DAY FOUR:

THE SECRET LATELIAN PAST-TIME

It started over a glass of orange juice and ended with fifty dead, forty-seven injured, and ninety-two deported.

The armistice generated by the previous days’ introduction to the awesomely destructive abilities of the God soldier lasted throughout the night and into the morning hours, but it didn’t make it past breakfast. The assortment of men and women from a hundred different Trinity worlds were just too cocksure, arrogant, and interested in making a fast buck to let their petty grudges and stupid misconceptions stay quiet.

Garth, who’d spent his night plagued with incessant warnings of extreme danger and half-formed memories trying to take root in his subconscious, was sitting at the back of the banquet room when the argument turned from bad to catastrophic.

Two formerly friendly Contestants, one a swarthy IndoRussian mercenary-type with long scars down both his arms and the other a lithe, sinewy AfroEgyptian who with teeth filed into sharp points started bickering over some point of interest between the two of them. Already keenly primed for just this sort of thing, Garth picked up his breakfast and cup of coffee and made his way even further towards the back of the room. He hopped lithely onto a raised dais where he assumed gregarious Latelian product managers could discourse at great lengths about the wonders of the newest and greatest in merchandise while a vast horde of soldier-salesmen wolfed down enough food for a thousand people. As he made himself comfortable, a few of the other guys who’d been sitting at his table hastened to join him. A few of them bore expressions that said they didn’t quite understand what was going to happen but that they trusted Garth had a damned good reason for getting out of harms’ way.

Three seconds after the last Contestant sat down, cradling a plate of eggs in one hand and a bottle of water in the other, IndoRussian man launched his glass of orange juice at AfroEgyptian guy’s head, driving the rim of the container into his forehead. Bellowing in his native language, the dark-skinned mercenary jumped backwards, slamming clumsily into the table behind him.

From there, the chaos that ensued was very similar to watching a pile of carefully laid Dominos skitter and collide with one another; already fragile alliances splintered and were reformed as everyone suddenly found a reason to stab the nearest person with a fork or knife, or to sink teeth into exposed necks or to break arms and legs. Drawn by the shouts and screams, a group of Contestants from the other banquet hall across the way showed up at the door, and were immediately drawn into the conflict as they joined with friends and comrades.

Garth rolled his eyes at the debacle. If there were hidden cameras in the room –and he was as sure of that as anything- the footage was probably rolling out live to any number of gamehead-dedicated channels; when it came to violence, the Latelians were mad as hatters. He groaned in sympathetic pain when he saw a woman scoop out a guy’s eye with her spoon. “Son of a bitch, that had to hurt.”

“I would agree.”

Garth turned to look at who’d answered. Not surprisingly, it was one of the few people who struck Garth as a serious competitor. His new friend was a whipcord-lean EuroJay male in his late fifties who was, ironically enough, missing an eye. Garth remembered seeing the thin Offworlder on the periphery the day of his arrival, eyes hooded, contemplating as he was being contemplated. He stuck out a hand. “Garth.”

“Injiri.” The EuroJay clasped Garth’s hand and shook it once. He jerked his chin at the melee. “How did you know?”

“Most of these guys are idiots. Someone farts in the wrong direction and it’s liable to set off a fight.” Garth ducked as an errant serving plate came his way. “Why’d you follow?”

Injiri shrugged. “Like you, I’m here to fight in the Contest, to make money, to add to my resume. Those fools down there aren’t getting paid to fight right now. All they’re doing is letting those of us who are serious see their fighting styles.”

The two of them sat there in silence for awhile, each of them lost in their own thoughts about what they were witnessing. Garth wasn’t overly impressed with what he was seeing, even considering the likelihood that the cramped area of the banquet hall wasn’t really spacious enough for everyone to let loose and have at one another like they meant it. Closed quarter combat didn’t leave a lot of room for flair. It was kill or be killed. “What you do before this?” he asked after someone bit someone else’s ear off.

“Yellow Dog.” Injiri answered without hesitation. He’d spoken to a number of Contestants during transport, and knew that over half the people so far belonged to one criminal organization or another. “You?”

Injiri’s candor was impressive, if a little shocking. Yellow Dog was a major criminal organization exclusively populated by EuroJapanese families of noble birth, and they shared a great deal of their philosophies with ancient Earth yakuza and mafia tribes. They were notably chilly to anyone not in their cultural echelon, and were well-known for their extreme politeness even as they doled out their equally notorious bloody-handed justice to fools who got in their way. Operating from a number of Emperor-for-Life dominated planets –Garth had yet to discern just what that meant, because as far as he knew, the legendary ruler of the EuroJapanese people did not have sovereignty in Trinityspace- Yellow Dog had an amassed fortune that was quite impressive, as well as a reputation for being very thorough in all their dealings, which were hidden behind a series of impenetrable legal fronts. Many of the law enforcement agencies Garth had dealt with while under cover saw zero percentage in actively pursuing any charges against anyone –even the low man- in Yellow Dog, because not only was the EuroJapanese mafia unbearably powerful, they were patient and, again, incredibly thorough. Entire generations of glory-hungry or honest cops and their families vanished over night, twenty years or longer after the perceived insult to honor. For Injiri to so blithely mention his affiliation with Yellow Dog … it wasn’t unheard of, but it was practically asking for trouble, because practically everyone knew someone who’d been done over by one of their people.

“Glass Hammer.” Garth answered after a respectable pause. In the grand scheme of things, Glass Hammer –a small organization limited to a handful of systems and more mercenary than mercantile- was barely a blip on the Dog’s radar. Respectable enough in their own right, but beneath notice.

Injiri jerked his chin again, this time at a burly IndoRussian big enough to qualify as Latelian. “That’s Marko Devresh. He was friends with one of the men you fought the other day.”

Garth watched Marko clobber two smaller men with a haymaker each. “Oh yeah? Which one?”

“The one you killed.” Injiri snatched a croissant out of the air as it flew by his head. “He is very unhappy with you.” He started eating the croissant, letting Garth know through his posture that he wouldn’t answer any questions. That, he hadn’t, in fact, said anything.

It was around this time that the law enforcement responded to the raging conflict by literally blowing the doors of the hinges and rushing into the room en masse. The front lines were protected by large see-through shields that they used to shove the first row of unruly Contestants into the ground; the officers behind the shield-bearers smacked each of the fallen warriors solidly in the head with stun batons. Another sally of cops followed fifteen seconds behind the first and tossed the unconscious Contestants into the arms of brothers in blue/grey, who dragged them into waiting paddy wagons.

Things continued on in that vein for ten more minutes, the shield-bearers doubling their numbers as the crowd began to thin out. When the Contestants stopped trying to kill each other and turned their attention on the officers, policemen hovering on the edge of freshly destroyed wall produced shoulder-mounted cannons and began deploying non-lethal rounds at the remaining thirty or forty rioters.

The first of the basketball sized beanbags nearly tore the head off one man, and the second one aimed his way struck him in the chest with enough impact to break all his ribs. The cannons continued to fire dozens of the over large pacifiers at the resisters until they all stopped moving.

“Fuck me sideways.” Garth closed off his sense of smell as the odor of death, mingled with the harsh accelerants used to fire the ‘non-lethal’ projectiles, threatened to crowd his senses. Against his better judgment, Garth was impressed with the response.

Injiri nodded in agreement. “That was very … efficient.”

Scores of emergency response teams flooded into the destroyed banquet hall as the police officers filed out. They started moving quickly and efficiently through the room, separating the living from the dead, the seriously wounded from those needing a few bandages and a pat on the head. Garth recognized the woman who’d spoken with him over Firnkle’s corpse. She walked through the rows of the dead, clearly taking pictures with her proteus, stopping only when some inner sense warned her she was being watched. Reywin straightened up and looked straight at Garth, who waved back.

Injiri nudged Garth and nodded towards the doors. “Government.”

Sure enough, five impeccably dressed, perfectly manicured men strode into the room, their eyes covered with sunglasses and the cut of their dark blue suits so sharp they sliced the air into shreds. They stood just inside the room, swiveling their heads back and forth until they found their target. When it became clear they were walking towards the dais, all of the other Contestants, Injiri included, found better things to do, dematerializing so quickly Garth swore he heard air rush in to fill the vacuum.

Garth drank his coffee, patiently waiting for them to come to him. It wasn’t worth his time to worry about them showing up because he’d been expecting them, sooner or later. They weren’t there to bust him for breaking any laws; the dead guys he’d killed the day before didn’t warrant the attention of Special Agents. That was a local matter for local cops, and it was equally stupid to imagine the Contest promoters had the kind of cachet to rustle up some agents to force their number one pain in the ass to follow their ultra-lame itinerary.

Dollars to donuts said his titular claim for the Box had reached the ears of someone powerful, and paranoid; this alleged someone undoubtedly wanted the foreign devil making such ridiculous pronouncements shut down, quickly, quietly, and without any undue fuss.

“Garth N’Chalez?” The one in the lead asked, mangling the last name.

“I’m wearing his underwear.” Garth smiled politely, wondering just how much the operation to have their sense of humor surgically removed had cost.

“Come with us please.”

Garth made his way slowly, gently, off the dais. Some of the rioters were beginning to regain consciousness and looked like they were going to start kicking up a fuss, and the last thing Garth wanted was to panic the detail assigned to escort him wherever; having a basketball sized beanbag fired at his head with enough force to punch through a wall was not a good way to start the morning. “You wanna handcuff me or anything?” he asked when he was down.

“No need.” The agents arranged themselves around Garth and escorted him out of the building.

As they passed the front desk, Si Mijomi launched another one of her patented gargoyle smiles at him.

The five agents hustled Garth into a waiting hovercar and strapped him firmly into the seat. If they hadn’t been dead set on doing thing their way, Garth would have readily announced his willingness to behave. But, since they were working their hardest to make his life as miserable as they could, Garth didn’t fuss when they tightened the last restraint up to the point where stones would have bled.

The car took off with a faint hum of AG turbines. When they were aloft, one of the agents, the same one who’d addressed Garth in the banquet hall, turned towards him, a shimmery metal hood in his hands. “This is a duronium hood, Mr. N’Chalez. It is more for our benefit than yours. We would like you to agree to wear it.”

“Why are you even asking?” Garth indicated his securely stowed body. “It’s not like I can refuse.”

“A preliminary report from the body of the man you struck indicates that the restraints aren’t sufficient to hold you in place for very long.” The agent smiled thinly. “We are aware that you are coming along willingly, and that if you wanted, you could free yourself in short order.” He gestured, and the pilot took up a holding pattern a few miles above the Hotel. “We are asking that you put the hood on to protect our confidence with the people of Hospitalis. If you agree to wear the hood, it will be placed over your head and left to rest. If you choose not to put the hood on, it will be done so, only very tightly.”

“I get it.” An interesting picture was beginning to develop. Garth was glad he’d agreed to go along willingly. “You’re taking me to see someone who shouldn’t be connected with me. All right, I’ll wear the hood.”

The agent seemed relieved, and when he was sure Garth wasn’t going to pull any tricks, slid the metallic hood over his head. “The hood,” the agent explained as the car began moving again, “is made out of duronium and keyed to my DNA. Attempting to remove the hood the first time will result in it tightening around your neck. The second time will cause it to cinch up enough to restrict your breathing until you are unconscious. A third time will decapitate. This particular bag has been rated for a God soldier, so even though you are stronger than you appear, it is unlikely in the extreme that you will manage to breach its integrity before you are killed. If by some chance you manage the impossible, the pilot is instructed to drive this vehicle directly into the ground, where it, and anyone surviving the initial crash, will be consumed in an explosion powerful enough to turn us into dust.”

“You guys have got your skills down pat.” Garth said with an appreciation he didn’t feel. The idiots had given away their hand by showing their willingness to die in order to protect the identity of the person who wanted to see him; the only sort of person able to demand that kind of loyalty was someone high up in the food chain, either governmental or military. In either case, the alleged someone had probably come in contact with his extensive dossier, and was looking to ask –or force- him to do something he probably didn’t want to do. The smart money was on one of Chairwoman Doans’ underlings; after the dirt Jimmish had dished on the woman’s popularity amongst her own supporters, Garth was willing to bet that all legal options of ousting her from office were either too lengthy or not terminal enough for their liking.

Who better to get rid of an unwanted, powerful official than a highly trained Offworld operative who’s specialty was doing just that sort of thing?

If any of the agents took his compliment for what it was, they didn’t say anything in return.

When they arrived at their destination, the men led Garth through an intentionally confusing route that took them up and down stairs, through innumerable doorways, across a long stretch of unbroken interior, and back again, using a different route. They used four different elevators that operated at four different speeds and at least three different escalators before deciding the rigmarole had been sufficient enough to disguise their location inside the building.

Garth, who’d been struggling to identify distinct sounds the moment he’d stepped out of the car, was at a complete loss as to where he was; the killer hood had obviously been built to disorient him just enough so he couldn’t tell up from down or left from right. Should the need arise for him to hotfoot it out of the place, Garth was going to have to rely on good old-fashioned running away quickly.

“Sit here.” Chatty Agent guided Garth to a chair and removed the hood.

Garth sat still and waited for his eyes to adjust to the light. The moment he could discern individual shapes, he beamed from ear to ear. He was in the private offices of someone with a great deal of political power; the wall behind the other seat in the room was ornamented with the Latelian Seal of Office, a ridiculously idealized Box surrounded by stars meant to indicate the number of worlds under Latelian control. Other than terribly patriotic, it was down-right ugly with a capital Ugh. One wall of the room was dominated by an old-fashioned case sporting very thick volumes that Garth took to be the printed matter of the Latelian legal system. The only other wall to bear any adornments played host to a number of impressive looking plaques proclaiming someone named Terrance Curtis to be just about every-damned-thing a guy could be, from Varsity Champion to OverSecretary. His eager-beaver Latelian buddy was second in command of the entire Latelian populace, and was just the sort of cat who’d find it expedient to break the laws to make the laws.

A few seconds later, the man who’d contrived to bring him into his presence walked into the room. Like most Latelians, he was over seven feet tall, and carried himself with the aura of someone used to command. He seated himself, and nodded to the agents standing on either side of Garth.

“For reasons of national security,” the same agent who’d talked to him throughout their journey removed Garth’s proteus with a well-practiced maneuver, “we are required to process your proteus for data packets that may reveal the location of this meeting, or the OverSecretary’s identity. It will be returned to you at the end of the meeting.”

Garth didn’t point out that it would have made more sense to take his proteus off at the Hotel and leave it there. He hoped they didn’t think he was stupid enough to imagine that his proteus would be returned to him un-doctored. “Sure, fine. Do what you gotta do.”

At another nod from the OverSecretary, the agents left the room, warning Garth that he was under surveillance and that if he did anything foolish, nothing short of a miracle would see him through to the end of the day.

OverSecretary Terrance smiled with warmth he didn’t feel. “I trust your trip here was comfortable.”

“More or less, uhuh.”

The OverSecretary perused some data from one of the Screens built into his desk. “According to the logs of your entrance into our system, you have come here to fight in the Contest.”

Garth didn’t say anything. He had no intention of divulging anything that might get him into trouble.

Terrance narrowed his eyes thoughtfully at Garth’s stoic approach, and felt the smallest bit of appreciation for the man. “As part of the exchange of information between your vessel and the space station, it was revealed that you are a member of Special Forces, a paramilitary organization working indirectly for the Trinity government. An organization whose sole purpose is to either soften up a society so one particular local body of governors or another can take control or to dampen outright civil war in a manner that might not be overly popular. Is this true?”

“No.” Garth saw how deftly the OverSecretary quashed the surge of irritation that flared briefly in his eyes.

“You are not a member of Special Forces?” Terrance sent the information he was examining to a Sheet on the wall and waited for Garth’s response.

Garth read some of the documents passing on the Sheet with interest; since finishing his tour of duty, he hadn’t taken the time to go through all the textual material to find out just what his instructors and commanding officers thought of his performance. When he was satisfied that the OverSecretary had waited long enough, he explained his previous answer. “I don’t know how complete the information you got was, sa, but I can tell you with all honesty that I am no longer a member of Special Forces. I quit several months ago.”

Terrance knew very well what the documentation said, but he didn’t believe it for a second. He said as much to Garth, adding, “Your presence here at this time is too difficult to dismiss as mere happenstance, sa. You’ve been planetside for several days now. What is your opinion of Hospitalis?”

“It’s a very nice place, Sa OverSecretary.” The effect Garth’s banality had on the man was immediate.

“Do not play games with me, Sa N’Chalez.” OverSecretary Terrance said with a deep rumble. “I am second only to the Chairwoman herself, and if I so wish, you will not leave this room alive. I asked you a question, and I am certain you plumbed the true question. I ask again, what is your professional opinion of Hospitalis?”

“You’re on the brink of civil disobedience on a massive scale, OverSecretary, maybe even a war. As I understand it, the introduction of the Offworld component to your Contest five years ago was done in an effort to smooth some of the more turbulent waters, and to maybe get people accustomed to the idea of the reality that Lately isn’t alone in the universe. In theory, it makes sense because as near as I can tell, the Contest is immensely popular. Oh yeah, and the fact that there’s like, a thousand to one ratio in favor of Trinityspace.”

“In practice?” OverSecretary Terrance asked, eyes glittering.

“I’d have to say that things aren’t going as the Chairwoman planned. There’s a notable presence of anti-Offworld sentiment coming from people who are in a position to foment that particular brand of chaos. Doesn’t matter that Port City’s home to a bunch of legal immigrants, either. The riot the other day at the weigh-in proves that, and the Chairwoman’s heavy-handed responses are only going to fuck things up worse.” Garth gave the OverSecretary a few seconds to chew on that before continuing. “Then there’s your military, which is hugely bloated and probably over budget across all the boards. It’s supposedly been in the process of ‘standing down’ for around a hundred years, which you gotta know is way too long. I don’t know how many wars and on which fronts you fought over the preceding centuries, but I do know that you’ve got somewhere in the neighborhood of forty million soldiers, most of them those freakishly enormous God soldiers. The pressures and stresses from a military with nothing to do and nowhere to go are well-documented, Sa OverSecretary. If the Chairwoman isn’t careful in her dealings with the military commanders, you could very well be looking at a coup de tat in a couple years, and that ain’t a pretty sight. If the military honchos don’t decide to take charge and actually do start discharging troops en masse into gen pop, you’re looking at a problem that won’t ever go away. Men and women who’ve spent their entire lives in the rigid structure of a military environment do not transition well. The burden on your social and economic backbones will be immense.”

“My son happens to be one of those freakishly large God soldiers.” The OverSecretary snapped. He looked apologetic, but didn’t offer any words. “You’ve only been on the planet for a few days, Sa Garth. How on earth did you come to so many conclusions?”

“Am I wrong?”

Terrance raised a hand. “Pretend for the moment that this is just an exercise in curiosity. Tell me how you came to those assumptions.”

“Television, mostly.” The admission bounced off the OverSecretary’s blank face. “The journey from Smash All Infidels to Hospitalis took me over a week, OverSecretary. Your ‘airspace’ is alive with thousands of broadcast new channels, entertainment, and music. The number of active soldiers is a guess based on previous numbers of God soldiers joining in the Contest over the past hundred years. The figure of those … guys … making it through to the final round has gone from four or five to all of them. This leads me to believe that the preliminary trials, which start with as many as forty thousand Contestants, are dominated by God soldiers, and it’s only a hop, skip and a jump from there to forty million.

As for the Chairwoman’s decisions to introduce us filthy foreign devils into the Contest, well, it makes perfect sense. With the kind of troubles you’ve got brewing on the horizon, the safe bet is on letting Trinity have some kind of vested interest in this place continuing on as it has. The best way to make that kind of crappy decision palatable to a pack of paranoid xenophobes is to put the people you apparently loathe into the one thing you can all agree is one hell of a good time. Sooner or later, Contest viewers are gonna get all rubbery in the knees when their favorite Offworlder gets on the Screen to kick some ass. As for the Chairwoman’s popularity? You got to watch more television, OverSecretary, connect with the little people more often. Some of the shows out there’ve got satire down to a fine art. You, her, some of the military leaders, you’re all lambasted on a regular basis. In some corners, you’re all hated just as much as Offworlders. The rest? Historical knowledge, mostly.”

“Trinity has no history, Sa Garth.” OverSecretary Terrance snapped chillingly. “What is your basis for comparison?”

Garth wanted to tell the OverSecretary that his insights came from time spent on the job, but that wasn’t anywhere near the truth: the truth was too weird for even him to explain. Sometime during his speech, his words of wisdom had skipped tracks from guesswork to ideas based on personal memories, memories that were once again hidden.

The OverSecretary took Garth’s inability to answer as an admission of guilt. “Let me be candid, Sa Garth. I’m all too aware that many of the Chairwoman’s policies aren’t the best thing for this system, but in a number of ways I’m hampered from acting directly against her. This doesn’t mean I don’t agree with her fundamental platform; I do. Only fools and the blind willfully ignore the evidence put in front of them. We haven’t been completely annexed by Trinity, and I don’t think it’ll ever happen in the form of a military strike. Culturally, though, you Trinityfolk are more socially advanced than we are, and there are things you have that we do not.”

“AI.”

Terrance nodded. “Precisely. Our programmers are among the best in the known Universe, sa, especially in the last fifty years. Many of our top programmers are leaving our borders to work for Conglomerates who deal with AI personality constructs and some of the more esoteric software they run.”

“Deny them permission to leave.”

“We can’t. Many of the Conglomerates have iron-clad contracts with our government. The … benefits … brought to the table are too great to ignore at this time.”

Government kickbacks were as old as Roman roads and Garth decided he’d done enough dancing. It was time for the politician to put up or shut up. “Why am I here, OverSecretary?”

“A number of reasons, truthfully.” Terrance accessed one of the files he’d received yesterday and put it up on the Screen for Garth to read. “I received a communication from one our legal avatars yesterday. It seems that a Sa Herrig DuPont was in the process of filing a motion on your behalf. The focus of the motion was to prove that you are the inheritor of our Box.”

“Was?” Garth asked quizzically.

“The claim was squashed before it could be brought to the attention of someone in the media. The last thing this system needs is a ludicrous attempt at bypassing the Contest.”

At great cost, Garth controlled the urge to curse. The people on Hospitalis were so boneheaded it wasn’t even funny. The right thing to do would be to just let him try and open the Box on the sly, without anyone being the wiser; if something happened, they could pretend it hadn’t. Anything he did now would almost certainly garner the attention of the very same media groups Terrance was worried about, and that would for damned sure cause a boatload of problems, the least of which would be unhappy phonecalls. Garth took a deep breath. “I provided Sa Herrig with a number of details concerning the Box that couldn’t come from any source other than direct, personal contact over an extended period of time, Sa OverSecretary. Furthermore, the circumstances surrounding my own introduction into Trinity’s society are …”

“Are independently validated from fourteen individual requests for the data from an equal number of sources in Trinityspace and also incredibly well-forged.” Terrance smiled at the Offworlder’s discomfort. “So well-forged, in fact, that I am inclined to believe that for the first time in our agreement with the Trinity AI, it has decided to deal with us directly instead of through the usual, indirect channels. Over the past two and a half thousand years, agents from a number of systems have attempted to breach our borders, and the trail has always gone no further than a local government decision. In your case, though, the data is perfect; I’ve seen footage of your ‘interrogation’ and again, independent analysis says that either you are in fact ten thousand years old or Trinity has decided it wants our Box and has concocted an incredibly devious scheme to lay its ‘hands’ on it. As for the data you provided, we made highly detailed recordings of the Box and information similar to what you gave Sa Herrig available to an individual several years ago. If you were not given this information directly by this man, then you simply stole it and have come here for the purposes of exploitation.” Terrance grinned. “Either way, you fit a profile I require.”

“I don’t know what to say.” Garth admitted forlornly, sagging deeply into the chair. If OverSecretary Terrance wasn’t looking for someone to assassinate Chairwoman Doans outright, he was definitely in the market for some kind of mayhem.

“There is nothing to say, Sa Garth N’Chalez. The evidence that you are here to perform some act of sabotage for the Trinity AI is indisputable. You have no doubt realized that you are still alive because there is something I want you to do for me. In exchange, your other legal request will be granted without reservation.”

Garth’s options were very clear. If he tried to escape from, he’d be gone like the Dodo inside of five minutes, but it wouldn’t do him a lot of good; as the number two honcho in Latelyspace, the OverSecretary could make his life miserable with a few phone calls, and Garth didn’t relish the idea of being chased down the street by a marauding band of twelve foot tall ogres. To make it worse, the ultradense infosphere on Hospitalis would have his mug pasted onto every prote from Timbuktu to Shangri-La.

It wouldn’t even be as simple as agreeing to the man’s demands and then later pulling a fast one. It’d give him time to get off-planet, but from there, things actually got much worse; the Q-Tunnel would be loyal to the government so there was no escape out-system. There was also that three mile long transpo ship hanging around in deep space, crammed to the rafters with blood thirsty fighter pilots to contend with. The only possibility that remained open was direct travel to the neighboring system, and without access to a Tunnel, he was looking at four hundred years or more.

On the other hand, agreeing to work for the OverSec would give him the opportunity to have access to some form of Intelligence, and he could use whatever covert status to allay anyone’s suspicions concerning his true mission. Anything the OverSecretary wanted done would for damn sure be like kicking over an anthill, but when it came right down to it, getting into the ship was the most important thing on his mind. Having to dodge the occasional angry mob would be well worth the hassle if working with –at least on paper- the OverSecretary took him one step closer to his goal.

“What is it you want me to do?” Garth asked after a moment’s hesitation. It wasn’t the first time he’d tried to con a politician, but it wasn’t until the OverSecretary relaxed for a microsecond that Garth felt confident he’d snowed the man under. He’d gambled that Terrance was genuine in his desires to paint Doans in a bad light rather than trying to catch a suspected Trinity Agent with his pants down and had won. Getting out alive was assured.

“For now, nothing.” OverSecretary Terrance rested his hands loosely on the table. “The situation we are waiting for has not yet arrived. It may not present itself at all, in which case you’ll either attempt to go back to your original mission parameters or choose to leave Lately in one piece.”

Garth appreciated the OverSecretary’s warning. He’d’ve been shocked to the marrow if the politician hadn’t threatened him. “When do I become a citizen?”

“The moment you return to the Hotel, your proteus will receive confirmation of your changed status. It’s provisional, which means that you won’t be accorded the rights and privileges of a full citizen, but it will prevent you from being accosted by local law enforcement.” Terrance smiled, genuinely this time, pleased that the meeting had gone the way that it had. “There will be a packet of information concerning the rights you will be granted.”

“And?” Garth quirked an eyebrow. When Terrance didn’t respond, Garth pressed the point. Learning that whatever task he was expected to do wasn’t might not happen at all wasn’t upsetting. The opportunity to work under the noses of government agencies was too powerful a lure to ignore, so if he was going to get the permission, he had to strike now, while the iron was hot. “If I’m going to be doing something … covert … for you, I think it would be in your best interests if I’m permitted to operate unimpeded in certain areas. I mean, if I’m expected to move like the wind and stay hidden in plain sight, that is.” “Your proteus has already been upgraded to military class, giving you access to some few areas of intelligence as well as some software and hardware not available to the general population.” Terrance raised a finger in warning. “I do not give this to you lightly, Sa Garth. Even though your machine will have only restricted access, the data and functions you’ll have at your command could cause problems for the locals. I’ve done this as a show of faith. I am well aware of your ability to wear two faces, even when looking in a mirror. You would do well to use the proteus sparingly, and to live with the reality that as long as you are in Latelyspace, you no longer work for the Trinity AI.”

“Well,” Garth said, puffing out a breath he’d been holding, “that sounds wonderful.”

OverSecretary Terrance rose. “One more thing, Sa Garth. I’ve informed the Contest people that they’re to step back from you a bit. I understand your handler was a bit overzealous the other day. It’s obvious from your background you have no need to train for the competition, or to waste your time with the tedious chore of being led around like a child. You’ve already shown your willingness to behave, so I don’t think there’s any need to worry. Do you?”

Nonplussed, Garth shook his head. The OverSecretary left the room through the same door he’d come in through.

Intel. He needed more Intel than he had, and the longer he was on the ground and running without a continual stream of analytical data, the greater the chance he was going to miss something critical. Garth didn’t think he’d misread the Terrance’s intentions, but with career politicos it was damned hard to tell what was going on beneath the surface. It was possible that he’d been the one lied to instead of the other way around, and that laid a shiver of worry down his spine. He needed Huey, and he needed him sooner than later.

Mulling over the risks of pushing Jimmy to hurry his contacts along, Garth waited patiently for the agents to return with his new proteus.

Following another unspoken command, the pilot of the hovercar slowed to a halt in roughly the same place they’d occupied about an hour ago. The duronium hood was removed. “Sa N’Chalez.”

“Uhuh.” Garth peered out the window. Two hundred feet below them, a small crowd of Contestants from the hotel were gathering a safe distance away from the supposed point of impact and were eagerly awaiting some kind of splash. True to the spirit of the group, Garth thought he saw bets being laid, which cheered him in a sort of nihilistic way.

“The OverSecretary has placed an inordinate amount of trust in you. Trust, I must admit, that I don’t share, especially in light of your training.”

“Uhuh.” Wishing he could get in on the action, Garth wondered what the odds were on his doing a face plant in the concrete.

“Pay attention, Sa N’Chalez.” The agent snapped. “Your life depends on it.” Again, working through telepathy or from a playbook, they launched upwards at a dizzying speed, leveling out when they’d gone up another four hundred feet. “I won’t claim to understand the reasons behind the OverSecretary’s decision to … use you, but he is a good man who wants the best for our people, and in that, I support him fully. Has he directed you to do anything yet?”

“No. Not yet.” The frightening thing about loyalty, Garth knew, was that even maniacs and lunatics were sufficiently charismatic to trick normally sane people into believing the craziest shit. Terrance didn’t seem to have any of the perquisite ticks and howling-at-the-moon kind of problems, but his poor judgment in hiring an ex-Special Forces saboteur to do his dirty work showed a startling lack of wisdom. Any gomer willing to work for such a man and endorse his philosophies needed to have a CAT scan.

“Excellent.” The agent nodded. “Your new proteus is a slightly modified military unit. Be careful who you let near it; there are numerous organizations working against the OverSecretary and the government who will be able to identify it as such, even though it is a physical duplicate of the one you recently bought. A foolish choice in trust will put your life in danger. At the OverSecretary’s command, you have been given access to some our more sophisticated software. This was done so that, when the time comes, you will be able to respond appropriately and minimize collateral damage and media saturation; our world is a complex one, with many layers, and something that may seem innocuous at the time could be your downfall. It was not given to you so that you can compile data that Trinity will later use to exploit our current difficulties. Are we clear?”

“Crystal.” Garth looked at his proteus. The workmanship was flawless; he’d been wearing it for fifteen minutes and hadn’t once thought to check for differences. Looking at it now, he doubted that Sa Turuin would notice.

“Your provisional status as a citizen can be revoked at any time. Your proteus has been auto-configured to alert local law enforcement of your status so they won’t harass you needlessly. Additionally, you have been granted a miniscule amount of covert protection. It won’t do much but keep you from being arrested for minor –and I mean nothing greater than jaywalking or littering- infractions of the law. Should you fall under enemy fire or other dire straights, rest assured that everything will play out for the better. React as appropriate to the situation, but under no circumstances are you to initiate anything.” The still as yet unnamed agent paused in his warning to catch Garth’s eye. “Are you a smart man, Sa N’Chalez?”

“One of the smartest.”

The agent smiled like a hungry shark, his eyes glittering blackly. “Then it won’t shock you to learn that your new proteus is laced with enough explosive to turn you into a red smear on the ceiling if you do anything we don’t like.”

“I kinda figured that out a while ago, yeah.” Garth shrugged nonchalantly. It’s what he’d do if the situation was reversed.

“Again,” the agent continued, “since you possess an abundance of intelligence, it goes without saying that trying to defuse the bombs will result in premature detonation.”

“What if I wanna take a bath or a shower or something?” Garth asked, putting an edge of nervousness into his voice. They probably thought the idea of wearing a bomb was a freaky thing, and he wanted them to believe they’d finally done something to scare the evil Offworlder. “Is it rigged to blow up if I take it off?”

“You must remain within three feet of the proteus at all times, Sa N’Chalez, otherwise they will go off. During Contest bouts, you will be under direct surveillance, so you will be safe if you pass beyond the perimeter.”

“All right, okay, that sounds good.” Garth smiled uneasily. “Do you have any idea what the OverSecretary is going to ask me to do?”

The agent shrugged as the hovercar began its descent, this time at a safe speed. “It could be anything at all, Sa N’Chalez. Anything at all. Just consider yourself lucky that you weren’t killed outright for being the Trinity spy you are. If I were the sort of person to believe in miracles, I’d say your arrival here and now was just such a thing. Do the OverSecretary the courtesy of proving him correct; if you fail, or do anything to sully his name, the things that will happen to you will become legendary.”

The crowd that had gathered in anticipation of one Garth N’Chalez being forced to take a swan dive from six hundred feet was very disappointed when he climbed out of the hovercar. To make matters worse for the lookie-loos, he wasn’t disfigured, crying, or bleeding from anywhere, seen or unseen. They dispersed with the sullen resentment of denied seeing something fantastically disgusting. As he made his way through the lobby towards the elevators, Garth caught sight of Si Mijomi’s preternaturally hostile shrew face. He winked salaciously at her before hopping onto the elevator.

Her shriek of poorly contained rage sustained him all the way up to his room.