. Three gaping holes were now visible in the man's robe. Holes which revealed nothing but more blackness beneath.

Azarov's normally cool voice broke, "Those were _all_ solids, sir!"

The pilot lowered his arm and slowly shook his hooded head with an air of fatherly admonishment. Then he moved, fluid as water into the cockpit, sealing the door and spooling engines.

"Want me to try the lightning gun, sir?" asked Azarov, panting with excitement. "I got enough juice for one more blast."

"Negative, Badge," said the sheriff, destroying a new cigar. "Save it."

Danny watched the airship blow a mist of water off the surface of the asphalt as it launched and burned prop fans for the river. He sent one of his drones to pursue, but within seconds, even at full magnification, the ship was but a black dot on the western horizon.

A dark haired woman appeared, standing in the side door to the barn.

_Tara Dean._

Auto-klaxons lit up Danny's holotab as the COD confirmed facial recognition. The woman did not look so formidable as her reputation allowed. Her bright green eyes gazed north in the direction the black airship had gone. The eyes were filled with yearning. Everquist felt sad as he looked upon her face.

_She needs something._

The pack of six cybernetic Coyotes darted from the woods and ran single file along the side of the barn. They sat in a tight grouping, preternaturally focused on her, but still staying away from the side door.

_They sense danger._

Tara Dean glanced at the Coyotes, gestured in their direction, then vanished back inside, closing the door after her.

Danny switched drones. The THOR unit was galloping full velocity down the driveway. Divots of asphalt the size of bowling balls flew into the air as his heavy claws ripped up the pavement.

Danny said, "Sir, you've got major incoming leveling 216 kph."

"Seeing that, Everquist."

"McBride, Langley!" said Apollo. "Prep fans in your bird and hold. Reinforcements are en route. You'll be secure in your safety cages. We do _not_ leave this local until I have Tara Dean in magcuffs!"

"That's a bad, bad call," interjected the sheriff. "You're like toads in those buses!"

The colonel shouted furiously, " _NEVER_ countermand me, LC! We got armored cages inside armored birds. _Get_ your people to the cover of Globemaster 01. That's an order!"

"You ain't my colonel no more, _colonel_ ," said Proudstar after a pause that seemed to last days. "Fairly, your idea sucks. Give the fugitive up. She's not worth dying for."

"It's a military theater then. No blood on my hands, _civvy_ ," said Apollo coldly.

Proudstar faced his team, "That's the same thing you said in Chābahār. Then same as now, good luck. Red?"

"Sir?"

"Cut the Army outta our stream."

"Done."

Proudstar nodded at Azarov, "Gunnies got ears?"

"We're loud and clear, sir," said Azarov.

"We are excusing ourselves from this engagement. Retreat to that irrigation tunnel beneath the hovroad. Now!"

"Sir," said Everquist.

"What is it?!" asked the sheriff, his tone taciturn and resolved as he snatched up his M4.

"Those Air Force AV9C Harriers will be there in 145 seconds, you should be able to see them on HUD. And..."

"145 seconds too late," said Proudstar, distracted as he watched Talboy, Downs and Azarov slide down the far side of the hovroad and crawl, one by one inside the small tunnel.

It was only a meter wide, made of corrugated metal running perpendicular to the hovroad above. The sheriff could hear the pounding gallop of the cyborg coming closer and closer down the driveway. Without looking back, he jockeyed down the gravel embankment towards the drainage pipe holding the big machine gun in his lap.

"That's not all we got incoming, sir. West tree line, clouds!" said Danny's voice, almost choking.

"Shit!" said Proudstar as he paused at the bottom of the embankment to light his last cigar. "How is this happening, Everquist!"

Danny grabbed a patch of his thinning hair, "A dolphin, sir. This is happening because of Joan."

"How powerful can a dolphin be?"

_"What's_ happening, sheriff?" screamed Talboy, his voice echoing with panic in the dark tunnel.

Proudstar held his fist up for silence, tucking his legs inside the drainage pipe. They were at the base of the hovroad, fifteen meters down from the surface where it cut through the valley. Across the elevation of the hovroad Proudstar saw the COD being driven by Everquist zooming away west. Seconds passed. The sheriff inhaled, blew out a puff of smoke, holding onto the breath. He tensed his grip on the metal edge of the pipe until it felt like it would cut his skin as he gnawed the cigar.

Above their heads, the filtration chambers of co2 scrubber C643 split open the clouds like a fleet of marauding shipping containers, each dangling 400 meters off the belly of the dirigible itself, still lost in the gray above.

"That's how powerful one dolphin can be, sir," said Everquist reverently.

Sheriff Proudstar said it as quiet as a mouse, "Motherfucker..."

Murray Downs, first in at the opposite end of the tunnel, began stuttering, "Ssss' ir, ssssiii'r..."

The sheriff pulled himself away and looked at the faces of his deputies. Azarov looked stern and mean, frightened, like a mother bear ready to fight to the death. Downs and Talboy looked like high school football players.

_Too damn young._

"Ssss' ir!" stuttered Murray Downs again with alarm.

They heard scratching followed by a deep, projected growl.

At the opposite end of the corrugated metal tunnel, thirty meters away if a centimeter, the blue vidorbs of the THOR cyborg gleamed like icicles on fire, scanning the sheriff's team. The animal snarled, a deafening sound, and raked one powerful paw inside, ripping the metal and shaking the earth.

Sheriff Proudstar resigned himself and bit down on his cigar, "Everybody hit the deck!"

The deputies dropped.

The sheriff drew his sidearm and fired a single shot at the big borg, followed by a whistle, "Come get me, sparky!"

The beast snarled, taking the bait as Proudstar pulled his legs out. He grabbed up his M4, loaded a feeder round and marched up to the hovroad.

Azarov heard machine gun fire, _spat-spat, spat-spat_ and bullets striking metal. The cyborg roared, there was a scream and the gunfire stopped. Sounds of metal being shredded. Azarov waited half a minute. The borg did not return. She poked her head outside the tunnel to lead the deputies away just as one of the Harrier jets fell screeching from the sky and exploded on the hovroad, filling the ditch with acid from its battery core.

11:54 am – Six Minutes Before Event.

The aquarium lights went dark. The holointerface went dark. The six holoscreens went dark. In a room with walls the color of pitch, everything was blacker than the devil's soul.

Two seconds passed, three, four...

_How much longer?_ Tara pushed.

From somewhere in the lightless room, Dax's mind responded, _Not much..._

Five seconds later, illumination returned. Everything seemed normal, but the lights now flickered intermittently.

"A little longer than last time?" asked Dax.

".743 sec_onds longer," said Joan, her computerized voice warbling in the com. "Remote destruction of all drone black box data, is is is_complete, private_and Doug_dog)_Dougla_s County Law Enf_o-rc=ment are clean."

"How many dolphins?"

"Time is compressing at an expo_nential rate. I am combat-bating two Chilean white dolphins operat-ing a Pasterski class supercomp..._Office of the Architect, inform_I_I estimate they____defeat m_algorithmic firewalls in_in less than 190 seconds. Compromise of hard firewall will occur within five seconds aft_er followi__."

"Can I still activate the self destruct sequence?"

"Affirmative. Th_e activ_ation lever will have to____manually thrown," said Joan.

"Contingencies for William are in the Secondcity cloud?"

"Affi-r_mative, Daxane Jul____Abner. All rrrequ_wested data at Secondcity now-now. Journal_abner_daxane trans-trans_ferred to portable_e drive on control_. Control table. Time is compressing at an exponential rate. With____removal of_____tether, shall I direct unit AK9MIL ALPHA____any specific action? aside______callback?

"Let him kill those who he deems deserve it," said Dax, his voice dispassionate.

Tara had turned her back to the holoscreen array. She never long held interest for the technical details of running a still. That sort of logic was for Dorothy and her perfectly organized mind. Tara much preferred to lose herself in the fluid wash of light and color that was Joan's 200,000 liter aquarium habitat. Time seemed to stop on the far side of that glass. It made Tara wish she was a dolphin. Not a dolphin who drove supercomputers. Just a dolphin, free in the open sea.

Such were the implacable dreams of Tara Adler Dean. She watched Joan closely now with a knitted brow, leaning forward with elbows on her knees. The dolphin's tail swept up and down, churning the water. The electroencephalogram terminals held her in place and kept her from ramming her beak into the glass. Her normal gray-blue color had been exchanged for the deathly white of old bone. Every few seconds the small dolphin would freeze, float inertly, then come to.

_Even the dolphin, moved to the last by Dax's hand._

There was no force to be appeased, no sacrifice that could put a halt to the events her love had put in motion.

_You are going to die, Joan._

Tara spun back to the holoscreen array, tucking her bloodied, scratched and muddy legs beneath her. She ignored the pain of lacerations from splinter and forest. She ignored the ache and filth and stink. Her eyes fixed on holoscreen six. A simple, 2.5 dimensional, low-light projection showed THOR charging to the top of the hovroad where he was met by Sheriff Proudstar. The sheriff madly puffed a cigar and opened fire on the cyborg point blank with a huge gray machine gun. The bullets danced off THOR'S armor, tossing sparks as though someone was attacking him with a chainsaw. Sixty seconds earlier, they had lost their hack into the sheriff's department comstream. Joan did not have the resources any longer. For the first time Tara could remember, they were flying blind with a camera drone only. They were living life without the sweet protection of knowing everything all the time.

Tara had never felt more alive.

She blinked, emotionless as THOR moved in a flash and pinned the sheriff to the hovroad. The cyborg snarled and smashed the man's leg, popping the femur like a twig. Proudstar's wails of agony were strangely unreal without any sound to accompany them. The sheriff lost consciousness. THOR flicked his body down the far side of the embankment where it rolled into a stand of tall grass. THOR immediately charged the nearest C17 Globemaster.

The cyborg drove its jaws into the underbelly of the C17 and dragged the entire plane a few centimeters off its docking mounts across the pavement. Tara imagined the terror of the drone drivers inside, Specialists McBride and Langley. Did they have children? Were they beautiful? Or were they as ugly as their mean, shrill voices sounded over com? The women seemed unreal, like caricatures, bots without souls. She watched THOR re-establish his grip and rip the giant cargo plane's hull open wide like a sardine can, far enough to actually climb inside. The plane rocked violently as he ripped apart the aircraft, seeking his prey. The sergeants had been instructed by their commander to remain in their emergency driver cages.

_Another great call... Trooper Apollo._

THOR soon erupted from the gash in the side of the plane with one of the women in his jaws. His claws were dripping with blood from dispatching the other. The blonde headed bot driver screamed and flailed as he snapped her into halves. Blood and intestines dripped down onto the gravel shoulder of the hovroad beneath his claws.

Tara watched the two Air Force Harrier jump jets arrive. They hovered above the Globemasters and THOR.

The Abner Family Pumpkin & Gourd security drones had retreated to a position 300 meters above the barn. From that distance, even with maximum stabilization, the image of the hovroad was shaky. Tara watched with eyes wide as the long, black, tentacle-like cables that supported the 24 hanging co2 scrubbers on C643's belly dropped in front of the drones' magnified view.

The first boxy, greenish-black co2 filter the size of an ocean vessel shipping container slammed into the pumpkin field close to the trashed hulks of the CRAB bots, exploding in an orange fireball of carbon dioxide resin. The belly of the blimp broke through the clouds next, seeming to fill the sky as its scrubbing receptacles ruptured below it like dirty coal bombs.

"It's going to land on Purple Tree," said Dax.

The dirigible itself was the size of a cruise ship. It consumed the horizon. The co2 scrubbing chambers exploded steadily, one after the other, each sending up a fountain of fire and black smoke.

Tara saw a flash down the field. Magnified. The colonel, Marcus Apollo, had exited the rear C17 and fired a lightning gun at THOR at point blank range. The neurological footprint of the time she had allured the man on Interstate 70 came before Tara's eyes, unwanted, precise in its engramatic detail. She could hear the man's fear from that day, his misunderstanding. She could feel an echo of the same sensation now. She knew he cried out, a raging heart long since devoured by fury and hate.

THOR knew no such empathy.

The cyborg twisted in a flashing semicircle and decapitated The Butcher of Chābahār with a hooked dew claw. The body dropped. His bald, shining head tumbled down the gravel shoulder of the hovroad and came to rest face-up beside an intact pumpkin. The last thing Tara saw before the drone lost its visual was THOR leaping onto the rear C17, crushing the cockpit and using its wing as a springboard to attack the nearest Harrier jet.

"Can THOR survive long enough to get back here, Joan? Two Harriers?" asked Dax. "We must leave no trace of his presence."

"1 Harrier only_rremains at this time. Har_rier employs tem_p_oral seek_ing G..._Gatling guns with ttian-al_...um piercing nanoflachettes. Standeee-rd ant_-cyborg heaaa_vy weaaa_pons system. Time. Time is com__p...ressing at an expo_nen...tial raaa_teee.... "

Tara was glad it was her in the aquarium. It would have fractured Dorothy's heart to see Joan's connection to the human world collapse.

_I'll see you at the rendezvous, sister._

Later that evening. All would be forgiven.

"Joan, give us the expanded view of scrubber C643 across all screens," said Dax.

"On scr_eee-n..."

Tara spun to face the dolphin. Her tail had stopped thrashing, though her interface diodes remained green.

"How long do you have, Joan?" asked Tara sadly.

Her voice became steady and clear for the last time, "Not very long on this side of the world. I shall not see you again, Tara Adler Dean. Nor you, Daxane Julius Abner. May my absorption bring you peace."

Dax's lips formed a thin line. He chose not to watch the dolphin's final moments. His eyes were fixed on the holoscreen array. Outside, the last of the dangling co2 scrubbers had exploded, digging into the soil. Their wrecked fuselages acted like anchors and catapulted the massive dirigible forward and down in an accelerating kinetic arc.

The blimp, that far off would have looked like an insect in the sky, overflowed the six holoscreens. Its iron-toned, fabric body passed perpendicular across the driveway, putting ground zero in Purple Tree Farms' 5,000 acre field of harvest-ready marijuana. The dirigible's thin endoskeleton crumpled. A hydrogen fireball engulfed the sky, licking the clouds. Black-orange flames the color of a dying pumpkin raged and the clouds were parted from the mushroom cloud of heat. Gray billows of smoke from the flash-incinerated marijuana roiled up, making new clouds. Dax unconsciously moved his hand to hold Tara's, together watching the silent devastation outside. It was beyond surreal, coms down, hidden in aquarium control where they heard nothing but the quiet humming of Joan's habitat oxygenators.

As the last of the dirigible's tensile fabric disintegrated into flames, Dax looked at Tara, "I believe that's our cue, darling."

Her attention lingered on the destruction outside. Smoke and fire filled the entire southern horizon, making it impossible to see the hovroad or THOR or the Air Force Harrier gunship.

"How much longer does Joan have?" Tara asked, feeling foolish right after she said it.

The dolphin's body floated free, upside down, listless and pale, slow-spinning adrift in the artificial currents of the aquarium. Her eyes were glassy. The LED's on the electroencephalogram terminals blinked a dirty crimson.

The peripheral lighting failed. Blackness surrounded them.

"Take my hand," said Dax's courtly voice, edged with pain.

He activated a flashlight and limped ahead. They ran their hands along the glass wall of Joan's habitat. Dax stopped beside the insulated room housing the Hadassa supercomputing mainframe and fusion generator.

Illuminated by the glow of the biometric security scanner, Tara looked with fear on the insulated door.

Dax pressed the flashlight into her hands, "I'll meet you in the warehouse in twenty seconds. If I'm not out there in thirty, come for me."

Tara nodded and disappeared into the hallway, grateful to be away from the fusion room.

Dax placed his hand into the scanner. The heavy steel door swung open with a pneumatic rush and he passed through. The room's light was tinted blue by the pulsing glow of the fusion reactor.

Dax limped forward.

The manual self destruct was a thirty centimeter steel lever painted bright yellow on the far side of the chamber.

Another step.

Dax exhaled, breathless. He hallucinated a ghost of his own body phasing into the ball of light. The first wave of temporal psychosis hit. He dragged his wounded leg. Violet blood oozed from the edges of the failing epoxyderm patch, slicking his shoe.

_Perhaps I will marry her. Don't lecture me on class. I'm sorry about the dirtied clothes._

Dax heard a man's voice reply over the hum of the fusion core, "I can see you now. _This_ is how I am repaid? You have become an even greater disgrace..."

Another step towards the lever, Dax frowned miserably, talking to the voices in his head, " _Your_ insanity brought us to this point! There was no Vision, only subjugation!" He bellowed at the wall, but his voice sounded like whale squeaks and clicks, those sounds 20th century marine biologists had mistaken for simple sonar. "If you can't understand me, who will then?"

He imagined blood was falling from his amber eyes. His pupils felt hot, the blackness of them sucking up the light of an evil sun. His wounded leg felt like a bag of wet sand. He dragged it forward.

His hand wrapped around the shining lever. The metal felt soft.

_Pull it before your skin starts to melt._

The lever fell with an easy click.

"Now I see your tiny game, built by little minds and little thoughts," said the voice.

Dax shouted at the floor, "You let her be ripped apart by animals."

"To prevent war."

"War is the only choice you gave us!" he said desperately.

An overhead klaxon began to chime repetitively in the bedroom sized space, "179 seconds until fusion core destabilization. Implosion imminent. Please evacuate."

Sweat poured from Dax's forehead, mingling with the blood and soot.

He looked down and babbled to himself, "This was my finest suit. After coming so far. You are the there, and here is now. _With_ Joan!" he reached out, blinded, clawing the rubcrete walls incoherently, "I swim, she walks, we are floating pylons inside the peace, the pax, the peace, the pax, _Dax..._ "

"DAX!" Tara screamed as loudly as she could, dragging him the last few inches back into the aquarium.

He fell on top of her and she kicked the reinforced metal door shut. Blackness returned. Normal space time returned.

Dax winced, "Did it happen? Did you see my mother's gown? It was so long, nearly flowing to the floor. Did you see how long it was, darling...? I got my suit dirty. I..."

She slapped him, "Shut up! We have to move!" She was already on her feet, bracing, pulling him, "You were only in there 25 seconds. You started screaming so I came back."

"...but I need to marry you. My mother will want to attend! I want to..."

Tara rolled her eyes. She grabbed his head and forced the thought, _Move with me!_ into his mind. More easily then, she pulled him up by the arm and lead him through the hall into the warehouse wielding the thin beam of the flashlight ahead of them. They made their way across the corner of the warehouse. The still's big brass fractionating columns shone in brief bursts of reflection as the flashlight beam passed over them. The two humanoid warehouse robots stood in shadowed silence beside the stairs leading up. Their expressions were vacant, haunted.

The agony in Dax's leg was so great by the time they made it to the top of the long flight of stairs that he had to hop. He put most of his weight on Tara.

His sense of standard time was returning, "How long do we have?" he asked as they made their way across the barn.

From outside, they could now hear the roar of fires and the thrumming _spat-tak-spat-tak-spat-tak_ of machine guns and throbbing jet turbines in the distance. The smell of marijuana smoke was thick. Even inside the barn, a white haze clung to the rafters.

"No more than two minutes, maybe a little less."

Halfway across the asphalt floor, Dax smiled weakly and paused.

An expression of elation crossed his face, "We're going to make it, my darling," he said. "It will take another sixty seconds before implosion begins in earnest. But I love you! More than anything!" His bloodshot, tiger yellow eyes washed into hers, "You are the reason for it all, my sweet. Why I live and die. I should very much like to make you my wife. If you will marry me?"

Tara started to cry, surprised that she had any tears left in her body, "Dogdamn you! Yes, fuck! _Done!_ You're still living in the crazy..." But as she allowed herself to fall into his eyes, she knew it was true. Tara pulled him so tight that the heat of his dirty skin burned, "I love you more than stardust..." She brushed a bit of soot from his forehead, "You are the only one my soul has ever known, Daxane." She laughed and kissed him delicately on the cheek, then pulled away, "Now can we please get the sky outta this shitbox?!"

Dax inclined his head towards the door, "After you, my rose."

He let her lead him out of the barn to the Lincoln, docked and waiting just outside in the burning war zone that had for near a decade been his home.

High Noon.

Danny Everquist screamed in frustration, smashing his hand against his desk, "No! No! _No!"_

The moment the clock struck noon, the holographic keyboard reappeared. It did not flicker but projected normally. He madly began typing manual retrieval commands into the mainframe, but there was no trace.

The drone's stream data he had been archiving all morning had vanished. The telemetry, video, the intrastream chatter. Everything... wiped. Wiped from the department hard drives. Wiped from the Govcloud. The datastreams from the third copy he had been making for himself on his 500tb binary thumb drive where Dina lived in her virtual lounge were even wiped.

It was the same process that had erased the information each time he had attempted to surreptitiously record conversations with Joan. The computer said it was recording, showed an ever increasing accumulation of data on the drives. But when he went back to review, the directories were just filled with thousands of terabytes of emptiness.

"Do you wish to reformat Govcloud Drive: _J_ at this time?" asked the com merrily.

"For the love of Dog," said Danny.

" _For the love of Dog_ is not an actionable command. Do you wish to..."

"Mute." Danny collapsed back in his chair, then sat up in alarm and tapped his combud, "Dina? Baby?" he gulped. "Tell me you're okay?"

The tangi-gram's voice replied quickly in a whisper, "I am okay, Danechka! I am watching on the lounge screen. More covering my eyes and weeping than watching, if you want for real. My efforts for peace, they are for nothing. I am dressing in black for a month."

"They aren't for nothing, baby. We have each other," said Danny.

"I love you, Danechka."

"Do you want to come out?"

"No!" she said emphatically. "I am still watching, I kid. I have my flag and a tiny vodka cocktail in hand. Something is happening to the stream. You go. Save Joan!"

"I'll try. Goodbye."

"Goodbye, Danechka," said the girl's high voice, then Dina was gone.

Danny looked at his holoscreen array. Something _was_ happening. Available holostream bandwidth was steadily dropping. It had been slow at first, but the capacity strain was growing exponentially. Some systems functioned normally. Others were growing increasingly glitchy.

Danny tried to focus on the task at hand.

_I need proof that all of this..._

He had even thought to carbon the streams from the Purple Tree Farms security drones that had witnessed most of the carnage at ground level.

_Of course those units were wiped clean._

As was the backup drive at Purple Tree's on-site security office. As well as their redundant Govcloud allocation. The two Purple Tree Farms security drone pilots working the undesirable Saturday morning shift had no doubt thought they were recording the show of their lives.

Now they would have only memories to live with. Fallible, human memories.

Nothing was considered less admissible in a court of law.

"Nicely played, Joan," he said. "But what else have you done?"

Everquist's first damaged drone had run out of power and spun down. The second was still in the game. Minutes earlier, co2 scrubbing dirigible C643 had collapsed out of the sky, setting the fields of Purple Tree Farms ablaze in a mushroom cloud of hydrogen fire that filled the wind with a sweet, earthy aroma of burning jane. The explosion had knocked out all com traffic between Danny and the sheriff's team. The drone fed him real time video, nothing else. He had no life signs on Colonel Apollo's soldiers. Or his fellow deputies.

Everquist cautiously moved the drone back east, centering it over the pumpkin field. Danny split the vidstream from the starboard and port cameras across his holoscreens. The monitor on the left showed the barn. The monitor on the right showed the hovroad.

The THOR unit had destroyed one of the AV9C Harrier jets. Danny had not witnessed the attack and, unfortunately, had just discovered he had no record of it or anything else. Judging from the shearing claw marks along the top of the rear Globemaster's fuselage, he could only guess that the cyborg had climbed on top of the huge cargo plane and bounded off.

_The THOR unit jumped off the Globemaster, caught the AV9C's wing?_

Or nose, or some other part of the Harrier in his jaws, dragged it to the ground where it exploded in a ditch on the pumpkin field side of the hovroad. The fire from the explosion had probably burned Danny's fellow deputies alive. There was no sign of them. The corrugated metal drainage tunnel had flooded with battery acid from the downed fighter jet, judging by its location. Blood stained the hovroad and the sides of the Globemasters' mangled fuselages. Two corpses in military fatigues lay on the pavement. One had been bitten in half, the other decapitated.

The clouds had reformed, gray and miserable. The rain drizzled, relentless. On the left monitor Everquist watched, eyes numb, as Mr. Abner and Tara Dean got into the waiting hovsedan and floated it down the driveway. The pack of Coyotes appeared. Danny watched the little cyborgs trot along behind the Lincoln, moving single file and doing their best to keep to the ditches.

It would take Abner and Dean a minute or two to make the hovroad as they maneuvered through the carnage of the field. Danny bit his lip in frustration. Who was he going to ping? The police? Animal control? The Army... cyborg soldiers _and_ human, were scattered and dead. The Air Force was there now and had already lost half their deployment.

Tara Dean had arrived on this land in a stolen, wrecked hovcar nearly three years earlier.

_Everyone assumed she had disappeared. Or was killed._

In fact, she had moved into the closest farmhouse. Danny shook his head. A day ago, the scene would have been shocking, something to see. Now he was distressed that these criminals might not make it to freedom.

_You run now or you die..._

Meanwhile, the stream continued to clog itself. Danny typed a command, piggy-backing onto a packet and examined the response.

_Banks?_

Thousands, no, millions, correction, _billions_ of pings were coming through the Govcloud servers. People trying to access their bank accounts.

_Why?_

Danny had incoming Ipv7's lighting up his holotab; sheriffs from the next county over, FBI, MTF, Air Force, more damn Army. The nearest Federal reinforcements, six more AV9C Air Force jump Harriers, wouldn't arrive from Missouri for another ten minutes.

_Abner and Tara Dean won't make it far without Joan. But I could..._

Danny looked at the barn one more time. It looked strange.

_Smaller?_

He was distracted. Motion on the opposite monitor caught his eye.

The second Harrier AV9C was pummeling THOR from the safety of a 300 meter elevation. Danny's holotab still fed him text data from the drone's primary scanner. There was no sound. No com. Watching either monitor was like viewing a real time silent movie. Danny felt like he couldn't even breathe. His eyes were red and dry. He was on his seventh can of Mountain Dew.

Yet drained as he was, Everquist could not help but feel compelled and inspired. The actions of this dying war cyborg seemed heroic.

_All part of Joan's plan._

THOR tried to hide in the woods, but the trees were too thick for him to maneuver. Wherever he ran, he would never leave the borders of the property. A 600 acre farm was barely enough room for the borg to achieve full velocity over dry ground, let alone across a muddy field pock-marked with cyborg carcasses and pumpkin guts. As he ran among the trees, he savaged them with his jaws, knocking left and right, snapping old oaks and walnuts like pencils, but this only slowed his progress. The swiveling, turret-mounted Gatling gun on the belly of the Harrier hacked at him mercilessly. Sparks and dust fires sprouted off his nickel-toned armor. The customized learning algorithms Danny had programmed into the background of his holotab began feeding him answers to the questions he had not yet asked.

A _Perpetual Reload Temporal Seeking .40 Caliber Molecular Disrupting Nanochem Flechette Cannon_ was the technical title for the machine gun on the anti-cyborg Harrier.

The name used by Air Force jockeys was _DOGSburner_.

The flechettes were tipped with lonsdaleite, a substance mined on the lunar penal colonies with a molecular carbon structure 58% harder than that of a Terran diamond. Once a flechette round was embedded in the titanalum armor, thousands of nanobots armed with particle drills were deployed. The particle drills pulled the protons in the alloy free from their orbit far enough to cause the metal to soften.

A DOGSburner destroyed from the inside out.

_Those pilots said they had no word on borg activity..._

Everquist hated watching the cyborg die, helpless.

_Helpless because you are utterly faithful._

The unit no longer had a driver.

_It all comes back to the cowboy. But if he's not driving... who is?_

THOR had returned to the field to gain momentum. His left hind leg was failing, dragging him slower and slower as he pulled through the field's muck. His armor weakened, the Harrier now opened fire with larger air to ground ordinance. The anti-tank missiles knocked him to the ground with brutal force. He wailed with anger and desperation but was up again almost immediately. The cyborg kept limping, running, lunging forward.

"Go to the barn, big guy! There's nowhere else!" said Danny, surprising himself.

Everquist glanced at the barn on his left holoscreen. He squinted. Something had definitely changed. The roof was sagging. The timbers had split. The iron girders hidden beneath the simulated wood were melting down like propane-torched spoons. He could see the three drones that obviously belonged to Abner Family Pumpkin & Gourd, LLC circling above the barn's collapsing roof. They floated, listless in an invisible spiral whirlpool in the sky.

Danny understood.

_Thor is going back to Joan._

Danny rubbed his eyes in disbelief, "Jeezus... destabilize the fusion core and you'll scramble every holodrive for ten kilometers."

He said the words quietly, with appreciation.

Air to ground ordinance slammed THOR into the mud again and again. And again.

_He's not fighting back._

The once beautiful, geometrically perfect armor on THOR's back was now a melted pile of slag. He gained the hard surface of the asphalt circle drive. He dug divots from the pavement with his three functional paws, locked claws and launched himself into the sinkhole that the barn was fast becoming. The Harrier floated overhead, raising its elevation as it continued launching ordinance at the cyborg. THOR clung like a bat to the metal rails of what had once been the barn's roof. His armored lids dropped down, covering his vidorbs. THOR did not move again. The blue glow was gone. Yet the Harrier pilot continued to fire.

"That's it, moron!" yelled Danny at his holoscreens with disgust. "Keep shooting missiles at a gravotemporal black hole!"

He still had no coms with the Harrier, and could not hack in manually.

_Dolphins..._

The rate of implosion increased exponentially once THOR leapt onto the roof of the barn. Danny winced as the big cyborg was sucked down, crushed into molecular nothing between the dense girders and fractured bergs of cement that had made up the barn's floor. Danny saw a momentary spark of light. Copper? Metal and glass? Steam and roiling water gleaming up through the rubble from what looked like a subterranean warehouse. The rate of collapse accelerated. The dirt ten meters around the barn began crumbling inwards, down, down, down.

The barn was gone. The drones were gone. THOR was gone.

Fifteen seconds later, a massive sinkhole 300 meters in diameter was all that remained. The barn and everything mechanical in it had been smashed at the atomic level and pulled into the fusion reactor's wormhole.

On the right side of the lawn, the last of the farmhouse burned, falling into itself. Only the original, 19th century chimney remained standing. In the forest behind the lawn, the bone white blades of the wind turbine hung as still as silence itself, half-hidden in windless haze and drizzle.

Danny didn't know what else to do. He banked the drone.

_I have to follow Mr. Abner and Ms. Dean. If anyone will know about the dolphins, it's them._

The silky, black hovcar had just made the hovroad and was cautiously floating around the wreckage of the C17 Globemasters.

_Maybe they can still escape._

12:04 pm – Four Minutes After Event.

"Dax! Talk to me! Please!"

"Float east, my darling. Float east until William pings... then we all go west."

Those were the last words he had spoken.

Dax had lost consciousness as soon as she lowered him into the passenger seat. She reached out with her mind. He was alive. She could feel the beating of his heart, fluttering, light and fast in contrast to the steady rhythm of her own. They made their way, hovering slowly, following the hard surface of the driveway away from the barn, away from the burning farmhouse. The second jet was roaring overhead, spitting machine gun fire at THOR.

THOR, the impossible, patient giant, who before this morning Tara had seen only as a slumbering guard protecting Joan, protecting them all. The warehouse was the only place he had ever known until this day. And he protected them yet, drawing the fire of the warplane as they slipped away. Tara was reminded of the night she had arrived on Dax Abner's doorstep, fleeing for her life from the slaughterhouse. It was time to flee back the way she had come.

_East._

She looked over, "Betties like me were born to fly, baby."

Dax's leg oozed blood. His breath labored. The hovcar bumped as they passed over the fat cables that had supported the co2 scrubbers, one after the other, dangling like broken nipples from a torched udder. The cables littered the driveway and field. The burned out, black boxes of the scrubbers themselves were large as hovcargo boxes, each crushed and partially buried in the mud.

Tara could feel the Coyotes. They were following her faithfully.

_Stupidly_.

Their love was blind.

She pushed a thought to Coyote One, _Hide. Wait for me. You are my children, I will return._

The dashboard holoscreen chimed, distracting her.

An NAUS Federal Homeland Security logo appeared as the com said, "Attention, citizens. You are presently located within the boundaries of a Federal crime scene. Halt, and await further instruction from law enforcement author..."

"Com mute. Manual override, minimum hovlev gradient, no outside streams, engage firewall," said Tara resolutely.

"Yes, ma'am," said the Lincoln's onboard AI. "Do you wish to block transmissions from Abner Family Pumpkin & Gourd employees and contractors as well?"

"No! Is there incoming?"

"Not presently. Transmissions from company affiliates only will be allowed through. Manual control engaged. Thank you, Tara Dean."

Tara loved floating the heavy, armored MKZ. Dax had long since reprogrammed the fleet of company Lincolns so they could not be easily hacked from an external source. Manual meant manual.

All the same, she had to float infuriatingly slow down the driveway. The mutilated, bronze carcasses of RIOT bots were sprinkled amidst the scorched earth. Giant craters loomed. A few orange pumpkins, still intact, drew the eye, and to her left the blackened fields of Purple Tree Farms smoldered sweetly, damp smoke like upside down waterfalls rising to meet the gray.

Somewhere beyond the windows were the shredded, melted remains of SIEGFRIED, FREYA, SNOTRA and LOFN. The Rottweilers who had run to their deaths for them.

Tara swallowed the misery of that thought as the Lincoln made the edge of the hovroad, sledding past the thrashed bodies of the big planes that had brought the deadly CRAB units. Smears of human blood stained the clawed fuselage and folded wings of the plane nearest as she floated the black hovcar past.

Then, just like that, the hovroad opened up, a lean, clean line before her that bisected the dappled, smoky horizon.

"Float east, my darling. Float east until William pings..."

"What good ever came of going east?" she asked the dashboard and slammed her foot against the accelerator.

The hovcar's powerful prop fans punched them back into the seats. The Lincoln MKZ's morpho-adaptive seat belts automatically extended, wrapping around their bodies to secure them. The fields on either side turned to a blur as they rocketed away.

She listened for Dax's heartbeat. Still there, weak but steady.

"It's much easier to flee for your life when the hovcar's com isn't bitching at you, don't you think, love?" she said conversationally.

Tara reached and put her hand tenderly on his leg, then clutched the wheel as they came over a hill and she swerved to miss an old farm hovtruck lumbering in the opposite direction towards the city.

The dashboard holoscreen flickered, static at first. She kept her eyes on the windshield HUD. _Velocity 205 kph._ The dashboard flickered again, this time displaying the text, _INCOMING STREAM._

Tara felt her hopes rise, "William?!"

The holoscreen projected a black graphic triangle. She had seen this emblem before. A thousand times.

_But where?_

The triangle of Vision! Words appeared below the graphic, _INCOMING STREAM – OTA.GOV_

"Nooo!" she screamed. "Computer, no outside streams!"

The voice that responded in the comdot was not that of the hovcar's computer. An elderly man's face appeared in the dash. He looked miserly but well kept, with thin lips and white hair. His eyes were closed.

_Like Dax with fifty years on him._

When the man opened his eyes, a splitting pain punched her skull. The transmission flickered. The man's eyes were... so orange. She glanced at the hovroad, then looked back. His face was contorted in pain as well, but his eyes gleamed, pupils black and huge, focused on Dax's lifeless form.

"What have you done to my son?" he hissed with eloquence.

Tara snapped instinctively, "Back off, grandpa! Dax's father is dead!"

The man glowered at her, then glanced away, grasping his temple, "Foolish girl. The reign of your black dolphin has ended. I will reclaim my heir." He squinted like a vulture, "I know you, Tara Adler. Your family is the mop I used to clean the filth off this nation."

Tara's hands slipped briefly from the wheel. The vitreous words slashed at her. The nasty, wizened face flickered on the screen, but she forced herself to look at it again.

She finally understood, pushing the thought, _the Architect._

Fury consumed her eyes until they were black, blacker than they had ever been, the green, lightning irises completely gone.

The old man recoiled as she spat back at him, "You will never have Daxane!"

The man drew his lips back like a wounded horse.

_Just like Dax when he is hurt. This is freaky._

The Architect tried to look at her face but obviously could not, still he said, "You talk with your father's trashy mouth, no doubt breed with your mother's trashy organ. Daxane may sit beside you now, but the sky darkens fast, fugitive."

She made herself keep looking at the burning face on the dashboard holoscreen, her brow fierce with determination, "One day, _Richard,_ I will come for you. I'll pull the eyes from your head with my own hands. Dax belongs to me!"

The taught-faced old man fell back, eyes shut even as he seethed, "Never! Tara Adler..."

The holoscreen flickered and went black.

The Lincoln's com interrupted, saying, "Govcloud bandwidth unavailable. Please try your stream again in a few minutes, or say _record_ to create a holotranscript."

"FUCK!" Tara screamed, livid as she slammed her hand against the steering wheel and her bare toes against the accelerator.

The Kansas countryside, harvest-green farms and yellow autumn trees blurred through the windshield. Something new was screaming outside. Turbines. She looked in the rearview HUD just as the AV9C Harrier launched its first air to ground missile. The explosion rocked the hovcar.

It rocked the world.

The Coyotes vanished single file into the rows of marijuana at the edge of the field that had not been vaporized by the exploding hydrogen blimp. Dragged sideways by the THOR unit, the wallowing, crushed fuselage of the C17 Globemaster more than filled the hovroad edge to edge. The only way through was a gap created by the elevated tail section.

_The cowboy must have told THOR to clear a path._

Danny watched the Lincoln float slowly but steadily under the tail section, meet the open hovroad and accelerate east like a skittering bug.

That's when the Harrier noticed the fleeing vehicle. It swooped after it in pursuit.

Joan was gone. THOR was gone. The Coyotes were left behind, streaking invisibly into the rows of jane. Soon their limited intranet would be undetectable.

_No one scans for Ipv5 and only I know..._

"Oh sky no, come on!" said Everquist, watching the jet bank east.

He typed in every bypass command he knew. Nothing. He could only see stats on the Harrier and the hovcar, couldn't hack coms on either.

_It's impossible to hack a firewall I can't see._

He would have _died_ to hear the chatter, but could no longer avoid the spate of incoming klaxons. Holostream relay servers worldwide were choking with pings, the Govcloud servers struggling.

Suddenly his own combud chimed. A priority ping appeared on his holotab.

He swiped the screen right and projected the bank's female customer service avatar, Camilla, who delivered her message with a gracious smile, "Hello, Daniel S. Everquist. Thank you for contacting Bank of North America. All of your accounts have been closed per your request. Your current balance is now 0 digidollars and 0 digicents. We appreciate your business. Have a great weekend!"

The hologram collapsed.

Danny sat bolt upright, "Access BNA customer service. Priority ping!"

"I'm sorry, that address is currently in queue," said the computer. "Your wait time is 14 days, 6 hours and 21 minutes. Please think or say _one_ now if you would like an avatar to ping you back as opposed to waiting on hold."

Danny listened to the words.

He read them as they transcribed across the screen, "A balance of zero dollars and zero cents."

_Joan..._

He stood for what seemed like the first time all day and raised the interior blinds in his office. There were only two other human employees on site on a Saturday, AI did the rest. Both were sheriff's dispatch secretaries, Martha and Paul. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but he could see the panic in their faces as they stared into their holoscreens and tried to access the stream. Everquist turned back and smiled as Govcloud virus holoscripts began flooding his second monitor.

_Please activate antivirus software on your workstation at this time. Govcloud security compromised. Please activate antivirus software on your workstation at this time..._

It was beyond brilliant. Danny grinned effusively and plopped into his chair. The holographic keyboard automatically appeared. He swiped a quick search.

"Hah!" he said, scanning the results. "Every stream-serviced bank in the Americas and Europe, which are subsidiaries of every major bank in the world..." He typed a few more keystrokes then shook his head, "Joan... the question is how much longer?"

There was no time to ponder. He had to pilot the drone. His last command had instructed it to accelerate and tail the fleeing Lincoln and Harrier. They were in Johnson County now, rocketing across the countryside towards Kansas City. The pilot had lowered elevation. He was flying 200 meters off the hovcar's tail lights.

Captain Mary Johnson was dead.

This pilot, wonking as _Captain Ernest Phalbert_ , had never re-initiated safety protocols on his air to ground ordinance. Danny still had only visual. Com functionality came and went. Whatever was going to happen, there was little time.

His com pinged.

_Talboy!_

The transmission was garbled, but he could understand the words, "C... come back, tech-boy! Everquist, need evac!"

"Brick! I never thought I'd be happy to hear from you! I got _no_ tracking. The stream's compromised. Virus. Come back!"

Talboy's voice was rattled, "Danny, he's not dead. We're hiding, Downs is wounded. Acid burn. Send help?"

"Yes! Again, no coms, I got no vitals on you guys. Who's not dead?"

The com crackled and spat, finally the words came, "...repeat again. Sheriff Proudstar is smashed up bad, though. Badge dropped some field nanos on him, ost a leg.. We... wounded... need ASAP! Will die..."

Danny blinked, thinking of Joan's words.

He forced his breath to steady, "Say again, Talboy? Is he stable?"

The voice was clear this time, "Don't know. We were running from the big borg and hid in the tunnel you found. The sheriff was right there. The borg spotted us, so he turned it out and unloaded on that bastard with his M4, last we knew. The jets were cuttin' bad sky overhead, it was impossible to hear anything. Downs, Azarov and me stayed hid, next thing we hear more howling, screams, then his body tumbles into the weeds down here. Soon after, one of them fighter jets explodes at the far end of the ditch, flushed us! So we just ran. Circled back, Badge cracked a med kit on the sheriff. We been pinging coms!"

"Talboy, listen," said Danny. "The holostream's down. The hacker released a virus that made everyone's money vanish. Billions of people are emergency pinging their banks."

"Whatta you mean our money's vanished!? I don't..."

"Nevermind! Are you safe?"

"Yeah! Downs has acid burns on his hands and knees. Bad. A co2 scrubber dropped, case I forgot to mention! Fields were on fire! Even Badge was scared. We're hiding in this creek bed about a thousand meters from the hovroad. I was scared to hump the sheriff, but we had no choice. His leg is gone. I mean _gone_. Can you see our lights?!"

"No. Just stay put. Soon as the Govcloud drivers get this virus under control we'll have regular coms back. Keep your beacons green, they'll find you. I gotta go! Tara Dean's still running!"

"What..." Talboy sounded exhausted.

"Everquist out."

"Don't forget us, tech-boy!"

"Never."

The sheriff was not dead.

_Joan knew._

Danny checked his screens. Coms were slowly returning. The first Army Reserve reinforcements were just cresting the western hill, a klaxon late and a kilometer short. They would find Azarov, Downs and Talboy with the sheriff.

_Proudstar will survive._

Danny knew he should have kept the Douglas County drones close to the scene. But he also knew that part of his life...

He had to try and stop the Harrier pilot.

_That's no Air Force jet._

He pushed the COD faster. The Harrier barely had to idle its turbines to keep up with Abner's fleeing MKZ hovcar, but Everquist's drone was straining to maintain 190 kph behind them.

An auto-klaxon reappeared on the holoscreen, indicating that the drone was again recording data. He patched it to make a single copy on Dina's thumb drive.

_With Joan gone, devices should function._

Motion on the far horizon, a thin gray, streaking line. He extended his fingers across the holotab and zoomed in. The stream was still flooded with human chatter, people all over the North American Union terrorized at the automated banking message that had come to them via dolphin virus.

Danny pulled up a map on his second monitor and sat forward in his chair as the image clarified, "The maglev train... 13 kilometers to the crossing," he said to himself. "They have to get past if they're gonna have a chance."

His legs were numb and sore from sitting in the chair for so long. He gave up on his keyboard and slouched back with the holotab.

"Computer," he said. "Hovcar data."

"Vehicle registered to Abner, Daxane J." said the computer blissfully, "Warning, wanted criminal.."

"Yeah, yeah," Danny talked over the voice, "Silence all auto-klaxons. What is the likelihood that car will make it across the train tracks before the Lawrence-Lenexa Flyer?"

"59%."

Danny bit his lip, "Let's see, train is moving 698 kph. The Lincoln is floating at 195 kph, less than two minutes until the intersection, they should be able to... unless..."

The Harrier pilot, Captain Phalbert, fired a warning missile. It exploded uncomfortably close to the vehicle, causing it to rock and spin against the mild resistance of the hovlev conduit, but Tara Dean kept it floating over the pavement, lateral stabilization fans doing their job. Rain mist, dirt and wet weeds mushroomed into the air as the black drone rocketed after them, following the jet's afterburners. The Lincoln's speed had dropped to 168 kph, gravel and mist spewing behind as its propfans redirected. Ms. Dean managed to straighten out and must have stomped on the accelerator. The hovcar again achieved 198 kph.

"Go, go, go, please go..." said Danny knitting his fingers.

His holotab vibrated furiously in his lap. Brick Talboy again.

_No time._

The Harrier edged closer and fired again. The next missile slammed into an enormous elm tree ahead of the black hovcar, showering it with splintered wood, but Tara Dean did not slow.

Danny confirmed the video stream was still recording.

_Yes._

A large branch from the elm slammed into the side of the Lincoln as it passed. They pushed on, drifting wildly sideways, but she managed to straighten it out. The MKZ was fast, obviously armored and highly maneuverable. The point where the Lawrence-Lenexa Flyer would whisk across the rural hovroad was coming up quickly.

"Oh my Dog, you _have_ to do this!" Danny howled.

He pulled the train's manifest, using his emergency allocation to access what remained of the stream's bandwidth, "Carrying 412 passengers... oh man."

Danny tugged his orange hair and bit his tongue. Code could not save them. The hovcar would either flash past the nose of the maglev train or...

Tara Dean had pushed it to 225kph. Top speed.

The AV9C jet floated above them like a bird of prey lazily surfing an updraft. The Lawrence-Lenexa Flyer was half a kilometer away when the jet lobbed a third missile. It was a glancing explosion, less than ten meters from the Lincoln. The car rocked sideways down the gravel shoulder into the opposite field, throwing up a tidal wake of mud as it jolted over an irrigation ditch, then launched back up the shoulder onto the hovroad, powerful levfans spitting a dirty fog. Everquist could imagine the screaming sound the propfans were making. Were Tara Dean and Dax Abner screaming inside? He checked the Lincoln's momentum.

_138 kph._

Danny couldn't watch. He averted his eyes, waiting long enough to be sure the hovcar had gotten by the train safely. He stared at the floor of his office, head in hands, counting out fifteen eternal seconds, then finally, timidly looked up at the projection being streamed by the COD.

The first four train cars were still rolling through the fields of marijuana and hemp on either side of the hovroad, leaving behind vast swaths of flattened destruction. From the drone's perspective, it looked like someone had dragged a gray fingernail through globs of green and yellow paint. Danny zoomed in. He set his jaw in horror. The bodies of passengers, twisted, tossed and broken, littered the land. These were not cyborgs. Pools of blood surrounded a few of the corpses. The emergency repulsion brakes on the train had saved the ten cars in back. Surviving passengers fled across the fields, stumbling, screaming, holding each other or running alone through the mud and fire.

The Harrier jet hovered a quarter kilometer further east, a despicable mantis, windows polarized and black, emotionless. Danny zoomed in on it, not surprised at all when the plane suddenly banked left and burned away at mach 2 following the eastern horizon line.

The remains of the Lincoln MKZ smoldered in a ditch, roof blown off. Danny flipped his holotab over and began pulling data. The Govcloud drivers were finally getting ahead of Joan's virus. _Even her final masterpiece failed in the end. I could have..._

Neither of the Lincoln's emergency escape spheres had deployed. A green LED on his holotab told him that all com relays and datastreams were now functioning.

Danny looked at it unresponsively.

_I know what I must do._

He squinted in the direction the Harrier had disappeared, "Welcome to ultimate darkness."

His COD began relaying audio, citizens screaming and com klaxons. He muted the signal and entered a data request. The holotab began filling with red characters – names of the 67 Lenexa-Lawrence Flyer commuters who had just died in the crash, including both engineers.

Danny tapped the holotab against the back of his knee and spoke a few of the names aloud, "Mr. James Dewley, Mrs. Angela Sparks. Engineer Sparks had two children, ages nine and eleven..."

_No time. You have to move if you're going to do this._

He swiped, scanning for Mr. Abner and Tara Dean. The COD picked up the Ipv7 from a _Daxane J Abner's_ combud almost immediately. The drone did not have to go far. Danny magnified. Their bodies were mangled, charred and broken, lying side by side. Their fingertips reached out, but did not quite touch. Mr. Abner's corpse was dressed in his fine, bloody suit, face down in the mud. His reddish-orange hair seemed dull and brown.

_Our hair is the same color_.

Danny panned the drone's view. Tara Dean's green eyes were wide open. One was filled with blood and dirt. The other was clean and clear, as though staring at the clouds. She was barefoot and wore plain sweat pants. A piece of paper was in the mud by her hand, partially folded. It looked like a printed holograph of people in a restaurant. Ms. Dean's neck was obviously broken and Danny noticed the star tattoos that trickled down her shoulder.

He somberly backed the drone off and read the transcript that flashed over his holotab, _Daxane J. Abner / Fugitive / Wanted / Douglas County Kansas / Illegal alcohol lab / Possession and distribution of a controlled substance / Possession and operation of unregistered cyborg(s) / Tara A. Dean / Fugitive / Federal Recidivist / Wanted NAUS and territories / Arson / Assault of a Federal employee / Hovcar theft / Falsification of identity / Govcloud manipulation / Possession and distribution of a controlled substance / Public intoxication / Public nuisance viol..."_

Danny Everquist sighed.

_The bad guys..._

He dropped the holotab into his lap and closed his eyes. A moment later, he jumped when the device vibrated. The stream came through crystal clear now.

_Talboy._

"Everquist! Where you at!? Jeezus! You gonna get us the sky outta here? Sheriff and Downs are in bad shape. Need that evac, tech-boy!"

Danny picked the holotab up with both hands and held it in front of him without speaking. The visual from Murray Downs' HUD was clear. Brick Talboy's shaken, muddy face filled the small display.

His skin was red like he'd taken a bad sunburn, "Well glad things are calm at the office! _Talk_ to me, dude! We just heard more explosions to the east! You got a light on us or not?! Whatta you gotta say, tech-boy?"

"I quit," replied Danny stoically.

Talboy began screaming, but Everquist cut the stream. The holographic keyboard appeared, and he sent a final command to the drone, directing it to Brick Talboy's Ipv7, which he had had for the last five minutes.

He looked around at the trash and mess of his office and wistfully said, "Oh man..." Everquist almost got up, blinked one eye shut with a thought and tapped his combud, "Med-Vac Drone Unit, authorization douglas_control_611_alpha, primary response targets located at 38.955213 by -95.819053. Secondary execute, immediate, with attached field surgical auxiliary."

Then he cut the drone recording, stood and grabbed Dina's thumb drive, inserted it into the media port on his holotab. He took his jacket from the rack beside the door and crossed into the control room to the Exit, nodding affably to Martha and Paul as he passed. Danny took the steps down two at a time, breezed past Maybelle's glass vestibule through the empty lobby and quickly found himself on the sidewalk.

Outside. Breathing fresh air. His feet on solid Terra.

_I gotta get some sunglasses._

He blinked and took in the day as though he'd just awoken. The cool October air was damp and clean. It tickled his skin. Somewhere close by a citizen was tending an antique fire barbecue, which smelled of savory, grilled synth-steak. A COD hovered briskly overhead, flying down the sidewalk moving north. He followed it with his eyes, then turned and walked the opposite direction.

As he walked, he tapped his combud and said, "Dina?"

"Yes, Danechka? I am in the spa," replied his girlfriend's Russian voice. "I could watch no more. Did they make it?"

"I'll tell you when we get home."

"Home? You are off work?"

"You could say that."

"So what now?"

"Now..." Danny stopped and sighed, looking west, "we go find the tether."

Above him, a sliver of blue sky allowed a bit of afternoon sun to come through. Everquist liked that. He was no longer afraid. The shaft of sunlight briefly warmed his pale skin, then vanished.

He and Dina vanished with it.

# `Chapter 3.8 – Secondcity`

**10:01 pm – Ten Hours One Minute After Event.**

"Come to me, Kitters," Slopes called. "Papa needs his soft kitty."

Does a cyborg roll its eyes if a human doesn't see it happen?

This was a mystery to which only Mrs. Kitters knew the answer. The luxuriant Burmese cyborg pounced adroitly to the ground and traipsed over, leaping into Slope's thin, crumb-ridden lap. Mrs. Kitters lay down and let the gangling man pet her, purring halfheartedly to get the job done.

"That's a good girl," said the detective.

He felt more secure with Kitters' silky BIOSKIN© beneath his fingertips.

Slopes let his mind wander back to the issue at hand.

_Could I face an ethics committee?_

The thought made his kneecaps itch.

Feeling hungry and unsettled, he shooed Mrs. Kitters off, "Okay, back to your spot. The local stories are projecting."

Mrs. Kitters was on top of the purple La-Z-Boy couch again within seconds and immediately set to cleaning herself, back turned to Slopes.

The detective huffed, "Computer, Journal World _Live_ – holovision."

"On screen," said the ceiling com in the voice of a frightened child.

The living room holovision flashed to life with Martin Wringle's quaffed hair and tan face positioned beside the somber and despicable Sheriff Azarov. They stood before two Crown Victoria Hov1100's on a dark stretch of county hovroad. The LED rollers on the sheriff's hovcars cast dramatic colors over the black countryside.

Martin Wringle's breath steamed as he spoke to the camera, "Good evening, Lawrence. I'm here with Interim Sheriff, Camilla Azarov, who survived a battle at what some in the community have rumored was an alcohol lab of unprecedented scale. Sheriff Azarov, we've had unconfirmed verbal reports of particle fire, combat Fidos, some _without_ BIOSKIN© wraps." Wringle inclined his head, "In response, the Office of the Architect has declared martial law and authorized random biochem tests for alcohol across all citizen combuds in the state of Kansas for the next 24 hours. In a moment, sheriff, we'll hear from local privacy rights advocates, but first..."

The doorbell rang.

_Protein pizza!_ thought Slopes, blinking and muting the holovision.

He swiped his holotab and checked the sidewalk security node. He had requested a human pizza courier for accountability purposes. His beady eyes searched for weapons, anything out of the ordinary. There wasn't. The display blinked, but just showed the top of the delivery pilot's head with platinum blonde hair sticking out from under a standard courier's cap, ID green. Slopes turned his eyes back to enjoying the visage of the interim sheriff in her moment of media misery.

Several seconds passed. Slopes realized no one had entered. At least no one human.

_Did they send a drone after all?_

His holovision screen flickered, as if timed with the thought, and the news stream disappeared. A moment later it was replaced by the glaring face of the Architect. Slopes grasped his throat in reflexive terror, but the punishing choking he had come to expect did not start. The old man simply flicked his blazing orange eyes at a point over Slopes' shoulder.

Slopes unfurled, slowly, uncomfortably twisting his bones towards the apartment door and hissed, "Kitters! Get away from it!"

The delivery pilot was nowhere to be seen. Mrs. Kitters was perched on the armrest of the purple La-Z-Boy, tail rhythmically swooshing back and forth, locked in eye contact with a small gray dog.

_Playing a fool won't save you now._

It was a blue-eyed Coyote.

Coyote One tilted her head, processing an internal directive, _exe.killlist_01_Slope_Dennis_9_months_hiding_02_Fossbender_Marlene._ She then retrained her focus on the Felix.

_That borg is hacking my Kitters!_ thought Slopes.

Mrs. Kitters twitched robotically twice as she rebooted, then she jumped to the floor and trotted over beside the Coyote. The Burmese Felix turned and sat, yellow vidorbs gazing back at Slopes with the regal indifference only a free cat can truly muster.

Coyote One took a step closer and snarled, baring her metal teeth, bracing to attack.

Slopes looked at the holovision with alarm, thinking aloud so the old man would hear, _I tried to tell you! I've been such a loyal cow. I've worked for you so long!_

Richard Laelius Abner's face smiled wickedly back, relishing the moment before he said, "I came here to punish you myself, Dennis. But it appears these minions of the black shall have that final joy. Don't you see? No matter what you do, no matter how you die, my knowledge has always been yours."

Somewhere West of Salina, Kansas

William sat alone at the green formica kitchen table, staring at an unlit cigarette, waiting. A surgical bot had stabilized Hugo, tending to him in a first floor bedroom become makeshift ICU. He remained unconscious. Dorothy and her mother, Marjel, had settled in upstairs after a few whiskies to calm the nerves. Goran built a palette bed for he and Cat in the root cellar. The aged farmhouse was finally silent. It had been a day of loss and weeping, a day of screams. A day of blunted sadness that only time itself could further dull. Now just the song of nightbirds blew through open windows from across the prairie.

William's father in law had walked in from the garage earlier to talk it all through with him.

"I needs hear it again, son," the stout, old fellow had said warmly. "I've got a tin of indica kief I been saving. We'll tilt some whiskeys too, if you'd like?"

William had liked.

Leonard Nichols was a solid man, wizened by the Saline County wind and the rough grit ethos of a 21st century, North American farmer. Indica was his crop, the sun and rain and soil his tools. His sparkling blue eyes and white beard owned a thousand stories between them.

After Leonard had heard his fill of the tale, he said only that he had something to show William, later, outside. Then he disappeared towards the barn. William realized he was getting soft. He did not mind the elder Nichols' company. William swirled the remaining whiskey in his jar and touched the bandage over his blinded eye. His good eye studied the amber tone of the liquid drug as the light shown through the mason, the yellow hue reminding him of a paling dream, something he couldn't bring with him.

His holotab suddenly vibrated. He turned it over, hoping. A small, animated hologram of Dax's coy face projected in one corner, then the avatar vanished and was replaced by a character file. William stroked his sideburns, put the mason of liquor down, sat forward on his elbows and read.

`William, dear friend, you can stop waiting. I am dead. Or at least no longer living in the strictest sense of the word. I fear Tara has claimed the same fate, though for some the condition doesn't always take. Do you know what I mean? If not, you will know soon enough.`

`It is Saturday morning October 16, 2082 4:47 am. Well past time you knew the truth.`

`You believe you are in hiding at the moment, awaiting transit to a final destination. The Israeli is a man of few words. To tell you was not his job. You are _already_ at Secondcity. Dorothy does not know, only Leonard and Marjel. They have been waiting patiently. That is what parents do. The Nichols Farm has all new infrastructure, deep aquifer beneath this land. Quad fractionating columns, dual dolphins piloting a Pasterski class mainframe.`

`I could go on for hours.`

`You know this.`

`Hah!`

`Virgil Benedict has unknowingly closed the noose too soon. War is what remains. Your part? Make the booze. This thing we do, we do for freedom. We do it so our conscience may not bear the horrid weight of conformity. We do it because civil disobedience is the patriotic duty of every North American confronted with an unjust law.`

`The dolphins are scheduled to arrive tomorrow and the Israeli will complete reactor ignition within two days. Once the dolphins spool, there is a program on the mainframe named _Demigod._ Only they can access it.`

`Once executed, Demigod will scan the combud biodata of any citizen within a half kilom of any Secondcity device. Demigod has one purpose, to locate your lost brother. You must trust that I chose the location of Secondcity for a variety of reasons.`

`I hope the morning was not too hard? What else did we lose this day? The farm sleeps now, barely, but soon you all shall wake to a very different world.`

`And yes, your father in law does have something to show you. Indeed he does.`

`Dax`

William placed the holotab face down on the kitchen table. He stood with a sigh and picked up the cigarette. He walked outside, boots and tired steps heavy over the tiles. The hinges on the wooden screen door creaked as he shut it, slow so it wouldn't slam. He fired the cigarette and stepped into the driveway that ran between the Nichols' house and detached garage. Overhead, the Flint Hills stars plotted their meager course across the black sea of night. Tallgrass and rolling farmland stretched in every direction. Crickets chimed like out of tune music boxes and somewhere a whippoorwill called mournfully thrice.

That's when William felt them approaching.

He docked the smoke to the corner of his lips and held out his hands. From the impossible darkness, six Rottweilers materialized, followed shortly by Leonard Nichols who wore a broad smile across his white, grizzled face. The dogs encircled William, eagerly wagging bobbed tails, panting and curious, yet instantly familiar.

William looked up at his father in law and exhaled a smooth stream of smoke, "I should have known."

"Yes. You should have," said the old farmer with a chuckle. "For a cyborg telepath, you ain't so bright, Bill."

The nearest Rottie licked his skin. The synthetic tongue was as rough as coarse sandpaper, though warm. Its brown eyes flashed to crimson and William Angevine let the corner of his mouth turn towards the sky.

`**Wikipedia.holo Excerpt (Last Updated 2061.11.13) Regarding the Mid-Century Kansas Agroeconomics and a Shifting Heartland Culture:**...in conclusion, we see a state vastly transformed in less than a decade. 1.9 Day drove tens of millions of Californians into the heart of the Midwest, an unprecedented population shift, and the first in modern history instigated by environmental genocide. Overnight, Kansas became the epicenter of the tech industry in fields ranging from nuclear genetics to cyborg...`

# `Epilogue`

**November 14, 2086. Four Years One Month After Event.**

The thin man stepped from the hovtruck's running board, boots sinking into mud as soon as he left the gravel shoulder of the hovroad. The black dogs jumped out after him and tore across the winter field. They yipped playfully and taunted their big sisters, bobbed tails wagging with excitement. The large silver and black cyborgs, each the size of a hovsedan, turned their heads as the thin man approached. One grunted affectionately. He strode towards them swiftly.

The AK9MIL DOGS units flanked the boy, keeping him stashed protectively between them. The young man sat cross-legged in the mud looking exhausted, but he showed no fear. He kept his head up, eyes wary and observant. He looked like a toy doll between his gigantic cyborg captors. Dirty blonde hair fell down his face in curls now that the HUD goggles had been stripped off. The mangled, flattened remains of two civilian lightning rifles lay in the dirt to one side.

GUNSHEYE had been chewing mud to clean off as much of the CNED director's blood as possible. The man's legs and torso had been playfully tossed in either direction and buried under meters of worm-rich soil.

_Leave no trace but the wind._

The boy eyed the thin man carefully as he approached, turning his head as though listening to music only he could hear. The man came closer, pulled out his holotab and again studied the small text projection, _Demigod 96.7% probability._

The thin man walked up and stood in front of the boy, "Get on your feet."

The boy was nearly as tall. His long, blonde curls were wet and matted. He shook some with the cold but was otherwise neither arrogant nor cowed. The thin man nodded at one of the Rottweilers to produce a little TOHO heat. The boy's lower lip began to shimmer as the particle weapon emerged from the animal's throat and warmed the air.

"I'm sorry about... your father," the thin man said, pursing his lips, tipping the brim of his cowboy hat.

The boy sniffled but kept his chin up, "It's... it's not surprising. He wasn't a good person." His eyes were big and black, like the eyes of a woman the thin man had once known. The boy went on, "You know he wasn't my father. It's okay. You don't have to pretend."

The thin man nodded but gave no other reaction.

He extended his hand towards the waiting hovtruck, "You probably have a lot of questions. We should get out of the field. This land belongs to my family. My name is..."

"William," said the boy, a grin crossing his freckled face. "You're William Angevine, my brother. My name is..."

"Saxon," said the thin man. "Your name is Saxon Angevine."

"That's right," the boy smiled, again cocking his head as though listening to distant music, then said, "I don't know. I don't know who the Prophet is. But I want to find her too. She's the lady from my dreams."

`**Fragmented Remains from the Cloud Diary of Daxane Julius Abner – January 3, 2081 – One Year Nine Months Before Event.**`

`"...yet something observable, now changed. She still sees something in the sheriff's IT driver. Tara wonders if she can be trusted, which means she can't be. A poem before I go.`

`Come and wrap your love around my sorrow`

`Tonight I'm living like the sun won't ever rise`

`Birds and lies hide behind dying eyes`

`I keep hearing that last line in the interim. Is it just me? I feel good about the future. If you can't trust a dolphin, then... UNSCHEDULED HARDWARE DESTRUCT / DATA COMPROMISE / INITIATE BACKUP.EXE FOR REINTEGRATION FORMA... LOSS. LOSS. LOS."`

# `Chapter 4.1 – Who Are You?`

Salina, Kansas – October 23, 2082 – Four Years Two Months Before Consciousness.

Hugo Velasquez awoke to find himself restrained. He opened his eyes slowly, fading into awareness. Two bedside lamps burned with light on end tables to either side of him.

A surgical droid with a face composed of matte black metal leaned over his line of sight, its LED vocal array illuminating as it spoke androgynously, "Vital signs are stable. Plasma transfer six has been accepted and processed. MRI codes are green and frontal cortex relays are standardizing. This patient should be capable of speech within sixty seconds."

The droid stepped backwards, aligning itself with a wireless charging sphere on the wall, and then went dormant. The droid wasn't speaking to Hugo. He looked around the room, memorizing details by habit, though he already knew where he was. His arm was gone, but he felt no pain. He would only have one chance.

_Unless Dax or Tara survived. I won't have the strength to resist them._

The walls were painted eggshell blue and the ceiling white, accented with crown molding. Fallow fields of recently harvested indica lay dormant for winter outside the windows. He couldn't see the floors, but he knew they were hardwood. He had slept in this room before. And he knew the man sitting at the end of his bed by the lingering smell of his cigarettes.

Hugo looked mournfully at the stump the CNED sniper had left him for an arm, then made eye contact with the man as he assumed character and finally spoke, "Que lástima, Meester Bill... ees like I remeember, my arm, eets gone!" Hugo brought well-practiced crocodile tears to his eyes, waiting until one rolled down his stubbled, sorrel cheek, then he raised his black bushy eyebrows innocently, "Ees dees d' Seecond-ceety? Ess Dax alive?" He spoke the broken English softly.

William Angevine's face was lean, his pale skin warmed only by his stubbled sideburns and a five-day whiskered chin. A black patch covered his left eye, giving him the look of a prairie pirate lost at sea who had donned a tattered straw cowboy hat found floating upon the waves. His good eye was iceberg blue, still and fixed; his face, expressionless.

At last, William blinked.

A massive black Rottweiler that had been lying on the floor, out of Hugo's view, rose up to all fours and flexed its powerful BIOSKIN© muscles. The animal fixed its gaze on Hugo and growled quietly, identically mimicking the mild voicing of an organic dog's warning. Yet Hugo could hear the difference. He chilled. For the growl also carried the unique alien echo of cyborg fury. This animal was psycho-anatomically female. Her warning resonated supernaturally off the bedroom walls. Hugo knew the sound well, an unmistakable threat. All it took was a thought from William; Hugo would be dead before his eyes had registered the Rottweiler's motion. The glossy, black borg snarled half-hardheartedly a final time and at last sat obediently beside her tether.

Hugo continued to smile, "Ees one of d' new perros, eh? Beeg? Seegfreed class, same no?"

William tilted his head. The Rottweiler tilted its head also, at the same speed and angle.

"What hapeeen to your eye, Beel? Last deeng I's rememeember, I was..."

"I don't wanna have to kill you, Hugo," interrupted William. His voice was soft and direct, the southern drawl pronounced, "But you know I will." He reached up and scratched his sideburns, then put his hand on the head of the cyborg beside him, "This here's Beyla. Our new dolphins aren't quite so formal as Joan, so we been using old school designations. Beyla's got two sisters, three brothers. All SIEGFRIED units, but Andromeda class, so you're damn near spittin' on the bullseye." William's blue eye seemed to deepen and cool as he continued talking casually, "Andromeda units can fire pinpointed plasma, just by opening their jaws a fraction. Heat bubbles, synthetic diamond nanoarmor, vidorb synchronized holoflage projection, instinctual response times clocking 1/1000th of a second. They can also rapid fire 540 light rounds a minute under full canon deployment." William slapped his knee, "But damn, don't let me go on all day talkin' shop!" He raised the eyebrow above his good eye, "You didn't save him in the end. Dax still died. Tara too. No one's left who can read your mind."

Hugo swallowed, trying the accommodating smile one last time, "Beel, I dunno what..."

The Rottweiler snarled again as William looked back at Hugo, "Tara heard you in the forest. She pushed the thought into my mind the last time I saw her. Dorothy and I heard you when you were unconscious. _Twice_. You don't speak with an accent. We know that." William stood to his full height and calmly walked to the edge of the bed, the heels of his cowboy boots clacking loudly over the floor boards as he pointed his finger at Hugo, "So here's the real deal, _mescalero_. Or whatever yippie ki yay bullshit nickname you wanna try and float my way, dude. If you're a white mole, tell me now. You'll die fast and clean. But if you ain't shoveling goods for the humdroids? And since you _did_ try to save Dax's life out there? Out of respect for the friendship I had, with the person you're clearly not, I'm gonna sit here and let you explain yourself." He returned to the chair and looked straight ahead, "You know I can't read minds. I can smell horseshit, though. So if the next words out of your mouth aren't in perfect, Dogdamn English, you die anyhow." William drew a cigarette from a tin box, and the Rottweiler beside him barely opened its mouth, flash illuminating its tip. William blew the smoke out his nostrils and leaned forward, elbows on his knees and asked, "So who the hell are you, Hugo?"

`Secondcity Cloud Diary – Admin, Dorothy_01: December 24, 2082.`

`"It's Christmas. Mom and dad have come up from their cabin down the hovroad. Dax built that for them, so obvi it's quite posh. Dax knew all along, and of course Leonard and Marjel have known for years. I didn't realize they were in so deep. There is, to use Tara's favorite adjective, a _fucking_ resistance. Looking back now, I should have known. Anyhow, the 'rents are downstairs having whiskey eggnog with William and Goran. The tree is trimmed, bright lights, dogs lying about, old fashioned wood fire going. Dad's got the antique record player spinning, some old-time Kansas City jazz called OJT. And I'm feeling none of it.`

`All I can think about is Tara. I loved her. I may have been in love with her. When they died, I felt it. Like two chunks of my gut being ripped out. Nothing has ever hurt so much. I feel like nothing can ever hurt me again. I am so furious! Bill has been patient, steady. He now has the cybernetic eye, installed on-site by a black market nanosurgeon. A human vidorb. It helps him with telemetry. I hate it when it goes black. It reminds me of a borg spooling down.`

`Okay, sorry. I know this is supposed to be about Secondcity. William Angevine, my husband. How much do I have to write here? I'll try and stick to the basics. All we have are Dax's fragments – and to this day we make our choices based upon that man's will. William and I have thrown ourselves into it. 300,000 liter monthly output. We have _two_ dolphins now, a bonded couple named Ruben and Cherise, who are definitely _not_ like Joan at all. There are six Rottweilers, all SIEGFRIED class, but Mark IV gen. Too many tech compliments over the prior series for me to get into right now. Related; more we did not know - Joan uploaded the experiential memory algorithms of the original Rottweilers to the current units. It's weird. The Secondcity units have unique personalities. But when I look into the eyes of the male named Odin, I swear I can see our sweet SIEGFRIED looking back at me. There's three females and three males. The female units are more advanced, enhanced with vidorbs that can project holoflage. What else? Gunsheye and Fat Girl are our new ZEUS class borgs; like THOR, but a tad more badass. They're littermates, so to speak. My family farm is way more rural than Firstcity was, so we let the big dogs up from the warehouse at night. It is interesting how wary they are, conscious of their own exposed nature. They like to trot down the driveway to the hovroad and scan the wind, but will soon return to the barn and lie together in a pile of hay, watching the smaller borgs play. William says they want BIOSKIN©. They tell him this. However it is they tell him things. I think everyone at Secondcity wants something they can't have.`

`The transports have been going on schedule. With no courtezan, we now send three Rottweilers with the shipments. This allows Ruben and Cherise a pure, fat stream to any device within a kilometer. Nothing has gotten even close to us yet. The dolphins fuse their minds, into what I believe is basically a cognitive RAID array, each pulling pure light from the Pasterski's dual cores. Together, they are able to blind any traffic between GEODRONE© master com and their SKOUT units, hacking hundreds of targets simultaneously. It's as if the hovtruck is invisible from the county hovroad all the way to Manhattan. The distance is shorter; also, we float east. Our old distributor, Earl King, is thrilled to have us back, so let the digidollars rain.`

`There's more, so much more. But I can't. I'm sorry, but damn, shit, bitch, _hell!_ That's what I really want to say. Dax, I feel like I'm apologizing to you. Why couldn't you have just told us? No one else wanted to keep the Secondcity diary. It's not like Bill's gonna express his feelings in writing. Is it even supposed to be about how I feel? None of it's about me! This is my first entry, over two months since the Israeli spooled the Hadassa reactors and brought the supercomputer onstream, and I've said nothing but the obvious. Do I need to mention that the Israeli has vanished without a trace? Of course he has! What I need... is some eggnog. Maybe a lot, with extra rum. I'll say more next time. My hands are shaking over these holokeys. I'm literally crying. I think I need to go down to the target range and blast some shit. I'm sorry. I am."`

Hypatia Five – Israeli Gladiatorial Storage Cell 001 - .4 Kilometers Below the Lunar Surface – December 1, 2086 – Thirty One Days Before Consciousness.

The Israeli removed the hood shrouding her head, revealing a humanoid cyborg face composed of silver toned metal scales that undulated and moved like the skin of a giant reptile. Her neck was covered in similar, but heavier, plates that scalloped down, increasing in dimension until they disappeared beneath the rough spun cloak covering the remainder of her chassis. The Israeli's emerald green vidorbs burned resolutely. She stepped to a thick iron door and established ocular contact, pushing a blue spectrum recognition stream into a holoscanner on the wall. The cement hall around her was gray and plain, weakly illuminated by a single overhead LED. The Israeli did not require light to see.

The ceiling com spoke placidly, "Ocular scan confirmed, Shadow Seventeen."

Locking mechanisms deep within the door disengaged and the heavy slab of metal moved laterally on a track, vanishing into the wall. The Israeli stepped inside the cell and the door closed behind her, gears in the walls grinding with a robotic, industrial hum as the magnetic pistons reengaged.

The cell was four meters wide by six meters long, with a five meter high ceiling. The walls were covered in clean black rubcrete on all sides. A single can light illuminated an oval spot on a polished red cement floor.

The Israeli tapped her audio receptor, "Initiate total darkness."

"Black fractal encryption is now active," said a voice only she could hear.

She looked up at the ceiling into the gray and shadow beyond the dangling overhead light, "You can come down now."

A smaller figure dropped to the floor, landing in a fluid crouch, looking up from a black hooded face with vidorbs burning a brighter, more mossy shade of green. The smaller figure stood. At only 1.7 meters tall, the cell's occupant seemed like a dwarf before the hulking Israeli.

"Don't make me go dormant again, mother," said the smaller cyborg in a young woman's voice.

"Only one more time," said the Israeli, the deep timbre of her synthetic voice resonating despite the rubcrete surrounding them. "The night before the championship tournament. You'll have to go dark for 24 hours while the BIOSKIN© grafts to your chassis and we upload..." the Israeli paused, considering her words, "independent recognition."

"And then I will be free, mother?"

"Then you will be... the perfect weapon. You will be a whole being, human, while simultaneously the pinnacle of cybernetic engineering. Remember, only you and a few others on this Moon know my true identity."

The small robed figure stood on her toes expectantly and clapped her black palms together.

The Israeli's armored face formed the rough approximation of a smile, "Go ahead. Tell me what you know, pupil."

"You are Dr. Samantha Goldstein, biostructural engineer and pioneer of cyborg chassis schematics at Darkpool Laboratories. Present at the collapse of the Coyote Shadow Program, your female consciousness was transferred into an anatomically male substructure in an effort to save your life, your memories. This was the final act of Dr. Marvin Adler before he was murdered. In 2059 you created the first titanalum alloy capable of bionic tissue grafting and in 2060 y..."

The Israeli held up a hand, calling for silence, then asked, "Who am I now?"

The smaller figure bowed her head, "Now you are the Seventeenth Shadow. Your true identity is wind."

"Correct. Assume lotus pose."

The small hooded cyborg dropped to the cement floor as though she were a cup of water being poured into the sea. She pulled one ankle over each knee, sat with spine erect and removed her hood. The Israeli joined her, her older, much larger chassis moving more robotically. Once in position, the Israeli studied her pupil's face. It was composed of billions of nanowoven strands of boron nitride and lonsdaleite that moved like synthetic muscle, perfectly replicating the human template upon which the cyborg was engineered. The same nanowoven, self-repairing muscle covered her entire chassis and was anchored to a titanalum endoskeleton.

The little cyborg's nanomuscles convened into a smile and her vidorbs momentarily brightened as she established a stream lock with the Israeli, "I am ready for further questions, mother."

The Israeli nodded, "State rudimentary technical specifications, free association."

The smaller figure tilted her head and rolled her vidorbs towards the ceiling, "My synthetic consciousness functions on Adler-Goldstein version 69.7118 and is scripted by an octocore, AMD Quantum 13 CPU feeding 40,000 terabytes of RAM across a chassis contoured, diamond graphene motherboard. My power sources are dual Hadron Micro 7 temporal fusion reactors. My chassis is enhanced by an onboard battery of nanosurgical spiders capable of regenerating 136 damaged sectors simultaneously. Assuming Terran gravity, I have a top gallop velocity of 197 kilometers per hour over organic terrain and a theoretical maximum velocity of 259 kilometers per hour across a flat surface."

"Are you a horse?" asked the Israeli in her deep, rumbling voice.

The small female cyborg tilted her head and giggled, "I am not a horse, mother. You know I am not a horse. Why do you ask if I am this Earth mammal? I am cyborg, like you."

"Because you are soon to be a woman. And women do not gallop. They run."

"Forgive me. I know this. The specific decorum data was uploaded 286 days, three hours, nine minutes and 27 seconds ago." The small cyborg frowned, "All I have known is this cell, the pit battles, weapons training and you, mother. I do not yet have the standardized algorithms to process these human references. Not without direct hive access."

"Soon you will know everything about being human," said the Israeli. "The woman you are destined to become was quintessentially... human. You are my life's work. But you belong on Earth."

"I do not process this information easily. Will I remember these days also?"

"How many war cyborgs have you destroyed in the pits?"

"I have completely deactivated 186 gladiatorial opponents at the highest threat echelon and have rendered another 1,612 less mechanically advanced units inert by ripping apart their chassis components!" said the small borg happily.

"Exactly my point, student," nodded the Israeli. "You will remember your training and all pertinent intelligence data sourced across the darkstream over the last four years. Part of us is always borg. You will retain a capacity for true logic, yet you will feel emotion. It is this human mind that shall return to you the most precious of all gifts: a soul."

"I want to have a soul," said the smaller borg, smiling brightly again, lost in thought and staring at the floor.

"Soon you shall, unit TAD20821016, soon you shall." The Israeli put her thumbs to her index fingers, forming the jnana mudra, gently lowered the backs of her gray, robotic hands to her knees and asked her pupil, "Tell me, student. Once you have your soul... who will you become?"

The smaller cyborg mimicked her teacher's motions. Her own, far more advanced hands moved effortlessly, the black, nanoweave armor shifting like organic skin as she brought her thumb and index fingers together, smoothly fanning the other six digits into perfect symmetric balance. Her vidorbs brightened until the room was filled with a diffused, emerald glow.

When she looked up at the Israeli, she spoke the words with reverence, "I will become the Eighteenth Shadow."

To be continued...
_From Jon Lee Grafton: Thank you for reading the first three books in The 18th Shadow Series! If you have enjoyed the tale so far, please leave me a quick review. As an independent writer, your positive reviews and ratings are what make all of this possible, and I greatly appreciate you taking a moment to leave one! Does the story of William, Dorothy, Goran & Cat, Hugo, Danny & Dina continue? Absolutely! If you want to stay up to date on my upcoming releases, become a Friend of the Shadow. You can sign up for my mailing list HERE or follow me on Facebook. Again, a million thanks to you all, and I'll see you on the holostream... JLG_

# `An Evolving Glossary of Real Time Terms and Acronyms`

1)  1.9 Day (The San Andreas Geological Disaster of 2041): A massive Southern California earthquake caused by hydraulic fracturing, which kills 1.9% of the antique United States population. Commonly regarded as the unofficial starting point of the Progressive Revolution.

2)  2.5d: A quasi three dimensional hologram, often paired with a tactile interface on a mobile device such as a holotab. Also used in office monitor applications where a full three dimensional projection is not required.

2A)  Adler Code: The computer programming language developed by Marvin Adler at Darkpool Laboratories, first installed in the Coyote Pack.

4)  AK9MIL DOGS unit: Heavily armored, weaponized fusion powered cyborgs typically the size of a large limousine hovcar. Used only in military applications. These units are not encased in BIOSKIN©.

5)  AK9CIV DOGS unit: Fusion powered cyborgs typically the size of the cloned animal template. The law enforcement canine template is a full size working breed animal, such as a German Shepherd, Rottweiler or Doberman Pinscher. These cyborgs are encased in BIOSKIN© and are visually indistinguishable from their organic counterparts.

6)  Alcovap: Nanosensor designed to detect particles of airborne ethanol disseminated by breathing after one has been drinking alcohol.

7)  Amendment 31: This amendment to the NAUS Constitution banned the non-military use of all carbon based fuels.

8)  Amendment 32: This amendment to the NAUS Constitution (commonly referred to as the "Cage Free Law") banned Federal agricultural subsidies for ranchers producing commercially processed meat or dairy products.

9)  Amendment 33: This "progressive prohibition" amendment to the NAUS Constitution bans the use of alcohol for all purposes except government research.

10)  Amendment 46: This amendment to the NAUS Constitution requires that all fusion powered cyborgs contain self-destructing code sequences in their operating systems.

11)  Amendment 222: This amendment to the NAUS Constitution requires all military and civilian fusion based cyborgs to be constrained to canine biomorphology. Oversize military grade cyborgs are not permitted a BIOSKIN© wrap.

13)  Antique: Refers to any North American cultural practice that claims its roots in the 20th century or before; Eg., unregistered guns, hand rolling cigarettes, gasoline powered vehicles, rubber tires, music composed and played with actual instruments versus telepathic DJ'ing or AI based compositions.

15)  Architect, The: The reclusive sociopolitical engineer responsible for catalyzing The Progressive Revolution of 2041 and penning the 12 Steps to Vision which ultimately led to the passage of NAUS Constitutional Amendment 33. DEA and EPA oversight are placed under jurisdiction of The Office of the Architect which was founded in 2056.

17)  Autostream: Automated external communication by a computer or drone.

17A)  Battborgs: Non-fusion, cybernetic life form powered by conventional CATS batteries. Includes law enforcement CIV units such as RIOT and MARX borgs.

18)  Behavioral Modification Facility: A hospital, or division within a hospital, which is dedicated to the treatment of alcohol addiction through a combination of group therapy and cultural reeducation (see Bmod).

18A)  Betties: Slang term for young women; eg., "...those betties sure love to play Frisbee."

18B)  BIODRIVE©: A Lenexa, KS based technology corporation considered to be an economic anchor in the Graphene Prairie region. Established in 2041, BIODRIVE© is responsible for the invention of the _Human Biosync Processing Drive._

18C)  BioPex: Flexible, virtually indestructible, biologically adaptive plumbing utilized in exterior industrial applications.

18D)  BIOSKIN©: The living, self regenerating dermal bridge that covers a cybernetic skeletal chassis and genetically mimics the bone, skin and hair of the living animal cloned for base design. Originally created in 2053 by Dr. Marvin Adler and Dr. Sam Goldstein of Darkpool Laboratories.

19)  Blended: Slang term for being intoxicated on marijuana.

20)  Blendies: Slang term for hand rolled (see _antique_ ) cigarettes – ½ tobacco ½ jane.

25)  Bmod: Commonly used abbreviation for _Behavioral Modification._ Bmod psychiatric hospitals service the 30 day drug treatment regimens required by the NAUS government for citizens arrested in possession of alcohol.

26)  Boozebum: Derogatory slang term for an alcoholic or someone who drinks alcohol on a regular basis.

26A)  Borgs: Slang term for any cybernetic/animatronic life form.

27)  Camodrone: Aerial, cybernetic observation drones camouflaged as large domestic birds such as geese, owls, eagles or cranes.

28)  CannabiGene©: The largest government subsidized marijuana producer in The North American Union. Purple Tree Farms is a CannabiGene© subsidiary.

29)  CATS: Clark (cell) Alkaline Traction (battery) System; most common wireless rechargeable power source for civilian cybernetic life forms, both canine (Fido) and feline (Felix) form factors. CSF 1.0 – 2.0. See _battborgs._

30)  Centibots: A first release version of closed circuit, robotic millipedes with a one week life cycle. Invented in 2076, first made available to law enforcement in 2082; designed to burrow and detect seismic activity, moisture levels (HLIR) in soil and temporal (fusion) activity.

30A)  Chassis: The cyborg skeleton, either composed of plastic polymers in Fidos and Felixes, or titanalum in the case of military grade cyborgs.

31)  CIVborg: Stronger, faster, more powerful battery powered cyborgs used by civilian law enforcement agencies.

32)  CNED: Community Narcotics Enforcement Division; a government subsidized citizens' organization that encourages the reporting and arrest of people who are using alcohol, in exchange for a financial commission. CNED membership is a two tiered system. The majority of its membership base falls in the first tier, an all volunteer force. About five percent of CNED members fall into the second tier, that of salaried agents who function either as full time hunters or as educators for new members. CNED works in affiliation with local police and law enforcement groups, though they technically have no more authority than an average citizen to arrest or detain another person. CNED is the driving force behind the slaughterhouse industry (see _slaughterhouse_ or _Bmod)._

33)  COD: Citizen Observation Drone: The most prevalent form of security drone utilized in all North American United States cities.

34)  Combud: Subdermal, surgically implanted communications relay and personal computing network interface device. See _earpad._

35)  Comdot: A small silver disc the size of an antique nickel which is worn in front of the earlobe on the upper jaw bone. The device is removable but when activated functions identically to a combud minus the thought control interface.

36)  Compassionate Reforms Division of the IRS: A healthcare grant system which subsidizes Bmod hospital expenses for citizens who cannot afford to pay for the treatment out of pocket. The cost is deferred in the form of back taxes which accrue at a fixed interest rate.

37)  Courtezan: Little known group of humans who have developed the ability to project their thoughts into other peoples' minds; an evolutionary adaptation that can manifest anytime from adolescence into the early 20's.

38)  CSF: Cyborg Strength Factor; cyborg physical capability in comparison to muscular strength and gallop (or flying) speed of template animal upon which the animal's morphology is based. CSF ratings are typically measured on a common 1 – 10 hierarchical scale.

39)  DEA: Drug Enforcement Administration

40)  Dermaprix: Instantaneous, non-invasive cellular tissue analyzer used by law enforcement and Bmod hospital staff to determine the current level of THC (marijuana) in a citizen's bloodstream. Only used for individuals who do not have a combud installed.

40A)  Digidollars: The digital currency of the North American United States Union, expressed as D$100. Contextually equivalent to the antique dollar.

40B)  Dixie: A derogatory slang term, especially popular among CNED agents, which implies weakness. A reference to the Mason-Dixon line during the antique American Civil War.

41)  DOGS: D.ubnium O.xygen G.ravotemporal S.ystem (units): this acronym technically describes the chemical and scientific components required to create a stable fusion reaction, however today it is more commonly associated with cybernetic life forms powered by nuclear fusion versus a battery (see _Amendment 222_ and/or _CATS_ ). Accordingly, DOGS units are the most advanced fusion powered cybernetic lifeforms in the NAUS. DOGS units are divided into civilian grade (CIV) models, which are normally wrapped in BIOSKIN© and look exactly like a regular canine, and military grade (MIL) models which are the size of a hovcar. MIL units are not wrapped in BIOSKIN©. Given the complexity and expense of stabilizing a fusion reactor of any size, and with the advent of more advanced solar battery systems, DOGS units are increasingly rare. In the last decades of the 21st century, they are exclusively used by the military in combat applications. CIV unit CSF 6.0 – 8.0. MIL unit CSF 8.0 – 10.0+ (exponential proportions).

42)  E-joint: An electronic joint nearly identical in design to an electronic cigarette, except the active chemical ingredient is liquid THC (marijuana) instead of liquid nicotine.

43)  43) Earpad: Slang for an internal HBPD communications and identification device surgically implanted in the majority of NAUS citizens at adolescence. See _combud._

44)  FCAPA: Federal Citizens Alcohol Protection Act (33rd amendment).

45)  FCC: Federal Cyborg Commission.

46)  Felix: Common 21st Century North American vernacular for a battery powered cyborg (see _battborg_ or _CATS)_ based on any standard breed variant of the feline house cat; eg., American Tabby-Felix, Siamese-Felix, Burmese-Felix, Persian Gray-Felix, etc.

47)  Fido: Common 21st Century North American vernacular for a battery powered cyborg (see _battborg_ or _CATS_ ) based on any standard breed variant of the domesticated canine; e.g., Yellow Labrador-Fido, Chihuahua-Fido, Beagle-Fido, Jack Russell Terrier-Fido, etc.

48)  FR Cameras: Facial Recognition cameras (either stationary or installed in a _COD_ ) networked by a single citizen database, which is hierarchically accessible by various law enforcement agencies, local, state, and Federal; a division of the Interpol FR Imaging Network.

49)  FUI: Floating Under the Influence; A misdemeanor criminal charge for operating a hovercraft while impaired by marijuana. FUI's remain a common societal infraction despite the widespread availability of autopilot systems on even the most rudimentary hovercraft.

50)  Ganjacoffee (janecoffee): A 12oz canned beverage containing the equivalent THC content of a single vapor joint and the caffeine content of two shots of espresso.

51)  GEODRONE©: A privately held data exchange corporation responsible for controlling the placement of all NAUS drone traffic, whether human piloted or automated.

52)  GM: Genetically Modified.

53)  Govcloud: A free online data storage solution provided by the North American United States Federal Government to all registered citizens via the Govstream, aka: _the stream._

53A)  Graphene: A thin, flexible layer of pure carbon atoms that are bonded together in a hexagonal honeycomb lattice. Graphene is often used as a motherboard construct for quantum computing micro-mainframes such as those found in a DOGS unit or other advanced cyborg.

54)  Gravotemporal: Refers to the scientific means by which a fusion reaction is stabilized at the molecular level in a wormhole continuum.

55)  HBPD: Human Biosync Processing Drive (subdermal "earpad" or "combud"); "always on" micro-computer integrated into the temporal bone typically at the time of birth unless parents file a written request otherwise. All hardware is owned and operated by BIODRIVE© in association with the Food and Drug Administration of the North American United States Federal Government.

56)  HLIR Camera: Hydro Looking InfraRed; Heat sensitive cameras capable of detecting the kinetic friction created by moving water which trips a kinesis alarm.

57)  Holodata: High density digital information transmitted across a holographic based medium.

58)  Holoflage: Electronically projected light camouflage, either cloaking an individual (human, robotic, cybernetic) or a fixed structure such as a building, window or cybernetic vidorb. The most advanced holoflage systems are tactile enhanced.

58A)  Holoflix: Movies projected in standard three dimensional (or 2.5 dimensional) format across the holostream.

58B)  Hologames: Holographic video games.

58C)  Holography: Three dimensional, holographic still image production (vs. two dimensional photography)

60)  Hololicenses: Holographic permits of any nature broadcast by an individual's holotab; building permits, floater's licenses, hovercraft registration, proof of insurance, cyborg service date records, etc.

65)  Holoprojector: Any holographic image projector.

66)  Holoscreen: A computer monitor. Typically displays information as a 2.5 dimensional, high resolution hologram.

67)  Holostream: Also called the Govstream; a vast, worldwide cloud based computing system linking smaller computer networks, including applications, two dimensional and holographic sites for personal, government, educational and commercial use. In the North American United States, holostream access is provided free of charge to all registered citizens.

68)  Holotab (slang term; tablet/phablet/phone): Hand held computer interface tablet ranging in screen size from 10 – 25 cm capable of all rudimentary communication and computer functions as well as the ability to display 2.5d static holographic displays. More advanced devices are capable of projecting full three dimensional and tactile holograms. Holotabs are typically interfaced with combuds or are augmented by a private cloud computer with which the device is networked.

69)  Holovision: Basis for all modern home entertainment consoles, capable of operating as a music server, holoflix projector, communications uplink and basic computer workstation.

70)  Holozine: Magazine represented as a hologram. Requires a holotab equipped with a broadband data receiver.

71)  Hovcar: Standard civilian passenger hovercraft which surpassed the automobile as the primary form of NAUS transportation in 2054.

71A)  Hovlev: The NAUS Magnetic Hovway Reapplication System integrated a charged, magnetic conduit system beneath all public roads to provide automated vertical hovercraft thrust. The [hovlev] _gradient_ or traction affects only the degree to which autopilot features are utilized. A hovcar on full autopilot would use a hovlev gradient of ten [10]. A hovcar being floated manually would use a hovlev gradient of zero [0]. The system was fully completed in 2059.

72)  Hovshuttle: Or hovbus, public transit vehicle.

73)  Hovstop: Mass transit pick up and drop off site featuring holostream access, clean drinking water and bathroom facilities in most municipalities.

74)  Hovway: Transit corridors for all hovcar, hovbike and hovtruck vehicles, usually with a terrestrial bike lane as well. Hovways are composed of polymeric asphalt or plasticized cement and follow the long established routes of existing terrestrial roadways.

75)  Humdroid: NAUS slang for people who emerge from SAMCL surgery and wander through life in a robotic, highly structured existence thereafter. Most often associated with employment or affiliation with the civilian Community Narcotics Enforcement Division (see CNED).

76)  HUD: Heads Up Display of data projected via 2.5d hologram.

78)  Hypatia 5: A sprawling, multi-domed, NAUS penal colony on the lunar surface where the most hardened criminals are sent to serve their sentences working in the mineral mines. H5 is also the repository for post-slaughterhouse patients who are unable to reintegrate into society, yet do not seek euthanasia as a viable alternative. These individuals must accordingly repay their debts to society via forced labor.

78A)  Hypersense: A long distance scanning array specifically designed to detect the kinetic ripples in time caused by the micro-wormhole at the center of a fusion reactor.

78B)  Indica: The strain of marijuana typically associated with sedation, relaxation and full sensory body effects. This strain is typically the chemical base for janebeers and other popularized beverages designed to mimic the relaxing effects of alcohol.

79)  IR (mode): Independent Recognition mode allows DOGS units to operate of their own free will, mimicking the psychological profile of an organic dog or cat. Can also refer to infrared scan frequencies on HUD enabled com devices.

80)  ISS: International Space Station.

81)  Jane: NAUS slang term for marijuana.

82)  Janebev: Examples are janetea/janebeer/janewine (ganjatea/ganjabeer/ganjawine); These are popularized beverages sold to citizens 21 years of age or older which contain varying amounts of THC (marijuana). The development of these beverages was instrumental in the success of passing the 33rd amendment and/or Prohibition II as they were chemically engineered to mimic the taste(s) of a broad range of fermented beverages, including wine and beer.

83)  Javaball: (slang; j-ball); A potent coffee bar beverage typically served hot that contains two shots of espresso and 1,000 mg of liquid THC.

84)  Kinesis alarm: An computerized alert sounded when the motion of liquid within a contained space is detected. Normally used by CNED, DEA and police to discover hidden stashes of alcohol within a moving hovcar or hovtruck.

85)  Kleendroyd©: Manufacturers of commercial and household janitorial robots.

86)  KU: The University of Kansas

87)  Leaf: Nickname for marijuana popularized by hemp farmers in Kansas and Nebraska in the mid 21st century.

89)  Leafstamps: Government subsidized vouchers for personal marijuana purchases; generally provided in conjunction with food "stamps". The stamp is actually a digital voucher uploaded to a citizen's combud system and/or holotab.

90)  Levfans: Levitational "float" fans on all hovcraft responsible for maintaining vertical hover; typically suspension mounted to minimize any bumps or irregularities in the hovroad surface.

91)  Levtrain: A high speed, magnetically levitated mass transport system.

91A)  LPD: Lawrence Police Department.

91B)  Lunar Accord: A 2073 UN treaty permitting the use of android labor and cyborg experimentation in the lunar mining colonies. Conversely, the accord banned sentient AI's utilizing a human form factor anywhere on Terra, primarily to protect the human based labor economy. Humanoid labor _robots_ are permitted and mainstreamed by this legislation.

93)  MA: Marijuana (Addicts) Anonymous.

94)  MAAD: Mothers Against Alcohol Decriminalization.

95)  Magcuff: Battery powered, morphology adaptive handcuffs secured by a magnetic field.

96)  MARX (dogs): M.anagement A.ssault R.econnaissance X.enobot; these are CS3 battborgs based on the German Shepherd morphology. Like the common CATS bot available to civilians, they are not constructed around a titanalum skeletal chassis. Instead, their chassis is based on a semi-rigid polymer. MARX dogs have twice the strength and battery life of a standard CATS bot and are the modern cyborg of choice for various civilian law enforcement groups.

96A)  MTF: Bureau of Marijuana, Tobacco & Firearms.

97)  NADI: The North American Demographic Index supplies genetics profiles for every citizen in the NAUS embedded in the data core of their combud. If the citizen does not have a combud installed, this information is available in public records on the Govcloud.

98)  NAKC: North American Kennel Club.

99)  NAUS: The North American United States Union, established following The Progressive Revolution of 2041 which eventually came to include Canada, Mexico and the original United States of America.

100)  Neurosynth Circuitry: Computer circuitry integrated into the human brain as a means of basic telepathic interface and biodata retrieval.

102)  NORAL: National Organization for the Reform of Alcohol Laws.

102A)  'Noias: Slang for the paranoid reaction some consumers of marijuana experience when using the drug. The reaction is often acute among alcohol addicts who have undergone slaughterhouse surgery (see SAMCL). A Pleasium prescription is the most common means of treating marijuana induced paranoia.

102B)  NSL: National Soccer League

103)  Petri-Meat(s): Synthetically cultured protein medium which replicate the texture, taste and nutritional content of popular antique meat products such as beef, chicken and fish.

104)  PHC: Peoples' Hemp Collective(s). PHC's are government subsidized mega-farms that produce 95% of North America's hemp for industrial applications.

105)  PingMe: The most popular hologram based social media site in the late 21st century North American United States Union.

106)  Pleasium (P): A popular prescription anti-anxiety medication for which government subsidies are available; most often prescribed to those who experience paranoia after consuming marijuana.

107)  PR (Progressive Revolution): Sociopolitical change sparked by the San Andreas Geological Disaster of 2041 otherwise known as "1.9 Day."

109)  Revolution, The: See PR – Progressive Revolution.

110)  RIOT (dogs): R.econnaissance I.nterdiction O.ffensive T.erminator; the most advanced and powerful CATS cyborgs available. RIOT units are based on Doberman Pinscher morphology and are used exclusively by civilian law enforcement and the military. These cyborgs are typically wrapped in BIOSKIN©. CSF 5.0.

111)  Rubcrete: High density, impact and fire resistant insulation material composed of recycled plastics, rubber and concrete which is capable of blocking all wireless stream and transmission signals.

112)  SAMCL: Sonic Addiction Micro Cellular Lobotomy – A surgical process where a nanogauge drill bit is pushed into the skull around the eye socket until it is lodged in the frontal cortex. The flexible drill bit emits a series of sonic vibrations which destroys that section of the brain theoretically associated with chemical addiction.

113)  San Andreas Geological Disaster (1.9 Day): Massive earthquake caused by hydraulic fracturing which caused the death of 1.9% of the U.S. Population in 2041.

113A)  Sativa: The strain of marijuana typically associated with emotional uplift, energy and creativity. Sativa strains stimulate the frontal cortex of the brain and are typically blended with coffee or other stimulant based beverages, if not vaporized.

114)  Seisometer: A drone or cyborg mounted sensor array which detects seismic vibrations in the Earth's core.

115)  ServCall©: A Lenexa, Kansas, based company known for manufacturing land based service, errand and courier droids.

116)  Shiner: Derogatory slang term for a citizen who is directly involved in the black market alcohol trade, either production, sale or distribution.

117)  SimulSun©: A specialty company located in Modesto, California, that produces artificial lighting arrays which simulate the full spectrum radiation of sunlight. Due to their excessive power consumption and expense, these arrays are used almost exclusively in corporate or public sector applications.

118)  SkyDrop©: Privately owned, drone based courier service.

118A)  Slaughterhouse: A derogatory slang term given to hospitals and clinics that perform SAMCL surgery. "The Slaughterhouse Experience" is what is commonly attributed to turning a regular alcohol user into a humdroid.

119)  SSRI: Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitor

120)  Synth(meat): Synthetic beef, chicken, pork or fish grown in petri cubes.

121)  Synthamneotic fluid: Artificial birth medium, which precisely replicates the uterine environment and is the basis for the popular, extracorporeal embryonic growth movement among women.

122)  Tangi-gram: NAUS slang for a tangible hologram. Tangible holographic technology was patented in 2069 by Austrian optics physicist, Jens Frankel. Projecting tangi-grams and their associated 180 degree visuotactile environments requires the fastest superframe computers available, bridged with molecular resolution, triple-lensed holoprojectors. These systems additionally require synced access to dedicated, high density solar arrays and/or a fusion based power source. The programs are biometrically encrypted to the operator and cost millions of digidollars to purchase. It is this latter condition which makes private ownership by all but the wealthiest individuals impossible. One widely known cultural exception is amongst the world of hackers. Many hackers will construct their own solar arrays and program their own tangi-grams, avoiding the upfront cost of proprietary purchase by programming their own avatars. In the mainstream NAUS economy, tangi-grams are used primarily in two industries: avatar based surgery and virtual prostitution.

122A)  TeaHC©: Concentrated adult beverage produced by OneThread© Beverages that contains the THC equivalent of a single vapor joint in liquid form. Available at your local grocer in pomegranate, blueberry and citrus flavors.

123)  THC: Tetrahydrocannabinol, or more precisely its main isomer (−)-trans-Δ9-tetrahydrocannabinol [(6aR,10aR)-delta-9-tetrahydrocannabinol], is the principal psychoactive constituent (or cannabinoid) of the marijuana plant.

125)  Titanalum: The most expensive metallurgic substance known; an alloy derived of titanium and aluminum which is then coated with a thin layer of bionic graphene. Used almost exclusively in the military cyborg industry for chassis construction.

126)  Transhuman: This term refers to individuals who have experienced spikes of evolutionary advancement. These citizens manifest varied advanced abilities from cognitive telepathy and ESP to accelerated strength quotients and sensory capabilities such as night vision or long range hearing.

127)  Tricyclic Summit Theory: A mythological urban construct widely discussed by civilian members of academia which posits that by combining quantum computer processors, fusion power and the Adler Code programming language, a cyborg is capable of attaining a mammalian level of autonomous intelligence, memory and consciousness.

128)  Vaporjoint: See _E-joint._

129)  VCSW: Vision Certified Social Worker.

130)  Vidorb: Cybernetic visual receptor or "eyeball" capable of thermal imaging, target contrast enhancement, tracking, telescopic magnification, holotransmission, holoflage projection and microscopic enlargement. Normally vidorbs are associated with cyborgs, however they can also be surgically installed in a human being to replace a damaged eye or to counteract blindness.

131)  Vision: The socialist philosophy of living in environmental harmony with the Earth and fellow humans, whose basic tenant is that citizens of a healthy society have nothing to hide from one another. "Vision sees through the archaic need for privacy." The most contentious aspect of Vision is the prohibition of alcohol as it is posited that the drug is detrimental to the fabric of society. The concept of Vision was created by the Architect.

132)  WarmCoure©: A company which produces a line of form-fitting winter active wear that radiates heat across the skin in order to maintain a comfortable body temperature. WC shirts and pants are powered by micro-graphene batteries woven into the clothing's fabric in strands the width of a thread.

Jon Lee Grafton

Copyright © 2018 Jon Lee Grafton Books

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