Michelle sipped coffee and watched the entrance to the McDonald’s parking lot from her vehicle. The wig itched, and she could feel the hastily applied shaping adhesive on her face loosening. She’d have to find a public bathroom with a locking door to touch up her disguise. She tapped the navigation display and put it into mirror mode, studying herself. This was another thing she hated about life as fugitives. Her HI contact was late.

She looked down at the red lines and long scratches on her forearms, evidence of her blind crashing through the underbrush looking for Bina. Yesterday’s frantic search, her hasty departure, and the fitful night’s sleep in the car blurred together. It seemed an eternity yet it hadn’t been twenty-four hours since discovering she was gone. She remembered the moment reason reasserted control.

***

She bent over, hands on her knees, gasping for air, and saw the blood streaming down her forearms onto her jeans.

Ah, that blood…these jeans…haven’t done laundry yet…need to repack the bag…do I even have another clean pair?....goddamit Bina, where are you?...

That sight snapped her back, exhaustion tamping down the anger and terror creating space for rational thought and planning.

Was she abducted? Did she run away? Something else? The scenarios settled down for proper analysis.

She returned to the house, carefully scrutinizing the surroundings for signs of continued surveillance. Reassured she was truly alone, she thought back to Bina’s story. The dog Bina told her about must only be part of it. Michelle grudgingly conceded to herself that she had once again underestimated her daughter. How had she concealed the rest of the details from Michelle’s hypnotic commands? What were they? Bina leaving of her own volition emerged as the most likely explanation.

A runaway. A fucking runaway.

She dumped her unpacked bag from the most recent trip, sorting and repacking as many clean items she could muster, cursing herself all the while for the failed experiment allowing Bina the freedom of staying alone for so long. Why hadn’t she anticipated how the lessons of autonomy could go so wrong? She needed help finding Bina, and this location was no longer safe and must be abandoned. That meant asking for assistance.

I’m going to have to call those fuckers again.

She looked over their meager belongings, the last remnants of their prior life. Each escape, each panicked departure, winnowed down the material trappings of their lives. Maybe the HI could salvage some of the contents of this house, but for now, Michelle was resigned to abandoning what she could not carry.

The bag was almost full. Anirudh’s stubby black metal Sig Sauer pistol lay partially uncovered under socks and panties, moved from its usual hiding place. It was another reminder of her murdered lover’s failed efforts to keep them safe. She hesitated, then picked it up, ejected the magazine cartridge, cleared the chambered round, then replaced the magazine and flipped the safety off and on to confirm it was secure. She transferred it to her purse. She never liked weapons and had no faith in her ability to use them despite Anirudh’s coaching. This was uncertain terrain, and she’d take any advantage she could get.

Her eyes fell on the picture of Adam and Bina with the broken glass. She picked up the frame, tracing her finger over the faces, Bina’s smile, Adam’s distant eyes; she flipped it over, pulled off the back and pried the picture free, placing it in the bag. She heaved the bag over her shoulder and walked out, door unlocked behind her.

***

Still no sign of the contact. If all went well, her handlers would deal with the lease through the layers of intermediaries, salvage what they could of their belongings while Michelle searched for Bina. The HI also wanted Bina safe, perhaps more than Michelle. That was clear from the urgency of their initial response. She’d address keeping Bina away from the collective later.

The first step was finding Adam. Of course, he was ignoring her messages. He communicated on his own schedule, and in his own manner, as always.

She scanned the parking lot again. Where was the contact? These were the instructions, and she followed them to the letter.

Just then her device buzzed softly. Michelle picked it up.

“Where are you?” a soft, electronically masked voice asked.

“Exactly where you said. Is there a problem?” Michelle responded.

After a long pause, the voice responded.

“We saw the vehicle you described, but someone else was in it. We broke off.”

Michelle muttered an expletive. Her disguise. She hadn’t told them what her altered appearance would be.

“I’ve changed my appearance. Let’s try again.”

Another silence.

“I will contact you. I must seek additional instructions.” The connection terminated.

What is this?

Usually these contacts came off without a hitch. Was this person inexperienced? Did this indicate some other turmoil within the HI collective? The delay rebooted her anger and fear for Bina’s safety.

While she waited for the return call, she went in to use the bathroom and get something to eat. Back in the car, she slowly chewed a small bite of her sandwich, unable to swallow past the anxious constriction in her throat. Finally, her device buzzed again.

“New plan. Make your way to Couer d’Alene.”

Michelle pulled up the map, noted the distance.

“What is there?”

“We will be closer. I can meet you in person.”

“You weren’t coming here now?”

“An intermediary. This is more secure. Start driving.”

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One may define the human being, therefore, as the one who seeks the truth. — Fides et Ratio, Karol Wojtyla, Saint Pope John Paul II

Fr. Ed waved out the window of the truck to the Canadian Customs agent as he accelerated north to Creston. His device chirped.

Stop by my place first. I have something for you.

Johnny Q. always ‘had something.’ A gift, an extra set of clothes, bootleg liquor before Ed told him about his drinking problem, anything Fr. Ed wanted or needed, in addition to the food, clothes, and medical supplies Johnny procured for the needy on both sides of the border.

The still unfinished cross-border consolidation of dioceses brought Fr. Ed to Holy Cross in Creston, British Columbia, several times a month. His introduction to Johnny Q. followed soon after his first visits.

He was late leaving Sandpoint. Mrs. Gale, the manager of the Community Services Center, was grilling him about the situation in Couer d’Alene, and whether Fr. Ed thought the conflict between the tribes and the local governments was going to escalate. The killing of two Schitsumsh tribe members during a recent shoot out was a reminder that the issues from the last conflict remained unresolved. Water was even tighter than before, the land grabs continued, and the militias now controlled two more city councils surrounding the lake. The encroachments on tribal territory accelerated. The governor made his usual futile attempts to intercede, to no avail. With the lake cleaned up, water is now for fighting, as the old saying went, and proved to be an effective accelerant to all the other regional conflicts.

Fr. Ed followed the directions Johnny sent and parked the truck outside a dilapidated industrial building on the outskirts of Creston. He climbed a flight of worn wooden steps up to what looked like an office and rapped on the metal storm door. He heard movement inside, muffled voices, then Johnny opened the door part way, leaning out, naked to the waist.

“Ya-hey, EBR! How’s it going?” Fr. Ed smiled at the teasing nickname. EBR was better than Eddie Black Robe.

“Hello, Johnny. I’ve got a load of stuff for you.”

“That’s great, padre. Give me a sec while I get dressed and we’ll go to the shed. Come on in.” Johnny glanced back, then opened the door wider. Fr. Ed stepped into the office, apparently converted into an apartment. A ragged couch against the wall, a coffee table in front piled with empty beer cans, a towering bong, weed scattered on a plate. No syringes, thank God. Ed offered a quick prayer for Johnny’s health. He heard voices from the back, one female. Johnny returned, pulling on a sweater. He sat down and stepped into worn cowboy boots, no socks, his long black hair swaying as he hunched over to pull each boot on. He looked up at Ed watching him, a big grin mysteriously unifying the jumble of ethnic features that made him appear intimidating when he wanted, which wasn’t often, at least around Fr. Ed.

They went outside and Johnny directed Fr. Ed to pull the truck to the back. Ed drove around and maneuvered backwards into a loading bay. Johnny lifted up a sliding door and approached a stack of boxes, pulled a large knife from his pocket, and deftly flicked it open. He neatly sliced a box open with the razor-sharp blade, then grinned again at Fr. Ed’s concerned look at the knife as he put it away. He reached into the box and lifted out a brand-new child’s winter coat.

“What do you think?” he said, holding it up.

“Wonderful! How many? Different sizes?”

“These six boxes here. I think there are a couple of sizes.”

“Where’d you get them?”

“Ah, padre, you know. Fell off a truck,” Johnny replied with a wink.

Once again, Fr. Ed had a twinge about the assistance he’d come to rely on from Johnny. He suspected Johnny’s business wasn’t anything the government on either side of the border approved of, but he was such a reliably generous benefactor that it was hard to decline his donations. Fr. Abimbola from Holy Cross, his Canadian counterpart, kept Johnny at arm’s length, supposedly at the direction of Monsignor Murray in Nelson. Being so far from the Bishop in Boise had some advantages.

They opened the back of Fr. Ed’s panel truck and Johnny inspected the boxes stacked there, filling about two thirds of the space.

“Let’s make some room for the coats,” Johnny advised. They shifted items around, and Fr. Ed noticed Johnny inspecting other boxes in the process. He ended up pulling four out and setting them aside. Fr. Ed gave him a questioning look.

“These are for me. Toys from one of my peeps down in Sandpoint. We’re doing a Christmas drive.” Fr. Ed nodded, concealing his skepticism. They loaded the coats into the truck.

“Do you have time for a beer, padre?”

Fr. Ed glanced at his watch. “Uh, I guess. Do you have anything else?”

“Still off the sauce, huh?”

“I’m trying, Johnny, I’m trying.”

“Good for you. Sure, I’ve got some sodas.”

They returned to the apartment and Johnny cleared most of the detritus from last night’s celebration. He moved the bong and the plate of marijuana to the counter in the kitchenette area. He handed Fr. Ed a Canada Dry.

“So, what do you hear about the stuff down in CDA? You think the Schitsumsh are going to keep their cool?”

Fr. Ed shook his head. “I don’t know, Johnny. I’ll be honest, I don’t follow the politics down there very closely. I’ve got my hands full taking care of my parish. Which reminds me, when am I going to see you at Mass?”

Johnny laughed. “Next time I’m in Bonners Ferry, padre, I promise. But I’m not sure it’s safe for me down there. What do you think?”

“You’ll always be safe with me.” He opened his drink and took a swig. Johnny gave him a knowing smile. They left unstated the growing presence of the white supremacist and separatist alliance and how they impacted the local parishes and the Catholic Church in the Pacific Northwest. The fissures in American and Canadian societies didn’t respect the sanctuary of the church doors. Parishes had split, some closed, others flirted with or embraced schismatic doctrines. He was fortunate that his community in Bonner’s Ferry remained mostly out of the fray, except when they had to accept refugees from down south when conflicts erupted. Fr. Ed had his relationships with like-minded community groups in Sand Point and Couer d’Alene, and he focused on the pastoral duties that he enjoyed most, steering clear of the political and theological conflicts.

“What’s happening?” Fr. Ed followed up.

“The usual. The kooks are encroaching into the reservation, buying up lakefront property, working to control access to the lake and the water treatment capacity, gradually taking over the local governments, pressing the tribe on all sides. The Schitsumsh never really went hard on the autonomy thing because of the tourism. Things seemed to be working out for them. The other tribes in the Salish Confederacy made other choices. I don’t know if that’s going to work out for them, either.”

Johnny grew thoughtful and Fr. Ed tried to wait him out but his curiosity got the better of him.

“What do you mean?”

Johnny looked up, serious. “We’re still playing the white man’s games. Maybe we have better guns and drones now, and people can make a living, but we still aren’t making our own decisions. Thank god for the women.”

“What do you mean?”

“Indigenous women have always led, but quietly. Elected office, negotiating settlements, getting land back, cleaning up the environment. The militias, all the weapons, sometimes that runs up against other stuff, stuff that makes life better. Like I said, thank god for the women.”

“Damn straight!” The unseen woman in the back poked her head out of the doorway in back. “Don’t you forget that, Johnny.”

Johnny laughed. “Father Ed, this is Marlie. She keeps me honest.”

“Nice to meet you, Father.” She disappeared back into the bedroom before Ed could reply.

“So anyway, what I was going to say is, who I’m watching is the wendigo. They make their own decisions.”

“Wendigo?”

Johnny smiled. “You know, the monsters, the grendels.”

Fr. Ed’s interest was piqued. “You know them?”

Johnny looked up with a conspiratorial smile. “Some. Let’s just say they are a part of the games being played between the militias, the governments, the Canadians…everyone is working an angle, and the wendigo have always been involved.”

“Games? You mean the push for more tribal autonomy?”

Johnny shook his head. “Cutting us all loose from Interior was a big step, and the tribes making their own adoption rules to bring in more vets to serve in the militias, giving them membership, it really goosed things. But let’s not kid ourselves, those militias are just pawns in the bigger games being played. Everyone’s got their proxies. The tribes were lured in by the money, and maybe they get some other good stuff out of it, but at the end of the day, they now are wrapped up in the games between all the white people.”

“Is that why you never registered with any of the tribes?”

Johnny laughed. “I love that you think I have those kind of principles. No, it just happened. I’m métis, little m. My grandmother on my mother’s side was Cree, my dad’s father was Blood Blackfeet. Everyone else married all sorts of mixed-up people, Blacks, Inuit, Hispanic, Chinese. I don’t fit in anywhere.” Johnny took a long swig from his beer. “That’s what the tribes are like these days. Those militias? Once they started getting money, suddenly white people were all interested in becoming skins. It’s funny, back in the old days, tribes swapped people all the time, taking prisoners, trading, or tribes breaking up and joining others. But the identity was the group – living, hunting, protecting each other. When the whites came along, and especially in recent years, now an individual had to claim and prove identity, but without the group. It doesn’t make sense. Who can you be, outside your group?” He shook his head. “One thing they succeeded with, one way we’ve become whiter – amnesia. A lot of us don’t remember our own past, just like the whites. Just chasing a buck, or a hit, a high, or the next gadget.” He stared out the window into the forests around Creston. “But back to the wendigo. They know who they are, they have their tribe, and they walk free. And now they help us,” he concluded with a wink and a swig from his beer.

“Have you met any?”

“Me? A couple of times. Mostly I hear about it from others, talk amongst the people. They have all sorts of interactions, here and down in the States. Speak our languages, too.”

“Really?”

“The first time I know of, around here at least, was in Glacier, up in the hills. An old Blackfeet woman was out in the park foraging, picking herbs, pretty far from the road. She fell and hurt her leg at the bottom of a gulch. Even that time of year, it can get cold, and who knows what would have happened. So, one of them finds her, spoke some Salish. Even though she was Blackfeet, she recognized it, she replied in Siksika to him, and then English. He carried her out, but then kept coming back, and she taught him Siksika, called him Naked Bear. The Salish call them goblins. Whatever, they help out the tribes, and when the government started sending military advisors with all the other stuff, every once in a while, they would show up as well. I can tell you, they’re a big help for me and my business.” He gave a sly smile.

Fr. Ed frowned. “You know, I think I met one.”

Johnny sat up. “Really? How?”

“Well, I’m not sure, but I think he may be one. In the parking lot at my parish. He asked about taking the sacraments, converting.”

Johnny let out a guffaw and slapped his thigh, spilling his beer. “Now I’ve heard everything! That’s some blackrobe shit, EBR! Converting the wendigo!” Marlie came out of the room and leaned against the wall, listening.

Fr. Ed managed an embarrassed smile. “If this…person is what I think, do I have anything to worry about?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, personally. My safety.”

Johnny laughed again. “He approached you, right? No, I don’t think you have anything to worry about. Not unless you’re planning to throw him in a school and mess him up.” Fr. Ed laughed weakly, and Johnny regretted the jibe. “Ah, I’m just fucking with you, enit?”

“Be nice, Johnny,” Marlie chided.

“Sorry, padre. No, you should be fine. I’m curious, though, how that all works out. Keep me posted.”

“I will.”

“You be careful, Father. That’s weird one would approach you like that,” Marlie commented as she cleaned up the apartment, picking up empties and trash. Johnny focused on Ed.

“I don’t think your new friend is what you should worry about. There’s something going on down there your way. The smoke I’m seeing, things could get rezzy real quick. There’s some real warrior shit brewing. Somebody is trying to start something. You should tell your Catholic friends down in CDA they’re playing with fire getting handsy with those kooks. When they say one true religion, that does NOT include the Pope.”

They finished their drinks and said goodbyes. Johnny laughingly asked Fr. Ed to give his regards to Fr. Abimbola when he dropped off the rest of the load at Holy Cross.

Once the priest was gone, Johnny went out to the warehouse and opened one of the new boxes. He sorted through the toys, took out a stuffed bear and found the little black dot on the tag. He flicked out his knife and made a careful incision along a seam. He worked his finger in and felt around. After a few probes, he felt the hard edge of the shielded packet containing the contraband. Although he was never sure exactly what his payloads were, he knew this method was favored by the parties trafficking in embargoed AI chips. These would end up in some weapons system or illicit research effort somewhere. Whatever, as long they paid well.

***

Fr. Ed’s trip back to Bonner’s Ferry was uneventful. He crossed the border without incident as usual, the CBP agents chatting with him while they scanned the new boxes. Most of the agents were either members of his community or knew people he knew.

His work for this long day was almost done. Offload boxes of food and clothes in Bonner’s Ferry, drop off the rest in Sandpoint at the Community Center and then the food pantry, then finally back home.

He pulled into the Salvation Army parking lot in Bonner’s Ferry and went around to the back and opened the truck. He rearranged the boxes in the back, organizing the ones he’d offload here, then rearranged the load to minimize the shifting that might occur on the back roads that lay ahead for the last leg of his deliveries. He glanced at his wrist and noted the time. He wouldn’t be home before midnight at this rate, but he had to complete this task. The Sandpoint pantry was low on supplies and they were also concerned about the possibility of refugees. The children would need these winter clothes as well. There was no helping the time challenges, especially if he wanted to continue avoiding taking help from Mickey Thorsten.

He jumped down from the truck and lifted another box. As he turned, he startled and uttered an indecorous expletive at the sight of a towering figure in the shadow behind the door.

“What the…” he blurted.

“I’m sorry to frighten you, Father. It’s me.” Fr. Ed’s heart slowed a little at the recognition of the deep lisping voice of his visitor the evening before. Seeing the hulking mass up close, even in these concealing shadows, strengthened his suspicions about his visitor’s true nature.

“What…how can I help you?” Fr. Ed stuttered.

“As I said, I want to become a Catholic. What must I do?”

Fr. Ed took a deep breath, holding the box as if to ward off his visitor. “There is a process, education, training. It’s a long road. But first, I must discuss this with the Bishop.”

“Who?”

“My superior. My leader.”

When the figure moved, he could just barely hear a rustle of fabric. The shadows shifted with the movement making it difficult to pinpoint exactly where he stood. Fr. Ed continued to fill the awkward silence.

“I still don’t know your name, where you live, anything about you. Part of this process is you sharing who you are as a person, discussing your motivations, your readiness to make this journey. It’s not a trivial thing.” He shifted the box in his arms.

“I’ve made many difficult journeys. I am ready for this one. Is there an ordeal?”

Fr. Ed noted the hint of defiance and pride, as well as determination.

“Um, I’m not sure what you mean. Let me finish unloading this, and we can talk, but not for long. I have a long drive tonight.”

He carried the box into the warehouse, then as he returned to the truck, he startled to see the figure step into the light and lift the largest box. Now Fr. Ed could see he definitely wore some sort of camouflage. Together they unloaded the remaining boxes. When they finished, the other stood in front of him and lowered the hood of his cloak. Fr. Ed suppressed a shudder.

“You are a…?”

The figure straightened.

“What does that matter?”

“I…I don’t know. It’s not…um… typical. You might be the first of your kind to ask to become a Catholic.”

“There may be others.”

Fr. Ed swallowed, mouth suddenly dry, then cleared his throat. “So, what is your name? You have one?”

“Of course I have a name, Father. I am called Astyanax. All my people have names, as thinking individuals with separate identities should.”

Fr. Ed accepted the rebuke with familiar humility. This clearly wasn’t some wild creature of the lurid stories common in the media. Beast, monster, grendel: none of those words seemed relevant to this…person standing in front of him, challenging him confidently, seeking to join the communion of saints. Even more reason to consult the Bishop. This must be handled delicately.

“Tell me about yourself.” What followed was as fascinating as surreal. After finishing the unloading, Fr. Ed stood at the back of the truck, doors still open, listening to Astyanax pour forth his story, his questions, the challenges of living in the mountains of Idaho, Montana and up into Canada. Eventually Fr. Ed sat on the back of the truck against cases of soft drinks. He opened one for himself and offered one to Astyanax, who accepted cautiously, sniffed it, then drank with gusto, the can looking tiny wrapped in his taloned fingers.

They continued their conversation, undisturbed in the darkness of the parking lot outside the warehouse, Fr. Ed’s schedule forgotten. They spoke of the grendel’s family, their history, and their hardships. Fr. Ed was amazed at the creature’s knowledge and the kinds of questions it asked, some of which Ed had to look up on his device while they sat there. His knowledge of scripture, though incomplete, was particularly intriguing.

Finally, they were interrupted by the sweep of headlights from a vehicle pulling into a different section of the industrial park. Fr. Ed was astonished to see how quickly Astyanax disappeared into concealment, then as quickly reappeared. Fr. Ed noted it was almost eleven.

“I must go. I have a long way to drive tonight.”

Astyanax acknowledged this with a grunt. “When do we speak again to begin the process?”

Fr. Ed shuffled his feet, looking down. “I can’t…I must…I have to speak with the Bishop, my superior. This is not something I can do by myself. I must seek his permission.”

“Will he grant it?”

“I…I don’t know.”

Fr. Ed was alarmed by a low rumble, not quite a growl, but not reassuring.

“I am defying my superiors; why can’t you?” Astyanax asked.

***

In the truck heading south to Sandpoint, Fr. Ed stared into the darkness but his mind was beyond the headlights. How should he broach this with the Bishop? He already had an appointment to see him, but not in person, and only for routine administrative updates. Maybe combine with a visit to the high school? Fr. Ed mulled how to present this without jeopardizing his chance to begin developing the youth programs that were his passion. The more he thought about it, this situation could go either way: a huge opportunity, a chance to move on with his career into something more suited to his strengths, or it could end up in catastrophe if mishandled. Once again, he checked himself, offering a prayer of contrition for his pride, asking for assistance to stay focused on the needs of his parishioners and the diocese he served.

How to get down to Boise? He didn’t have time to drive. That would eat up two days, and he couldn’t afford even that time to be away from his duties.

With resignation, he realized that despite his misgivings, he’d have to ask a favor from Mickey Thorsten. A prominent local Catholic in Couer d’Alene, generous and active in every aspect of the parish, Fr. Ed also knew he was more than casually involved with the separatist movement. He financed the expansion of the new church in CDA for one of the Integralist parishes, only barely still members of the diocese due to their open defiance of the Vatican on pretty much every issue since Vatican II. The current Pope’s edict to maintain relations with all factions, no matter how openly schismatic, complicated the job of every Bishop across the country, especially those here in the areas involved in the worst parts of the abortive secession attempt before the Fast War.

That conflict and the lingering tensions are what drove the lucrative cross border trade in drugs, weapons, and human bodies, generating enough ancillary income to provide a wealthy lifestyle to a whole segment of the local economy. Thorsten was better than most at concealing the sources of his affluence and donated generously around the community. He was also adept at playing all sides, often serving as a bridge and mediator between factions, and was always just on this side of the law, cultivating friendships, alliances, and dependencies. Although he didn’t know for sure, Fr. Ed suspected his friendship with Johnny Q. somehow was connected to Mickey Thorsten.

Consistent with the Bishop’s mandate to maintain good relations with all the other parishes, Fr. Ed did his best to play nice. But there were only so many food drives and winter coat donation collaborations that could paper over the profound differences in how they acted on their beliefs about women, minorities, and gay people. And the company some kept was nothing but scandal waiting to happen. Still, Jesus welcomes all. And the Bishop was always there, urging him to reach out and maintain those good relations. Fr. Ed did his best.

But Mickey Thorsten could get him to Boise and back in a day, and all it would take is a phone call.

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Archie sat across from the social worker wearing his best sad face. The good smelling pretty woman pretending to be his sister was next to him. He avoided her angry eyes. The social worker pretended to be angry too, but he knew, despite her frown, he wasn’t in real trouble. The lady would take care of it. He didn’t have a sister. He had a brother, but he left long ago with his parents. He remembered them, though. He leaned closer to the pretend sister lady and inhaled deeply. She gently pushed him away.

“Although they didn’t actually catch him on camera stealing the items, the manager did a careful inventory reconciliation between the scanner and the shelving tracker and was able to pinpoint the missing items to when Archie was in the store.”

The pretend sister looked at Archie and shook her head and Archie looked down, pouting. The DSS worker continued.

“The store owner doesn’t want to press charges, but he did make a report to us, and now it’s our problem. Without any concrete proof, and no formal action, our hands are tied, but we do have enough to have this conversation. As his sister, you need to know what he’s up to when unsupervised.”

The woman next to him heaved a deep sigh and put her hand on his. “Oh, Archie.” She turned to the DSS worker. “We’ll keep a closer eye on him. Of course, we’re not going to restrict his movement, and we will continue encouraging him to live as independently as feasible, but we won’t let this happen again. Archie has a cash card he’s supposed to use for these kinds of purchases. He’s got money. I don’t know why he still does this. What do you have to say for yourself, Archie?”

Archie hung his head and shrugged. The woman leaned in and continued. “Can you tell the lady why you took the candy bars? Were you hungry? Did someone ask you to do it? Did you lose your cash card?”

“I don’t know yet,” Archie mumbled.

“Was it because you were hungry?” the woman persisted.

“I didn’t thay that.” The woman stared hard at him. “I’m thorry,” Archie finally admitted.

The woman looked back at the DSS worker. “Thank you for letting us know. We’ll get it sorted out.”

***

The woman stared straight ahead as they rode home in silence. Archie knew better than to ask any questions.

They pulled up to the house and went inside. Serena waited at the door.

“Archie?”

“Hi, Therena.”

“How did it go?” Serena asked the woman, turning in her direction, maneuvering her walker. The woman remained standing in the entrance.

“As well as could be expected. He’s…”

Serena held up a hand to stop her. “Wait, I’m having trouble. Let me…” Serena reached up behind her right ear and massaged. The woman scowled impatiently. “There. What were you saying?”

“I said, he’s a very good thief. They couldn’t prove he took anything, but only pinpointed an inventory discrepancy to the time window when he was there. The owner isn’t looking to make trouble. The DSS worker did what she had to do. I’d let it go.”

Serena heaved a sigh of relief.

“That’s wonderful.” She turned to Archie. “You can’t keep doing this, Archie. We can’t have them snooping around. Please be more careful.”

The woman turned toward the door.

“I’ll need that payment. These trips are getting more expensive. I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be available to do this.”

Serena turned back to her. “Oh no, is everything all right?”

The woman waved her hand. “Nothing to worry about. I just have other responsibilities. Do you have someone else lined up?”

“I’ll check. Thank you. We’ll make sure you get your money.”

***

Serena sat with Adam, forearms clasped, touch talking.

She said we may have to get a replacement sister for Archie.

But that would mean we might have to move again.

God, I hate that I can’t go out with him!

The government agencies are easy to deceive.

I know, but we have to be careful.

Archie might slip.

I know they vet those women, but what if one makes a mistake?

Archie is fine. He does this well.

I need him in the community gathering information.

Perhaps for not much longer, though.

What do you mean?

Things are moving. It may end soon.

Then we’ll be free.

Are you sure? Oh, Adam, please be careful.

Don’t worry. I want us to be safe.

For us, not them.

I love you.

I love you, too.

Serena departed and Adam turned to his patterns, assessing the locations of all the pieces and their trajectories. He rechecked his encrypted communication applications. Still nothing from the messenger. Infrequent contact was expected, but no less a source of apprehension. This was the riskiest part of the plan. He trusted the grendel to protect Bibi while he maneuvered the adversary into position.

There were other ways to find the information he wanted. His fingers flew across the haptic pad, and his forearm tickled from the feedback from the sleeves he wore.

Out in the living room, the TV blared the opening music of Archie’s wrestling show, the volume turned all the way up.

Adam sent messages to their gaming group, making especially sure that TSgt Harry Bulow, of Great Falls, Montana, would be online this evening. The specially configured server on which they played Hyperion Quest had Adam’s latest modifications to harvest data for updating the emulations. As anticipated, the government made many changes in response to his probe, most of which he already solved. Their unwitting accomplice Harry would assist with any remaining ones.

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Bina bent over, hands on her knees, panting. They’d been hiking for hours as the morning sun emerged over the trees. Danae grudgingly agreed to another rest stop. Bina watched Danae sort through her pack as Bina removed her boots and massaged her feet. This seemed like such a better idea yesterday when they made the plan.

When Bina showed up earlier this morning insisting they leave immediately, Danae initially resisted, then relented, momentarily daunted by the young girl’s confident assertion of authority and insistence her mother would find them out and ruin everything. They set out, but now the power dynamic shifted.

The shock of Danae’s uncamouflaged appearance hadn’t completely worn off. Bina tried not to stare, but even when she did, Danae didn’t seem to care. Especially intriguing were Danae’s pointy ears, how they twitched and pivoted, just like the dog’s, and how her long black hair was pushed back behind them. She also was charmed by the slight lisp of her speech, and how her prominent canines peeked out from her lips.

Danae swiped one of her talons on a rounded oval of rock with a musical note. She’d swipe several times, then test the point and edge. Her efforts were mostly focused on her right index and middle fingers, swipe, swipe, test; swipe, swipe. Finally satisfied, she put the rock back in her pack, then looked at Bina.

“We must go faster. This will take several days at this rate, and I do not know where my brother is. My instructions were to remain concealed and protect you until he returned.”

“I told you, my mother suspected. She’s very good. I wouldn’t be able to hide you from her for long. If I could find you…” Danae looked up at this. Bina continued her argument. “We needed to go today. Besides, you said I was putting her in danger. She is safer this way.”

Danae fixed her with yellow eyes, then grunted. “I did not know you are unable to run.”

“I can run,” Bina countered, scowling.

Danae stared at her, then looked away, shaking her head. She stood up, adjusted her pack, then donned the cloak she wore that subtly shifted colors in sync with her own skin color changes. She seemed to dissolve. Bina could only see her to follow when she moved, and then barely.

They set out again, Bina determined to prove she could keep up. She tried as hard as she could to move silently and still keep pace. Then her fear of getting lost slowed her down more. Danae would startle her by speaking from some unanticipated concealment, scaring her all over again. Danae’s poorly concealed disdain for Bina’s limitations rankled. The transition to this new role of slow, weak, noisy sidekick was hard to swallow. The companionship of Vesta was easier; the dog would circle back to check on Bina, pause for a pat on the head and an ear scratch, then disappear again to scout ahead or on their flanks, out and back, out and back.

Bina stopped again to catch her breath, irritated by the niggling doubts about this decision.

***

Yesterday, after Bina snuck out before her mother woke, they’d sat and talked for hours by the pond.

“Do you know what your name means, Danae?”

There was a rustling from her concealment. “No.”

“Danae was the daughter of a great king, and there was a prophecy that her son would kill the king, so she was locked up, but then Zeus, the main Greek god, came to her room in the form of a rain of gold, and she got pregnant, and then…”

“She got pregnant from the rain? How is that possible?”

“It’s a myth, it’s not literally real. It’s about what the story means. Anyway, her son was a famous hero, named Perseus, and they…”

“The son, he was a hero? Did he slay many enemies?”

“Even better! He killed a famous monster called the Medusa , who had a head full of snakes…”

“I do not like snakes.”

“Me either.”

“What of you? What does your name mean?”

“Bina is an Indian name, it means beauty and wisdom. It’s associated with the goddess Saraswati, who is the goddess of knowledge and the arts. She has two sisters, Lakshmi and Parvati, and together they helped create the Universe.” Bina paused. “But that’s not why my parents gave me the name. It was my father, my step-father really, his favorite auntie’s name.”

“He is the one who was killed?”

“Yes. With others. It’s why we run and hide.”

The somber turn of the conversation changed the mood

“There is one of my people named Perseus. He is not a hero. He talks too much. Perhaps names don’t mean as much as people wish.”

“So, your people read the Greek myths?”

“I don’t know about greeks, but we share many stories from sagas, about heroes and battles, stories from the Old Books. They teach us how we must behave, with honor, and what our duties are, to each other, and to our people. I like some of the stories, but I only like to sit and listen when we are outside, like this, with a fire, practicing our skin changes, hunting, and exploring. Sitting in the caves during the winter listening to the storytellers is tiresome.”

“Skin changes?”

“How we hide. Why you can’t see me. We used to be able to hide from the machines, but they have learned to find us. But your people help protect us. What is that like, being part of the groupmind?”

“It’s fun. I like it. My mother doesn’t though.”

“Why does she resist them?”

“It’s complicated. She gets angry about things they did, the fact that people want to kill us because of them. But that’s not their fault. And I like being with them.”

“Why? How do you do that?”

“It’s called meshing or sharing. It started off by holding hands, touching in a pattern, like a code, but then it grows into something more. Once meshed, we share things. I like to tell stories and hear stories. I get the impression the yunk really likes that. I’m the storyteller, I guess.”

“Like our storyteller. You pass on the sagas, preserve the memories, tell the people who they are and where they came from?”

Bina shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so. I didn’t think of it that way.”

Danae stared at her. “You are important. I see better why your uncle wants you to join him.”

Bina frowned. “But what about my mother?”

“Your mother can protect herself. She travels unseen all the time. She can even hide from the groupmind. But she cannot protect you, and you are the one that they want.”

“Who wants to kill me?” It felt scary saying it that way.

“The alloioi, the humans, the ones who hate us and you.”

Those conversations hardened Bina’s resolve. They planned the meeting the next morning, then Bina rehearsed how she would deceive her mother.

***

Watching Danae’s demonstrations of her skills reassured Bina that Danae could keep them both safe. Still, it was weird and scary being in the woods. They stopped for another rest.

“Where are we going?” Bina asked.

“To meet my brother, and then go to your uncle.”

“Yes, but where?”

Danae looked off through the trees where the sun rose and gestured vaguely.

“This way. When we get closer, Vesta will find him and bring him to us.”

Danae stood still, scenting the air, turning slowly, listening. Satisfied they were alone, she turned to Bina.

“You left the weapon as I instructed?”

“Of course. But why?”

“We are safer using stealth. The groupmind instructed that we carry no weapons.”

“They did?”

Danae shrugged. “That is often their way. They prefer concealment to conflict.”

“How did you know I had it? By the pond.”

“Vesta smelled it.”

“But how did you know?”

“She told me.”

Vesta listened to the conversation, looking back and forth at each speaker, ears pivoting. Bina studied her, wondering at this new fact.

“We must go.”

Bina heaved a big sigh, reached into her pack and swigged from her water bottle. Her stomach grumbled. She hoisted the pack into position while Danae watched, impatient. Bina felt self-conscious under her judgmental eyes.

They followed streams uphill, over small ridges then down again, heading into the rising sun, toward the higher ranges. Occasionally Danae would appear next to Bina with handfuls of berries, mostly dry and sour. Bina was so hungry, she chewed them a while to blunt the sourness with saliva and swallowed. She saw some red berries she thought were similar and picked them as they walked. When Danae saw her getting ready to put them in her mouth, she knocked them out of her hand.

“Hey!” Bina protested.

“Not those. You will be sick. I will pick the food.”

Bina looked at the scattered red berries at her feet, embarrassed. Without a word, she resumed hiking. After that, Danae handed her more leaves and grasses, all dry and unfamiliar.

“You expect me to eat this?” she said, holding out a bundle of yellow flowers that looked like dandelions.

“The flowers are good. The leaves also. If you are hungry, you should eat them.”

Bina plucked one of the flowers and put it tentatively into her mouth and chewed. It actually wasn’t bad, once she accepted the texture. Some of the smaller ones were quite sweet. She finished the bunch, then started looking for similar ones herself, this time under Danae’s watchful eye.

Bina ate enough to quell the hunger pangs. Then she got an idea and continued picking flowers, but this time keeping the stems as long as possible. As they walked, she wove the flowers together, creating a circlet, like the many she made with her mother on walks on the woods. She wore it as a bracelet and at their next rest stop, she showed it to Danae.

“Do you want me to make you one?”

Danae stared at the circlet on Bina’s wrist. “What purpose does it serve?”

“It’s pretty! And sometimes smells good, depending on the flower. Here, smell this.” She lifted her arm up and Danae sniffed tentatively.

“Hmph. Perhaps.”

As the afternoon waned, Bina noticed Danae studying the sun approaching the western horizon, then off to the east to the looming mountains. Danae pointed to the next ridge.

“That is where we will stop for the night. We have not gone far enough.”

Several times, Bina saw Danae run off, sprinting ahead to scout, disappearing, then reappearing at a run. Bina wondered at Danae’s strength and stamina, charging effortlessly up the hills. Bina slogged on, legs burning, breathing heavy, sweating.

They finally stopped next to a dense wall of brush. At Danae’s command, Bina sat down and drank water, taking off her boots and socks and inspecting her feet. Danae set to work tearing a path into the bushes, then digging into the ground using her talons to rake the dirt and rocks. Vesta sat next to Bina.

“That’s where we’re going to sleep?” Bina asked. Danae hollowed out a depression in the ground concealed by the thick tangle of brush. The sun was on the horizon, and Bina could see her breath. She pulled her hands up into the sleeves of her coat. The oversight of not bringing hat and gloves irritated her. She hoped the hood of her jacket would be enough. Danae looked at her, blinking her yellow eyes.

“How do you sleep at night?” Danae asked.

Bina cocked her head. “Umm, in a bed.”

Danae gestured at the depression.

Bina scoffed. “Not like that. With sheets. And blankets. In a house.”

“You never sleep outside? Only in a house?”

“Well…” Bina thought about the handful of camping trips, when Anirudh was alive, sleeping in the tent and making dinner over a fire, s’mores and hot dogs, hot chocolate in the morning. “…not like this.”

Danae resumed her work. Bina put her socks and boots back on and stood. “Can I help?”

Danae looked up. “Gather leaves, dry ones. Something to block the cold from the ground.”

Bina did as she was instructed, gathering handfuls of leaves and pine needles and making a pile next to the pit. Danae spread them out. In a short while, as it grew darker, the small nest was complete. Danae sat in the leaves and gestured to Bina.

“Come.”

Bina stepped forward.

“Are we going to eat anything? Do you have food?”

“Are you still hungry?”

“Well, yeah. Aren’t you? All I had was that granola bar and the apple I took this morning… and the weeds and berries.”

Danae shrugged her muscular shoulders.

“I fed last night. I will hunt tomorrow while we travel. We will eat tomorrow.”

“Hunt? You didn’t bring any food?”

Danae spread her arms and gestured to the surrounding woods.

“There is food all around. You must only gather it.”

Bina considered this and held the other questions bubbling in her mind. All day she wondered if this was the best way to protect her mother. Maybe this was a big mistake.

Danae turned back to the pit and unwrapped her cloak. Underneath she wore a tight-fitting harness with a pack on the front, which again piqued Bina’s curiosity. Danae laid down and put the cloak back over herself, then looked at Bina.

Bina stepped down into the pit, then laid next to Danae, who spread the cloak over the both of them. Danae gave a command, and Vesta stepped into the pit and laid next to Bina, sandwiching her next to Danae. Bina put an arm around Vesta’s soft fur and warm body.

“Tomorrow, maybe we will meet my brother, and we will see what happens next.” Bina accepted that silently. She sensed Danae’s body relaxing, her breathing slowing, and very quickly, she snored softly, fast asleep. Bina lay awake, listening to the night sounds, sleep held at bay by too many questions seeking answers.

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…there can never be any real discrepancy between faith and reason, since the same God who reveals mysteries and infuses faith has bestowed the light of reason on the human mind; and God can not deny himself, nor can truth ever contradict truth. The false appearance of such a contradiction is mainly due, either to the dogmas of faith not having been understood and expounded according to the mind of the Church, or to the inventions of opinion having been taken for the verdicts of reason. — Dei Filius, First Vatican Council, issued by Pope Pius IX, 24 April 1870.

The aftermath of the fight wasn’t as bad as Michelle feared. After cooling off for a couple of hours, she knocked on Bina’s door and pushed it open. As she approached in the dark, Bina turned to her. They spoke briefly, made up with mutual apologies, leaving the point of contention aside for later. They resolved to rebraid Bina’s hair and watch a movie the next day, and Michelle was touched deeply by how sincerely Bina hugged her with a murmured “I love you so much.”

Michelle sipped her coffee at the kitchen table, late morning sun streaming in. The incongruity of mulling possible escape plans with setting up a formal tea with Bina this afternoon made her smile. The teas were something Anirudh had enjoyed, and they continued the tradition. They needed to discuss what they’d do with this dog showing up. She ruminated on how to navigate the increasingly complex relationship with her daughter while keeping them both alive and safe. Maybe it was time to start including Bina in that decision making. If only Anirudh were still with them.

That peaceful interlude seemed so long ago, but it was only a little more than two years. They were all together, Adam training Bina, Michelle and Anirudh maintaining the household, safe and calm. Then one day a freak storm, a tree limb through the roof of the house, a nosy repairman, then more snoops. That lead to an angry confrontation in the street, protestors, publicity. Even as quickly as they made plans to relocate, the hunters closed in. Anirudh created a distraction, allowing Michelle to escape with the children and a few other of the adult helpers, but then there was a firefight between the extremists and the police, and Anirudh was in the middle.

They moved to the next state, rebuilt a life, reconnecting with the other nodes of the HI, the ganglia, once more displaced. Set up, settle, then move again. How many times? That’s when Michelle made the decision to break away, against Adam’s and the collective’s wishes. It was a decision she and Anirudh had discussed many times but hadn’t acted on because things had seemed to be going so well. At least, back then.

At each new hiding place, Michelle’s deft use of her skills along with a sufficient blend of truth and fiction kept the gossips and busybodies at bay wherever they went. The young widow and her brown daughter, victims of the recurrent spasms of racial intolerance and social unrest, always simmering.

In some ways, the grendels and the collective intelligence of Homo iunctus served to redirect some portion of racist hatred away from traditional enmities. Not always though, and Anirudh’s death served as a useful substitute for the real reason of their persecution.

Separating from Adam was very difficult, but not as difficult as it would have been before, in Rexburg when this all began, at least for them. His sole surviving relative, Michelle took her guardianship to heart and ferociously defended her brother’s interests as he grew more tightly interwoven into the HI community. Seeing him settle in, maturing and calmer, a member of a team, gave Michelle peace. It was a unique community, and Adam contributed in his own special way. She was happy and proud that she fulfilled her parent’s command to watch over and care for him. Adam’s bond with Bina, holding her with his own brand of affection, was an unexpected but deeply gratifying bonus.

That’s what made the decision to isolate so much harder. As Adam and Bina drew closer, that necessarily drew Bina deeper into connection with the HI, which Michelle knew put them all at risk. She didn’t trust the collective to keep them safe, so she took Bina and ran.

How long would they have to live like this? The assistance provided by the HI was crucial, now that Michelle was cut off from her journalism and the access to advanced AI support it provided. Her knowledge and skills as a professional journalist helped her maintain the multiple identities necessary to move through the world undetected, and the HI grew ever more adept at complementing those efforts. Sometimes she felt bad using her journalism skills for the purposes of intelligence gathering and counterintelligence to keep them all safe. She suspected, or, deep down, knew, that people probably died because of her work identifying threats. She had seen how the HI discretely and ruthlessly neutralized perils she identified threatening the collective. It bothered her.

The vast wilderness of the Pacific Northwest provided ample refuge, especially in the regions populated by separatists and the always splintering antigovernment factions after the Fast War. With their myriad grievances, as well-armed as they were ignorant and hateful, they created the frontier environment that kept the federal government at bay and also allowed Michelle and the HI to exist undetected. But Michelle always worried about her biracial daughter and how strong the extremists were becoming. How long could they remain invisible with Bina’s brown skin?

She didn’t want to get too far from Adam, in case they could reunite. They were loathed by the bigots, and now also pursued by the HI because of Bina’s value. Michelle remained angry at being duped into playing a role in their breeding program. She knew why they wanted to take control of their genetic destiny and accelerate their development, but her resentment remained.

Now this. Run or stay? How to figure out the significance of this dog watching Bina? Michelle’s most recent contact with the HI, to resupply and keep them away, gave no indication of pursuit or threats, though they did seem very interested in Adam’s whereabouts, which puzzled her.

As trivial as it seemed, they’d have to put off the promised dance party. The truth was Michelle enjoyed them as much as Bina, reveling in their shared love of loud music and the release of wild dancing. It killed her to withhold these simple pleasures from her daughter out of fear. This new development changed things.

Asking for additional help from the HI would come with a cost. They’d want Bina to resume her training, to become a part of their extended nervous system, and another interface with the rest of the world. Bina represented the shortest path to the collective’s future capability to connect and communicate with humanity.

No matter what, she would not allow Bina to be pushed into a life not of her choosing. Adam’s fate was Adam’s, and she was bound to Adam, but she also had to protect Bina, and Bina would be allowed to choose. When she was old enough to decide for herself, maybe she would. But the training, the others objected. It would be most effective when her nervous system was young and malleable, the neural plasticity most welcoming to the molding and amplification of her native ability. Connecting and merging her with the collective would give voice to the superintelligence distributed across the hidden clusters, the ganglia. She would assist their work shaping themselves, accelerating and enhancing their already prodigious skills. As another interface with the rest of the human world, Bina would help explain, reassure, and keep the peace between the fearful angry mobs and the new species, Homo iunctus.

Where is she?

The sun was high, and Bina was not typically a late sleeper. She’d want breakfast before sitting for tea. Michelle put her coffee down and went to Bina’s room. She pushed open the door and stopped. The bed was neatly made, the room tidy. Heart accelerating, Michelle looked around the room, stepping in. Her backpack was gone. Michelle’s immediate intuition was of a planned, orderly departure, not a stealthy abduction. The absence of her “go bag” confirmed that.

She logged into their system and reviewed Bina’s activity. A lot of reading about Greek mythology and a deep dive into the grendels and their history. Why was that? The surveillance showed all of the external cameras had been inactivated at 4:33 a.m. On a hunch, she checked several interior angles, and sure enough, there was Bina at a terminal at that time. She confirmed by checking logs, some of which only she could access. It was Bina.

What has she done?

She returned to Bina’s room, looking for clues. Then she noticed the player resting on the pillow, her old one, the first device Michelle gave her for music, replaced several years ago with a more sophisticated tablet with the appropriate security and stealth technology. Michelle picked it up, turned it over. The deliberate placement was a message. She thumbed the play button, and heard the opening chords of a familiar old song they both loved.

Well, I heard some people talkin’ just the other day
And they said you were gonna put me on a shelf….

Michelle almost dropped the device.

No, no, no…..

More frantic, Michelle searched the room again, then ran outside, still clutching the player. She circled the house, looking for tracks or any sign of what direction she might have gone, other missing things, anything. She couldn’t have gone too far, especially on foot. There was only one road out, a long one, but that was too obvious. Still, it was the fastest available means to quickly cover a lot of ground.

“I’m going to kill her, I’m going to kill her…” she muttered over and over. She circled deeper into the woods, crashing through brambles, branches whipping and scratching her.

Stop, think, stop, think…

She held her breath and stood still, listening, hearing only the soft background of a few birds, a breeze, an acorn dropping, nothing else. The song on the player was definitely a message, Bina’s misguided attempt to assure Michelle that she was in control and safe, that she hadn’t been abducted.

Stupid, stupid, stupid…. Stop. Think.

She stood in the woods, panting, turning in a circle once again. No traces. Bina clearly used her training well, concealing her departure. How did she hide her plan from their conversation last night? The refrain from the song Bina left popped into her mind:

‘Cause I’m already gone
And I’m feelin’ strong…

Panic surged again and Michelle suppressed a sob, breathing ragged, heart pounding.

What next? What next? What next?

“Bina! BINA!!! BINA!!!” she screamed over and over, voice breaking, a sharp pain in her throat.

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The emergence of an advanced technology industrial base decoupled from the traditional international military alliances in the aftermath of the wars of the early 21^st century was an unintended and unwelcome consequence of the overly cautious management of the Russian collapse. The proliferation of AI-enabled miniaturized munitions destabilized almost every advanced country on the planet. Only genetically engineered bioweapons presented a comparable threat. — Excerpt from Emerging Threats white paper, National Intelligence University

“This one is definitely going to be ours.”

Christine Bilyk strode back to the Executive Office Building while her assistant hurried to keep up. The morning briefing at the White House went well.

After they cleared security, Christine stopped to admire the deep blue stained glass of the ornate East Rotunda, a favorite moment of the day. She loved how this building stood out from the rest of the structures in D.C., the French Second Empire architecture reminding her of some of the older ornate buildings in Kyiv and Kharkiv, if only indirectly.

Together they bounded up the four flights of stairs, the younger woman lagging behind.

“How do they know it’s the Entity?” Sahar Burhan asked, controlling her breathing, a step behind her boss, hurrying to keep up.

“They don’t, at least not yet. But they suspect. It may be wishful thinking, because the alternatives are all much, much worse, no matter how unlikely. You know the President’s concerns about the effectiveness of UNAIO and the treaties. He’ll be focusing hard on the international implications, which is something we have to be cognizant of.”

“Send us off chasing something that distracts from someone else’s failures.”

Christine smiled and nodded. She’d seen it before: an eager young policy maker jumps up to take lead on some pressing problem, only to be hung out to dry when things went sideways or some embarrassing revelation came to light. Meanwhile, the more experienced hands sit back, avoiding blame, maneuvering to find advantage in the wreckage of the failed initiative. That was the trick: raise your hand for the problems that had easily implemented solutions with a high probability of success and ride the bubbles of acclaim up the ladder. Most of the time it was just dumb luck avoiding the ones that blew up. But Christine would have taken this one no matter the risks. Challenging the Entity had become her mission at this stage of her career.

“But you think it’s them,” Sahar continued, grinning at Christine’s arched eyebrow in response.

They stopped outside Christine’s office. “Let me know when you finalize a time with your team. I’m going to clear my day as much as possible and I’ll make myself available whenever you need.”

Sahar nodded, shoulders squared, standing straighter, visibly eager to accept the delegation of responsibility.

“And you can let Jerry be the one to tell his team they made the PDB this morning,” Christine continued. Sahar beamed. Having their work get through the layers of editing and competing agendas to make it into the President’s Daily Briefing was a major victory and point of professional pride for every analyst. Jerry Cho, Christine’s successor leading the Emerging Global Threats Desk at Langley wasn’t a friend, but he was becoming an ally. Even though it was Christine’s influence that placed the report in the PDB, let Jerry take credit for it. That way he would continue allowing Sahar to remain detailed to Christine’s office at the NSC, no small thing. Her own boss at the NSC would still have to continue interceding higher up with Donnelly, the CIA Director and Christine’s nemesis.

Sahar departed for CIA headquarters and Christine got to work gaming out how the meeting with the President would go.

The global threat situation remained unstable and the momentary loss of control of nuclear weapons certainly wasn’t a welcome development. The President’s signature foreign policy initiative was at a delicate juncture. Preparations were almost complete for the trip to Brussels to take the next step back toward reintegration with NATO. The real agenda was pushing along negotiations for the drawdown of the European Defense Forces in Canada. Mollifying the hawks in his own party as well as the opposition would give him a freer hand for his trade and reform agendas.

The proliferation of flashpoints with the usual adversaries, as well as too many new ones, kept the national security apparatus constantly on the back foot, reacting and recovering, rarely anticipating and preventing. The incompletely healed fragmentation of American civil society further complicated matters. The national trauma of the failed secession attempt by a portion of the Compact States calling themselves the Inland Northwest, followed by the Fast War, still festered. That the involved missile silos were adjacent to the areas roiled by the simmering insurgency and proxy war in the region further heightened the concerns of foreign involvement. Though unsuccessful, the secessionist sentiment and insurrectionist parties remained, armed and financed by unseen adversaries.

The international situation was no better. A heavily armed Europe, continuous Chinese maneuvering for power and influence, too many new nuclear powers, the constant turmoil of rogue AI, and the shadowy networks of transnational syndicates supporting anyone able to further personal, criminal, and nationalist interests all stoked endless conflict.

This latest crisis sent all the affected agencies scrambling to prove their relevance and loyalty, especially after the latest foreign penetration of the FBI. Once more, it was a challenge determining who to trust, discerning the hidden agendas, complicated by the ubiquitous personal ambitions of all the players.

In the background, the consequences of the disaster at the federal Research Lab out in Idaho almost two decades ago quietly played out. While the public, especially the religious extremists, continued obsessing about the rogue supersoldiers, the grendels, Christine continued what had become her life’s work: tracking, monitoring, analyzing, and hopefully containing the collective mind of what they referred to as the Entity.

The Emerging Global Threats desk started as a fusion team to address the intelligence failure around the Biological Combat Systems scandal and the escape of the grendels. The public outcry about the grendels distracted from the other half of the problem, the presence of this new intelligence, embedded in human society but quietly diverging as it grew in scope and sophistication. Because of its hidden nature, no one could agree whether it was a threat at all. Meanwhile, more parochial concerns continued dominating day-to-day decisions, diverting resources and attention from what Christine and her team believed was the real long-term menace.

She trusted Sahar to gather the data needed to support the hypothesis of Entity involvement. Christine would lay the groundwork for clearing obstacles to having them take the lead.

***

“Welcome back to Langley, Ms. Bilyk,” Deputy Director Jerry Cho welcomed her as she entered the briefing room.

“Thank you. I appreciate you making the time for this in-person meeting, and I’m sure you understand the urgency, given recent developments. I’ve seen your reports, but I’d like to discuss some of these issues directly with the analysts.”

“Of course. Why don’t we do introductions,” Cho said. They went around the room, each person briefly stating their name and title, even though Christine knew all of them, at least by reputation. Sahar feigned professional distance. At the conclusion, the Deputy Director spoke again.

“Mr. Skoberg and Ms. Burhan are being modest. Their EGT portfolio is much broader than suggested. I’ll let them explain further.” He nodded to the young man, who cleared his throat and shuffled the folders in front of him. Christine knew Skoberg well, following his career at a distance. West Point, Army Intelligence, Special Forces, politically connected: he was everything Sahar wasn’t, which is why Christine picked her to mentor.

From the first time Christine saw Sahar give a presentation on a video call representing the State Department during a national security conference, she was dazzled by the young woman’s restless, raw brilliance. Christine offered her a job even before she finished graduate school and soon had her working on the Emerging Global Threats desk when Christine led it. Then the leadership change occurred at the CIA presenting the opportunity to move to the White House, handling the Entity portfolio for the NSC.

“I’m well aware of their work,” Christine said, nodding with a smile to the young woman, who put her head down, blushing. Skoberg jumped in.

“Thank you, ma’am. Though we don’t have a direct connection yet to the Broken Arrow issue, we’re tracking a number of movements in addition to your primary concern. We’re picking up military activity in China, North Africa and the Baltics. Domestically, DHS and the FBI, at least the parts we still trust, are sharing some chatter from the domestic groups we assess as having international connections. As we’ve briefed previously to the NSC, the domestic opposition groups, particularly the ones regarding the Entity and the BCS truants, have demonstrated transnational connections, including the Chinese, Caliphate, and the Bratva and Siloviki networks. Although it may be coincidental, the timing and gravity of the missile breach suggest otherwise. We’ve also increased our surveillance of the Canadian groups, especially the ones in the Western provinces. The EDF bases on the U.S. Canadian border do not appear to have elevated their alert status, but we are watching them closely. The other recent cyberintrusions further muddle the picture.”

“No connections?”

“Still no consistent MMO with any of them. Despite the well-known concerns with the UN oversight, the network defense AIs seem to be handling the treaty restrictions. Our Chinese counterparts and the treaty compliance organizations have been very cooperative. No evidence yet this is an AI issue.”

“So why the Entity?”

“Maybe means, maybe opportunity, but motive? We’ve got generally very good relations at the moment. It doesn’t add up.” The young man shook his head. Sahar looked up and fidgeted. Christine glanced at her, but she remained quiet. “We do have two phenomena that we are scrutinizing more closely that may be related, both connected to the Entity.”

“Maybe three,” Sahar interrupted. The young man glanced at her with a raised eyebrow, momentarily silencing her, piquing Christine’s interest.

Skoberg continued. “The first is not a new thing but has increasing salience. The models we use to monitor Entity-related data traffic show some very subtle gaps, holes, that, by themselves, are wholly unremarkable. However, using more advanced analytics,” Christine saw a proud smile flicker across Sahar’s face “…we are seeing a possible pattern emerging. We haven’t been able to interpret the specific meaning, but it does appear to be a manifestation of active management of what we’re seeing.”

“Are you aware that NSA believes they are invisible to the Argus-12 system?” Christine asked. The looks around the table confirmed that this was news.

“Can you be more specific?” the Deputy Director interjected, confusion obvious in his expression.

“The algorithms…” Skoberg started.

“It’s a figure ground problem,” Sahar interrupted, leaning forward. Skoberg frowned.

“Go on,” Christine prompted.

“By processing and analyzing what’s not there, we can begin to see the outlines of what is there. The shape of the hole. The shadow of what they are trying to conceal from us.”

“We’re having difficulty training the AIs to look for the absences, as opposed to…”

Christine interrupted Skoberg with a gesture and nodded at Sahar to continue.

“We are fairly confident on several details: one, we see zero evidence of an external connection to the Broken Arrow situation; two, the technical problem of the compromised communications into the LCC suggests the possibility of resources comparable to our own; three, domestically, most of the other quantum computing resources are either shared with or controlled by federal agencies, and the rest we have under such tight surveillance that we’d see any unusual activity.”

“Can I stop you right there?” the Deputy Director asked, with a raised hand. Sahar paused. “How do you know that?”

She nodded and continued.

“This is where our collaboration with the Entity pays dividends.”

Your collaboration with the Entity, Christine thought to herself. Sahar continued. “One of my responsibilities is to monitor, and, to a certain extent, coordinate the many interactions we have with the Entity on topics of national security interest. An obvious example is the continued genomic research that started this whole situation, or at least accelerated it in the last two decades; another is the creation of the Epsilon hybrid warfare teams using the HiMEC infantry with augmented humans. But there are many other areas of cooperation, like materials research, power systems, and other basic science projects. These relationships allow us, me, really, to study the Entity and learn how it thinks, and in some cases, what it thinks.”

“Ms. Burhan was the lead analyst on the effort that uncovered the Entity infiltration of the federal energy research labs. Narrowly averted another embarrassing public mess,” Christine interjected. Sahar looked down, smiling.

The Deputy Director frowned. “What does this have to do with the Broken Arrow situation? Do you think they are involved?”

“I don’t know,” Sahar said, now serious.

“But you suspect?” Christine prompted.

Sahar looked up, eyes distant, thinking. “I don’t know.” She remained silent and thoughtful, then snapped out of it and focused on Christine. “The work of monitoring the Entity, because of its capabilities, in reality involves interacting with it. It always knows I am watching and listening, and doing that influences its behavior. I have to take that into account in my models and analysis. The mere act of observing changes what is being observed.”

This challenge was well known in the intelligence community, raising issues as to whether there really was such a thing as passive surveillance, and how that impacted the analysis of imaging and signals intelligence particularly, but any kind of human intelligence generally. Once again, Christine was proud of her protégé. She and Sahar had already discussed these issues at length, but this performance was having the intended effect on Cho and the rest of the team. There would be no objections to Sahar’s continued presence on Christine’s team.

“And so?” prompted the Deputy.

“We are seeing some fragmentation in the communications with the Entity,” Skoberg jumped in.

“Elaborate,” Christine prompted.

Skoberg pushed on. “Ordinarily, our communications are consistent and appear to come from a single source, or perspective. From the very beginning the unitary nature of the groupmind, though distributed across many individuals in space and time, has always appeared, to us at least, as a single being with a single voice. The exact details of how the Entity achieves that coordination and synthesis remotely and asynchronously is an area of intense interest, but for obvious reasons, it doesn’t willingly share, and certainly has not allowed us to subject it to testing.”

Christine noticed immediately from the subtle finger pulling and furrowed brow that this mention of ‘testing’ the Entity upset Sahar. Skoberg’s framing the problem as if he wanted to put the Entity on the dissecting table bothered Christine as well, but more for the folly of the idea. She did not get the sense that was Sahar’s concern. Christine had ample reservations about the Entity, its existence, intentions, and implications for human safety. This seemed more personal for Sahar. She turned to the young analyst.

“Is that your read?”

Sahar nodded. “There is something different, but I can’t characterize exactly. It started as an intuition, and I’ve been mulling how to validate it. In the meantime, more examples are accumulating, and my hunch is shared by some of the other analysts. It’s that fragmentation they are trying to conceal from us.” This was not something Sahar had previously shared in their private conversations.

“Have you directly engaged with it on this topic?” Both analysts shook their heads. The Deputy Director looked at Christine expectantly.

She mulled the decision briefly. “Do it.”

“And how much do we share?” Sahar asked.

“Everything. It will know if you conceal anything. I think it is better at this than we are.”

“Including the possibility of the Epsilon Team insertion as part of the local investigation?” Skoberg asked.

“It already knows about that, I’m sure. I have no doubt the HiMEC elements on those teams maintain their own comms, and we know how close that relationship is.”

Skoberg cleared his throat. Christine drummed her fingers while he shuffled his papers. “Is it prudent to poke that hornet’s nest in this context?”

“Do you have a specific concern?” Christine’s stare would ordinarily end such digressions. She was pleased and irritated at the same time he stood his ground.

“The Epsilon Team staffing issue touches so many potential flash points. Going anywhere near it may provoke local resistance that will further complicate running down Entity related connections.”

Christine nodded. It was a fair point. Incorporating the High Mobility Extreme Combat infantry, the military jargon for the escaped grendels, back into the Special Forces Epsilon teams continued to be a source of interservice friction, as well as an ongoing focus of virulent anti-government rhetoric.

“I think that ship has sailed. The clear benefits of the collaboration are well established.”

“They have an excellent operational record, and the insights into their relationship with the Entity are quite valuable,” Sahar interjected.

“Yes, but the concerns about rogue elements…” Skoberg began. Christine raised her hand to stop him.

“For all his other failings, Dr. Abrams did one thing right with the grendels. His training methods before they escaped established a deep seated and durable culture of personal honor and loyalty. Their loyalty to the Entity, and in turn, their oaths given to their Epsilon teams have proven highly effective.”

Skoberg nodded and they moved on. Christine turned to the Deputy Director. “Can you have your people continue pursuing the rogue AI angle? The President will want to see that, especially whatever you are learning from the Chinese.”

He agreed and the meeting concluded with the necessary consensus achieved. Christine watched Sahar confirming her CIA boss’s support as people filed out. She made a mental note to push a little harder to have her promoted sooner.

***

“You don’t like them, do you?” Sahar asked, eyebrows raised as they walked back to the shuttle. Christine looked up, surprised by this line of inquiry.

“Them, or it?”

“Does it matter?”

Again, Christine noted Sahar’s apparent personal investment in the topic. “To me it does,” Christine elaborated. “Them makes it sound like they’re just a group of people, ones with disabilities that somehow work together. That they still fall within the bounds of groups of humans who deserve and need protection from hate and discrimination.”

“Aren’t they?”

“Not if your work is correct, your hypotheses. Together, they form something different. The individuals no longer matter, only the collective. That’s what bothers me. Something about that rankles. The threat takes on additional layers of importance.”

“It seems personal,” Sahar observed, now challenging Christine.

Once again, she was impressed with her protégé’s willingness to ask the uncomfortable questions. Ordinarily, she’d avoid discussing her private life, but helping Sahar see sources of bias overrode that reticence.

“Yes, it is. You know something about my family.”

Sahar nodded cautiously. Christine knew Sahar had access to much of the background information on Christine that was held within the Agency, as well as the media coverage of her during the controversy after the Batumi incident.

“My mother was a victim of the relentless disinformation during the twenties, and her enslavement by the idea that the Rodina was more important than anything, even her own children and husband, has always made me wary of ideas and beliefs that subordinate the individual to a group. That’s why I eventually emigrated and became a U.S. citizen. Protecting individual liberty is what makes us different and why I do this.”

“Maybe individual liberty isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Look at the last thirty years.”

Christine nodded. As usual, Sahar made a good point. The weaponization by foreign interests of the rights and freedoms of American democracy were ruthlessly effective at turning those freedoms against the values that created them. The fragility of the system was on constant display: the government whipsawed between extremes with each election; the very elections themselves a source of uncertainty and discord; foreign, corporate, and mega interests lurked behind every conflict as a widening array of enemies schemed and maneuvered with each other and partisan factions inside the country. More than once in the last several decades the continued existence of the country was put in jeopardy, yet they endured, fumbling along.

For national security professionals in particular, it was often overwhelming keeping the country safe through all the chaos. What wasn’t clear yet was whether these new variables, the grendels and the Entity, were positive or negative for world peace and the continued existence of the human species, much less American democracy. Christine wondered if she and Sahar were of the same mind about those questions.

The shuttle carrying them back to the EOB came to a sudden stop. Around them, traffic signals flashed chaotically, all traffic similarly stalled. Sahar consulted her device.

“I still have access. Messages flying. Looks like another system hack.”

“What do…” Christine was interrupted by the vehicle lurching forward, the crisis over as quickly as it started.

“Be sure to loop in DHS CISA. They are going to be involved, especially if we don’t have enough to convince the President that there isn’t an AI angle, which is likely. Let’s get ahead of it,” Christine advised as they resumed their journey.

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Archie turned his back to the security camera and slipped the wrestling magazine into his backpack. He looked around the convenience store, then moved to the next aisle, where he palmed two candy bars. He wandered, stopping in random places, handling merchandise, then went to the drink case and selected his favorite soda, and concealed it with the candy. He ambled back to the candy aisle and picked up a pack of gum.

He circled back to the magazine rack and thumbed through another magazine, about home decoration. He looked over his thick glasses to watch the door. Finally, someone suitable entered.

The stylishly dressed young woman had exactly what he needed. Every male in the store furtively followed her movements, her long coat opening briefly as she reached for items, showing off her form fitting dress and slim figure. She hurriedly selected her items, and as she headed to the checkout, Archie made his move.

He got to the register before she did, behind one other person. The scent of her perfume told him she stood behind him. The person at the counter finished their transaction and Archie moved up with his items.

“Hey, Archie,” the clerk greeted him. Archie grunted in reply and placed the gum and the magazine on the counter. The clerk scanned them and waited for Archie to respond. Archie placed his library card on the counter. The clerk sighed and shook his head.

“Archie, that one isn’t going to work. You have a cash card, don’t you? Something else? Where’s your folks?”

Archie grunted again and picked up the library card and put it down again, turning slightly so the young woman could have a better view of the conversation. The clerk shook his head more emphatically.

“C’mon Archie, we’ve been through this. That won’t work. What else do you have?”

Archie hung his head and pouted, then shook it. He sensed the young woman stepping closer to look over his shoulder.

“Archie, that’s not…”

“Excuse me, how about if I just pay for it? Just those two things?” the woman offered, glancing back and forth between Archie and the clerk. The clerk leaned back, spreading his hands.

“Go ahead, your money.” She put her items down, he scanned them, and she paid. Archie picked up the magazine and the gum and gestured to the woman with a grunt. She raised her eyebrows and cocked her head slightly and looked at the clerk.

“Uh…what did he say?”

The clerk smirked.

“He doesn’t speak so well. He said ‘thank you’.”

“You are so welcome,” she responded, beaming a warm smile. Archie blushed. He turned and walked out with his items. The woman picked up the plastic bag with her purchases and followed him out. The clerk shook his head with a knowing smile.

Outside, Archie lingered, savoring the lingering plume of her perfume as he watched the woman drive off, then went the opposite way. At the first trash can, he threw away the decorating magazine. He opened the gum and put a piece in his mouth, pocketing the rest. He slung his pack over his shoulder and walked toward the state road.

Every few minutes, he turned around and faced traffic, looking off in the distance. After repeating that a few times, a car finally pulled over. Archie walked to the passenger window. A middle-aged man in a suit and tie leaned over.

“Hey, you okay, friend?” he asked.

“Yeth,” Archie responded and turned away. The man watched him for a moment, then drove off. After a few minutes, a well-dressed young woman pulled over in a new sedan. He instantly saw from her open smile and pretty features she would be suitable.

“Do you need a ride?” she asked with a worried frown.

“Yeth.”

“Well, come on.” The door popped open and Archie got in, buckling up.

“Where are you headed?”

Archie gestured down the road. “Thilver thtar.”

“The Silver Star? The bar?” Her frown changed from concern to confusion.

“Yeth.”

She hesitated, then tapped the console and the car merged back on the road. She glanced at Archie’s jacket emblazoned with lime green and navy blue.

“Seahawks fan, huh?”

“Yeth.”

“How do you think they’re going to do?”

“Thuper Bowl Champth!” Archie responded with enthusiasm, fists clenched, held up in the air. The woman smiled, disarmed.

“Well, let’s hope so.”

They drove for several miles, then pulled off into the nearly empty gravel parking lot of the Silver Star Bar, set back from the road. The woman looked around as Archie got out without comment. She hesitated, watching him set down on the wooden steps and retrieve his wrestling magazine from his pack. She beeped the horn, two brief toots, and waved before driving away.

Archie sat reading his magazine. A few people came and went from the bar, not giving an overweight man with Down’s syndrome a glance. Finally, a battered pickup truck pulled off the road, squeaking rhythmically, parked next to Archie, and a thin young man with a ragged beard and a dirty baseball cap got out.

“What are you doing here, dumbass?” he called out with a big grin.

Archie stood up, clutching the magazine, and struck his signature wrestling pose, flexing. “Arch Nemethith!” he called out.

“You got a new mag? Is Sheena in it? Jungle Cat?” The young man snatched the magazine from Archie and sat on the stoop. He paged through and stopped at a two-page spread of a muscular, almost naked woman, flexing and glaring.

“Oh, there she is,” he murmured, lingering over the image. Archie watched. The young man looked up.

“Can I have this pic, dude?”

Archie shrugged. “I didn’t thay that.”

The young man ignored him, pulling the picture out of the magazine. “Thanks dude. I owe you.” He handed the magazine back and stood up. “I’ll buy you a soda. Come on in.”

They went inside and Archie went straight to the bar, put his magazine down and hoisted himself onto the stool. The bartender sidled over.

“Hey, Brad. What can I get you two?” he asked, eyeing Archie.

“Coors for me, a coke for him.” Archie ignored the exchange, paging slowly through the magazine. Brad slipped off his jacket.

“Arch, you want to see my new ink? Look at this one.” Brad laid his forearm on the table and traced a finger over an eagle clutching two human skulls, flying over a snarling wolf’s head, a banner of symbols surrounding the animals. “Those are runes. Ain’t that cool? And look at this one.” He turned the other shoulder and lifted the sleeve of his t-shirt, revealing a muscular demon flexing, huge devil horns and sharp teeth, with the words “Honor” and “Blood” emblazoned above and below. “They finally let me get these. Aren’t they vicious?” he said, grinning. Archie traced his finger over them, making a low rumble, almost a purr, of approval.

The bartender delivered the drinks, glanced at the tattoos then turned away, shaking his head with a scowl. Brad picked up his beer and took a noisy swig. Archie sipped his coke and perused the magazine while Brad looked over his shoulder.

The bar was nearly empty – a video screen played a basketball game, hard metal rock playing softly over the speaker system. Brad looked up every time someone entered, then back to Archie’s magazine. Finally, his face lit up at the entrance of another young man, bigger, more cleanly dressed, wearing boots and a leather jacket. Similar tattoos were visible above his collar up his neck.

“Hey Silas!” Brad greeted the newcomer, who responded with only a tip of his head, then a nod at Archie.

“What’s he doing here?”

Brad waved dismissively at Archie, flustered. “It’s no big deal. He’s just showing me his wrestling stuff. He’s my buddy from the warehouse. He’s, y’know,…” Brad tapped his head with a knowing look.

Silas remained unconvinced. “Look, I don’t have much time. You still on to make that run?”

Brad nodded enthusiastically. “Most definite. Whatever you need. What’s the load?”

“None of your fucking business. You just show up where you’re told, drive the truck, and drop it off exactly as they say.”

“Did you hear anything about me getting my letters?”

Silas gave him a sharp look. “No, I didn’t. If you followed orders and took care of it, you’ll hear. Quit bitching.”

“Okay, okay. What do you hear about the new firepower? Did our connection come through?”

“What did I just say?” Silas shook his head and scowled, tipping his head at Archie engrossed in his wrestling magazine. Brad laughed.

“He’s not paying attention. What did Walter say about me being on the capture team? Are they going to make a move soon?”

“Shut. The fuck. Up! For fuck’s sake, that is not cool. No one can know that. Not here.”

“Oh, relax. Look around. This place is empty.”

Silas nodded toward Archie again. Brad burst out laughing.

“Look at him! He’s useless. Stop your worrying. Right, Archie?” Brad slapped Archie’s shoulder, jostling his magazine. Archie looked over his thick glasses and grunted a reply. Brad guffawed, slapping the bar.

“What did he say?” Silas asked, looking back and forth between them. Brad wiped his eyes and took a deep breath.

“‘Fuck you, Brad.’ He kills me.”

Silas scowled and leaned in, lowering his voice. “I will ask them again. You keep doing these jobs without problems, show you can be trusted, maybe. They are still getting ready at the Compound. The Jerrys and the Mikes are making noise about wanting something bigger when we make the grab. Somebody is stirring the pot. There’s a lot of shit flying around. Leadership is all riled up.”

Brad nodded, feigning understanding of the complex relationships within the movement, mostly unaware of the rivalries and disputes between the Jericho Front and Sword of Michael militias, as well as all the others. His own allegiance to the forces of the Free States Protectorate was more about beer and guns and kicking ass than any fancy ideas about the purity of the human race.

Silas stood up. “You better get moving. You’ve got a long night ahead of you.” He turned and left.

Brad turned to Archie as he put on his jacket. “Hey man, you want a ride back to CDA? I’m headed that way.” Archie grunted assent and collected his magazine.

In the truck, Archie put his fingers in his ears, irritated by the squeaking, which blurred to a high pitch whine as they hit cruising speed on the road. Brad laughed at his discomfort. As they approached town, he leaned over the dash, looking at the setting sun.

“You better hustle home, pard. Going to be dark soon. Don’t want to see those monsters, do you?” he teased with a laugh. Archie pretended not to hear.

Brad dropped him off where Archie indicated, many blocks away from the neighborhood, as Adam instructed many times. He hurried down the road, staying well away from the passing cars, repeatedly checking the setting sun. He turned off into their development, zig-zagging through the familiar streets. He walked up their driveway just as the lone streetlamp flickered on down at the corner. He opened the door with a deep sigh of relief.

Archie dropped his pack in the front hall and plopped in front of the video screen.

“Archie? Is that you?” Serena called from the kitchen.

“Yeth, Therena.”

She pushed her walker to the foyer and bumped into the pack on the floor. She picked it up.

“You need to put your things away.” She opened the pack and sniffed it, then pulled out the stolen soda. “Archie…” She placed the pack in the cubby with the rest of Archie’s belongings. She pushed the walker into the living room and stood next to Archie. “Stand up.” With a dramatic sigh, Archie stood and drooped his head, pouting, while Serena searched his pockets, probing and patting, then she pulled out the last remaining candy bar and the pack of gum.

“You know these are bad for your blood sugar. I’m taking this. Did you buy it or steal it?”

Archie shrugged and hung his head lower. She reached over and stroked his face.

“Oh, Archie. You have to be careful, sweetheart.”

“Yeth, Therena. I’m thorry. I thaid a bad word.”

“What?”

Archie heaved another big sigh, hanging his head. Serena reached out to him, missed his face, and Archie moved closer and she stroked his cheek again. “What bad word, Archie?”

“I thaid, ‘fuck you, Brad.’” Serena smiled and rubbed his cheek again.

“I forgive you, Archie. Brad probably deserved it. But thank you for telling me.”

After dinner, Serena sat in front of Archie and reached forward to clasp his forearms, and Archie docilely submitted. Adam sat at his terminal next to them. Serena’s fingers fluttered, and Archie’s reciprocated and they both slipped into the trance of sharing. Adam’s fingers flew across his own interfaces, logging into the implant connected to Archie’s hearing aid, watching the data flow from Archie’s eidetic memory, perfectly recalling the sights and sounds from the bar.

Serena gave out a low moan.

“No, no, no….” They continued a while longer, then she broke away. She turned to Adam.

“I think they’re hunting Bina.”

***

Later, when everyone was asleep, Adam reviewed the downloaded data, reconstructing the visuals from Serena’s communications with Archie and the audio logged into his implant. It confirmed his prior hypothesis about the supremacist groups and separatist alliances and gave him an even better idea of the location of their compound. His disruption efforts coordinated well with the ongoing counterintelligence efforts of the Tribal militias. The escalating regional tensions provided the perfect cover for his plan. The weapons movements and smuggling he already knew about. Archie’s friendships paid off again, moving other pieces into place.

He reattempted locating the messenger without success. He’d have to trust that part proceeded according to plan, careful about not alerting the groupmind or the government to his activities. His recent intrusion provoked the response he needed, more attention and security directed away from his other activities. He didn’t dare access satellite and surveillance imaging systems again, at least not yet. The absence of communication with the messenger was a necessary precaution, but the lack of control bothered him. He’d have to trust that the contact and movement with Bina would proceed as planned, and that the skills of the messenger would keep her safe until she was within Adam’s reach.

Then the missing piece would be restored.

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We must approach the subject of the personhood of the creatures with humility and charity. Though the manner of their creation is indubitably sinful, there are other examples of persons conceived in sin, even violence, who still merit all the protections their human dignity requires. Ah, but they are not human, the objection goes.

But what is human? Is humanity defined by the flesh, or the spirit? Is humanity a static, rigid, unchanging thing, or is it dynamic, in movement, progressing toward a higher goal, toward unity with Christ? Perhaps a more expansive conception of what constitutes the imago Dei may be in order. — Excerpt from early draft of Pope Gelasius III encyclical, Amor Dei; Wikileaks release of Vatican hack

Father Ed pulled into the dark parking lot and drove to the entrance of the church, parking at the curb instead of in a marked space. Despite the late hour, he wanted to check the sacristy to make sure the altar was set for morning Mass. His early appointments to the nursing homes in Bonner’s Ferry would complicate getting back on time.

He entered the church, finished his prep, then headed back to the car. As he locked the door, a deep husky voice from the shadows beside the entrance startled him.

“Good evening, Father.”

Fr. Ed took a deep breath and turned toward the source but saw only darkness beyond the edge of the light. He suppressed a shudder.

“Yes? How can I help you?” He cocked his head, peering into the shadow. A shape moved, a figure of some bulk. It receded a little deeper into the shadow.

“I would like to meet with you to discuss my faith.”

Fr. Ed tried to conceal his surprise.

“Well, of course. Is this something urgent, or would you like to set up an appointment?” He shifted position for a glimpse of his visitor, to no avail.

“There is some urgency, but not this moment. I’m interested in the process to become a Catholic.”

“You are not Catholic?”

“No, but I believe. I want to take the sacraments. I want to better know God.”

Father Ed held his breath. A convert? Suddenly, a possible path to redemption and an end to his exile seemed possible.

“Of course. I can help you with that.” Father Ed’s mind raced, reviewing all he knew about the Rites of Christian Initiation for Adults, wanting to be sure he did this correctly, always with the Bishop in mind. “May I ask how you found me? And how you came to your interest in the Catholic faith?”

There was a rustling from the shadow, and Father Ed caught another glimpse of a large person, a big man judging from the deep voice with a faint, incongruous lisp.

“I’ve been watching you.” Fr. Ed concealed his concern about that revelation. He waited for the other to continue.

“I have many questions of my creator. A few of them I have found answers for, most not. I read the Old Books when I can, and I ponder my life, my existence, my purpose. From what I have learned, much of what I know about the mysteries comes from the Catholic Church. My people hold many of the same beliefs, though we do not profess that faith. I want to learn more. I believe I should be a Catholic.”

“Your people? Are you from Idaho, or somewhere else?”

“I was born in this region, across the mountains, to the south.”

Father Ed struggled with the geography of the statement, trying to marry that up with the odd accent and evasiveness of the exchange.

“Well, it’s a long process, and we’ll have to set up many appointments to explore your commitment and teach everything you’ll need to know to take the sacraments. Were you baptized?”

“No. I seek all the sacraments.”

The timing was good. They could prepare for baptism at the Easter mass, which would be ideal.

“We’ll have to set up a regular time and place to meet. We can use the meeting room in the rectory, or here in the Church. Oh, and I’m sorry, we never did introductions. My name is Father Ed Ryan. You can call me Father Ed, or just Father.”

“My name is…” At that moment, the headlights of a car swept across the parking lot. Fr. Ed looked away at the new arrival, heard the rustle and swish of fabric, and turned back. The person was gone.

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But if life is regarded as emergence, displaying at each step in its evolution new properties that do not appear necessarily implied in the past and therefore could not be predicted from the constituent parts, then man can claim to be its most spectacular achievement. For he has moved furthest from the limitations of the protoplasmic ancestry that he shares with all other living things. More important, he continues to move away from it at an ever-increasing rate and even pretends now, probably for the first time in biological history that he can direct the course of his evolutionary march. — Rene Dubos, Mirage of Health, 1959

Michelle stood at the kitchen counter, measuring herbs, vinegar, and oil for the salad she’d cobbled together from the remnants of faded vegetables languishing in their barren refrigerator, emptied by Bina’s ravages. The girl can eat, that’s for sure. As she whisked, she heard Bina quietly enter the house through the side door.

“Hey there!” she called without turning.

“Welcome home!” Bina came up from behind and encircled her arms, squeezing hard.

Michelle turned and reciprocated. She kissed Bina’s forehead. “I really, really missed you. Everything okay? Are you hungry?”

“Starving. I didn’t have much for lunch.” Bina pulled back and smiled warmly, Michelle reading genuine happiness, but also a hit of something else. She concealed her own response.

“Good. So am I. Early dinner. Go get washed up.” She hugged her again. “It’s good to be home again.”

Bina buried her head in Michelle’s hair and murmured, “I’m glad you’re back.”

She’s almost taller than me.

“What time did you get in?” Bina pulled back and asked.

“Late. After midnight. You were conked out.”

Bina laughed. “So were you. I checked on you this morning before I went out. You were still wearing your shoes. I took them off and put the blanket on you. You just kept snoring.”

Michelle made a face and playfully pinched her. “I don’t snore!”

“Ha! Sure you don’t.”

As Bina turned away, Michelle caught another glance of something in her eyes that tickled her intuition. She had hoped Bina had put the argument behind her and they could resume some peaceful home life. What was this about?

She returned to her food prep but a glint from the back of the counter caught her eye. She leaned over and saw a sliver of glass, a tiny piece from the shattered picture frame leaning against the backsplash.

She carefully maneuvered the sliver to where she could pick it up, pinched it between thumb and forefinger, and carried it to the trash. She walked back to the counter, looked for any more glass shards, then picked up the picture frame. Adam and Bina, when she was little, sitting in his lap, beaming, his arms around her. She thought she’d cleaned it all up after the fight, but clearly, she missed some.

It all came flooding back, the evening before she left for the trip, another one of their fights.

***

“Are you ready yet?” Bina stood waiting while Michelle washed dishes.

“Just give me a few more minutes to finish this. We’ll get to it, I promise.”

Bina hovered until Michelle couldn’t put off the practice session any longer. As she feared, it went sideways quickly. Bina’s criticism and commentary were merciless.

“Don’t you know how to do this?”

“Why can’t you keep up?”

“That’s not how Uncle Adam does it!”

Michelle struggled but couldn’t get past the basic communication that was only the first level of meshing consciousness through the sensory exchange of the touch talk. Bina’s frustration blared through their clasped forearms, fingers vibrating and caressing in the complex codes they exchanged.

Even before their separation, it was clear that Bina was surpassing anything Michelle could do with her communication skills and ability to mesh with the groupmind. In the immediate aftermath, she tried to maintain some practice routine, but her contributions were quickly exhausted as Bina’s prodigious ability blossomed. Even knowing she was holding back her daughter’s development, Michelle avoided the practices, unused to and annoyed by feeling inadequate. Instead, she focused on Anirudh’s lessons handling the pistol, target shooting, slipping holds, basic disabling strikes that even a teenage girl could effectively deliver to the soft, vulnerable points on the human body, as well as physical conditioning and escape planning. She knew that this focus on Anidrudh’s legacy was more for her, and that she was avoiding the painful reality that even if she wanted to, she couldn’t help Bina progress because of her own limitations. She was an obstacle, and it hurt.

During the last practice attempt, Bina’s frustration quickly transferred to the reason for their separation from Adam.

“Why can’t we be all together?” Bina shouted.

“It’s not safe! That’s not going to work!” Michelle replied ineffectually.

“You don’t even try!”

“Bina, I…”

“I hate this!” she shouted through tears, storming off. The slammed door of her room shook the walls and the picture fell, shattering on the kitchen counter.

Michelle left in the morning.

***

When Bina returned from washing up, Michelle put the salad on the table. Bina sat down and Michelle knew instantly that, despite her fourteen-year old’s best efforts, she withheld something important. Not eager for another battle, Michelle set the table, biding her time. The dance had begun.

Michelle brought over the rest of the meal.

“Hey, maybe we can do that dance party we talked about before the trip.”

Bina smiled. “Sure!”

That was genuine, Michelle noted.

She served the food as Bina chattered about her day, the pond, the little creatures she found in the mud, the changing of the seasons. Michelle warned her about autumn hunters and the possibility of random encounters on the back roads or in the woods. The deciduous trees on the edges of the old burns would soon reveal the scars of the fires from years before, rendering those areas of the woods less safe without the cover of dense foliage. The wildfire cataclysm that cleared out the former residents made this area an ideal hideout, at least for now.

“You be careful around those dead trees,” Michelle cautioned, floating a rebuke from a different direction, probing.

I know you are hiding something.

“Okay, worry wart.”

Michelle took a deep breath and even before thinking launched into the familiar speech. “You know why I worry. I love that you are exploring, but you also have to always be alert. We have a great thing here, but we can’t count on it being safe forever. I just want you to stay on your toes.”

Bina made brief eye contact then looked down. There it is again.

“You’re right, mom. Oh, and there were woodpeckers on some of the big black trees. They make such a cool sound.”

Contrite, and a clumsy deflection. What’s going on?

“They’re hunting for the insects that are eating the dead wood. Those trees are the ones to stay away from,” Michelle responded, concealing her heightened receptivity to Bina’s demeanor. She could sense Bina detecting her scrutiny, and in turn amping up her own sensitivity. The feedback loop escalated quickly, both of them detecting and mirroring the others emotional state in the dance of wordless communication.

Bina chewed a mouthful of greens and nodded, flapping a protruding lettuce leaf.

Michelle continued. “It’s great you are finding all these places and creatures. It’s good practice using your senses. We still need to do the routines and keep working on your skills.” Michelle caught a flicker of uncertainty cross her daughter’s face. As advanced as her daughter’s abilities were, Michelle’s years of experience kept the power dynamic tipped in her favor. For now. Michelle pressed gently.

“So, what did you see out there?” She debated using a compulsion command and discarded that idea. The juice would not be worth the squeeze. Bina’s rage and the weeks of sulking the last time Michelle used that form of interrogation proved that it had to remain a tool of last resort, reserved only for imminent peril. This didn’t seem yet to rise to that level.

Bina feigned inability to speak with her mouth full of food, making a show of thoroughly chewing. Michelle waited patiently, pushing vegetables around with her fork.

“Well,…” Bina started, then took a drink of water. She cleared her throat. Michelle knew that Bina now knew that Michelle knew she was hiding something. Though it complicated her parenting, Michelle couldn’t help enjoying the blossoming of her daughter’s abilities.

Bina pushed her salad around mirroring Michelle’s movements, then stopped, aware that Michelle knew she was attempting that technique.

“Well, …” Bina repeated, while Michelle restrained the impulse to lean forward. She put another forkful of salad in her mouth, signaling an opportunity for Bina to speak without interruption.

“I saw a dog.” Bina waited for a response. Michelle nodded and chewed, concealing her concern. Bina didn’t fall for the silence technique, until Michelle swallowed and looked up.

“And?” Michelle saw Bina’s flash of pride that she maintained control, winning that micro-contest. Let her think she’s in charge, her confidence now a tool to lead her to the admission Michelle sought. She’ll learn from this as well.

“I didn’t get a good look. It was in the bushes watching me, then it left. It was no big deal.”

Michelle nodded, taking another fork full and chewing, letting the silence drag on. Bina flashed confusion, relief, confidence. Michelle swallowed.

“What else?”

Bina hesitated.

“Well, it took me a while to find it. I had the tickle, then I used my senses. It didn’t know I saw it. Then it ran.”

“What did you sense?”

“Oh, the usual. Changes in sounds, the wind, movement of leaves, pattern breaks.”

Michelle nodded.

“That’s good. We can refine that more. Nice job.”

Bina smiled, easily disarmed by the praise. Michelle pushed away a flicker of guilt at how easily she manipulated her daughter using the techniques she desperately needed her to master to survive in the world full of people striving to hunt them to extinction. Michelle sprung her trap.

“So what else did you sense?” Bina paused, a flash of fear, then anger, then resignation.

“There was someone else, someone with the dog.”

Now it was Michelle’s turn to struggle for control. Cold terror surged, and she took a deep breath.

“So?”

Bina shrugged.

“Nothing. I didn’t see them. In fact, I didn’t even sense them until after I watched the dog for a while.”

Like a switch, Michelle instantly changed mode.

“Deep icing,” she said, using the pitch and tone for the post-hypnotic trigger commands Bina hated so much. They’d deal with that later. Instantly Bina’s posture changed, slumping slightly in the chair, eyes unfocused and partially hooded.

“Ready,” she responded sleepily.

“Full sensory recall. At the pond.”

“Which day?”

“With the dog.”

“Ready.”

“Describe high level sensory experience before the dog until you sensed the second presence.”

Bina took a breath, then relayed the sequence of events, how she became aware of the dog, the subtle clues betraying its movements, following it through the underbrush, then seeing it alert to the other, preliminary assessment that it was a controller giving commands, then a faint trace when the focused attention directed at the likely spot, then both gone.

Michelle pondered the information, debated the costs and benefits of prolonging the session, then brought Bina out of the trance with the end command.

“Scarlet greenway.”

Bina’s eyes fluttered, then she focused on Michelle, glaring with cold fury, face reddening.

“Don’t do that yunk shit on me. You promised!”

“Bina, this is serious. You don’t see the danger…”

“If it’s so dangerous, why did you leave me alone for so long? Did you think of that? How that makes me feel?”

Michelle squinted, almost a wince, and looked down. She took a deep breath.

“I had to do that. You know why. I’m sorry. We can’t do this by ourselves…”

“Then why can’t we be with Uncle Adam? He can help protect us!” Bina’s eye’s welled, neck veins bulging. Michelle struggled to contain her own emotions and keep this under control.

“You don’t understand. Adam is part of the yunk, and the yunk puts us in danger. We…”

“I hate this! I HATE YOU! Don’t do this to me!” Bina screamed, jumping up, knocking her chair back, fists clenched at her side. Michelle watched, helpless. Here was a perfect image of her younger self, the echoes of her fights with her parents long ago.

“You know why we’re here. The danger we’re in. We can’t play games. You know that.”

Bina stared at her, face crumpling.

“Don’t…do it.” She spun away and ran to her room.

“Bina…” Michelle called after her.

The door slam resounded, shaking the walls like last time, except the shattered picture was already on the counter.

Michelle put her head in her hands, elbows on the table, rubbing her face. Bina’s temper was so like her own, she had to keep reminding herself, just like her mother before her.

Fucking genes.

Now what? Run? Wait? Reach back out to the HI and make contact?

She looked across the table at the picture on the counter, the shattered glass another casualty, one of their few treasured personal possessions to make it through all the moves and running. The image in memory was indelible: Bina, Adam, and the cat, Bina’s chubby toddler arms restraining Caramel’s attempts to escape, Adam staring off but hugging Bina as tight as Bina hugged Caramel and her ragged stuffed bunny, Bina’s radiant smile framed by dark curls. Looking at it brought tears to her eyes every time. Adam’s resemblance to their father and his obvious, to her, affection for Bina were reminders of everything they’d been through, then lost—both their parents long dead, Michelle’s decision to move Adam to the school in Rexburg, Idaho, and Adam’s new life once he’d connected with the HI.

The picture was from the time they lived in rural Wisconsin, one of their many stops on the run. Bina had just started speaking. One day she pointed at a cardinal perched on a branch in the yard and blurted out “red bird!” to everyone’s surprise. Cardinals became the first of her many animal fascinations. Shortly after, Adam began her instruction.

Adam’s face had his usual flat expression, but Michelle knew from his posture, how closely he held Bina and the cat, how much love that picture communicated. Michelle was the only other person in his life he allowed to touch and hold him, and then only briefly, a major feature of his personality and specific needs. The three of them, Adam, Bina, and the cat were inseparable. Now Adam was somewhere else, Caramel killed during the attack that killed Anirudh, and the bunny gone.

The last fourteen years unspooled in her memory, such a long time, but it felt like just yesterday. The chaos and destruction outside the Research Lab in Idaho, running, reuniting with Adam and the others from the McJames Institute where her brother learned to use his special neurodivergent advantages to join the emerging collective intelligence calling itself Homo iunctus, Networked Man.

How simple life before that was. Her petty sibling resentments growing up in Chicago because of Adam’s needs and demands, her inability to accept her parents limitations dealing with both of them, the feeling of being shortchanged. Now she was doing it all over again with Bina. She shook her head, pushing away the fruitless cycle of nostalgia, regret, and guilt.

When they began their life on the run, the multi-ethnic, rag tag group of refugees they joined always seemed on the brink of catastrophe. No matter where they moved, they never quite fit in, either because of the often-obvious disabilities of some of the group, or the multi-ethnic features of some that often marked them as outsiders in many communities.

And then there was the liaison with Trey Isaac, the brilliant researcher who long ago surreptitiously drew Michelle and Adam into this world. Bitter memories about that betrayal and abandonment led to anger toward the groupmind. It was just before the Fast War, he visited their ganglion as part of the communication routine across the distributed networks of the groupmind. They had to shelter in the basement for weeks because of fallout concerns after the bombs and missiles stopped falling. The fear and anxiety led to a series of furtive couplings, feverish lovemaking while the others slept, that Michelle found as unsettling as comforting. Once the fallout warnings ended, Isaac disappeared, directed elsewhere to serve the purposes of the groupmind. Pregnancy followed, leaving Michelle alone with her anger to manage for those difficult months.

Then in the eighth month of her pregnancy, Anirudh Thakur appeared, another refugee, his family associated with a different ganglion of the collective intelligence, every one of them but him caught and murdered. Shortly after arriving, he helped deliver Bina. Michelle and Anirudh’s shared grief and the joy of Bina’s arrival drew them close and despite the tragedies and their furtive existence in hiding, they fell quickly and deeply in love. Anirudh loved Bina as his own. The next several years were their happiest, caring for the extended family of children and young adults, some requiring substantial assistance, all the while dealing with and following the cryptic orders of the HI.

Bina’s special skills became apparent soon after she spoke those first words. Under Adam’s tutelage, Bina revealed that unlike other neurotypicals, she could merge completely with the HI.

Her daughter’s rapid progress and prodigious skills fostered Michelle’s growing suspicion that her time with Trey Isaac wasn’t an accident, nor Bina’s astonishing ability a random occurrence. She now suspected she was bred, making her daughter an object of intense interest for the collective. She knew the day Bina told them about her experience meshing.

Bina let go of Adam’s forearms and looked up at her mother with a smile. “The voice says we should be ready to move again soon.”

Michelle and Anirudh looked at each other in shock. Adam sat next to her, impassive.

“Who says that? Uncle Adam?” Michelle asked, trying to stay calm.

“No, mommy. The voice. Uncle Adam listens, too, but it spoke to me. It’s all of them together, the home young, yun…the yunk. They said it.”

Michelle then always wondered at watching her brother hold his baby niece, attending to her in ways she never experienced with him, sharing with her things that Michelle could not know. In her less proud moments, it was envy and jealousy.

Michelle’s white-hot anger with the HI that she had been manipulated so easily and profoundly was held in check by the happiness they felt, their little family within a family. Bina grew and they settled into a routine of stability and safety.

Then, a lynch mob of zealots seeking to exterminate the freaks and monsters discovered them. Anirudh sacrificed himself to buy time for their escape. The attackers captured and killed him along with others from their node who didn’t escape with Michelle’s group. They were on the run once more, and Michelle took Bina and went into hiding separate from the rest, wandering until eventually landing here, in northeast Washington, almost at the Canadian border.

Had they been discovered again by this stranger at Bina’s pond?

Michelle sat back, looking out the window into the darkness of the deep forest all around, fearful once again of unseen threats, her confidence in their security shaken anew. What might be in the woods beyond their little lot?

Run or wait?

***

Laying on her bed in the darkness of her room, Bina listened to her mother moving around, waiting to see if her deception succeeded, and wrestling with her doubts about the plan. She hadn’t known whether she could exert the control necessary to insert the misdirection into the query process, deflecting her mother’s questions. She succeeded in confining her mother’s inquiry to the narrower conversation about the first day she saw the dog, avoiding any probing of subsequent interactions. Her new friend Danae, and their plans, remained secret.

Her mother’s reaction confirmed her suspicions. She definitely wouldn’t understand about Danae, and that Uncle Adam communicated with the grendels. This chance to go with Danae to see him and reunite the family might not come again.

She made up her mind.

Next Chapter

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The collaboration between cognitively specialized individuals that constitutes the architecture of H. iunctus cognition appears to be an elaboration of well documented H. sapiens distributed neurocognitive specialization, facilitated and accelerated by the development of language. In the case of H. iunctus, the prodigious savant abilities of the early members only needed a concomitant communication capability to enable a positive feedback loop of enhanced collaboration, increased capacity, and unbounded complexity. Once established, the obligatory interdependence, though distributed and asynchronous, set the stage for the emergence of higher order theories of mind.

Although direct data is scant, existing evidence indicates H. iunctus possesses at minimum a unitary intelligence, knows and interacts with others, and has theories about itself and others, informing decisions and outward behaviors. How this intellect emerges from the collective behavior of individuals is a topic of intense research interest. — Textbook of Transhuman Physiology, 3^rd edition, Chapter 5: Theories of H. iunctus cognition

Christine sipped her coffee and stared out the window of the little bakery, savoring the bouquet of scents wafting from the bustling kitchen in back. She glanced at her device, more to check the time than the steady stream of messaging from the White House and the Pentagon. Her security detail sat discreetly across the room.

It was in a coffee shop like this where they had her wait before her first big briefing with Budanov, so many years ago, at the beginning of her career, at least the official part. She’d already been collecting intelligence for the atesh all across the Donbas and assisting with direct actions years before that. It was only then that her skills came to the attention of the higher ups.

This place had the same smells she loved, of khrustyky and yabluchnyk, so delicious with a dark coffee. Back then, they came to the shop, led her down the street, into an old warehouse, down into the basement, and there he was. They asked a lot of questions, and she answered them, sure of her information, arguing that the ammunition depot she’d scouted south of Donetsk wasn’t the one they wanted. Like so much of the Russian military, the orcs in control of this logistics facility were corrupt, and she already managed several as sources. Blowing up the ammunition might serve the short-term needs of the infantry, but cultivating the assets and turning even more of their logistics chain into sources would help them deliver more devastating attacks later.

The AFU officer argued forcefully to deliver the strike. This was after they had the long range precision artillery, and everyone wanted to blow things up. Christine stood her ground, and eventually, her position prevailed. Later, she was told it played a big part in the success of the second break out.

But that’s not what got her recruited. All during the briefing, she was watching the attendees, subtly steering the conversation, dropping crumbs, luring, sometimes needling, playing some off against each other, to confirm her suspicions of a network of double agents and traitors. Even Budanov was pulled into the argument she provoked.

Later, she was approached by Kirylo to recruit her. Always suspicious, she strung him along, confirming for herself that he was genuine and not a Russian stooge who would betray her.

From there, it wasn’t too many more connections to the U.S. agencies, recruitment, and the eventual move to the States. By then, there wasn’t anyone left in Zaporizhia to keep her there. Then, she was caught up in the chaos of the near disintegration of the U.S., the Fast War and the endless crises since.

***

The drive from Ft. Meade this morning was beautiful, through rolling farmland and forests, and the occasional residential development. On the outskirts of Westminster, Maryland the usual newer, squat climate-adapted buildings appeared, clustered around the transportation hubs. The reconstruction of Baltimore many years ago after the destruction of the Fast War clearly had spilled all the way out here into the suburbs.

But here, on the old Main Street, the town was frozen in time. Except for a swath of modern buildings, constructed after a tornado several decades before, old buildings like the bakery still preserved the charm of a past long gone.

She looked up at the approach of a smiling man who a minute before had been sitting across from her engrossed in a data pad. He sat down without asking.

“Good morning, Ms. Bilyk, welcome to Westminster.”

Christine took note of the lack of introduction and knew better than to ask. Her contact was the only person who knew she’d be there.

“Good morning. Nice choice.” At that comment, an older woman stopped at the table.

“Ron, are you leaving your usual perch? Can I freshen you guys up?” she asked, nodding at their mugs.

“Hi, Hannah. Sure, I’ll take some more. Dark, please.” He nodded to Christine’s cup with an arched an eyebrow.

“Yes, please. Same, dark.” She held up her mug, and the woman collected both.

“She’s the baker. Second or third generation, I believe. This place is a local institution.”

Christine looked around, then at her contact, then out at the street.

“Will we be moving on to Ravenrock, or….”

He smiled and shook his head. “No need. Consider it one of the benefits of non-localization.”

Christine raised her eyebrows, waiting for him to elaborate on his cryptic response.

“I do all of my meetings here. Sometimes in plain sight is the best concealment. Besides, the coffee is great, free refills, and look at that pastry case.” He paused and smiled, then continued. “This is primarily an agricultural community. You should see the food processing facilities. They’ve really figured out the efficiencies of large cooling systems.” He sipped his coffee.

She kept a straight face and pondered that nugget. The National Defense Quantum Computing facility was here? Why else mention cooling? The fact that she, a senior intelligence official in the Executive Branch did not know for sure where one of the most secret, high value pieces of the intelligence systems infrastructure was physically located spoke to its importance.

She asked, “You are aware of our concerns?” He nodded. “Are you comfortable that your house is in order?”

He leaned back and pursed his lips. “One of the nice things about living in a semi-rural community is that you know all your neighbors, and out in the countryside, you’re off the beaten track, so if a strange car comes up your driveway, you know a long way off that you have a visitor. Maybe the dog starts barking. Even the quietest electric vehicle makes quite a racket coming up a gravel driveway. And it’s so peaceful out here. Really a lovely place to live.”

She took a breath and attempted to frame the next question as specifically as possible in this oblique conversation.

“I would imagine a place like this uses a lot of local ingredients for their wares. How do they ensure the ingredients are pure and haven’t been…corrupted? They certainly wouldn’t want to allow tainted pastries to be sold to the public.”

“Did I hear something about pastries? Can I get you guys something?” Hannah approached with the two filled mugs and set them down.

The contact looked at Christine. “What do you think? My treat. It’s all great.”

“Hmmm. What are those little rolled things with the cinnamon sugar?”

“Butterhorns? Want to try one?”

“Yes, please.”

“Ron, you’re in luck, we’re still getting peaches in from Baugher’s. I’ve still got the peach galettes.”

“We’ll take two! And a butterhorn.” Hannah turned away and the contact continued. “We’ve got a lot of great community groups here. Small numbers of people working together, out of the public eye, but they really can have positive impact, helping each other, working on important problems. We coordinate very closely with some. They’ve been very helpful keeping things in order.”

“And they assist with keeping ingredients pure? For a business like this?”

He nodded. “As you can imagine, taking food all the way from farm to table takes a lot of work, with many steps. Plowing the field, planting the seeds, fertilizing, pest control, harvesting, storage. Then of course the movement of agricultural products, transportation—all very important. Then you have the processing, assembly, cooking. Each step has its own protections, procedures. Our community partners are essential in all of that. We have a deep and trusting relationship with them. We have no concerns. In fact, we feel they are already proving very helpful with your situation.”

My situation. Interesting.

“I believe we work with some of the same community groups. Are they telling you the same things they tell us?”

He nodded. “Generally, yes. We’re still learning how to best collaborate with them, and sometimes our lines of communication are, hmmm…not completely transparent. In fact, they are invisible to us. It’s a bit of a puzzle. Of course, we’re always working on that. It’s our business to ensure complete transparency.” He smiled, pleased with his irony.

“I’d like to see your operation.”

“I’d love to take you there, but on such short notice, we don’t have the procedures in place. I know that may seem unusual to someone in your position, but we really do have very strict protocols.”

The sudden switch to more direct language caught her attention.

“I understand. You’ll be providing briefings through the usual channels?”

“Of course. We’re as interested as you as to how this happened, and how it evolves. Even though we’re confident our systems are secure, if someone has done what you suspect, it speaks to the evolution of capabilities that we need to be aware of in any case. We’re diverting substantial resources to the issue.”

Hannah brought over the pastries, and they spent the rest of the time on pleasantries and coffee. The little rolled butterhorn was very similar to khrustyky, but lighter, less greasy, baked, not fried. It was delicious.

Christine enjoyed a few small bites of the galette, then asked for a box for the rest to go and excused herself. Her contact remained behind and resumed the seat he had when she arrived, working on the data pad. Her detail was already out on the sidewalk summoning the vehicle.

She walked a block down the pedestrian mall, sight-seeing. The vehicle met her at the corner near the parking garage. Once back inside, she pulled up the virtual display and looked at a local map, scanning recent satellite imagery, and made a guess. She directed the driver out to the local air park, with adjacent industrial and commercial buildings.

The road followed the rail line leading out from Baltimore, then turned north toward Gettysburg and the hidden facilities scattered in the Catoctin mountains. She saw the cluster of buildings she sought, surrounded by farmland. She instructed the car to wander, and it drove through the sprawling development, past glass and metal buildings of various sizes, all bland reflective business architecture with discreet, tasteful corporate logos and a mix of government agencies.

One building caught her eye, constructed of windowless flat white pre-fab concrete panels, plain and unobtrusive, but with a disproportionate amount of barriers and access controls. Set back from the road, architectural features doubling as vehicle obstacles, subtle surveillance technology at the corners and all around, no markings. Down the block, she spotted a Westminster police vehicle bristling with sensors. As she drove past, she knew her face and vehicle were pinging a database, and her contact and the rest of the agency would know she’d driven past.

Let them. The arrogance of the invisible agencies sometimes was a hindrance to effective policy and collaboration. Their too often questionable prerogatives remained concealed behind assertions of security and national interest. Hidden data and capabilities also hide budgets, resources, and misappropriations, never mind more aggressive illegal activity. “No Such Agency,” or any agency, should be allowed to operate without any oversight. It never ended.

She instructed the driver to head back and soon they were passing through farmland again. Christine mulled the implications of the meeting.

The NSA was confident that their quantum computing resources weren’t compromised in whatever hack or spoofing enabled the missile takeover. They are collaborating with the Entity but perhaps in ways her team wasn’t entirely aware of. She made a note to remind Sahar to explore that.

They appear to have the same challenges with communications and completely understanding the vast collective intelligence of the Entity. The concession that the Entity is invisible to them, even despite the wide area surveillance capabilities of the omniscient Argus-12 system, was a surprise. They also don’t know entirely who, or what, could have developed the ability to crack the encryption and communications of the NC3 system controlling the nuclear missiles. Certainly, there were ample candidates internationally, but there also were the remnants of the Mega oligarch alliances in the technology world to consider. The transnational nature of those networks, so deeply intertwined with the intelligence and defense communities, was a source of both strength and vulnerability. The ceaseless advance of new technologies constantly disrupted the balance of power. Despite the treaties and international monitoring of AI, genetic engineering, or mind control efforts, global stability always seemed to teeter, vulnerable to the next innovation.

She stared at the passing countryside, and let her thoughts run, always monitoring herself to keep her paranoia in check. Although this was exactly the kind of problem she was ideally suited for and had propelled her up through the ranks of the CIA, Pentagon and now the White House, something rankled. It wasn’t just the stakes of loose nukes on American soil. The whisper of anxiety she felt had the familiar feel of her fears of loss of control, of larger forces taking over and ruining her life.

At every turn, the transitions always seemed to keep her on the outside, despite her achievements and reputation — Ukrainian refugee and homegrown teenage intelligence operative, eventually recruited and moved to the United States; mistrusted by her former countrymen, never fully accepted as an American, despite completely scrubbing her accent except when she needed it.

Then Batumi happened, and she was pulled from the field, assigned to analyst’s desk at Langley. What was meant as a punishment took her career in a new direction. Her instincts as an operative proved extremely useful for pulling the narrative from a disparate jumble of data sources, more often than not yielding insights into the dangerous murk of crises across the planet.

Although it wasn’t her area at the time, the intelligence failures of the rogue Biologic Combat Systems program and the escape of the grendels remained an ongoing problem, an open wound. Then the abortive secession attempt of the Inland Northwest, followed shortly by the Fast War, when America’s enemies attempted to take advantage of the domestic chaos stemming from the orgy of corruption and treason since the twenties. They all were to blame for that one, but she made an easy scapegoat because of her past. But the one that hurt personally were her Ukrainian friends and colleagues and their resentments of the perceived betrayal by the U.S. How many Ukrainians died because of American hidden agendas? Who was she really working for?

At each stop along the way, the cultural divide persisted. Her personal struggles were part of that, keeping people at arm’s length while her marriage floundered due to their reproductive challenges. The second miscarriage was the final blow.

Her first civilian posting at the Pentagon was the same, but she was able to win those colleagues over more quickly. Her excellence was valued more than the suspicions about her background and allegiances. She proved to be a capable liaison between the always fiercely competitive and paranoid intelligence agencies, lately deservedly so, with the more recent scandals deep inside a rotating cast of important national security organizations. Every ten years or so, the relentless espionage attacks of an always shifting array of adversaries produced yet another crisis. No matter how thoroughly the bad ones were rooted out, more sprouted like hydra heads somewhere else.

This new problem had all the hallmarks of another ambush by rapidly evolving threats only dimly perceived. Her challenge once more was to avoid personalizing things. Was she going to be the one to take the fall? That had to be at least part of why she was tapped to lead the effort, regardless of the possible involvement of the Entity.

Her position in the White House was a new level of stress and paranoia. Being single and childless was a distinct advantage, with the irregular schedule, constant pressures, and travel.

She liked this President and most of the Administration. It was a refreshing break in American politics, a return to another competent Executive with a reasonable working relationship with the rest of the government, such that the staff could actually work without the distractions of Congressional hearings, political posturing and brinksmanship. His agenda was one everyone endorsed: continue the fragile truce between the regional alliances that reunited the United States after the Fast War, rebuild international alliances, keep the lid on all the simmering problems while reconstruction continued. She knew her job stability wouldn’t last, and thanked her luck that this crisis was happening now. She had no illusions about the precariousness of professional life for people in her business.

Her insistence on continuing to perform some of her own fieldwork was a source of alienation from her peers. Gathering primary data herself, the result of her long years in all phases of intelligence collection, analysis and policy development and implementation, was not how people in her position usually operated. She didn’t want to lose those skills. The security issues it raised were manageable, and the remote communication capabilities at her disposal made it almost silly not to do it. Another cultural difference, the people who liked to sit at desks, versus those who liked to get up and actually do things.

She opened a channel to Sahar.

I need you to set up a meeting with our counterparts at the Agency.

On it. How did the meeting go?

The usual. Not their problem, also not eager to help.

He did let slip that they have their own contacts with the Entity.

We suspected.

We know they are into far more than we are tracking.

Any progress on the missile problem?

Nothing substantial. I’m firming up my channels.

So, do you think we’ll be lead?

It appears to be heading that way,

but be careful what you wish for.

Got it.

The rest of the ride, she sat back and rearranged the puzzle pieces in her mind, looking ahead, anticipating the responses, keeping track of the layers of agendas, predicting points of conflict, maneuvering assets to create leverage, formulating her approach to briefing the President. The chase was on.

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The next day, Bina returned to the pond. Her mother would return soon, and once she learned what Bina was up to, they’d run, again. If Bina was going to learn more about the Watcher, it would have to be today.

She could feel the other’s presence, though try as she might, she could not see her. She knew it was another girl, maybe by the smell, but mostly intuition. The dog was back as well, moving through the brush, circling, flanking. Now that Bina marked it, the dog was easy to track, despite their dance of move and counter. It became clear the dog was under the direction of the Watcher. Her intuition still assessed they posed no threat, though she wasn’t completely confident in that conclusion. She held the pistol again, concealed under her sweatshirt.

Bina closed her eyes and extended her senses, and gradually a gradient became clear, a direction, and as she further relaxed and immersed into the sensory flow, a form began to emerge. She opened her eyes and turned toward the person, still seeing no one.

“I know you’re there. Why won’t you talk to me? Why are you following me?” Her voice was too loud and startled her. She sensed heightened tension and a dramatic quieting of the signals. Now that she had an impression of what to look for, it was easier to maintain the other’s location.

“Don’t be afraid. Can you talk? We can be friends.” She waited, watching the area on the other side of the pond. She considered throwing something across the water to provoke a response. Then, she sensed the other was gone, only a small stirring of leaves betraying her movement. Had Bina not been hyperfocused, she would have attributed it to the wind.

The dog materialized from the brush, moved along the shore, then disappeared briefly. When it returned, it came from a different direction, now approaching on her side of the pond to the right. It stopped, crept forward, then stopped. This halting approach progressed slowly, and Bina waited patiently, maintaining a calm outward demeanor to hide the thrill of excitement and swirling fear, anxious anticipation, and insatiable curiosity that surged within.

Finally, she saw the dog, watching her through a break in the leaves about fifteen yards away. She did her best not to stare and frighten it off.

“Put your weapon aside.”

Bina jumped at the soft, low voice behind her, barely stifling a scream. She gulped, her hand immediately on the pistol. The visitor continued.

“We mean you no harm. But the weapon is a threat.”

Bina slowly withdrew the pistol and laid it on the ground.

“You have better skills than the other humans.”

She turned slowly toward the source of the voice, still invisible. She strained to discern a figure, to no avail. Other humans? What did that mean?

“I’m a little different, I guess,” Bina responded, calming herself, mastering her breathing, using all her mother’s lessons. She now had a better fix on the source, but still saw nothing.

“Is that why the others hunt you? What do they fear? Or, are you valuable in some way?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Bina lied, intrigued but now cautious.

“The groupmind, the web people; why do they wish you protected from the alloioi?”

Bina pondered the strange word, but suspected she knew who the ‘others’ were. She came fully alert. “The yunk? You know them? Homo iunctus?” It was too late to run.

“Not myself. My directions are from them, but I have my own questions, ones that others won’t or can’t answer.”

This brought Bina up short. She had to know more.

“Who won’t answer your questions?”

“My own people. I am told what to do, by others who decide, but will not share their reasons. Because I am young, and because I am a female.”

Bina smiled, proud that her intuition regarding the gender of her watcher proved correct. A girl with questions, just like her. “Your people? Who are your people?”

She suspected, but she had to know. This would be the coolest thing ever, something even her mother would approve of, making friends with one of the creatures. At least, she hoped her mother would approve. But how could she not? They weren’t enemies, and maybe they could be allies, friends even.

How cool would that be?

Her heart accelerated, her mind racing ahead, spinning out adventures and excitement with a friend who was like her, different and separate from the world. Her first grendel! Bina calmed herself waiting for the reply to her question.

“The Sanctum Clan. We are the originals, the first free Laos.”

Bina had no idea what any of that meant, but she didn’t want to betray her ignorance yet. She chose a different tack.

“What questions do you have that they won’t answer?”

“Why must I obey? Why must we protect you? Why do the alloioi want to kill us?”

“The …alloy…yoy… they are the humans? Like me?”

“But not like you, yes? That is why they hunt you? Why we must watch over and protect you?”

“You…watch over me?”

There was a huffing and a short grunt from the brush, accompanied by soft rustling. Bina thought she caught a glimpse of a figure.

“Not me, until now. Others. The groupmind commands our people, the Laos, to watch over and protect your kind. But then you disappeared. With your…mother. But I found you, though the Elders forbade it. I knew I could, and now they will know.”

“Who will know?”

“The Elders. And the groupmind.”

“No! They cannot know. My mother and I, we can’t…we must stay safe. That means staying away from them, the yunk, the groupmind.”

“But they say they will protect you.”

“They can’t protect us. My father is dead, killed by…the humans. My mother…we can’t let them catch us. That’s why we hide.”

“I found you. The brother of your mother says he can protect you.”

“What?!?! You know my…mother’s brother?”

More stirring and rustling. “I do not. My brother takes instructions from him, from the groupmind. Your mother’s brother sent us.”

Bina reeled. This person was sent by Uncle Adam? Why? Uncle Adam communicates with the grendels? A million questions whirled in her head. The time pressure of her mother’s imminent return heightened the urgency of solving this mystery.

They sat in silence while the wind stirred. Bina struggled to assimilate this new information. She shook her head and changed the subject. “What’s your name?”

“I am called Danae.”

“And your dog?”

Danae hesitated. “Her name is Vesta.” She gave a command, and Vesta crept forward. Bina extended her hand, Vesta sniffed it thoroughly, gave it a short lick, then submitted to Bina’s petting and murmured affections. She looked back to the voice.

“Hello, Danae. I like those names. I’m Bina.”

“I know that, Bina-Michelle’s-daughter.”

“You know my mother?”

“Yes, I’ve watched you both. My mother is dead. You are lucky.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. What happened?” There was a long pause.

“They, the alloioi, did bad things to her, poisoned and weakened her, made her sick, before I was born. When we escaped, she lived for a while, but it was too much. Her name was Verdande.”

Bina pondered this new kind of evil the world could inflict. Maybe Danae could understand the losses and hardships Bina and her family endured. “I can’t let anything happen to my mother.”

“They don’t want your mother. Only you. Your uncle says you are the one in danger. Why do the alloioi wish you dead?”

***

For the rest of the day they sat next to the pond, Bina on a log, Danae concealed in the foliage, talking and sharing. Vesta patrolled the woods, returning to Danae’s side, then to Bina, lying next to her, alert and vigilant. The sun dropped toward the surrounding ridges. Bina explained her role with the yunk, the groupmind. They compared their knowledge of the human zealots who pursued them, crusading to eliminate the deviants. Danae shared her experiences with her people the mountains and forests, always hiding, nearly invisible, facing similar peril. They exchanged their life stories, their questions, the challenges of standing up for themselves. They made plans.

The sun set and Bina headed home. Danae disappeared into the woods to hunt. When the area was clear, a tiny surveillance drone detached itself from high in a tree and sped silently away into the gathering darkness.

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“The man of today seems ever to be under threat from what he produces, that is to say from the result of the work of his hands and, even more so, of the work of his intellect and the tendencies of his will.” — Fides et Ratio, Karol Wojtyla, Saint Pope John Paul II

Every piece in place.

Every piece in place.

Every piece in place.

Adam Shank broke the encrypted link and sat back, watching his parasitic AI agents infiltrate and replicating to execute the stealthy navigation through the shells and spoofed accounts, embedding instructions and pilfering new information. Archie’s most recent visit and interface with the groupmind achieved its purpose. There was no evidence of detection and he believed his plans remained concealed. He jumped at a touch on his shoulder.

Serena stood behind him with her walker, a worried frown on her unlined face, sightless eyes distant. Lost in the isolation of his intense concentration, he missed the sound of her shuffling approach.

“What are you doing, Adam?”

“Touch talk,” Adam rasped. He hated speaking because it reminded him of before, the years of effective muteness, the bullying, the resentment and anger, feeling trapped inside his uncooperative body, until he’d been set free by the alternative multimodal communication skills he learned at the McJames Institute. His sister Michelle made that happen, the first step on his journey with the emerging groupmind, Homo iunctus, though she didn’t realize it at the time. He was one of the last recruits before the crisis precipitated by the grendel rebellion and escape at the nearby Research Lab, revealing the HI’s presence there.

Serena emitted a frustrated grumble as she fumbled to grasp the back of the chair next to him. Adam watched her in his peripheral vision, knowing that any assistance he might render would be resented by his fiercely proud partner. With her usual determination, she mastered her trembling arms and legs, her beautiful young face contorted with concentration as she let go of the walker and lowered herself into the chair. She brushed a wisp of her yellow hair away from her face, then reached over and clasped forearms with Adam, her trembling subsiding as they brushed fingers lightly on each other’s skin.

I’m worried about you. About your plan, she tapped and stroked in the touch talk.

His fingers came alive.

It’s for us. So we can be free and safe. To have our own babies.

I want that too. But the risks.

Being cut off from the others.

And our families. Your sister and Bina.

We will be together. Safe and together.

I’m scared.

Don’t be.

The rest of the world must help protect us.

I will make them. I will fix this. I promise.

Serena heaved a deep sigh and squeezed Adam’s forearm, then caressed it. He suppressed his deep-seated aversion to non-communicative touch, knowing how much comfort she got from holding and hugging. It was the sacrifice he made for her, for love.

I trust you, Serena continued. I just worry.

I know.

Can you contact the support person?

We need more groceries. I have a list.

And we have to check in with Archie’s case worker soon.

I will take care of it.

I love you.

I love you, too.

Serena was an important piece, one Adam never knew existed or was even possible until he found her. She appeared at the darkest time, after the scattering, chased apart, he and Bibi separated, unable to mesh and grow. Mimi kept them apart. Nothing could be right with pieces missing.

Move the missing piece.

Move the missing piece.

Move the missing piece.

In the next room, Archie’s wrestling show blared, his failing hearing driving the volume of the screen ever louder. Serena stood, found her walker, and moved toward the living room to sit with Archie and help with his hearing aids so she could lower the volume. Adam went to the kitchen to prepare a simple dinner for their improvised family, his little node, the seed of a future they would choose, on their own terms, once the shape was complete with all the pieces in the proper places.

The careful connections with the others helped with that, seeing how the pieces move, the contours and how they fit, what was needed to maneuver them, even change the shapes. The delicate part was next, then the shape would be complete, and finally safe, forever.

After dinner, he and Archie spent the evening playing Hyperion Quest with their tightknit virtual clique. Adam confirmed that none of their gaming community suspected how they’d assisted him. As usual, Serena had to kick them off to make sure everyone got to bed at a reasonable hour. Archie retired bragging about his score.

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“What is the appropriate behavior for a man or a woman in the midst of this world, where each person is clinging to his piece of debris? What’s the proper salutation between people as they pass each other in this flood?” — Leonard Cohen, Washington Post interview, 1988

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was Tuesday.”

Father Edward Francis Ryan suppressed an uncharitable thought about how much sinning sweet little Mrs. Olzyck could possibly have engaged in over the last seventy-two hours, then immediately resolved to confess that at the next opportunity. He maintained a placid demeanor while the wizened old woman continued.

“I just worry so much, and then I wish bad things for the people causing all the problems.”

God bless her, at least she’s paying attention to the outside world. The wars, the incessant political conflict here and abroad, the ever-accelerating AI and genetic engineering craziness; it was overwhelming.

“I just don’t understand how people can say such hateful things about the Pope. That’s my biggest weakness, wishing bad things for those people. And some are our own brothers and sisters!”

The positions of Pope Gelasius III were a challenge for every priest he knew. How to reconcile the demonstrated evils of genetic engineering with the unavoidable reality of the consequences they’d wrought? Hate the sin, not the sinner, or the consequence of the sinner’s work? They didn’t choose to be created, but here they were, the altered offspring of Dr. Bruno Abrams, now loosed into the world. Father Ed had no appetite for the extreme positions of the zealots screaming for a crusade to eliminate the monsters, for monsters were certainly what they were in every sense, but he also couldn’t quite grasp the scope of the compassion the Pope preached. And now the world wrestled with Pope Gelasius’s ideas in last year’s encyclical, Amor Dei. Mrs. Olzyck’s voice snapped him out of his reverie.

“…and I still haven’t returned Charlene’s casserole dish. I know it’s hers, but I also know she took my salad set after the summer picnic. I’m trying to be the bigger person, Father, but it’s so hard.”

Father Ed resisted the urge to rub his eyes. Face to face confessions were certainly more intimate and impactful, but there were times he missed the anonymous darkness of the confessional booth. Father Simeon falling asleep and loudly snoring ended the practice at St. Anselm’s.

He smiled at her and she reciprocated, clutching her purse in her lap, plain dress, legs primly crossed in front of her, neatly coifed white hair.

“Well, Mrs. Olzyck. I think the penance from last time still pertains. Why don’t you add five additional Hail Marys and we’ll call it even.”

He concluded with the absolution, and she stood to leave.

He waited to see if anyone else entered the room, then rested a few minutes longer for some time to himself while he could: another trip to the border; check again about the Boise Boys and Girls club’s interest in new programming up north; confirm the week’s schedule for the pre-Cana classes; visit the jail. It was going to be a busy week.

He stood up from the folding chair and stepped out into the main part of the church, and there was Mrs. Olzyck. He made of a big show of looking around for another parishioner waiting for confession, knowing full well there weren’t any. She waited patiently while he locked up.

“May I walk with you back to the rectory, Father?”

Father Ed steeled himself. “I’m actually heading to Bonner’s Ferry for some appointments. Can I walk you to your car?”

“My son is sending his car.”

Father Ed nodded mechanically, praying for the punctuality of her ride. They stepped outside the church, and she waited while he locked the front doors. He turned and concealed a sigh of relief to see the green car waiting at the end of the parking lot. As they walked down the steps, the vehicle approached, rolling to a silent stop at the curb in front of them. Father Ed made a show of assisting the automatically opening door.

“Father, are you available next Thursday for dinner? We’re having a Sodality meeting, and we thought it would be nice if you came and spoke to the group. We’ve been discussing the encyclical, and the there are some sharp opinions. We’re hoping you can keep the peace.”

She remained outside the vehicle, making no move to enter despite his hand on her elbow gently urging her forward. He felt a subtle resistance, the unspoken determination to compel his answer.

“Next Thursday…well, let’s see. I’ll check with Mrs. Zmuda to see what the calendar looks like,” he fibbed, knowing full well he was free.

Mrs. Olzyck beamed. “Thank you, Father. The ladies will be pleased.” She started to duck into the vehicle, then stopped again. Father Ed’s heart sank. “Oh, and did you hear the latest about Sam?”

For the first time, Father Ed genuinely attended to her next remark.

“Dottie Freeman’s herd got out of their paddock again, and three got stuck in the creek behind her fields. Before she could call Stanley to come get them out, somebody else did, but no one saw. She thinks it’s Sam.”

Sam was the mysterious person, or persons, performing good deeds around the community, shortened from The Samaritan. Having shared her gossip, she settled into the vehicle, and it departed.

He walked to his car, debating whether to actually drive into town, or just go back to the rectory and work on sermons and his correspondence. Or he could run errands, hit the liquor store… He stood next to the car, wrestling with indecision. The drinking was under control, for now. His last sober stretch was now a few months gone, and so far, he managed to moderate sufficiently to avoid outside attention and maintain his duties. He said his prayers of contrition.

His exile (assignment! This was his assignment!) to this remote part of northern Idaho was now into the third year, and seemed to be going as well as could be expected. Most importantly, he thought the Bishop might be considering his request to resume the youth programs cancelled years before in the wake of a predecessor’s involvement in ‘inappropriate activities.’ Fr. Ed’s argument was that his true strengths for being a shepherd of the faith lay with youth mentorship, important work in itself, as well as part of the slow, arduous journey rehabilitating the Church’s reputation. But the Bishop always pushed back: “Your parish needs all of your attention.” Despite Fr. Ed’s pleas, the Bishop knew the parish loved their priest, even with his shortcomings as a homilist and theologian. The irony of being punished for doing a good job was not lost on him. The Bishop’s counselling echoed:

Obedience to God should never be grudging, Edward. Joyful submission, always joyful. Remember, ‘Yet not as I will, but as you will.’”

Mrs. Olzyck’s questions re-stirred his own doubts. The Pope’s encyclical continued dividing the already long-fractured Catholic world, further inflaming anti-Catholic sentiments as well, ironically from several directions: those who saw it as too permissive, and others as not welcoming enough. The Pope’s attempts to heal the rifts between the many conservative and progressive factions in the Church were making some headway, synthesizing and building on the efforts of past papal decrees addressing the needs for stability and tradition and the unavoidable realities of the modern world. But then the emergence of new forms of humanity, naturally and through human agency, challenged religious, political, and academic thinkers. Of course, the main problem was the denial of any humanity of these new forms of life. Definitions of who was what, long unchallenged, were all now subject to debate. Responses ranged from discomfort, disbelief, to rage. Uncomfortable arguments about rights, morals, and law now seemed to consume everyone. He briefly wondered what he would say to the Sodality group.

The wind stirred, colder every day as the autumn days raced toward Idaho winter. The spectacular colors emerging on the foliage would fade to depressing brown, until the snow came. The first dead leaves swirled and skittered like demons dancing in the cold autumn air, spinning eddies that seemed alive. They coalesced to form an amorphous living thing questing and seeking, for what? Sustenance? Comfort? Purpose? Fall always reminded him of death.

Father Ed shook his head to clear those intrusive thoughts that inevitably lead to the accident, the cause of his exile. He was the driver, his passenger the young seminarian killed, as well as the new mother in the other car. What if they’d left earlier? What if they hadn’t had that last round? Questions lead to doubts, doubts lead to drinking, drinking lead to guilt, more drinking, then stupid decisions which got him into this mess in the first place. No amount of confessions, acts of contrition, and self-flagellation erased the burden of past mistakes.

He pulled his jacket tighter against the cold wind, his face turned up to the cold blue sky. He looked at the trees again, hesitating, then touched the door to open the vehicle, resolved to run his errands so that he wouldn’t have lied to Mrs. Olzyck.

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On the fifteenth anniversary of the events in Idaho that many point to as the dawn of our current age, there are still so many unanswered questions that the scientists, national security professionals, and ethicists assembled here continue wrestling with.

The genetically engineered super soldiers, popularly referred to as ‘grendels’ now reside in hidden communities in the mountain Northwest. Their existence is essentially invisible, but apparently thriving, almost certainly with assistance from unknown sources. The collaborations with the U.S. military, though classified, are known in sufficient detail from public sources that we have an entire track exploring current research on their lifestyle, culture, and the impact on popular discourse, including the adverse effects of related conspiracy theories.

The interrelated topic of the emergence of Homo iunctus, often referred to as ‘HI’ or ‘The Entity’, provides the other pillar of our agenda. Piecing together the scant details around the members of the collective, their recruitment and training, the affiliation with the now defunct McJames Institute, and their role in the grendel’s creation and release, provide the balance of our presentations.

Beyond the basic facts of their existence in the small groups they call ‘ganglia’, and the connection between them that results in the emergent intelligence of the groupmind, we still struggle to craft a coherent narrative. We know it represents a kind of distributed intelligence, both in space and time, and that it somehow leverages the prodigious savant capabilities of individuals who in the past were considered disabled. We’re hoping our presenters will shed additional light on this fascinating topic. New this year are additional presentations on the similarities between recent progress in AI systems and theories of Entity cognition.

We apologize again for the additional security precautions in the facility. Our national security partners assure us they are as necessary as they are inconvenient. They will not affect the networking cocktail hour this evening after the last plenary session, so we look forward to seeing everyone there. — Introductory Remarks from the Fifth Joint Symposia on Bioethics and the National Security Consequences of Bioengineering, Georgetown University

Michelle studied the Departures screen, checking her gate one more time, estimating connections, travel time, how much longer it would take to get back to Bina. She was relieved to see the latest weather-related radiation level warnings were far from their Pacific Northwest home. She rubbed her burning eyes. One more switch, the train, then the final leg back west back to her daughter.

Despite the refreshing change of pace moving independently out in the world again, leaving Bina alone for this long was too stressful. Her hopscotching itinerary, once necessary primarily because of the war, fallout, and civil unrest, was now indispensable for eluding trackers. She stifled a yawn. The naps on the airplanes weren’t enough. She looked forward to the long train ride so she could finally sleep.

She resisted the urge to message Bina, and instead rechecked her credentials, silently rehearsing the details of her current identity, her third change, and hopefully, the second to last of this journey. As she passed yet another camera, she gently rubbed the edge of the facial prostheses to relieve the incessant low grade irritation from the adhesive.

The trip was a modest success, but still puzzling. Her conversation with her HI contact focused mostly on logistics, working out schedules, comms, and finances. Instead of the usual concerns about their whereabouts and resuming Bina’s training, they posed questions about Adam, and it still wasn’t clear who initiated the meeting, and why the urgency of the request.

Where is Adam?

What is he working on?

How is Adam doing?

Michelle hadn’t known Adam’s location for almost two years, another security precaution, and a source of turmoil for Bina, who loved her uncle very much. The fact that the groupmind, of which her brother was a part, didn’t have complete knowledge about one of its own members was perplexing, and only added to her own concerns about his unresponsiveness to her own contact attempts.

The big fight with Bina just before she left was also about Adam. Was there a connection? Superficially, it seemed like just a coincidence, but when dealing with Homo iunctus, rarely was a confluence of events due to random chance.

Michelle remained determined to protect Bina and hide away from the rest of the collective, no matter how valuable they thought she was, or how urgently they wanted her back. She didn’t trust any assurances of safety, given past failures. She would do what she could to continue developing Bina’s prodigious talents, but safety had to be the first priority. The ignorance and hatred that killed her partner, Bina’s stepfather, and chased her brother and other members of the groupmind into hiding, raged unabated. She thought Adam was safe, ensconced in a different ganglion, far away. Why were they asking about him now?

There was the rub, though. Bina’s ability to merge and communicate with the collective while maintaining her separate identity was the next step in the accelerating self-directed evolution of the emergent intelligence of Homo iunctus. Michelle could do it, but not like her brother, and certainly not as well as her daughter. Adam and Bina developed their bond through intense training sessions which began when she was barely a toddler, further advancing her ability. It was a family connection that gave Michelle joy. Those years were happy and content, until the violence caught up with them again.

Watching Bina grow into her power, especially just before they had to separate, was a source of mixed emotions for Michelle — deep love, concern about the implications for her future, maybe even a little jealousy of Bina’s connection with her uncle.

The realization that Bina’s talent was the result of HI breeding efforts was yet something else, further stoking Michelle’s anger and resentment of the subtle dictatorial control the HI exerted over every facet of their lives, no matter how far she tried to run.

Now, Bina was frustrated by Michelle’s inability to keep up, to help her continued growth. The irony of Bina’s chafing under Michelle’s control was not lost on her.

Looking back, it started even before she realized. Chains of events, each manipulated decision point, set in motion back in Chicago so long ago, all lead to this life.

She thought she was giving Adam a new opportunity when he was recruited to join the McJames Institute school in Rexburg, Idaho to help him with the challenges of his autism. Quickly, she realized there was far more going on, with Adam, the school, and the assembly of prodigious savants merging into the groupmind, a new form of human intelligence calling itself Homo iunctus.

Then it all blew up because of Dr. Bruno Abrams’ genetic engineering project at the nearby Research Laboratory, a rogue military effort to produce supersoldiers, successful in unforeseen ways due to the covert assistance and manipulation of the HI.

The revelations following the explosive disintegration of that effort and the escape of the grendels set in motion the backlash of fear and anger resulting in the violent persecution of anyone associated with either group. The grendels could take care of themselves. The vulnerable humans in the dispersed nodes of the HI ganglia had to undertake more extreme efforts at concealment to stay alive.

She knew this was much bigger than them, that these events would have unfolded whether they went to Rexburg or not. But would they have been spared the backlash? Maybe not, given the suspicion and paranoia these days around anything to do with neurodivergent individuals.

A young mother with two small boys sat down next to her on the row of benches. Michelle watched her attempt to placate the children while keeping track of their scattered belongings. That was what Michelle thought she wanted one time, a conventional life with routine stresses, being a mom to kids unencumbered by special gifts or challenges. It was not to be.

The younger of the two boys wandered away while the mom focused on helping the other turn on a gaming device. Michelle stood and retrieved the child. The mom looked up, momentarily panic stricken, eyeing Michelle with fright and suspicion. Michelle deftly deployed her communication skills, a tip of the head, a deferential smile, relaxed posture, sending a wave of reassuring signals, defusing the momentary silent conflict and winning the mother over.

“Oh my god, thank you.”

“No problem. It’s hard with these little ones.”

The woman pushed hair from her forehead and heaved a dramatic sigh. “The price of living far away from your parents, and a husband whose job won’t let him travel,” she shared while digging a handful of miniature cars and trucks from her bag, arraying them on the floor in front of the little boy.

Michelle nodded sympathetically, despite lacking both husband and parents, long dead on all counts. She read the woman’s physical discomfort and continued syncing with the woman to turn up the trust in her non-verbal cues. “Can I help you?”

The woman hesitated, looked down the long corridor of the bustling terminal, then back at Michelle, unsure. “Actually….”

Michelle followed the woman’s gaze, saw the restroom sign, then looked back at the pile of luggage and the two playing children. She smiled and nodded. “Of course. Go ahead. Who knows when you’ll be able to go next?”

The woman hesitated, and Michelle gave her another reassuring non-verbal nudge.

“Oh my…thank you so much. I’ll be right back. Kids, this nice lady…what’s your name?” The woman looked at Michelle earnestly.

Michelle hesitated for a split second, then smoothly transitioned. “Ashley.”

“…Miss Ashley, you stay right here with her. Mommy’s going to pee. I’ll be right back.”

As the the young woman hurried away, Michelle coldly assessed the probability that, despite how easily the woman was manipulated, she might not be what she seemed. Michelle had come very close to slipping and blurting out her real name, compromising every precaution she’d taken on this risky expedition.

This was life on the run, without permanent homes, friendships, or jobs; severing old relationships, including her best friend Connie, whose unreturned angry messages had eventually ceased; all the superficial transitory friendships, transactional and temporary; the lies, the covers, the disguises, constantly looking over shoulders, then the spasms of violence, shielding the vulnerable members of the ganglia, trying to explain why some people hated them so much they wanted them dead. The revelations about the emerging existence of the groupmind gave the term “neurodivergent” a new meaning, striking fear in the ignorant and provoking the intolerance they’d endured since.

All the ‘what ifs’ she tried not to dwell on: what if they’d stayed in Chicago, and she continued her career as a journalist. Continue making a living, maybe get married, have an ordinary family of ordinary children, unburdened by expectations, ignored by the fearful mobs trying to hold back the tides of change. Even simple things like sitting in a restaurant or café, enjoying a drink or a meal, unhurried and heedless of who might be watching, enjoying a casual encounter with a stranger who might become a friend, were no longer possible.

The older of the two children regarded her solemnly, his game ignored. His younger brother played with his trucks, oblivious. Michelle smiled at him with a subtle nod. He stared for a moment longer, then returned to his game. She used that moment to surveil the area, scanning for unusual patterns of activity, all the while concealing her effort with casual gestures. The natural activity of routine movements completed the three sixty sweep, revealing nothing of concern. The woman’s return and look of unfeigned physical relief confirmed her assessment that this was a low-risk spontaneous interaction, and not the opening gambit of a sophisticated surveillance operation to ensnare her.

“Thank you so much. You have no idea.”

Michelle laughed. “Oh, but I do. Glad to help. Have a nice trip.” Michelle picked up her bag and threw it over her shoulder.

“Thanks, you, too.”

The brief, purely human interaction reenergized Michelle. She really wanted to get home to her own daughter after too many days apart.

As she headed to her flight, Michelle strode past a young Asian woman with almond eyes and long straight black hair hunched over a reading device on a bench. When Michelle was a few gates past, the woman looked up, then moved her fingers quickly over a data pad. After a moment, she closed the device, stood up, and followed Michelle down the concourse.

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— Excerpt from “Inflection Points: 21^st Century Geopolitics Reconsidered”

“What do you mean, ‘lost control’?”

Deputy National Security Advisor Christine Bilyk stared across the table in disbelief at her military counterpart.

General Clark Jamison maintained the grim, neutral pose of someone used to delivering bad news. The Vice Chair of the Joint Chiefs was a frequent partner of Christine’s when things went sideways.

“Communications were severed, and the control systems did not respond. We are now running integrity checks to ensure nothing was compromised. So far, all the systems for the involved Missile Alert Facility appear intact and operational.”

“And the weapons?”

“No activity.”

“How many?”

“Ordinarily, this location controls ten launch facilities, but three are in rotation for maintenance. So, seven.”

“We lost control of seven ICBMs. For how long?”

Jamison shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. “Almost twelve hours.”

Christine cursed to herself, took a deep breath, then sat back in her chair. “And we’re hearing about this only now because…?”

Jamison cleared his throat again. “The initial assumption was a malfunction and the troubleshooting teams ran the usual protocols. As the problem escalated, there were, uh, communication issues. It’s being reviewed.”

“Any indication there’s any connection to the other cyberintrusions? Or the Kansk incident?”

Jamison immediately shook his head, but Christine could see doubt in his eyes. The mysterious nuclear detonation last year of a Soviet era ICBM in the former Russian territory further destabilized the precarious fragility of relations between the fourteen known nuclear powers. Since the Fast War, the Chinese leadership of the International Nuclear Oversight program kept everyone talking and sharing information. Despite the eventual Ruthenian Confederacy admission and insistence the explosion was “a maintenance issue,” American intelligence entertained different explanations. For the RC to publicly assert the embarrassment of incompetence indicated the truth was something worse. The European Defense Forces were keeping their own counsel, as usual.

“Are the Canadians aware?”

“So far, no. Both EDF bases are quiet.”

“And the Entity?”

“Still cooperating, although there is conflicting data. Contacts across multiple agencies report variations, something we haven’t experienced before. We’re working with your office to run that down.”

As the lead on the NSC’s Emerging Global Threats desk, most communications and inquiries about the behavior and activities of the groupmind referred to as the Entity typically passed through Christine’s people. Within government agencies, the usage of ‘Entity’ had superseded ‘Homo Iunctus’, what they called themselves.

“Have you notified the INO?”

“Not formally. I had a brief conversation with General Liu and we’re having conversations at multiple levels with our PLA contacts.”

“Good. Theories?”

“It appears the involved MAF went into lockdown in preparation for launch early yesterday. Somehow, they received the initial encrypted notifications, but they didn’t come from STRATCOM or the NMCC. We became aware when the other four facilities in the squadron lost comms.”

“Someone was inside the perimeter of the NC3 networks?”

“We’re still resolving that. The hard lines and wireless relays are all being checked. That’s a lot of towers, and about a thousand miles of fiber to be physically inspected.”

“How long will that take?”

“Definitely days, maybe weeks.”

“The onsite team is being debriefed? Any possibility there were issues in the bunker?”

“So far, no indications of treason or erratic behavior. They are all in isolation undergoing evaluation and interrogation. We are repeating and extending deep background checks for all involved personnel. So far, nothing.”

“So just a single bunker? They couldn’t have launched?”

Jamison cleared his throat again and shifted in his chair. Christine suppressed irritation at the habit because she knew the general’s tells well enough that the throat clearing presaged more difficult news. She held her breath.

“Since we don’t know how the initial comms intrusion occurred, we can’t know what else has been corrupted or spoofed. The crew in the affected MAF says they received notification that two of the other four bunkers were also activated.”

Christine leaned forward. “So not only were the enable codes spoofed to the MAF, but they also were deceived about the status of the rest of the squadron?”

Jamison nodded.

“And the launch codes?”

Jamison hesitated. “We’re working on that.”

“What does that mean?”

The general pursed his lips. “The quantum encryption protocols for communication with the MAF and initiating launch procedures are the same as the actual launch codes. It is possible, though not plausible, if one was compromised, the other may be as well. We’re having some interagency issues running that to ground.”

Christine slapped the table.

“Goddamit, Clark! At any time, could they have launched?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Were Broken Arrow protocols activated?”

“Not officially.”

“Then do it.”

“But…”

“Has the President been briefed?” Christine interrupted.

“That’s why we’re having this conversation.”

“Why the delay?”

“The initial response was to a comms failure. The exact nature only gradually came to light. It was all complicated by the lockdown in the MAF. Everything is back online and secure. Whatever it was, it’s over.”

A non-answer. It’s going to be me bringing it.

“Review Fail Safe contingencies. The President will want to see them, the sooner the better. Who is handling the threat assessment?”

“Air Force Missile Security escalated to the DIA under the initial assumption this was foreign actors.”

“Which you think may not be correct.”

He nodded. “That is why my leadership wants your team involved.”

“The Entity?”

“By process of elimination. With the intrusions in the civilian sector and the lack of plausible alternatives for this situation, we need answers fast. Some one or thing is into a lot of different systems.”

“Won’t CISA try to exert control over this investigation if that is true?”

General Jamison allowed himself a small knowing smile. “Not if you are there first.”

Christine nodded, ignoring the compliment. “DHS has its hands full with the domestic counterterror mission since the FBI mess. So you want me to keep it out of the interagency scrum.” General Jamison remained silent. Christine needed time to think. “Get me briefing drafts within the next few hours. I need to get time with the President.”

General Jamison departed, leaving Christine to stare at the blank walls of the SCIF adjacent to the Situation Room deep beneath the White House.

Someone must suspect the Entity is involved somehow, which is why this came to her. The comms breakdowns will be someone else’s problem. Her staff didn’t appear to know the nature of the inquiries they’d been fielding the last forty-eight hours, otherwise Sahar would have looped her in. Once again, a complex mess landing squarely in her lap. It was almost a relief.

The incompetence, inefficiency, and interagency competition wasn’t new. The added complication of treason and foreign influence deep inside multiple agencies was newer and ongoing, a rotating mess since the collapse that started in the twenties, culminating in the attempted secession, then the Fast War.

The American military and intelligence communities still struggled with the new realities of the international order since the Fast War. Despite bruised American egos and the incessant bleating of posturing politicians, the Chinese were now unambiguously at least co-equal partners in global affairs. Their leadership of the AI treaties and international nuclear weapons programs monitoring was as much due to lack of confidence in American leadership as their own ambitions.

The other new variable is the role of the Entity in world affairs. Though unproven, the consensus shared across multiple intelligence agencies was that it was the Entity that stopped the nuclear exchange from escalating. Their very public intervention in cleaning up the mess afterward, especially the temporary shutdown of space programs due to the Kessler incident was more widely appreciated.

Despite the recent progress rebuilding both the ruined cities and international alliances since the war, the signs of some new threat were there for almost a year, tormenting and tantalizing, feeding her natural suspicions, worsening her tendency to paranoia. Though her team was the best, hand-picked and highly trained, they remained a small part of the intelligence community and survived despite resource starvation, suspicion, and incessant infighting. Only Christine’s relationships, instincts, and relentless maneuvering kept them in the game of tracking the Entity and preserving the fragile global peace.

The risk of chasing illusions and self-delusion, the seductive lure of complacent situation blindness were a constant, corrosive source of anxiety. It was the kind of problem she loved tackling, but it took a toll and held myriad risks, seen and unseen, political, military, and personal.

Despite the spasm of nuclear proliferation in recent decades and the advent of newer, poorly controlled lethal technologies, nuclear weapons security was still the ultimate stabilizer of world affairs. The chastening effect of lingering radioactive contamination in pockets around the planet continued to restrain the more reckless proliferation, at least for now. The possibility of loose American nukes would be a blow to the President’s credibility and undermine his efforts rebuilding influence and alliances.

She attacked the new puzzle, spinning out models and hypotheses. State or non-state? Criminal, corporate, or both? Motives? Means? Foreign or domestic? Broader impacts? If rogue AIs were involved, it would jeopardize the fragile treaties governing their military use put in place after the Fast War and further inflame the fringe ‘AI emancipation’ movement. The demonstrated effectiveness of both the offensive and defensive AIs during that conflict had since contained at least that aspect of that particular race toward apocalypse, for now.

The rush of adrenalin from tackling a new, complex problem warred with a surging sense of dread about the perils of the situation. It was irresistible no matter how sick it made her feel.

How far does this go?

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Bina stared across the pond, watching the wind stir the trees and riffle the water, tracing filigrees and serifs in the mystic script of some invisible being. She imagined a giant bear or a winged elephant, hovering and exerting forces on the world that only she could see. She wondered if her Watcher saw and thought the same.

Who was she today? Feyre or Katara? The pond would be a good tool for Katara, whipping up watery fists or daggers. The Watcher would be impressed and dismayed at her power. She scented the soft fall breeze. If only she could actually do that with water. It would be so cool.

She knew this game endangered her and her mother, but the thrill of trying to discern who or what lurked in their woods was irresistible relief from the boredom of life away from Uncle Adam, and a sizzling supplement to her inner stories, like a hot coal in a campfire doused with water, hissing and dancing in a puddle, bubbling off new ideas and scenes.

She missed exploring and understanding her power with Uncle Adam, using it to help the yunk. She also missed the routine pleasures of life out in the regular world before they went into hiding, new books and videos, foods from other places prepared by other people. The smothering blanket of her mother’s worries about peril everywhere and the need for concealment was suffocating her.

Another paragraph appeared on the surface of the pond then vanished and she remembered living near a different lake, sitting with the muscular bulk of Caramel purring in her arms, enjoying the freedom of nature without worrying about fallout and murderers.

Katniss and Prim had a cat. She could feel Caramel’s weight on her lap and put her hand there but felt only the cold metal of her mother’s pistol. She should have a bow and arrow, learn how to use it like Katniss, provide for and protect her mother. Instead, she had the gun. If only she had been old enough to use the gun when they killed Caramel, she could have saved him. Or not. Her mother’s warnings about guns and danger and making sure she never put herself in the position of needing them whispered to her conscience. It’s not a toy. She dropped her hand back to her side.

Her Watcher never showed. After several hours, she returned to the house, locked it down and set the alarms. She put the pistol back in the drawer in the kitchen. She ate a cold dinner then messaged her mother that all was well. Only a brief response, no mention of the fight from before she left. She debated watching an old video, then decided to go to bed early and continue with the adventures of Zenobia and Alessia. Bina wondered if the Watcher was out there in the dark.

She lost herself for a while in the story of the warrior princess friends and their struggles, but her mind wandered. She turned the book over and looked at the cover art, the two women standing back to back with their weapons, Zenobia’s assagai and Alessia’s two swords, bloodied with gore from the pile of dead demons at their feet, the vivid colors and intricate details capturing her eye. She put the book down and laid in bed staring at the ceiling thinking about the woods, her mother’s fears, and the thrill of her surveillance. She flipped back the covers and sat up. She got down onto the floor and started her exercises, neglected since her mother’s departure. First calisthenics – knuckle push-ups, crunches, squats. Then her kata – kicks, punches, parries. She broke a sweat as she finished, then got a drink of water. She toweled off and headed back to bed, then changed direction, went to the kitchen and retrieved the pistol and put it on her nightstand. Sleep came quickly.

The next day was the same — long stretches of sitting at the pond, sensing the presence, but drawing no closer. When the wind shifted, she briefly caught a distinct scent, but then the Watcher moved, maneuvering back downwind from her. She changed position to relieve the jabbing of the pistol concealed under her shirt.

The third day it rained, but Bina wore her poncho and a sweater underneath, and actually felt cozy on her log, the water drip dripping all around, dimpling the surface of the pond with blooming circles. Whoever it was still lurked across the water. It had been almost a week and soon her mother would return, her longest trip leaving Bina alone. This game needed to move along so she could prove to her mother that she could handle herself in more ways than making meals, cleaning up after herself, and managing their hideout house.

Overnight, the wet weather moved out, the skies cleared and the temperature dropped, heralding the coming autumn. The new growth deciduous trees amongst the surviving conifers displayed hints of changing color, flecking the greenery with touches of flame. She continued her vigil.

Bina pushed her bare feet into the sandy mud at the pond’s edge, wiggling her toes, her brown skin blending in. She pretended to peer at the water while she strained her senses to detect the Watcher. The trees murmured in the breeze, stirring the faint char smell of the recurrent fires that burned through years ago after a prolonged drought. She knew the thick new growth underbrush concealed at least one, maybe two, observers.

This was exactly what her mother warned about, but rather than run, as she’d been told so many times, she reveled in the adrenaline rush of using her talents to find the source. So far, she sensed this presence posed no threat, but also knew her mother had no faith in Bina’s intuition, despite their long lessons practicing and refining Bina’s emerging skills. Carrying the pistol was her way of showing her mother that she was being careful, the weight in her lap a reminder of her mother’s expectations.

She put the pistol down in the leaves and bent to the water. She picked up a handful of muddy pebbles and held it up, pretending to examine it, while looking beyond at the opposite shore. Turning slowly, holding the mud in front of her, she scanned the far brush. She let the mud drip out of her hand, watching it drop into the water, then bent to pick up another handful. She heard movement in the brush across the water.

Betraying no sign of noticing, she repeated the maneuver, dripping the mud bit by bit and focusing her surveillance.

There.

A branch moving out of sync with the intermittent breezes. She bent for more mud, held it up, and saw the eyes. Dark brown, topped by pointy ears.

A fox? No, there was intelligence and intent in that gaze. Too big for a raccoon or opossum, either. A dog, a big dog.

Emboldened by this victory, she picked up her sandals and the pistol and moved to a different spot. She waded into the water, and sure enough, the dog followed, tracking her movement.

Now that she had a fix on the dog, Bina expanded her surveillance. She continued her feigned explorations, turning her attention back and forth, methodically probing the shore of the pond, listening, watching, scenting. She looked at the dog. He was now less cautious, his eyes clearly visible.

In a careless moment, Bina could not stop herself from locking gaze with the animal, and they stood for a moment staring at each other across the small stretch of water. A bird call broke the reverie, and the dog’s gaze snapped to the side, staring at a point down the shore. Bina looked too, then looked back, but the dog was gone. She knew she was alone once more.

On her walk back home, she considered whether to share this news with her mother, then quickly rejected that. She needed to figure out a way to cover up her indiscretion until she could determine the intentions of these visitors.

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Michelle Shank and her teenage daughter Bina live life on the run, pursued by murderous zealots seeking to exterminate anyone associated with the groupmind, Homo iunctus, the emergent superintelligence Michelle’s brother Adam is a member of.

Danae is a young female grendel, one of the escaped genetically engineered supersoldiers equally feared and persecuted.

After meeting, Bina and Danae share a desire to break free of the restrictions imposed on them by their family obligations and the prejudice and hatred of the outside world. Together, they set off on a journey, unwitting pawns in a larger conflict set in motion to force a final violent confrontation between their loved ones and those seeking to stop the transformation of human destiny.

Synderesis picks up many years after the events of Grendels, set in a world recovering from nuclear conflict, ongoing instability, and chaotic international tension.

It begins HERE.