Category: Monday Fiction

Chapter One

For the record, I hate cooking. It takes too much time and creates too much mess. Besides, for someone who barely needs to eat, just buying a few things from a restaurant or store makes a lot more sense. Then Anne and I started having weekly dinners together. The Director of Covert Action for the North American Sector could not be seen in public with a notorious freelancer who was also a semi-disgraced former elite soldier. Also, she was considered a high-value target for a lot of people, which meant we couldn’t go into some of the more “unwatched” parts of New York. Then a surprising solution presented itself. When the Americans developed a top-of-the-line combat AI to help me manage my hodgepodge of alien and human tech, I doubt programmed Maestro a predilection for cooking. For some reason, he found planning, preparing, cooking, and serving dinner as an excellent tactical challenge.

“What is that wonderful smell?” Anne asked as she walked into the apartment.

“Buttered paneer,” I called back from the dining room. Maestro timed dinner perfectly. We were setting down the bowl as Anne walked into the dining room.

“You must tell me when you learned to cook,” Anne said. It was something she said anytime Maestro did a dish for the first time.

“That would waste relaxing time,” I said, sidestepping the question like I had every time she asked. We dined together once a week or so for the past six months. It was hard not to get closer to someone while spending that much intimate time. Not sexual – we decided against that for the moment, but intimate. Talking. Relaxing. Letting our guard down around another person. Being around someone who understood there were things we couldn’t and wouldn’t tell each other. Just as I had my own secrets – such as Maestro and Delph. Normally, Anne smiled at the comment, but instead her face was the professional mask she used as the Director.

“As much as I hate to waste our relaxing time, we have some business to discuss.”

“Our agreement is that I don’t work for you.” I laid that rule down early. Taking a contract from her would change our dynamic. Probably not a lot – we were both professionals – but it would change it enough that I wasn’t sure we would feel the same comfort around each other during our little dinners.

“The job will come from Descartes,” Anne said. Rene Descartes ran the largest freelancer firm in the North American Sector and was my most frequent employer. He was also a friend, to a point.

“So, why even tell me about it?”

“Because I want you to know some of the background stakes,” Anne said. “Because I don’t want you to be surprised if you come across somethings while on the job. Because I don’t want you to think I’m somehow pulling your strings.”

“Okay, you have my interest piqued,” I said, pouring Anne a glass of wine.

“How much do you know about the South African Sector?” Anne asked, “Outside of our time on Team Blue during the alien war.”

“I haven’t taken much of an interest outside of North America since the end of the alien war,” I answered.

“There have been some very suspicious raids occurring across the sector. Some in the sector leadership are blaming the Irregulars. Others demi bandits. Whoever is behind them, these raids are disrupting the flow of important goods both within the sector and to the rest of the continent. The sector governor is being asked pointed questions from the Governing Council about what he is doing to stop these raids. His position is in doubt.”

“Why is the governor of another sector important to you?”

“He is important to Councilmember Webster.” Ah, there it was. Councilmember Lilia Webster was one of the twelve most powerful people in Liberation – the Governing Council. From the few tidbits Anne let slip during our dinners, Webster was the leader of the faction on the council opposing the request by the Omnisen to hand over the demis as superpowered Janissaries in return for critically needed aid in rebuilding our world. Webster’s faction wanted the aid, but not at the expense of enslaving the demis.

“Okay, so why should I take this job?”

“Whether you want to believe it or not, Councilmember Webster has been covering for you against Councilmember Martel. This is a favor to her.”

“I didn’t ask her to do that.”

“No, but I did,” Anne said. I didn’t really care about Webster “helping” me. I could take care of myself. That being said, Councilmember Webster was Anne’s patron. In Liberation, the patron relationship was important. At the levels Anne worked at, it was life-and-death important.

“Let’s say I agree to take the job. What am I going to do to find out who’s behind your attacks? I’m not an investigator,” I said.

“No. You are an agent of chaos. Just do what you normally do.” There was an odd undercurrent in her voice. Somewhere between frustration and annoyance and – amusement?

“Well, if this job is as complicated as you say, at least it’ll pay well.”

“I think that’s enough business talk. Let’s enjoy our romantic dinner,” Anne said, taking a sip of her wine.

“Are these dinners romantic?” I asked. Anne didn’t answer. She just gave me a very intriguing look. A look that I remembered from our Team Blue days. A look that usually led to something far more intimate than dinner and conversation.

Chapter Two

Rene’s office called a couple of days later. When I arrived, Rene was waiting with a middle-aged man wearing a blue business suit. Rene typed furiously on a tablet and pointedly ignoring me. That was never a good sign.

“Do you remember almost two years ago when you maneuvered me into blackmailing the Covert Action Directorate?” Rene asked.

“Blackmail is only an ugly word when you don’t need it to survive,” I said.

“You said I would get a lucrative no-work contract in return for keeping the Director’s indiscretions quiet. So please explain to me why I am being strong-armed by said Director by means of that so-called ‘no-work’ contract? To assign my premier investigative team to the Southern African Sector of all places? And why I am being forced to put you on the contract?”

“I wish I could tell you,” I answered.

“Because you don’t know or can’t tell us what you know?” the mystery man asked. The question came out cool and neutral.

“And you are?”

“Kevin, this is Paul Grant. The leader of said premier investigative team. He will be your supervisor on this contract.”

“You didn’t answer the question,” Grant said.

“No, I didn’t.” The room fell silent as Grant and I stared at each other.

“Paul, we do not have the time for you to waste time trying to outwait Kevin,” Rene said.

“I’m already uncomfortable with this job, Rene. Nothing against you, Mr. Mitchell, but I don’t like having someone forced on to my team. Especially someone as notorious as you. It draws unwanted attention and makes my team’s job that much more difficult.” There was something about the dispassionate professionalism in his voice that made me want to trust Grant. He reminded me of some of the better team leaders I worked with during the alien war.

“I completely understand, Mr. Grant. I wouldn’t like it either.”

“Then why should I let you come near my team?” he asked, pointedly.

“Officially, he’s there to provide security,” Rene said.

“Him, not our normal security detail?”

“There are other mitigating circumstances.” Rene handed me the tablet.

“What the fuck, Rene? We’re going in unarmed?” I asked.

“The South Africa Sector leadership would not give weapons clearance for an investigation team,” Rene said. “It is their opinion an investigative team is there only to provide information that they will act upon using their own resources. Just as I am being required to put Kevin on this job, I suspect that the South Africa Sector governor is being ‘strongly suggested’ to use my services.”

“Rene, he’s a weapon all on his own,” Grant remarked.

“It’s one of the reasons I am glad Kevin will be going with you.”

“I meant, based on what you just said, why would the South African Sector grant clearance for the Metal Ghost?”

“Because the Metal Ghost is not going. Kevin McNally, one of my security consultants, is accompanying your team.”

“Is that going to work?” Grant asked, with a healthy dose of skepticism.

“As long as Kevin does nothing to make them look harder at the CVs I send them.”

“I’m good at keeping a low profile,” I chimed in.

“I still have to tell my team your true identity. I’m not going to lie to them,” Grant said.

“Understandable,” I said, before turning to Rene, “So, if we don’t want me to show my steely side, and I can’t bring my normal toys, how do you want me to do to protect your people?”

“Do as you feel necessary once you get on the ground. Beg, buy, borrow, and steal what you need.”

“Just don’t tell anyone,” I said. I wasn’t Rene’s employee. I just worked for him from time to time. The arrangement gave me latitude on jobs and gave Rene the ability to throw me to the wolves if things go sideways.

“Could I have some cash at least?”

“Just be at the aerospaceport tomorrow at 0700 sharp. Things will be taken care of then.”

Chapter Three

“Despite what you may think from our meeting yesterday, I’m glad to have you along,” Grant said, as he extended his hand. I took it. His grip was firm and measured. Rene recruited Grant from the North American Relief Forces Constabulary. Grant was a career detective from before, during, and after the alien war. He built a sterling reputation among the freelancers who worked with him, including a couple I reached out to personally.

We walked across the tarmac to one of Rene’s bigger transport planes. Strapped down in the main cargo deck were a pair of squat Badger armored vehicles. They looked odd with the white paint job and Descartes logo emblazoned on the sides. In place of turret guns, these Badgers sported sensor arrays. I laughed at the names painted on the rear hatches. Huginn and Muninn – the ravens who served the Norse god Odin as his eyes. Grant led me up to the personnel deck. Instead of the utilitarian setup of I was used to seeing on a transport plane, it was outfitted like a luxury jet. Four men and three women lounged on leather seats and couches. They stood as Grant stepped onto the deck.

“Everyone, this is Kevin,” Grant announced.

“Rebecca Thompson, Deputy Agent-In-Charge,” Grant said, introducing the nearest team member. The steel-haired woman smiled and extended her hand. The smile didn’t reach Thompson’s blue eyes.

“You don’t look like one of the most feared Praetorians of the alien war,” Thompson said, in a neutral tone. I wasn’t surprised by her cool greeting. This woman led the Irregulars in the Great Lakes region during the alien war. From what Delph dug up, Rene recruited her a step ahead of Liberation arresting her.

“That was a long time ago,” I said. She nodded politely before returning to her seat. She was going to be a fun one.

“Next is Stanley Buthelezi.” Grant motioned to a man over two meters tall and looking every inch the Zulu warrior. The scar running down the side of the face added to the visage. Despite his looks, Stanley was a tech with specializations in chemical and materials analysis.

“I’m glad to have you aboard,” Stanley said in an almost impenetrable Liverpool accent. Delph helpfully transcribed the words in our mind. “Need a shooter where we’re going.”

“Hey, I can shoot,” a short, stocky man exclaimed with a strong Latin American accent. He held out his hand. “Mikhail Vazquez.” Vazquez was dark haired and eyed, with strong Meso-American features. He spent the alien war as an MP in the Liberation Army before Grant recruited him as an investigator.

“I’m sure you can, but I think your AIC would like you doing what he hired you to do,” I said, shaking the proffered hand.

“This is Barbara Lightfoot,” Grant said as a pretty, petite brunette stepped up.

“She’s our electronics forensics specialist.” In other words, she was the team’s hacker. Lightfoot nodded politely before returning to her computer. She was uncomfortable with meeting someone new. I knew the type.

“Lucy Tan, our client liaison,” Grant said. Client liaison meant fixer in our world. She was the one responsible for making sure the team had what they needed and the appropriate permissions – or bribes – were in place to let the team work. Rene considered her one of the best fixers in his firm.

“I have a package for you from Mr. Descartes.” Tan was pleasant and professional as she handed over a small nylon sling bag. I slipped it into my own bag.

“And the twins,” Grant said, motioning to the last two team members. “Sanjay and Raj Patel.” The twins were about 160 centimeters tall with wiry builds, but that was the limit of their similarities. Sanjay wore thick glasses that made his eyes look larger than normal. Sanjay was the bio-chemistry tech for the team. Raj, on the other hand, was perfectly non-descript. He looked every bit the “infiltration specialist.” There was nothing in the files about what the twins did during the war, but I doubted Raj acquired his skill set in Liberation’s service.

They seem like a good group, Delph said in our shared mind. Then something else grabbed her attention.

Yeah. Keeping them alive might be interesting.

The young hacker found us on the local network. She’s trying to dig into the new ‘device.’ There was almost maternal amusement on Delph’s part. Maestro, of course, wanted to immediately eliminate the threat. Good combat AI’s don’t think in terms of moderation.

Just silo her intrusion and leave her alone.

She needs to learn exactly how foolish she’s being.

Don’t get her too riled up. Then, it’s a challenge. I felt the raised eyebrows in our shared mind. I leaned back to go to sleep. I heard a pop and hiss followed by a shout from Lightfoot. Smoke alarms went off as Lightfoot slammed her now-ruined tablet on the ground. She shot an angry glare at me. Yup, challenge laid down and accepted.

Chapter Four

I woke up as we descended into Table Mountain Aerospaceport. Cape Town was almost leveled during the early days of the alien war. What little still stood was demolished when Liberation decided to rebuild the city in its own image. Around the harbor were dozens of twenty-story “Integrated Living Towers.” Flats, shops, offices, and entertainment facilities in self-contained glass/concrete/steel monstrosities. Industrial parks dotted the city between the towers. High speed magrail tracks criss-crossed the city.

The plane taxied to the government hangar complex. As the rear cargo door lowered, there was a collection of people in suits and Relief Force uniforms waiting for us. It’s never a good sign when they’re waiting in the hangar. Either the situation is desperate enough they don’t want to wait, or they don’t want witnesses to hear how bad it is. Or both. From the grim and frustrated expressions on the waiting people, I was betting on both.

“Game faces, team,” Grant said. “Lucy, you’re up. Everyone, take your cues from Lucy. She’s worked in Africa before. The culture is very different than our normal AO.” The team members nodded. Grant and Tan walked down the loading ramp. While they talked with the leadership delegation, the rest of the team started packing their gear into the armored cars. After about fifteen minutes, Grant, Tan, and a stocky man walked onto the plane’s cargo deck. The newcomer was a shade lighter than Stanley with a shaved head and bright, intelligent eyes. A dark jagged scar ran over the top of the man’s head. He wore a Relief Forces uniform. The salad bar on his chest in addition to his scar told the story of an experienced veteran.

“This is Administrator Malik al-Fahad,” Grant said, “He’s our liaison with the South African Sector governor.” Administrator was a couple steps down on the civil hierarchy from the governor.

“It is good to be working with all of you,” al-Falad said in a melodious tenor. He turned to Tan. “I understand you booked a business suite in Blue Tower?” She nodded. “Excellent. May I suggest we retire there, so I may brief your people in more, hospitable, environs?”

“That will be fine,” Grant answered before turning to the rest of us. “Lucy and I will go with Admin al-Falad. Follow us in the trucks.” I was not looking forward to the drive. I had bad memories from riding in those armored cars during the alien war. Then I stepped into Munin. I didn’t know how Rene’s engineers managed, but the inside was spacious with multiple workstations and supply lockers. I rode with the Patel brothers and Lightfoot. Rene’s mechanics even improved the ride so the forty-five minute drive didn’t feel like being inside a clothes dryer.

Blue Tower was a Tier-Two habitation tower aimed at the upper middle and lower upper classes – senior blue-collar specialists and mid-level white collar workers. Our suite was inside a hotel catering to long-stay business travelers. Six rooms surrounded by a shared common room, kitchen, and meeting room. Grant, Thompson, and I got the single rooms while the others double bunked. After dropping our gear, we joined al-Falad in the meeting room. The RF official projected a map of the South African Sector on the wall.

“To reiterate, your team was brought in to help identify who has been attacking our operations over the past few months,” al-Falad said. A dozen red dots appeared on the map. Beside each dot was a time stamp.

“The first was three months ago. The most recent was a week ago. Each of the attacks was fast and brutal. They targeted mining operations, chemical manufacturers, and farms. The result of each attack was the same. All machines wrecked, most of the on-site staff killed, the rest severely wounded, and all inventory stolen.”

“We were told you needed help tracking down a new terrorist faction. Are these acts of terrorism or theft?” Grant asked.

“That is a matter of some debate. Due to the destruction at each site, the Sector Governor believes it is terrorism.” There was something in the way al-Falad phrased his words. Like he was repeating a prepared statement that he did not agree with.

“Yet no one has claimed responsibility?” Thompson asked.

“No. Other than the crimes themselves, the constabulary have found nothing to indicate who these people are. It is why there are others who think this is just theft. The Sector Governor requested your team to provide an outside opinion.”

“First, we need access to the last site,” Grant said.

“The results of the Constabulary’s investigation are included in your packets,” al-Falad said.

“We are here because of our expertise,” Grant said, “To provide a complete analysis, we need to see the site ourselves, not the Constabulary’s analysis.”

“The constabulary did a through investigation. I cannot allow you to possibly taint the investigation in case it comes to trial.”

“Administrator, Section 2, Paragraph A of the contract states we require full access to all scenes and evidence for our own analysis,” Tan said, reading off her tablet. Admin al-Falad frowned as he brought up the requisite part of the contract.

“Of course, we will do whatever we are required to do,” al-Falad said, “I will arrange transport for you to be taken to the Omond mine tomorrow.”

“That’s not necessary. We’ll take our own vehicles,” Grant said.

“It’s a long drive, and I’m sure your team would rather travel in some comfort,” al-Falad said.

“While I appreciate the concern, our vehicles have the necessary equipment for us to do on-site analysis.”

“If you will excuse me then, I must make the appropriate arrangements,” al-Falad said. “We will need to leave at five tomorrow morning to make it there before the reconstruction crew arrives.”

“We will see you at five then,” Grant said. al-Falad nodded and left. Grant turned to his team.

“I know what you are going to say, and I agree with most of it. Right now, we work the problem. Let Lucy and I deal with the RF. Focus on figuring out who’s responsible for the attacks. We’ve an early morning, so get some rest, get some food, and review the packets. I want everyone in this room at 0400 for breakfast and initial thoughts.”

I went back to my room. It was mid-afternoon in Cape Town, and I still needed to do some “shopping.” Liberation did its best to sweep up guns from the populace, but after a decade of war – and the associated weapons production – there was no way they could get them all. The most they could do was confiscate any weapons found and come down heavy on anyone who didn’t have the proper licenses. The North American Constabulary gave up on even doing that much outside the cities or refugee camps.

Delph sent her children across Blue Tower’s network the moment we arrived. By the time al-Falad left, Delph compiled a list of “vendors”. Inside that bag Rene provided me were some jail-broken cash cards loaded with various amounts along with a few precious stones. The nice thing about being in a Tier Two tower is the less-than-legal vendors were less street gangs and more morally ambiguous businesspeople. The improved professionalism was worth the extra cost. A long conversation with a nice lady on the sixth level – and the exchange of some of the cards and a very nice emerald – netted me one of her weapons caches. I came away with an older Liberation standard infantry carbine with mounted grenade launcher, a sniper rifle, a pair of submachine guns, a half-dozen pistols of different makes, and plenty of ammo for all of it. Grant was in the main room when I dragged in the two crates. He gave me a brief look before going back to his tablet. It was nice working with professionals.

Chapter Five

The remains of the mining site reminded me of the destruction I saw during the war. The buildings were reduced to little more than rubble. A few broken walls were still standing. The air was filled with old, burnt smells – burnt plastics, burnt metal, burnt wood, burnt flesh. Smells that I always hope never to smell again. I slung my bag and followed the team. Like most of Liberation’s industrial plants, the mine was heavily automated. The influx of alien tech made it possible to run this kind of operation with less than fifty people. The actual mining was done by a fleet of robots. The bodies were long gone, but the stains were still there. Twenty people were murdered here. Some were caught in the destruction of the buildings, but at least five were executed according to the Constabulary reports.

“Stanley, Sanjay, release your little helpers,” Grant ordered. “Rebecca, take Mikhail and Raj and start a sweep.” The two lab techs went back into the trucks. Lightfoot was already going through the mine’s computer records. Tan and al-Falad were talking with the mine boss and foreman, who weren’t happy. Tan and al-Falad made soothing gestures. The three investigators fanned out across the mining complex. Grant stood by the trucks and let his team do their work. I climbed up on Hunin for a better vantage point. A dozen small drones launched from Munin and darted around the site as the investigators did their thing. The replacement mine workers stood down the road looking angry. We were keeping them from getting the mines back in operation and earning their livelihoods. From what I gathered, outside of the few cities, it was very hand-to-mouth across the sector.

I scanned the horizon. Nothing. As I did my second sweep, Maestro screamed in our shared mind. He turned my head back to a slight distortion in the hills in the distance. Old instincts told me that wasn’t part of the landscape. Maestro demanded we shed our skin sheath so we could use our cyber-body’s much better sensors.

Hold on, Delph said, before Maestro did something stupid – like reveal our true identity to everyone at the mine. Delph took control of a drone and redirected it. There was a person crouched on a hill in older Liberation battle armor watching us through a pair of binoculars. He froze as he saw the drone focused on him. The unknown dropped behind the hill and disappeared. Then the feed from the drone disappeared.

What the hell, Delph?

Sanjay rebooted the drone and kicked me out, the AI explained.

“Grant, we just had someone watching us. May have been one of the bad guys.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t RF?”

“Not unless the South African Sector is using left over alien war-era gear.”

“Where is he now?”

“Gone. Got a feeling he was just doing recon. He skedaddled as soon as he figured out that I spotted him.”

“Well, let me know if we need to evacuate.” I saw why Grant had the reputation he had. I knew too many “leaders” who would run at the slightest amount of risk or ask the impossible like taking out a now-vanished scout. We left the mine site four hours later without incident. The investigators bitched about the site’s staleness, but the lab folks picked up a few things. Once we were in the meeting room again, the team laid out their findings.

“It looks like most, if not all, the damage was done by explosives or conventional weapons,” Sanjay said, “We didn’t detect energy blast residuals.”

“Lots of spent casings,” Vazquez said, “Even with all the clean up by the mine staff, there were still a bunch of 7.5 mm carbine casings scattered around the area. Some 30 mm ones from a rifle mounted grenade launcher.”

“So, the unknowns were using military arms,” Grant said. “Not like those would be hard to come by.”

“I’m trying to figure out motive,” Thompson said, “If it was theft, then why destroy the place and execute the workers? That takes too much time. If terrorism, why hit a mining operation in the middle of nowhere? Who were they hoping to terrorize?”

“What do you think?” Grant asked me. Thompson looked skeptical, while the others were surprised Grant asked me at all. I guess they were used to their security just being quiet and thuggish. I looked over the information again. Something was tickling the back of my mind. It was Delph who provided the answer. Sometimes having a shared mind was useful.

“Denial raid.”

“A what?” Vazquez asked.

“An attack to deny the enemy resources. During the war, we would hit an alien supply depot or manufactury and completely wipe it out.”

“Including murdering everyone?” Thompson asked.

“If it was Demnisen, then yes. We were sometimes more merciful with the Omnisens. Sometimes,” I answered.

“I didn’t hear about these kinds of things during my service in the war. Were these only done by Praetorians?” Vazquez asked.

“No, commando groups – both human and demi – did them,” I answered. “Denial raids were behind-the-lines missions. They required specialized units.”

“Small specialized unit matches what we found,” Sanjay said, “There was strong evidence of eight attackers and weak evidence for another four.”

“Twelve attackers?” Thompson asked, “For that level of damage, at least half that group would have to be demis.”

“They couldn’t have been demis,” Lightfoot said. The hacker’s soft soprano voice grabbed the group’s attention. From everyone’s reaction, she didn’t speak up often in these meetings.

“Why?” Stanley asked.

“The demi detectors were online during the attack, and they never pinged once.”

“Could a team of commandos do that kind of damage?” Grant asked. Maestro chimed in his assessment in the back of our shared mind.

“Not if the raid was done in the time you suspect,” I answered. “They probably spoofed the detectors.”

“How would you spoof demi detectors?” Grant asked. Lightfoot sat back and thought about it.

“If you could get past the internal firewalls, you could make them ‘forget’ they were seeing demis,” Lightfoot answered. “The mine had four demi detectors covering the site. Hacking all four without leaving a trace would be iffy.”

Unless you have my skills, Delph bragged in our shared mind.

Yeah, I’m not telling them that, I replied. Delph sulked in the back of our mind. Delph wasn’t normally vain, but she was touchy about her infiltration skills. Especially when I wasn’t being as appreciative as she wanted me to be.

“Someone on the inside shut the detectors down or erased their records after the fact?” Vazquez asked. Lightfoot tapped furiously on her tablet for a few moments.

“If there is, they covered their tracks well enough I can’t find any evidence,” Lightfoot answered. Her tone made it clear that wasn’t something she considered likely.

“Rebecca, start running backgrounds on the mine personnel. Anything that might indicate an insider.” Thompson nodded and started tapping away on her tablet.

“Sanjay, Stanley, continue processing what you found from the site,” Grant ordered, “See if you can find anything to indicate this was done by demis.” The two lab techs went back out to the trucks to continue their work.

“Mikhail, Raj, I think it’s time we find out what the locals have to say,” Grant said. The last two just nodded before striding out of the room. As they left, Grant motioned for me to follow him out of the conference room.

“You have a way of spoofing the detectors, don’t you?” Grant asked. “Kevin the freelancer was too active for the Metal Ghost to stay hidden for as long as you managed.”

“I do, but it’s part of being the Metal Ghost,” I said, “It’s not something anyone else could duplicate.”

“But if you can do it, another demi might be able to as well,” Grant said.

“Maybe, just not the way I was doing it.”

“We put the bug into Barbara’s ear, so if there’s something, she’ll dig it up,” Grant said. “We may have to forcibly take away all her devices and force her to sleep, but she’ll find any trace of possible tampering.”

Chapter Six

“Kevin, do you have a minute?” Lightfoot asked, rapping on my door. Before I said anything, she opened the door and froze. Whatever she was expecting, it wasn’t me field stripping a rifle.

“Why, yes, Barbara, I have a minute,” I answered, lacing the words with as much sarcasm and recrimination as I could. She looked up from the weapon and smiled nervously.

“I’m sorry. I forgot again,” she said, the hint of crimson touching her cheeks.

“Happens a lot?” I asked.

“I forget people rules,” Lightfoot said. “Rebecca’s helping me, but it’s hard.”

“Especially when you’re thinking hard,” I guessed. She nodded and the crimson deepened on her face. “Don’t worry about it. What can I help you with?”

“You said denial raids were to keep critical supplies from the enemy,” Lightfoot said.

“Yes.”

“What if we could predict the next attack?” Lightfoot said. “Is there a hierarchy of targets? Something we could build an algorithm for?” All traces of embarrassment vanished as the words spilled out of her. There was a light in her brown eyes as her mind engaged on the task.

“Army Intelligence used a rubric to determine the targets,” I said, thinking back. “They classed targets on a green-yellow-red scale.” As I talked, a tablet materialized in Lightfoot’s hands. I swear, it was like the woman conjured it out of the air.

“Do you know what the model was called?”

“No. I just saw the target lists,” I said. “Intel didn’t want Praetorians mucking around with their toys.”

Lightfoot slid to the floor as she tapped away. The rest of the world faded away as she hunted down her electronic quarry. I went back to cleaning the rifle. If our watcher showed up again, I wanted to be able to reach out and touch him. With Maestro helping, I could do that at any range inside of two and a half kilometers. I finished cleaning and reassembling the rifle when Lightfoot came up for air.

“Hrm,” Lightfoot grunted. She looked around as if confused as to where she was. As soon as she looked at me, I saw her remember the series of events.

“Didn’t find what you were looking for?”

“Oh, no, I found the rubric on the RF Intelligence’s servers. It wasn’t even that hard. I’m looking at the activity log. It sat on the archive with no activity, until about a year ago. Unidentified user made a copy of the model. Now I’m trying to see if they made any changes to the original.”

“Unidentified user?”

“Hacker,” Lightfoot said.

“Could you find who hacked the system?” I asked.

“From a year ago?” Lightfoot looked at me like I just asked if she could breathe underwater.

Delph, work some magic here? I asked.

Let me see what I can find out, Delph answered. The girl is very skilled, but I’m better.

Don’t get overconfident, I warned, but I felt Delph diving in. From the echoes of disdain, Delph was somewhere between insulted and annoyed at the state of the system’s security. I left her to do her job, while I looked back to Lightfoot. She was tapping away. She stopped and looked up with intense eyes.

“We need to get the team,” Lightfoot said, “I don’t know what inputs are needed.”

“I’m assuming you’ve got the model up and running?” I asked. She answered with a flat look. Without another word, Lightfoot spun and strode out of my room.

She’s a firecracker, Delph said, returning to our systems. I left some children to sweep the tracks. Hopefully I’ll have something soon.

Drop what you find to Lightfoot.

Why would I do that? Delph asked, offended.

Because we don’t need a team of highly trained investigators wondering how their security guy managed to find something like that when their resident tech wizard couldn’t, I answered.

Spoilsport.

Chapter Seven

For the last four hours, the team threw any and all inputs they could come up with into Lightfoot’s copy of the target selection model. The first run gave us a dozen possible targets. We narrowed the inputs down and came up with three probables. A farm about fifty klicks from Cape Town, a manufacturing plant some thirty klicks along the coast, and a chemical factory on the outskirts of the city.

“I’m unconvinced about the chemical plant,” Thompson said, “It’s too close to Cape Town.”

“The bad guys raided three other chemical plants,” Vazquez said. “Swiped all the on-hand stuff. It’s got to be a revenue source for these guys.”

“Yes, but none of their attacks were this close to the city.”

“I don’t think it’s going to be the farm,” Stanley said. “It would be too soon compared to the last farm attacks.”

“What about the factory?” Grant asked. No one voiced any objections. “Right. I’ll tell al-Falad. Maybe the RF can set up an ambush.” He sounded less than confident. Unfortunately, with the lack of any hard intelligence, the model was all we had. The meeting broke up as the team went to further refine what they had. I went to study the plant for possible angles of attack. Grant pinged me about an hour later.

“What’s up?”

“Admin al-Falad was impressed, but said RFC leadership doesn’t agree” Grant said, “Admin al-Falad managed to convince them to send a squad of constables to beef up the factory security, but that’s it.”

“A squad? Of regular constables?”

“Yes,” Grant answered. “Also, Admin al-Falad wants us on site. Since we complained about not being brought in soon enough before.”

“That sounds potentially dangerous.”

“Agreed. Unfortunately, it’s in the contract. If I press the issue, they won’t send any constables. Which means if something happens, the RFC will blame us. Which will make life difficult for Mr. Descartes.”

“You’re probably correct. About it all.”

“Can you protect the team if the unknowns attack?”

“I will do what I can, but there’s something you need to know. Part of the reason I’m here is to stop these attacks, not just find out who’s behind them. If our unknowns attack, I’m going to take them down if I can.”

“Are you working for Rene or someone else on this job?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny.”

“Damn it.”

“What I can tell you is that I will not risk your people,” I said. “So, if I tell you to run, just run.”

Chapter Eight

The manufacturing plant produced small appliances and consumer electronics for the South African Sector. The hundred or so workers studiously ignored the squad of constables invading their workplace. Relief Force Constabulary squads consisted of four patrols of four constables each with a squad leader and deputy squad leader to bring the total to twenty constables. Two patrols were scattered outside the factory, a third on the roof, and the fourth walking the factory floor. The sergeant in charge of the squad and his deputy ensconced themselves in the relative comfort of the control room. From our brief introductions, this particular squad was assigned to the factory as punishment for some infraction. Needless to say, that didn’t boost my confidence.

The investigator team waited in the armored trucks, watching the feed from the plant’s security cameras as well as their own sensors. I stood outside scanning the darkened horizon. Maestro grumbled I should shed my skin sheath so I could use all my wonderful sensors. Maestro didn’t understand things like maintaining a cover.

“Why are you frowning Kevin?” Lightfoot asked.

“The constables are too spread out,” I grumbled. “Plus, we’re too exposed.” The factory was in a shallow valley with low hills to the north and south a couple of kilometers out. About five hundred meters around the plant was cleared, but beyond the clearing was tall grasses interspersed with trees. It didn’t help it was dusk, that wonderful time when the sky was still light, but the ground was dark.

“The sergeant was very clear he wanted us here,” Grant said, his voice perfectly neutral. Grant’s talk with the squad leader wasn’t pretty. I thought the North American RFC were corrupt, but the South African Relief Force constables put the NARFC to shame. Our presence was probably the only reason the squad was at least going through the motions of protecting the factory and not just helping themselves to the warehouse. Their presence was also why I was on the top of Hunnin with a pair of binoculars instead of my big rifle. I had the carbine in the bag slung over my shoulder and a machine pistol concealed in my waist. Very few bad guys shrugged off 30 mm grenades followed by 7.5 mm armor-piercing rifle fire. If they could, then I would have to–

WHANG! The bullet punched me off the top of the armored truck. I heard the crack of the rifle as I crashed onto the asphalt. Damage reports flooded my mind. The biologics were destroyed where the bullet hit and minor shock damage to my cyber chassis. Good news, the bad guys didn’t know I was a demi – or demi-equivalent cyborg – since they used an anti-personnel round. Bad news, they realized I was a nastier threat than the constables and tried to take me out first. If they were smart enough to realize that…

Two constables on the roof were torn apart by heavy machine guns. I pulled my carbine from the bag as I snaked around the truck. Two bad guys in alien war vintage armor stood at the edge of the cleared area cradling Mark II heavy machine guns like they were assault rifles. They had to be demis to wrangle those 100 kilo monsters, but the plant’s demi detectors didn’t even chirp.

Did you turn off the detectors? I asked Delph.

No, I just made them ‘forget’ us, Delph answered. I’m not seeing any jamming or hacking. I’m diving deeper. I let Delph do her thing while I did mine. I brought up the carbine and fired the grenade launcher. The frag got the pair’s attention. More importantly, it wrecked their machine guns. They discarded their trashed weapons and sprinted at me. Maestro rapid-fired grenades. The next two were silver bolts. The giant metal darts were designed to punch through alien tank armor. Both demis stumbled to the ground as their center masses were torn out.

Before their bodies hit the ground, a new pair of bad guys emerged from the tall grass. Both carried submachine guns. As they sprinted forward with demi speed, they showered me with automatic fire. I returned fire as I dodged to the side. My light body armor was shredded by streams of 10mm rounds. Several punched into my skin sheath, but just barely dented my chassis. One demi came at me while the other ran towards the plant. Maestro screamed to shed our damaged skin sheath and let loose. My instincts told me to keep my true nature hidden until there wasn’t any other choice. We weren’t there yet.

I emptied my carbine’s magazine at Bad Guy One sprinting towards the plant. The sudden impact of twenty rifle bullets knocked him off his feet. With that one down, I focused on the Bad Guy Two attacking me. He pulled back the charging handle on his reloaded submachine gun and brought it up. I couldn’t reload my carbine fast enough, so letting Maestro aim, I chucked the carbine. BG Two battered away the carbine, but the force of the blow caused him to miss a step. That was all I needed. It’s amazing how useful a right cross can be in a fight with a speed demi.

BG Two immediately backpedaled to open the range and brought his submachine gun up. My machine pistol was already in my hands and firing. The light pistol rounds wouldn’t punch through his armor, but they did a number on his gun. BG Two snarled at his scrapped gun, giving me time to go for my carbine. BG Two sprinted to stop me. He was almost fast enough. Almost. I scooped up my carbine just as he reached out for the weapon. I dropped the spent magazine, slapped a fresh one into the mag well, and felt the reassuring chunk of the bolt slamming forward. BG Two lunged as I pulled the trigger. A dozen rounds eviscerated him. I turned back to the factory, expecting to finish off BG One. The fucking demi was free climbing up the wall. Where were the constables? I brought up my carbine and fired. The climbing demi deftly dodged the gunfire. Fucking speedsters. I needed to get inside before BG One could wreck the factory’s equipment. I barreled through the doors – and found one of the patrols. They were not happy to see me.

“Drop your weapon!” The constable’s accent was almost indecipherable, but having carbines pointed at me made his intentions very clear.

“Corporal, there’s a demi climbing the building,” I said, as I carefully placed my carbine on the ground.

“Turn on the radios,” the corporal demanded. At first, I thought he was talking to one of his constables, but then I realized he was talking to me.

Delph, what the fuck is he talking about?

Gods dammit. Whoever’s running the bad guys’ battle space management is amazing, Delph said. I didn’t even notice that they compromised our comms until they switched everything off just now. I felt her “disconnect” as she dived into fixing the comms problem. Which left me to deal with four twitchy constables and a demi attacker. Maestro gave me a bunch of suggestions, none of which were helpful. Maestro’s suggestions tended to be brutal.

“Turn on the radios!” the corporal demanded, punctuating his words with his carbine.

“Corporal, why would I want to kill comms? We’re supposed to be working together to protect this place. Now, would you lower your weapons and help me before that demi…”

A canister hit the ground then the world went sideways. The stun grenade knocked the constables off their feet. Maestro managed to keep me upright. My biologic senses were dazzled, but I still had my cybernetic sensors. Not a lot, but enough to know the demi just dropped into the middle of us. His mistake. He should have taken us out at range.

BG One brought up his stubby submachine gun. I told Maestro to do whatever he wanted to take out the demi without shedding our skin sheath. Maestro grumbled, but he was happy to have free reign. Maestro feinted a grab at the SMG, which made BG One instinctively step back. Maestro closed and backhanded him. The blow rang BG One’s bell, but he didn’t lose a step. Impressive. Maestro punched low, scoring several body shots. The demi twisted to take the hits on his armor, but at least a couple of the punches hit tender bits. BG One let go of the SMG and drew a long, curved blade with the familiar glint of a monomolecular edge. Maestro dodged the first two slashes as he opened the distance. Without a blade of our own, it was foolish to close with the demi. A monomolecular blade would easily slice through our cybernetics.

“Walk away,” BG One said in a raspy voice, “You’re just a freelancer. You don’t need to die for these bastards.”

“You can do the same,” I said. “Just leave. Don’t make me kill you.”

“I’m the one with a weapon.”

“Yeah, about that,” I said. “They have weapons too.” I pointed behind him. BG One whirled to see four carbines pointing at him. I hit the deck. BG One leapt up as the constables sprayed the corridor with gunfire. With absolutely no fire discipline all four ran through their entire magazines in a couple of seconds. The constables tried to reload, but BG One was already among them. I ignored the constables’ screams and snatched my own carbine off the ground. Two were down before I jabbed my carbine forward. BG One spun and lopped off the front of my carbine’s barrel. Annoying, but it didn’t stop me from putting a short burst into his head. The demi staggered back and collapsed. I walked up to the demi and put another burst into his head. I did not want him to get back up.

Do we have comms yet? I asked Delph.

Not yet, Delph answered. I can’t even narrow down what they’re using to do all of this. Right now, I’m trying to isolate the interference. Can you get me to the factory’s control center? I need some dispersion to triangulate.

Sure thing. I picked up one of the dead constables’ carbines. Damn, it was one of the new Mark IV’s. It was flimsy and fired a dinky little 5.5 mm round instead of the 7.5 mm that worked perfectly well during the alien war. As I plucked a mag pouch something glinted in the corner of my eye. BG One’s mono-blade. Well, I wasn’t about to let that thing go to waste.

Maestro consulted the plant’s layout and found a quick path up to the control center. As I looked down on the floor of the factory, the workers were still going about their business. They didn’t hear the gunfire and explosions over the machinery noise. The control center was stationed at the top of the factory. It was lined with one-way windows to allow the factory managers to supervise the workers unnoticed.

I wasn’t sure if the squad leader was still there, if he ran off, or if I was going to get a face full of gunfire when I knocked on the door. With constables, anything was possible. What I didn’t expect was someone in old battle armor standing in the doorway wielding a claymore. The sword kind. I brought the carbine up and fired off a burst. The demi – what else would he be? – staggered from the sudden impact and whirled on me. I fired again, but the light carbine rounds were worthless against armor designed for alien energy weapons. Fucking Mark IV’s. The demi charged down at me. I let Maestro take over. The AI had the same opinion of the Mark IV and used it to block the demi’s slash. The weapon cracked from the blow. A second strike cleaved the carbine in two.

Maestro didn’t slow down, letting the halves of the broken weapon clatter to the floor and lunging with the pilfered mono-blade. The demi attempted to parry, but Maestro jinked the blade at the last moment. The mono-blade neatly lopped off the demi’s sword hand. To his credit, the demi didn’t scream in pain or rage. He just dashed back up the stairs, spraying wound-sealer on his stump. I rushed into the control room. The RF squad leader and three others in civilian clothing were dead on the floor. I wanted to chase the demi, but we needed to get the comms back up.

Delph, we’re in.

Hold one, she said.

“Kevin! Can you hear me?” Grant asked.

“Yeah, I’m in the control room. We’ve got four down here. Can you see up on the roof?”

“Negative,” Grant said, “We’re just getting our sensors back. What’s the situation inside?” I reported everything that happened to that point.

“Stay there and make sure no one comes into the control room. Do not chase any attackers. Find that demi’s hand. We’re going to want to analyze it. We might get a lead on who is behind this.”

“What about the ones I took down outside?” I asked, “Shouldn’t we be able to get something off them?”

“Some others took the bodies,” Grant answered. “The surviving RFCs are refusing to hand over the body of the one you killed inside the plant. Our only clue right now is the hand.”

“Acknowledged,” I said. “Can you have whomever you’re sending up here bring my other bag as well?” I needed a decent gun and to patch up my biologics. I located the hand on the stairs and just left it there. Let the professionals do evidence recovery. In a few minutes, Raj came up the stairs trailed by a half-dozen drones. He wordlessly handed me my bag before going into the office. A pair of the drones floated down and carefully lifted the hand up. The others followed Raj up to the office.

In the bag was a submachine gun. Unlike the machine pistol holstered at my side, this one was bigger and capable of handling better ammunition. Such as the magazine of DUAP rounds currently in the gun. Depleted uranium anti-personnel rounds did a number on demis. I slapped bandages on my damaged biologics. Half of the surviving constables were laying out their comrades in body bags while the others aggressively searched the plant for any possible infiltrators. Aggressively, but not particularly competently. Satisfied the attack was over, I walked out of the factory and over to the team’s armored trucks. Vazquez joined me.

“Crazy fucking night,” Vazquez said. I grunted in response. He took that as a cue to continue. “So, why do you think they pulled back?”

“What do you mean?”

“No offense Kevin, but the bad guys sent in a half-dozen demis, but there were another four or five unknowns available to drag off their bodies and equipment. Plus, they had total control of the electronic battlespace. If they were here to wreck the plant and had all those extra demis, why pull back? Why not finish the job?”

“Maybe this was all they had?” I asked in response. “Was this their only action team? The others were support folks?”

“Even with the other demis we just saw?” Vazquez asked.

“Not every Praetorian was a direct combatant,” I answered. “Some folks just aren’t cut out for combat.” Vazquez snorted in amusement.

“Or they have skills better used otherwise,” he said.

“Exactly.”

“So, those were support?” Vazquez asked.

“Could be.”

Vazquez looked like he was going to ask another question, but Stanley interrupted him. The tall lab tech called us back over to the truck. We climbed into the back where Stanley and Sanjay were analyzing the recovered evidence. Grant and Thompson were already there, so I squeezed into the back as best as I could. It got tighter when Sanjay closed the door.

“What’s up Stanley?” Grant asked. The two lab techs traded nervous glances. That piqued my interest.

“We’re still doing the analysis on the hand, but we found out something we thought you should be made aware of,” Sanjay said. The lab techs traded more nervous looks.

“Spit it out,” Thompson said. A calm tone belied the harshness of her words.

“The hand doesn’t belong to a demi,” Stanley said, “We can’t find any of the genetic mutations we would expect to find in a demi.”

“What the fuck?” I asked, “If they weren’t demis, then how were they moving and fighting like demis?”

“Cyborgs?” Grant asked.

“Those don’t exist,” Thompson said. “No one’s been able to integrate alien tech into the human body. At least, not without it killing the recipient.”

“There were rumors the Americans were experimenting with cybernetic soldiers during the war,” Stanley said. I worked hard to keep my face neutral. I wasn’t aware any rumors got out about the Scorpion project.

“No presence of alien nanotech in the hand either,” Sanjay said. “In fact, the only item of note were unfamiliar chemical compounds in the blood and tissue. We’re running those down, but it’s going to take time. They’re unlike anything we’ve seen before.”

“Well, now we know why the demi detectors weren’t signaling,” Vazquez said.

“We probably know,” Grant said. “We need confirmation.”

“What kind of confirmation?”

“We need a separate sample,” Stanley said.

“Well, there is another body in there,” I said. “I can get us another sample.”

“Do it,” Grant said. Stanley handed me a syringe.

“Fill this up with blood,” he said, “That will be enough for us to confirm as well as run some other tests.” I slung the submachine gun and ran into the plant. I climbed the stairs to the conference room the constables commandeered. The dead constables were along wall in body bags. The three uninjured constables were tending to their comrades. A single body bag was on the other side. I walked over and unzipped the bag. Yep, that was the bastard. I knelt down and filled the syringe. It took a couple of tries. Satisfied, I capped the syringe and tucked it away.

Just before I stood back up, Maestro screamed warnings. One of the constables grabbed me, and I felt the familiar tickle of a stun gun. More out of reflex, I pivoted and threw the constable into the wall. I spun around. The other two constables were in that momentary paralysis because I didn’t go down like they planned. Time to go.

Delph! Lock down their fucking comms! I shouted into our shared mind. Maestro already had a course of action laid out. Maestro identified the constable on the left as the danger. He was coming out of his paralysis first. I butt-stroked him across his face. He went down in a heap. The second folded when I side-kicked his gut. I brought the gun-turned-cudgel across the back of his head.

Twin roars shook the building. I recognized those roars. I sprinted out of the conference room and up to the roof. Yep, two Hotshots were looping back towards the plant. The High-Speed Transports were excellent for throwing platoons into an area quickly. They slowed to a hover before touching down at the other end of the main parking lot. Dozens of troops poured out. Not constables, but soldiers in battle armor. There were easily half a company of troops fanning out. A man with officer markings led a squad over to the team’s armored cars. Maestro was screaming warnings, and it took a lot to hold him back from going to town on the RF troops.

“Grant to all Descartes personnel, we’ve been ordered to surrender ourselves,” Grant said on our comms. “Please do not resist. Sear that into your minds. Do not resist.” I grinned. Oh, that clever man. Not sear. SERE. Survive, Escape, Resist, Evade. Except I wasn’t supposed to resist. Just escape and evade. And of course, survive.

Delph, can you hide us from the RF’s sensors?

Give me a moment. I’m sure you want this done quietly, she said. I kept the team in view. They were being lined up against their armored trucks. I felt a flash of relief as the team was shackled and led towards the Hotshots. I was pretty sure the soldiers weren’t going to simply execute the team. Pretty sure. Delph pinged to let me know we were cloaked from the RF. She also already had a route mapped out so we could evade.

I’ve already sent a message to Rene, Delph assured me. Now it was time to find a place to hole up and figure out what the hell was going on.

Chapter Nine

I found a town some fifteen kilometers from the factory. Calling it a town was being generous. It was maybe twenty ramshackle buildings of various sizes placed haphazardly around a small solar plant. People were working small sustenance farms scattered around the outside of the town. No sign of any Relief Forces presence. Just another group of people trying to scrape out a living in the post-alien war.

A couple of jewels in the mayor’s hands bought me the use of one of the unused buildings. I stayed in worse during my Team Blue days. Delph tapped into the solar plant’s comms, both to dig for information and make sure the villagers weren’t calling the RFC. While Delph was busy with her searching, I checked my gear. A bunch of mags and grenades for a carbine that I didn’t have, my subgun with about ten mags of different ammo types, my machine pistol with a half-dozen mags, and the sword I stole from that not-demi. Not a lot to break out my comrades.

Shouting outside my little building caught my attention. Something about the voices told me it wasn’t normal village drama. A short burst of gunfire confirmed this was something bad. At first, I thought it was RFC looking for me, but the chatter of gunfire didn’t match those dinky Mark IV carbines. I peered out the door. There were two men in old battle rattle holding large sacks. Just beyond them were two more bad guys holding old carbines. From the terrified looks on the villagers, this wasn’t a normal tribute collection. Damn it. The bad guys were making up for their loss at the factory by robbing the locals. I could just sit back and wait out the robbery. Nope. No, I couldn’t.

I peered back out. All four bad guys were standing close together with their helmets off. Their posture was threatening, but lackadaisical. They clearly didn’t think the villagers were any threat. I gave Maestro the parameters – kill the bad guys, minimize casualties among the villagers, and don’t shed the skin sheath. He must have gotten used to hearing that last part because he didn’t even raise his normal fuss about not having all his tools.

“Hey assholes!” I shouted, stepping out of my building. All four turned with confused and angry looks. None of them thought to bring up their guns. I had two or three seconds for them to realize who I was and react. It’s amazing what a combat AI can do with those two or three seconds. Against demi or demi-like bad guys, speed is life. Right behind that is bringing overwhelming violence. Maestro brought both. The two with weapons in hand received bursts from the machine pistol. Both heads exploded into clouds of red-gray mist. Maestro covered the dozen meters to the other two in a matter of seconds. One dropped his sack and was unslinging his carbine. Maestro beheaded him with a clean sword slice. The other was smarter and backpedaled as he drew his own pistol. Maestro twisted and emptied the machine pistol magazine before the last bad guy fired. The shock of the bullets hitting across the front of his armor made the bad guy flinch. Maestro took that and ran the last guy through with the sword. The bad guy dropped his pistol and looked down in shock as blood and other fluids pumped out and down the front of his armor. Then he backhanded us across the face. The blow was enough to send some damage alarms blaring. Bastard was strong. Maestro yanked the sword down, hacking through more organs. Another punch landed on our shoulder. Weaker, but still enough to force us to let go of the sword. The bad guy staggered towards us with an angry and bewildered look on his face. Maestro quickly changed the magazine on the machine pistol and emptied it into the bad guy’s head. It was a bit overkill, but I wasn’t going to argue with Maestro.

Once the villagers realized the danger was over, they fell upon the bodies. Some veterans expertly removed the armor. All of the not-demis wore a strange rig. A large rigid pouch stretched across their stomachs with tubes coming out and lining their bodies. Some kind of computer was on each shoulder. Foul smelling liquid came out of the tubes.

“What de hell is zat?” the mayor asked, poking at the fluid with a stick.

“Not sure,” I answered, cutting open pouch. There were several smaller pouches feeding into some kind of pump. Under the pump was what I needed – the rig’s control computer. I removed it as more of the villagers surrounded us.

“What you going to do with that?” asked a tall man. I recognized him as one of the men who stripped the armor. He had that look of a veteran of the alien war.

“Hopefully find out who these people are and what all that nasty stuff is.”

“Good, we got enough problems without these banga’s trying to take what we got,” the veteran said. “Hey, take those guns to Makka’s house. Have him check them over.”

“Hey, I want one of those carbines and ammo,” I said.

“What you give us for it?” the veteran asked. I smiled. Oh yeah, I knew his type. I handed over my machine pistol and the last two magazines. He expertly checked it over before tucking it in the back of his pants. He nodded and we shook. I left the villagers to rat-fuck the bodies while I went back into my hut.

Well, this is an interesting piece of hardware, Delph said as soon as the door was shut.

What makes it so interesting?

It’s kind of like you. Kludged together with human and alien tech, but much less refined. I felt Delph dive into the small computer. I paced around the small hut as I waited. Fifteen minutes later, Delph returned to our consciousness. I expected her to immediately tell me what she found, but there were another few minutes of silence from my infiltration AI.

Kev, my children that I left digging into who accessed the denial raid model came back. It was Admin al-Falad. A kernel of an idea flittered around the back of my mind.

What about what you found on the computer?

Chemically created demis. Or at least that’s what it looks like they were trying to create. The computer regulates the chemical mixes to maximize whatever latent demi power there might have been. I think. I’m making inferences based on the scant information on the computer. It’s working because whoever made it kept it very rudimentary. They weren’t demis. Not really. Just regular humans pushed to their maximum by whatever chemical concoction that computer was pumping into their bodies. Old armor, old weapons, rudimentary tech. All of that pointed to a program developed during the alien war. Yet, the bad guys I just killed didn’t look old enough to be veterans of the alien war. The chemicals might have slowed the aging process, but warfare has a way of wearing down the body.

It was Admin al-Falad’s involvement driving my thoughts. He fought in the war. I saw the ribbons on his uniform and the way he walked. He was also high up the South Africa Sector leadership. High enough to have a councilmember as a patron. al-Falad would be an excellent tool to depose a sector governor – especially if said tool was senior enough to take the place of said sector governor. I could see him arresting the investigator team if he thought they were getting too close. There were still some dangerous gaps in my guesses, but it was the best I had at the moment.

Aren’t you worried about Grant and the others? Delph asked.

You said you sent Rene a message. If I know him, he’s already got a team heading down here to fetch his people.

Which doesn’t help them if al-Falad decides to dispose of them before Rene’s team gets here. Which, if he feels he’s in a corner, he may decide to get rid of loose ends. Damn, she was right. If I were al-Falad, what would I do? My plan is about to succeed, and I have most of the people who could expose me locked down. The only wildcard is a freelancer who was supposed to be a dumb thug but has turned out to be far more dangerous than anticipated. If I were al-Falad, and I have a bunch of chemically-enhanced soldiers, I would do a full-court press to eliminate said freelancer before he could cause more trouble.

On the good front, I think there are less than a dozen of these chem-soldiers, Delph chimed in breaking my chain of thought.

How did you come up with that?

The computer lists it as 16 of 18. Eighteen was a squad. I killed four in the village, and another three at the factory. Then there was the guy whose hand I cut off. So, maybe my count was seven and a quarter. That left eleven bad guys to take down. Finish them off, and al-Falad’s plan would be at least derailed long enough until Descartes Solutions came riding over the horizon.

Maestro chimed in. A map of the South African Sector appeared in our shared mind. Maestro overlaid the results from the denial raid algorithm. He highlighted one of the targets. Well, it was certainly an idea. For it to work, I would have to be willing to go full Metal Ghost. Not advisable, but dammit, Rene’s people were counting on me. The question was how to lure them to that complex.

That’s why you have the very best infiltration AI, Delph said, with a malicious glee in her voice.

Chapter Ten

When heavily outnumbered, the key is making the bad guys divide up their forces. That way you can kill the smaller teams one at a time. It’s called defeat in detail. The target building was a chemical refinery. It was a wonderfully cramped and twisty place to take on a bunch of fake demi chem-soldiers. More to the point, it was a chemical plant specifically excluded from al-Falad’s target algorithm. That made it important.

I waited until the dead of night before sneaking into the complex. Even with the “terrorist” attacks, there wasn’t any security beyond the alarm system. There were cameras, but they were monitoring the workers, not for possible intruders. Delph had control of the entire system before we reached the plant’s command center. It was child’s play for her to send the plant manager harrying off with a false alarm. We slipped into the room as the man stormed out. For someone dealing with a possible contamination issue, the plant manager looked more annoyed that he was leaving his comfy office than worried about the danger. My sympathy for the man’s fate plummeted. First things first. I needed to bait the trap.

Administrator al-Falad, you screwed up in not grabbing me. I found out all about your little chem-soldiers. If you don’t want me to tell the sector governor who’s really behind the attacks, I want to make a deal. Don’t send anymore of your little chem-soldiers after me that you don’t want to lose. Don’t fuck with the 187. Come alone and ready to deal.

The important details when setting up bait is giving your target reasons to want to take it. Part of it was the enticement – I had the dirt on al-Falad and was willing to blackmail him with it. Next, toss in some ambiguity – I didn’t say what I wanted, just that I wanted to deal and thought al-Falad had the resources and ability to do so. Finally, a little distraction to keep him from making the correct connections of what he knew. I claimed to be from 187, a mercenary group during the alien war. More to the point, one that was notoriously anti-demi and developed many of the counter-demi techniques used by the regular RFC when they couldn’t get a hold of the Praetorians. How else could a simple thug be responsible for so many kills of al-Falad’s precious chem-soldiers?

Then it was time to prepare the battleground. The first thing was to cut the plant from the Liberation network while making sure no one noticed. It was a good thing I had the best infiltration AI – Delph set one of her children on the task. Next was to get the workers out of the way. I didn’t want any collaterals on this. It’s amazing how fast workers will leave when you tell them they won an award for their performance and could take the rest of the shift off with full pay and a bonus. Finally, Delph and Maestro worked through the systems to give us the best views and lay out what traps they could from the command room. A couple of hours later, a sedan drove towards the chemical plant. The older security cameras couldn’t pierce the screens on the windows, but the car moved like a fully loaded vehicle. On the cameras, indistinct shapes were moving closer to the plant. Four bad guys in the car and probably the remaining seven coming in quiet. As expected.

The car parked in front of the plant. al-Falad stepped out of the driver’s seat. He wore the sleek armor of the Covert Action Directorate with the helmet under his arm and a blocky PDW strapped to the front of his armor. I didn’t recognize the make, but it kind of reminded me of a pre-alien war gun. What was it? Oh, yeah, a P90.

“Who else do you have in the car?” I asked over the intercom as al-Falad approached the front door.

“No one. You said come alone and be ready to deal,” he replied. “I brought a variety of goods for dealing. Weapons, gold, drugs, cash cards, and the like.”

“Show me.”

al-Falad walked to the passenger side and dragged out a heavy case. He opened it and turned it to face the camera. It was filled with gold coins. He went to the back and pulled out a long weapons case. Inside were several RFC carbines and even a precision rifle.

“There is also plenty of ammo in the car. Turn over what you have, and I will turn over the car and all its contents. Along with this.” He held up a leather folio just like the one I used for my identification documents. He withdrew a hard copy safe passage document. With that, I could drive that car anywhere.

“What about my team?”

“They’re not really your team, are they? I checked, and you haven’t worked with them before.”

“I also don’t want Descartes to blacklist me for cutting and running.”

“Understandable, but I need some leverage of my own. You hand over whatever it is you have, and I will let you drive away. If nothing happens in the next three weeks, then we will release the investigators to their firm with our apologies. I’m sure I can come up with a plausible excuse that you tried to bargain for their return or such.” It was a good deal. Hell, if I was that kind of ruthlessly mercenary freelancer, it would be an excellent deal. Except, I knew al-Falad was there to kill me.

“We have a deal. Come on in,” I said. Delph opened the front door while I picked up my submachine gun and sword. It was time to deal with some of my uninvited guests. I dashed down the stairs, across a catwalk, and into another office. Peering out the window, I saw two darkened figures working on the door below. I slung the subgun and leapt out the window.

My cyber chassis is easily two hundred and fifty kilos. Some of the alien tech the Americans added allow me to mask that weight so I don’t break chairs when in human guise, but it doesn’t magically disappear. Maestro cut those maskers and let my full weight plummet on Sneaky Chem One. Even that much weight dropping from a third story window wasn’t enough to pulp one of the bad guys in armor. It did break him quite nicely, as well as giving Maestro a nice springboard to attack his partner.

Maestro slashed out with the sword, but the bad guy was just quick enough to bring up his rifle to block. The blade sliced the weapon in half but only nicked Sneaky Chem Two. The bastard drew his own blade. Conventional wisdom for fencing with monomolecular blades is dodge until you find an opening because crossing blades was a good way to lose your sword. Then there’s Maestro. Sneaky Chem Two backed up half-a-step in proper fashion expecting Maestro to do the same. Instead, Maestro closed and slashed out at Sneaky Chem Two’s sword. A metallic hiss and both blades clattered to the ground. The bad guy didn’t have a chance to hear it. Maestro jabbed the stub of the sword through Sneaky Chem Two’s neck before the blades hit the ground. We dragged the two bodies inside the plant. I picked up the undamaged rifle and grabbed spare magazines. Nine more to go. Four making entry at the back of the plant, Delph reported. A map appeared in our shared consciousness with four red dots at the loading docks. I sprinted through corridors following Delph’s directions. Another four red dots appeared on the sides of the plant climbing to make top entry. Where was the last one? I shelved that thought as I came into the loading area just as the chem soldiers rolled up the large bay door. The leader caught sight of me and opened fire. There goes the element of surprise. Maestro, kill them without shifting. I want to hold that until we absolutely need to. The combat AI complained but was already moving and returning fire. One of the chem soldiers went down in a heap as the others scattered. Maestro found cover behind a cargo mover and changed magazines. Bullets clanged against the metal body as the remaining chem soldiers moved behind their own cover.

What about al-Falad? I asked Delph.

He’s in the front office. An image formed in my head of al-Falad sitting at the front desk playing with a stylus. The image sent my paranoia screaming. No one should be that relaxed, even with the numerical advantage he had with his chem soldiers. He had a hole card or two. I hated when my enemy was a step ahead of me. At least I had my own hole card.

Maestro let the remaining three chem soldiers circle around. One was behind a stack of crates to our left, another behind a large metal cylinder to our right. The leader sprinted to the other side of the cargo mover. We dropped to the ground and sprayed under the cargo mover. The leader slid to the side to keep from having his ankles torn apart by the gun fire. Right where Maestro predicted. I came around and opened fire on the metal cylinder.

THOOM! The cargo bay shook with the explosion. I felt shrapnel think deep into the cargo mover. When I stood back up, the chem soldiers – or more to the point, parts of the chem-soldiers – were spread across the large room. It’s amazing what can happen when you put volatile chemicals under pressure in a badly maintained cylinder.

That got his attention, Delph informed me. al-Falad was no longer playing with stylus. He was busy tapping at the keyboard trying to bring up the internal cameras.

What about the other four?

They’re on the roof, but they aren’t moving. No sign of the fifth. There was no reason to let those four get up to some mischief.

Patch me into the computer al-Falad’s working on, I told Delph. I felt her give me a thumbs up.

“You lied to me Admin al-Falad.” He searched around the room from where the voice came from. Finally, he looked at the monitor.

“I suspect we both lied,” al-Falad said. “You and I both know Descartes would never hire anyone from the 187. I admit that made me curious as to your actual identity.”

“Yeah, I’m an enigma wrapped up in a mystery,” I shot back as I moved through the plant, picking up supplies as I ran.

“On the surface, perhaps,” al-Falad said, “Wipe away the enigma and the mystery is relatively simple. A friend of Descartes. Someone who could go up against multiple of my – what did you call them? – chem-soldiers. Someone who could take control of a complex system like a chemical plant and use it to ambush me.”

“You coming to a point any time soon?”

“It’s nice to meet you Metal Ghost.”

“You really shouldn’t be throwing around accusations like that.”

“If I’m mistaken, then I will be more than happy to make reparations to your next of kin.” There was something in his voice. It was like he was playing his hole card.

Before I could ponder it even further, Maestro seized control and shed our skin sheath. He tossed the device in our hands and dove to the ground as a blast of cold energy shot overhead. Alarms blazed as all our sensors came alive. The demi in the cross hallway wore modified ninja armor. I immediately recognized it.

“Fucking not-ninjas.” The fucking task force was back in business after Mongoose’s death and helping al-Falad. That was the evidence Anne and her patron needed. Assuming I managed to get out of this alive. The T-intersection wasn’t the best ground for combat.

Icer Demi blasted the floor and turned the hallway into a skating rink. It was a good tactic. It also demonstrated the level of control this demi had over his powers. Maestro disregarded my suggestion we use our nannites to form ice skates. Instead, Maestro formed spikes on our feet. He sprinted across the ice, firing with the submachine gun. The spray of gunfire drove back Icer Demi. With most blaster demis, the usual tactic is quickly getting up close and personal. Cold powers were one of those that played havoc with our nannites, so keeping them close was – what was the word Anne used? – contraindicated. Maestro reloaded the submachine gun and waited for the demi to peek back out from the hallway.

The nice thing about having one of the world’s most advanced combat AI’s is that Maestro’s predictions can sometimes border on the psychic. He already calculated Icer Demi’s likely attacks when he came around the corner. The bad thing is sometimes we got complacent about Maestro’s edge and something he didn’t predict took us off-guard. Like the half-dozen concussion grenades that exploded from behind us. On the gripping hand, so to speak, at least Maestro reacted quickly to surprises.

As Maestro rolled with the blasts, I caught sight of our new assailants. The last five chem-soldiers. What the fuck? Delph still had the four on the roof. Just as I thought that, those four disappeared from my sensors. Delph screamed in frustration and sent out her children swarming through the building’s systems. I let her do her thing and focused on the threats at hand. The two larger chem-soldiers braced as they leveled heavy machine guns down the corridor. Maestro let the submachine gun drop and focused the nannites into a riot shield. Both opened up and didn’t bother with short, controlled bursts. The shield thrummed as they sprayed us with streams of bullets. Damage reports flooded in, but Maestro ignored those. He was focused on the two chem-soldiers sprinting forward. And Icer Demi coming up behind us.

Maestro slid to the side as he reformed and angled the shield to send the machine gun fire down the cross hall. Icer Demi took several hits before dodging and retreating. As that was happening, Maestro formed a particle pulse pistol and opened fire. The energy fire stitched across the machine gunners, destroying their weapons and punching through their armor. With that threat down, we could focus on the two attackers.

Both chem soldiers drew monomolecular blades. What was it with these guys and swords? Maestro modified the pistol as he dodged their first lunges. He fired and the hallway lit up with dazzling light. The two chem-soldiers stumbled as they were blinded by the strobing and shifting light pulses. They never saw Maestro swing the heavy shield – now with its own monomolecular edge. With that much mass and our strength behind the swing, both chem soldiers were cut apart. Then the last chem-soldier materialized next to us and attacked with his own blade.

Maestro was just able to get the shield back in time. The chem-soldier’s sword bit deep. I recognized the chem-soldier. The one whose hand I cut off during the fight at the manufacturing plant. Stumpy pressed the attack and hammered at the shield, cutting deeper and deeper with each blow. Maestro deflected the next strike, twisted and brought up the particle pistol. Stumpy dropped to the ground as Maestro fired. The stream of particles passed harmlessly over him and tore open the wall. Damn, Stumpy was good. Maestro and Stumpy circled as each looked for an opening.

Maestro, grab him and throw him over to where those machine gunners are down. The nice thing about having a shared mind is Maestro immediately knew what I was planning. Maestro feinted an opening. As Stumpy snaked out to strike, Maestro snatched him, spun around, and launched Stumpy back down the hall. As the chem-soldier sailed through the air, Maestro ducked into the cross hall, reformed the shield and pistol into a plasma rifle, aimed, and fired.

Before Icer Demi ambushed me, I was taking a special package up to finish off the chem-soldiers. It was just a small bomb I managed to throw together from some of the chemicals lying around. Maestro ducked back down the hall as the building shook from the explosion. Just as I thought we escaped, the blast wave tossed us to the ground. Damage alarms filled my head.

As I laid on the ground, I took stock. My nannites were repairing damage, but my materials and power reserves were dwindling. I could pull power from the building, but that took time I didn’t have. Icer Demi was still out there – and I needed to deal with al-Falad. Of the two, Icer Demi was the more immediate threat.

Delph, can you find him?

Something’s wrong. There’s another entity in the systems, and it’s keeping me from accessing anything. I can’t even talk to the children I sent out a few minutes ago. Delph sounded uncertain, and that worried me. Delph was never uncertain.

Okay. Well, since we don’t know where Icer Demi is, but we know where al-Falad is, we’ll deal with that bastard first.

I picked myself up off the floor. I looked back into the hall and saw a gaping hole in the side of the building. The bomb was a bit more powerful than I expected. That’s what happens when I do battlefield chemistry on the run. It did give me another avenue. Rather than running back through the plant, I sprinted and jumped out into the night. The eleven meter drop wasn’t fun, but it was quick. I hugged the side of the building as I moved around to the lobby. I slid through the front doors as I formed a monomolecular cutlass. Energy guns gave me range, but I needed to conserve power. Admin al-Falad spun as he heard me enter. His eyes went wide in surprise before he managed to get his expression under control.

“I was right,” he breathed.

“Hooray for you,” I replied flatly. I pointed the sword at his chest. “Now, you’re going to secure my comrades’ release, and you’re going to turn yourself over to the Covert Action Directorate.”

“Or what?”

“I have the evidence, al-Falad. The question is whether you want me to deliver you to the ninjas, or just your body.” The man dramatically tapped his chin as if he was pondering my offer. I knew what he was doing and braced for the ambush. Then al-Falad’s head flew from his neck. As his body collapsed, the veil dropped. Icer Demi stood next to another demi in task force armor. The new demi flicked blood and viscera from his hand. Maestro screamed to attack, but the new demi spoke first.

“Our job here is done. No need for further loss of life.” His cultured voice sounded bored with a hint of annoyance. My instincts told me this one was more dangerous than he looked.

“What the hell are you not-ninjas doing here?” I asked as Maestro formed a plasma ejector.

“Not-ninjas?” Veil Demi asked, “What a quaint nickname. To answer your question, we’re here to clean up this mess. Now, you can fight us, or you can take your evidence back to Cape Town and free your friends.”

“And you’re just going to let me go?”

“I have no reason to kill you except in self-defense, Metal Ghost.”

“Really? When I turn over what I have, isn’t that going to cause problems for your patron?”

“All you have is evidence that al-Falad was behind the terrorist attacks to remove the sector governor and take the job himself. Corrupt and petty, like so much in this sector.”

“I could turn over your corpses.” Icer Demi tensed up, but Veil didn’t so much as flinch.

“You have a satisfactory conclusion at this moment. You might kill us, or you might not. I would strongly recommend you take the bird in hand and not go after the two in the bush.” Then he put up his veil. It was a damned good one too. None of the normal telltales on sensors to point out where the two of them were. Maestro screamed to eliminate the threats, but my own instincts told me it was time to call it a day.

Chapter 11

As I pulled into the checkpoint outside of Cape Town, it wasn’t Relief Forces that met me. A quartet of Covert Action Directorate demis backed up by a full squad of commandos braced as I sprinted up the road. The commandos brought their weapons to low ready.

“Metal Ghost, stop where you are,” one of the demis commanded over a loudspeaker.

“Fucking ninjas,” I said under my breath. Maestro, of course, already had a plan to take them all out.

Kevin, hold on a moment, Delph said. We’re getting a message from Rene. He says to wait here for pickup. The others are fine, but people need to speak with us before we can leave Africa. As if on cue, a transport vertol appeared on our sensors heading towards us at what I was pretty sure their max speed.

“Tell your guys to stop acting like they’re about to light me up, and I’ll play nice,” I shouted back at the ninjas. The commandos didn’t sling their weapons, but the tension eased. A couple of minutes later, the vertol screamed overhead before pivoting and coming to a hover a hundred meters or so behind me. The side door slid open and Anne stepped out. The ninjas and commandos behind me went to attention as their director walked over to me.

“Say nothing and follow me,” she told me before spinning on her heel and walking back to the vertol. The words were harsh, but there was a glimmer of softness in her eyes. I followed wordlessly behind her into the vertol. The silence continued for the ride to the large government tower. The vertol made an expert landing on the roof. Anne was out of the craft and walking to the elevator the instant the side door opened. I caught up with her just as the elevator doors opened. The silence continued as we dropped through the building to the subfloors, then walked down a hallway to a large conference room.

“Please tell me Governor, how you allowed this situation to occur under your auspices?” Anne asked as she strode into the room. A large oblong table sat in the center of the room. At the head of the table sat an older African man in a dark suit. He looked defiant, but apprehensive under Anne’s glare. Along the sides were men and women in Relief Forces uniforms. At the foot of the table, Rene sat with his neutral expression. He was pissed.

“In case you forgot Director, I am a Sector Governor, not one of your operatives,” the man said, perfectly mimicking an outraged tone. It would’ve been more convincing if his eyes weren’t darting around like a scared rabbit.

“If you do not have the answers I want, then you will no longer have that title,” Anne replied with deadly coolness. “Let me be clear. Everyone in this room is in jeopardy of losing your position.” Anne let that hang for a long moment. Then she turned to Rene.

“Mr. Descartes, your people have been released and are currently at the medical center for full evaluation. Their effects will be delivered to their room. Your full fee will be paid as well as the additional fees listed in your contract. Thank you for providing the evidence of al-Falad’s betrayal. Please take your freelancers and return to North America.”

The nice thing about having no face in my killer cyborg form is that I didn’t have to hide my expression of surprise. I didn’t have time to send all the evidence to Rene – just a summary of what I discovered. Yet as we were leaving, Anne was laying out everything that I found out over the last couple of days. Including that al-Falad was dead.

“Kevin, I would appreciate you not drawing my people and me into another one of these clusterfucks,” Rene said.

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that. I didn’t know this was going to explode like it did.”

“Kevin, I like you. Not just as a freelancer, but as a person. However, since your return as the Metal Ghost, you’ve drawn an uncomfortable amount of attention from the higher levels of the government. That translates to risk my firm. That’s not fair to me. It’s not fair to my people.”

“What are you saying Rene?”

“Until your profile lowers, I will not be employing you. I will act as broker for any jobs you find on your own. I will let you purchase support at discounted rates. I have already informed Director Bennington that I am severing my ties with you and cancelling Descartes’ standing contract with the CAD.” I wanted to be angry. I wanted to rage. I’d also been a freelancer for the past decade. At the end of the day, freelancing is about trust. Rene felt he couldn’t trust me with his livelihood. It hurt, but it didn’t mean Rene was wrong.

“You have to do what’s best for you,” I said, “If you need my help for anything, just call.”

“Merci, Kevin. It wasn’t an easy decision.” He paused for a long moment. “You realize that to maintain your professional reputation, we will need to act as if we had a personal falling out.”

“Does this mean I need to find my own ride home?”

“I will transfer the funds to your account.”

Chapter 12

I sat on the back porch of my Staten Island house looking up at the sky. The light pollution from the Manhattan Green Zone blotted out much of the starscape. At least there was still the shooting stars. Even after more than a decade, orbital debris from the destroyed alien spaceships rained down on the planet as fiery bursts of light.

The front door opened. I didn’t move from where I was sitting as she walked through the house and grabbed a bottle of cider from the fridge. I waited as she meandered for a few minutes before finally coming outside. We traded silent looks as she twisted the top off her bottle, took a long pull, and then sat down next to me.

“Is there a reason you didn’t tell me you were out here?” Anne asked after a few minutes.

“I don’t know. Maybe I wasn’t sure if I wanted company tonight. Maybe I didn’t want to tell you not to come.” I half-expected Anne to get up and storm out, or maybe just yell at me. Instead, she just snuggled in closer. We sat in that silence for a while longer.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been over for a while. That mess in the South Africa Sector took longer to clean up than expected,” Anne said.

“I’ve kept up on the feeds. What I couldn’t figure out was why you had to referee.”

“It kept things in-house, so to speak.” We fell back to silence. After fifteen or so minutes, Anne sat down her empty bottle. She rose up and looked at me.

“You did exactly what I needed you to do, and you have my gratitude.”

“You’re welcome.” The words sounded flat even to me.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’ve spent every night for the past week sitting out here and looking up at the universe. Couldn’t figure out why.”

“Something tells me you have figured it out.”

“First time in quite a while I’ve been completely cut off. I can’t talk to Rene. I can’t talk to Kate. I can’t talk to Brian. And I can only talk to you in these rare instances.”

“It’s hard being isolated.” There was a wave of understanding in Anne’s voice. The air felt different, as if our relationship entered a new phase. Knowing Anne – and myself – I felt the need to change the subject.

“So, what are we going to do about the task force?” I asked.

“What are you talking about? The task force was disbanded with the Mongoose’s death.”

“Then why did two demis in the same armor kill al-Falad?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Anne asked.

“Because you told me to follow you and stay quiet.”

“You’re right, I did.” Anne went back in the house to get another cider. When she came back out, Anne my lover was gone and Anne Bennington, Director of the Covert Action Directorate walked back out.

“Tell me everything that was left out of the reports I had,” Anne said with a commanding tone.

“Rather than trying to figure out what you do and don’t know, let me just tell you everything.” I spent the next several minutes going through everything that happened from the time I landed in the South Africa Sector to the time I got on charter flight home. After I finished talking, Anne sipped on her cider with a hard expression. She was contemplating things she didn’t like.

“What would you think about leaving New York?” Anne finally asked.

“Are you worried about me?”

“In many different ways,” Anne said, fluttering her eyes with a teasing coquettishness. Then the hardness returned full force. “I’ll be frank. I don’t want my favorite agent of chaos bouncing around where there might be delicate work to be accomplished.”

“I can stay out of your way.”

“You can try, but we both know that you have this nasty tendency to end up causing trouble for me and mine.” She reached out and caressed my cheek. “I also don’t want you in the crossfire.” I grabbed Anne’s hand.

“I don’t think it’s good for either of us to be anymore isolated than we already are,” I said. “And I think you’re going to want a chaos bomb in your back pocket.”

“No. I don’t want a chaos bomb. I want someone who will make me dinner on a weekly basis.”

“Well, why don’t you go clean up? I’ll go whip something up.”