Aberrant: 2011 - Sting

[Nathan Dayes]

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[Nathan Dayes]

Date: March 21st, 2009

Time: 2:14 AM

Location: LAX International Airport

He felt the mild thump of the tire touching the tarmac, and Nathan Dayes relaxed in his seat.

It was inaccurate to say that he hated flying - he knew the statistics and how unlikely it was for the plane to crash. But he was relieved to be at the end of his journey. Traveling halfway around the world on three separate flights was no easy feat, quantum-enhanced stamina or no.

He tucked his copy of Nova News Now into the mesh holder on the seat in front of him. A lot had changed in the past year, but he found himself happy that his attitude towards novas hadn't changed much when it became his attitude towards other novas. They still put on the same airbrushed, cartoon-character fronts for the world, distilling themselves into sound bites so that their Q-ratings would stay up. Behind that facade it would be the same old stories; everyone screwing everyone else, hysteria, cover-ups, shady deals, drugs on the side, and much worse if you cared to dig.

He could sympathize a little - if everyone wanted you to use your unique quantum powers for their benefit, of course everyone was going to kiss your ass and you'd wind up in a bubble with nothing but positive feedback. But he didn't sympathize that much, because that hadn't happened to him at all. Sure, they'd bumped him into operations, but it wasn't as if operations could exist without the intel he used to gather and parse. The tip of the spear was useless without eyes to tell it where to be shoved.

No, for him, eruption just meant lots and lots of hard work, living in a city that was nut-shrinking cold, fighting ten times as hard for acceptance, and of course, now he was expected to put his life in harm's way a lot more often. He didn't know the life expectancy of an operations cell but something told him that intelligence agents lived longer.

He remembered the tightness in his neck when Aaron Blisney had found him, and reconsidered. No, maybe operations wasn't that much riskier after all.

The plane stopped, and he rose. He reached into the overhead compartment, and pulled out his carry-on bag. He didn't have any weapons inside since he was not permitted to draw arms until he was on station, so all that was inside were his few personal effects. Clothes, books, his music player loaded with the albums of Bill Cosby. The cut-off cast that used to be on his leg, and the signatures of all the graduates from his class. His passport, giving him easy access to any member nation of the Directive - and his Directive badge, of course. A pair of his old glasses from before his eruption, one lens shattered - a memento of sorts.

He slung it over a shoulder and walked out of the plane. He realized that it would be time, right about now, for his biannual eye exam. A lot had happened. Being hired by the Directive, the attack from Aaron Blisney, eruption, retraining, the attempted breakout, getting shot, breaking his leg, graduating, and then spending several weeks in an impromptu 'advanced course,' meeting all the inmates of the Forgotten City.

All of them were doped to the gills - he remembered the doctor, the new one, protesting that the dosages of quantum-inhibiting drugs were too high, pushing towards lethal levels. Objections were overruled, because no one was risking a repeat of the Klein incident, least of all Nathan.

One by one, he used his power - the ability to copy the quantum templates of other nova's Mazarin-Rashoud nodes, and map the onto his own. In layman's terms he was a quantum mirror. A nova's power became his with just a touch. Once it became his, the testing began.

Powers were always unique, but by sampling a wide range, he could pick out the common threads. The first thread was that he wasn't always as powerful, nor as skilled, as the power's original owner. However, he wasn't completely unskilled, able to instinctively control the power and know what it could do. It was theorized that he was able to copy not just node patterns, but any type of brain pattern - that eventually he'd be able to copy people's skills and talents, and perhaps even read minds. Beyond that, some powers were common, and he learnt the commonalities there. How to aim an energy bolt that came out of your fist as precisely as he could aim a rifle. How to handle himself in the air and adjust for the added dimension to combat. The best way to lift a car. Things like that.

Once they were satisfied, he bid the City goodbye, and privately hoped that he'd never have to return.

Over half a day's travel later, here he was at LAX. It was the graveyard shift of the city's mandated timetable, an idea brought about several years back to ease traffic congestion. Each city was divided up into zones that worked and commuted on different timetables, an idea that that struck him as so thoroughly stupid the only reason it stuck around is that it seemed to have worked. He missed the days when the civic government at least paid lip service to the idea that all citizens should be treated the same way.

He proceeded through check-in and went into the mini-mall. He headed towards the newsstand, and he spotted someone who was probably his contact. He tapped the contents of his pocket to reassure himself, and proceeded.

She was wearing a ball cap and a jean jacket. Her hair was jet black and her eyes were hidden behind sunglasses. She was next to a mirrored support column, reading a magazine - Nova News Now, as it turned out.

Not wishing to repeat himself, he went to pick up a copy of Popular Science at the newsstand, checking to see if they took rubles. They did, thankfully, so he flipped to a random page about possible terraforming of Antarctica while he leaned up against the support column.

"There's a report on the news that says carjackings are up 22%."

"Not surprising, with a mandated timetable that forces commutes at night."

"'Electric' Will Greene says that amongst his clients the number's only gone down."

"If you like dealing with a coked-up human Tesla coil, sure." She smiled at him. "I imagined you'd be taller." There was a hint of a Russian accent in her voice. She removed her sunglasses, revealing brown eyes. "Natalya Sukov."

"Nathan Dayes."

"Have a seat, Nathan Dayes." She waved towards a nearby table. "There are a few other things I must check."

Nathan nodded, and sat. She took out her cellular phone. He did likewise. "How was your flight?"

"Long. Glad it's done."

"Hold still, please..." She held up her phone, the camera pointed at Nathan's face. The phone's OS loaded its biometrics and retinal suite, confirming that he was who he said he was.

"Retinal... check. Biometrics, check."

"I always get nervous with those."

"Why is that?"

"Well, my biometrics and my retinal patterns changed when I erupted. First time I tried to use them alarms went blaring."

She hesitated slightly, and Nathan's brow furrowed. There was a hint of... fear? Apprehension? Huh, he thought.

"Do you have the disk?"

Nathan nodded, and slid the battery compartment of his phone open. He slid his fingernail into a catch on the back of the phone, and opened a small compartment. He took out a small disk the size of a postage stamp.

"Here's the OTD."

'OTD' was an acronym for one-time disk. It was an ingenious way of getting around the problem of cyberkinetic novas and hyper-intelligent codebreakers. Each disk was set to a common key, used only once. Each disk could only be read if its mate was also available, and only written to and read from once. It was a code system that dated back to the Second World War and was as close to unbreakable as you would ever get.

He handed the disk over. She plugged it into her phone - all Directive phones had two slots for OTDs for just such an occasion. After a pause, an authentication message was displayed, and matched up with the biometric and retinal data she'd taken.

She closed her phone and put it in her pocket. "Well, I'm satisfied. I apologize for being abrupt, but you've caught us in the middle of an operation that's come up suddenly."

Nathan raised an eyebrow. "'While I was in the air' suddenly?"

"Yes. We have a few eyes and ears in the LAPD. They passed along actionable intelligence about twelve hours ago."

"What's the op?"

She stood. "I will give more details once we're in the car. But... tell me, have you ever heard of soma?"

A shiver crawled across his skin. "The drug that they chop up novas for?"

"Imagine a new street drug - a version of soma that does not require killing a nova. That's what we may have on our hands, Agent Dayes. They call it Sting."

[Nathan Dayes]

Date: March 21st, 2009

Time: 2:36 AM

Location: Directive Safehouse NA-662

The entry procedures were explained to him as he and Natalya entered the safehouse.

Directive Operational Safehouses were typically maintained by the Office, AKA Administration, since operation cells moved around so much. Once it was activated, one of the members of the Administration Cell that overlooked the station's maintenance would hand it off to the OpCell's commander. The station in question's designation gave no clues to its whereabouts - it was NA-662. The operation cell's name was Sundial.

The station was located underground. The entry point was an alleyway close to a warehouse that stored and distributed Vella, the paper substitute. The alleyway was bugged and under surveillance and the garage door at the end would not open unless the person in question belonged to the cell in residence.

In the event of coercion, there was a margin close to the door where three eye blinks, precisely timed, over the course of five seconds would flag the entry and lock down the station. It was recommended that agents not blink during this stage.

Once the garage door opened, the second stage of entry would begin. There was a small touchscreen computer inside along with a variety of tools. The computer seemed to be a typical OpNet device, but the code for it was specially designed and compartmentalized so that any alteration to any section would be noticed by all the others, and total system shutdown would occur. Hidden deep within the code was a scanning system that would scan fingerprints, read genetic code, and interface with a special chip implanted in the wrist bone of each Directive agent. Nathan remembered the shot they'd given him. Even now, he couldn't make out any scar, and if it could fool his eyesight it could fool a lot of people's.

Once approved, the elevator would start, and you'd be into the safehouse proper; garage with vehicles, firing range and obstacle course, armory, laboratory, emergency Klot tanks, and the offices, which was where he was now.

Besides Natalya, the only other member on site was a half-Asian half-Caucasian woman, with rust-colored hair and a pleasant, if distracted, demeanor. Unusually for nighttime indoors, she was wearing sunglasses. She smiled as she greeted the two of them. "Hi Natalya. Hello, you must be Nathan Dayes."

"I am. You are?"

"Agent Cassandra Orange."

Nathan couldn't quite stop himself from grinning. "So they call you - "

"Agent Orange, yes." She rolled her eyes derisively. "There's no joke you can make that I haven't already heard."

"Sorry, sorry."

"It's okay. I picked the name so I can bear the shame."

"Any word back from the Commander and Makeem?" asked Natalya.

"They phoned in a few minutes ago, actually. The bust went well. They have samples and they're going to analyze them."

"Good. I'm going to continue analyzing the data on James Baron. Agent Dayes, Agent Orange wll show you to your desk."

His desk was nothing special. There were two computers - one connected to the OpNet for quick searches and the other, the main work computer, kept separate from the OpNet and hooked into the Underground Railroad, the nickname that the intelligence cells had for the dedicated, encrypted landlines the Directive used to secure the flow of information. He was given his initial login and password, and Cassandra handed him a short slip of Vella paper.

"This is the actionable intelligence that a friend of ours on Vice passed along."

Nathan read through it. "Mind if I ask you something, Agent Orange?"

"Call me Cassie, and no, I don't mind."

"What's with the sunglasses?"

"I just had laser surgery done. I have to wear these for a week. I'm pretty much benched until then."

"Ah. Why the surgery?"

"You know that nova David Baker? Luminex? Light powers and so forth? Well, he was caught soliciting a minor by us, and we got close enough to get PHOTOINT - but he spotted me. Hit me with this big flash of light then ran off. PHOTOINT was still good, but I needed surgery or else I'd go blind."

Nathan grimaced. "Jesus."

"Yeah. It didn't work out as well as we wanted, but we have enough on him to twist his arm and keep him from doing it again. I guess that's enough."

"I'm glad you weren't hurt. Listen... uh..."

"I don't have a problem with you being a nova, no."

Nathan blinked, then smiled. "Oh. Well, I'm glad to hear that."

"Yeah. But keep reading. This tip raised a few eyebrows around here."

Nathan went back to scanning the sheet. Then he paused, tapping his finger.

"They managed to get a sample off of a bust..."

"Yes."

"And it turned into distilled water within a few days?"

"And they have no idea how that happened. They didn't get full analysis done, so hopefully we'll do better. But what they concluded is that it makes you really strong and angry - like soma, though not quite as nasty. Makes you hyper, paranoid, and maybe gives you a heart attack. It's exploded on the underground novaphyte scene."

"Poser clubs. Oh God." Nathan rubbed his temple at the memory. Kids and teenagers and young people, all dressed up and dancing in cheap costumes, spending spare cash on NovaEyez and skin dyes and plastic grafts and in the darker cases, performance-enhancing drugs - all so they could be like their heroes. 'Novaphytes,' they called themselves - nova neophytes. At the City, one thing they taught him that was a hard pill to swallow was that the baselines he was trying to protect and serve would all too often throw themselves away to save their heroes - 'heroes' who barely even acknowledged their existence. Thinking about it made it feel like there was a rock in his stomach.

Cassandra nodded. "If its anything like soma, then it might be created the same way - from dead novas. But we've checked the news and there's been no unusual nova disappearances that haven't been accounted for. So the other possibilities are a hyper-intelligent blacktech chemist, or a nova-derived drug like the AIDS vaccine. We won't know for sure until the Commander and Makeem make it back from the pickup. Then once we get a sample we can put together a plan."

"What're they picking up?"

"If our tip was correct - and I hope it is - an unexpired sample of Sting."

* * *

Date: March 21st, 2009

Time: 2:39 AM

Location: Northeast Los Angeles

"He'll be off the plane by now, I imagine."

The voice belonged to Commander William McSweeney, who was about forty-three years old, tall and stocky, with receding blonde hair and green eyes. When he spoke, there was a slight Northern English accent. He was talking to the man sitting next to him, Makeem Yahawei, who was a younger, wiry black man with a shaved head and a pen behind one ear.

"Unless his plane was delayed, yes. Are you expecting a call from Natalya?" Makeem had an accent as well, that placed him in Ethiopia.

"No, no, just making a note of things." He made a left, entering a side street. "I just wish I'd greeted him myself. Bad luck not to be greeted by station commander."

They were in a nondescript van, dressed in grey suits with shoulder holsters. The van's destination was a Greyhound bus terminal that stayed open twenty-four hours a day. They were in a part of town that wasn't on the graveyard shift, so they basically had the road to themselves.

"Bad luck, you say?"

"Old Directive superstition, Mak." William drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "What kind of superstitions did they have in the Addis Ababa Police Department?"

"If you invoked Slider's name before an interrogation, the perpetrator would crack within an hour."

"Did it work?"

"Not really. People kept doing it, though. I never did."

William nodded, his eyes focused on the road. He made the turnoff, and pulled into the bus station.

The two of them got out, and walked briskly inside. The doors swung open, light music playing over the public speakers. They walked past an advertisement for Gatorade, a reminder to please report any unattended bags, and a public service announcement that even Chad "The Living Wreck" Burger wore his seat belt. William chuckled as he walked past the last one.

"Is something the matter, Commander?"

"Just heard a few rumors about that one, is all. Money leaving his pocket and winding up in surprising places."

"Such as?"

"Such as, people who are knees deep in Project Utopia's patented blend of hot water. But just rumors. No operations pending for Chad Burger, at least not in this cell. Ah, our tip paid off. Flag's up."

William and Makeem had turned a corner towards a row of storage lockers. One in particular had a bit of white shirt hanging out of it. It was the box's flag - the signal that a drop had been made. The box had an unknown number of keys, but William had surmised that there had to be at least two besides theirs - one for Administration and one for whatever intelligence cell used the box.

William took out his key and unlocked it. He opened the door. Inside was a small cardboard box and a T-shirt. He tucked the shirt back inside, while Makeem kept a lookout.

"See anyone?"

"No tails on us, sir."

"Good." William slid the package out and closed the door, locking it. The two of them then proceeded out of the terminal, and back to the van.

William hopped in the back. Makeem followed, closing the door. "Okay. Let's just have a look."

He cut the tape off the box with a box cutter, and opened it up. Inside was a small OTD and a padded package. William opened the package, and took out the vial inside.

It was a small glass tube about four inches long. Inside was a blue fluid that looked slightly thicker than water. He held it up to the light.

"They got us a sample?" Makeem leaned closer, examining it.

"They did indeed. That sting operation - and what a fitting name - that the LAPD pulled earlier today must have paid dividends. I'll pass thanks along the Railroad when we get back to the office." He slid it back in the padded package. "Samples to analyze, reports to read, a new recruit to break in. Going to be a busy night, Agent Yahawei."

"Aren't they all?"

[Nathan Dayes]

Date: March 21st, 2009

Time: 2:56 AM

Location: Directive Safehouse NA-662

"You must be Nathan Dayes."

Nathan turned around from his computer and looked up. Quickly, he rose to his feet and saluted.

"At ease, son. Pleased to meet you. Nathan, this is Agent Makeem Yahawei." William indicated the man next to him. "Makeem comes from the Addis Ababa Police Department. One of their finest forensic investigators."

"You flatter me greatly, sir. How do you do, Agent Dayes." Makeem shook Nathan's hand. "I would stay and chat some more, but I have a sample to analyze."

"Right, right. Pleased to meet you."

Makeem nodded, then turned and left the office. William smiled. "You've already met Cassandra Orange, and Natalya Sukov. I'm Cell Commander William McSweeney and I'm glad to have you on board. Heard a lot about you."

"You - you did?"

"Cell structure or no, if you have ears in the right places word gets around. Good show against Stephen Klein."

"Thank - thank you, sir."

"I'm going to go shoot holes in some nova-shaped pieces of paper. Care to join me?"

"Uh - I have - " He checked his computer, and realized that he'd already read through the brief and was only re-reading it to seem 'normal' and kill time. "Certainly, sir."

William led the way to the shooting range. He handed Nathan a pair of shooting goggles and earplugs once they got there. "So tell me, Nathan. When it came to Stephen Klein, do you think you did the right thing?"

"Well, I'd like to think so, sir. It worked out well enough."

"Too right, too right." William loaded his firearm, and leveled it at the target. He fired off seven shots in rapid succession, sending each bullet through the target's head. "But you disobeyed an order."

"Headset fell off, sir. Never heard the order." Nathan loaded his firearm, a boxed-off Glock, and took aim.

"How convenient."

Nathan frowned, and fired. The gun bucked in his hands ten times, the smell of gunpowder thick in the air.

"Permission to speak off the record, sir?"

"Granted."

"Everything was chaos. The troops with the non-ferrous weaponry were taking forever. I heard them talking about Situation Four on the comm - "

"Situation Four. That I hadn't heard." William pressed the button that brought his target forward. "Fact remains, though, that you felt it prudent to rush in like James Bond, snowmobile roaring, guns blazing, to kill the baddie. Now, I wasn't there, and whatever shit they felt they had to feed you is fine by me. But Sundial is my cell and it works because we have each other's backs, compliment each other's strengths, and guard each other's weaknesses. If you do something like that under my command, you had better have a damned good reason. Because if you don't, I will kick your ass so hard you'll be tasting boot for a week. Seven in the head, not bad... don't like this one." William tapped the sheet.

"Sir?" Nathan craned his head as he retracted his own target.

"This bullet. Would only just skim the brain. Man with a gun might twitch enough to get a shot or two off."

"It looks fairly solid..."

"Trust me, it isn't. You shoot enough of these, you get to know. Now, before you start thinking I'm just busting your balls like Sujar used to do, I still think you did the right thing in the end. Just realize - circumstances like that are the exception, not the rule."

"It - " Nathan rubbed the bridge of his nose. "How do you tell, sir?"

"How do you tell when it's time for the rule, and when it's time for the exception?"

"They mentioned it when my leg was in the cast. That sometimes with the way nova powers work, the rules would be a hindrance rather than a help. But there's no rule for when there's no rules, is there? So how do you tell?"

"Experience. And that just takes time, son. Everyone else in this cell has been at this at least eighteen months. Just pay attention and you'll pick it all up. There's hundreds of unwritable rules about this job. Things you can't put into words but you just know. And you'll know them all. You're a bright lad and you'll do fine."

"I - okay, sir. Yes, sir." Nathan plucked his target off the clip and held it up. "How about this?"

William examined the sheet, and the large collection of holes in the center of the forehead. "You're a better shot than I am."

"Thank you, sir. Sorry, sir."

"Don't be. I'm not the jealous type. While we're on the subject, I'm not a novaphobe either. Long as you work hard and pay attention, I'll treat you just as I'd treat any other agent. If you think you can do that, then welcome to Sundial."

"Thank you, sir."

"Now, there's something I want to show you." William took his goggles off and his earplugs out. He turned around and went to the weapons locker, opening it wide.

Nathan whistled. "Is that a Banshee? The sonic rifle?"

"Bloody thing makes my fillings hurt, but yes. Wonderful weapon long as you don't sneeze on it wrong. But no, what I have to show you is a bit smaller. Second shelf on the left."

Nathan looked, and his eyes widened slightly. "Wait, what the..."

He reached out and pulled it off the shelf. It was a semiautomatic pistol, with a smooth dull silver finish and clear plastic on the grip. It was of a make he hadn't seen before.

"What's this?"

"That's an ASP. Modified Smith & Wesson model 39 semiautomatic. Tell me why it's the perfect pistol for spooks like us."

Nathan examined it, sighting it. He whistled. "Teflon coating. No sharp edges. Smooth draw?"

"Go on."

"The sights are two opposed triangles at the back and one at the front... this is the Guttersnipe sighting system. Easier to aim in a hurry at close range."

"Keep going."

"Lip on the trigger guard to hold it with two hands more steadily. Transparent handle... uh... so you can see how many bullets are left in the clip?"

"Can't tell you what a lifesaver that's been. Statistically, in a real firefight you cannot keep track of rounds fired. One glance with this and you know. Fittable with a suppressor as well as tac-lights and laser sights if you're into that sort of thing - "

"I hate laser sights. They're like waving a giant 'hi there, I am shooting you' sign at the target."

William smiled. "No argument here. They're working on a Mark 2 for next year, totally original design. In the meantime, production run on these ran to three hundred, six of which are in my personal collection. Any agent in my cell who wants one can use one."

"Sir, that's very generous - "

"The Directive is asking us to risk our lives, Agent. We're the generous ones for saying 'yes.' The way I see it, my agents deserve the best, and in my considered opinion, this is the best firearm for covert ops that money can buy. If you want it, it's yours." His face turned serious. "I just hope you never have to use it in the field."

Nathan nodded, as he put his earplugs back in and loaded the ASP, sighting up a new target. He hoped he never had to field test it either. That all the suspects came quietly, that all the intelligence came with plenty of time to act, that there was always room for social engineering and that the only thing he ever shot with the gun would be paper targets in an underground shooting range.

He knew that it was false hope.

But as he pulled the trigger, he hoped anyway.

* * *

Date: March 21st, 2009

Time: 1:16 PM

Location: Directive Safehouse NA-662

It turned out that the Directive had its limits, and finding an apartment in Los Angeles was beyond theirs.

Consequently, a few boxes in an upstairs room had been shoved out into the hall and a cot unrolled. Nathan used the time to catch up on a little sleep, as the others trickled back to their apartments. He had a strange dream where everyone at the Forgotten City was turning into ducks, and that he had to scale a building barehanded while blood poured down the side - or maybe it was just Strawberry Quik, since he didn't remember blood being quite so foamy.

He was an expert at psychological profiling, and he didn't have the slightest notion what his dream meant. He rose, groggy, and stood up stiffly.

He wandered out into the office, which was empty. The security system was on automatic, and a glance at the large screen on the wall noted no flags. Nothing underground, overground, on motion sensor, on camera, or on the mikes. There was one agent on station besides him and it was Makeem Yahawei.

He decided now was a good time to say hello. He stepped into the elevator and went down to the lab.

It was state of the art, as it would have to be when doing on the fly analysis of paraphysiology. Makeem was staring at test results on a computer, tapping his palm with a pen.

Nathan coughed softly. "Agent Yahawei?"

Makeem turned around, and nodded. "Agent Dayes."

"How's the analysis?"

"Slow. Too slow. At any point the samples could break down - we do not know how much time it takes. Anywhere between a few days to a few weeks, according to secondhand intelligence."

"Anything I can do to help?"

"I am coordinating with an IntCell known as Clover. Unless your specialty is scientific analysis, we have things under control."

Nathan looked at the screen. He had a good idea of what Makeem and whoever he was working with at Clover were up to, but he had to admit that they were far enough along that he'd only be playing catch-up. Intelligence and psych profiling was his specialty. Less biological and more sociological.

Still...

"Mind if I check what you have so far? Fresh pair of eyes and all that?"

"If you wish."

Nathan flipped open one of the lab's other terminals, and checked through the notes. "So, Addis Ababa Police Department? I keep meaning to visit that city..."

"It's beautiful. If nothing else, I'm thankful to Project Utopia for that."

Nathan nodded. 'Operation: Eden' was one of the most ambitious tasks undertaken by Project Utopia - nothing less than restoring Ethiopia's ecosystem. Nova powers altered weather patterns, soil conditions, humidity... super-intelligent minds modeled ecosystems and reintroduced wildlife. After three years, the task was complete, and Ethiopia was transformed into Africa's breadbasket. Addis Ababa was the jewel in the country's newly minted crown, a truly modern, multilingual city.

"How did the Big D wind up recruiting you?"

Makeem sighed, and Nathan regretted the question. "Sorry, I'll let you get back to work - "

"No, it's a fair question, and I could use a break. Crime is rare in Addis Ababa, Agent Dayes, but it still happens. There was a man strangled to death in the middle of a locked room. There were no prints, and no DNA evidence. There were signs of forced entry. A couple of things missing from the jewelry box. It looked like a simple burglary gone wrong."

"And it wasn't?"

"No, it was not. The jewelry box, for example, was light - why not take it with you when you left? And the door... it was inconclusive evidence but I was convinced that it was forced from the inside. Meant to look forced from the outside. Removing that, it meant that it was a locked room murder mystery posing as a burglary gone wrong. So I did background checks, and I noticed that the victim was a regular at several nightclubs and that he was seen with one of Utopia's employed novas. A woman named Sylvia Morganshire, who could teleport and was very strong. I put in a request to have someone able to detect residual quantum energies help with the case, and then I am informed that the case is closed and that I have been assigned to another investigation. Just like that."

"Geez." Nathan grimaced. "And then?"

"Then, a few months later, I found that the investigation I have been assigned to has been a test of sorts, and that I passed, and if I wanted to make sure that no nova got away with that sort of thing ever again, the perfect job was waiting for me."

Nathan nodded. "Did you meet a Mister Jones?"

Makeem arched an eyebrow. "No, I met a Miss Holinji."

"Just checking. That's too bad, Makeem - mind if I call you that?"

"Not at all. And that is just the way of the world, Agent Dayes - or Nathan, if you prefer. The powerful do as they wish because they are powerful and everyone is eager to please them. I'm sure that after your eruption you got special treatment as well."

"Not... exactly."

"That's surprising. You mean to say that they never hand-waved anything? No insubordination, no mistakes?"

"I - "

He thought back to his conversation with the commander, and back to the battle with Klein. Grabbing the snowmobile, charging in like James Bond. And before even that, the whole reason he was training for operations and not returning to intelligence...

"I guess they may have." Nathan sighed. "Dammit."

"Why 'dammit?'"

"Because everything was a lot simpler before my eruption, that's why 'dammit.' I knew the rules. Work hard and you advance. Spy on the bad novas and deep down you knew, you just knew, that at the right time and in the right place they could all be bad novas. Then all of a sudden I erupt and all those rules go flying out the window, and suddenly I'm one of those novas that could be bad, and suddenly working hard has a totally different meaning, and I feel... Christ. I feel like a gun, sometimes. Like a weapon that's just here to be fired at them. About as important in the grand scheme of things as that pistol the Commander showed me. A very rare and precious gun - again, like that pistol the Commander showed me, so you take care and look after that gun a little bit more than just another off the shelf Glock but at the end of the day..."

Nathan let the sentence dangle for a long moment. Makeem coughed. "You think that the Directive sees you as less than they did before?"

"Maybe... I dunno, maybe they always treated us this way, and I'm just now waking up to it. Why, do you get that feeling?"

"All the time. Everyone here does. At least in Addis Ababa I knew my chain of superiors. Here, I am ruled by Commander McSweeney and beyond that is nothing but shadows. It's not for the faint of heart, working at the Directive."

"Yeah." Nathan remembered the look on Aaron Blisney's face, and nodded. "Yeah. Hey, you've got mail."

Nathan pointed. Makeem turned and opened the incoming message. Nathan turned back to his terminal and did likewise.

Nathan was a faster reader, but Makeem knew the subject matter better. So it was in unison when they exclaimed, "I'll go wake the Commander."

[Nathan Dayes]

Date: March 21st, 2009

Time: 1:39 PM

Location: Directive Safehouse NA-662

"All right, Makeem," said Commander McSweeney. "Tell us what you and Clover figured out."

Makeem nodded. "Some of the chemicals that make up Sting are naturally occurring, but several more are synthetic and several more are currently unknown. However, they are what I would call a 'known' unknown - as in, they share similarities with another type of chemical that has defied traditional analysis. If you'll turn your attention to the screen..."

Everyone was in the office. Makeem was up front, making a presentation. He pressed a button on his remote and called up a profile with a picture. Nathan heard Commander McSweeney mutter 'Jesus' under his breath.

The man on screen was human-shaped, technically - but was covered in thick chitin, and protruding from his back was a large segmented tail, not unlike a scorpion's stinger, that hovered over his shoulder menacingly. His teeth were sharp as needles and his eyes were black and beady. A profile to the side identified him:

Name: James Baron

Nome de Novus: "The Manticore"

Date Of Eruption: December 2nd, 2002

Employment: Former Elite

Threat Level: Beta

Extranormal Abilities: Thick chitinous armor (class 10 damage resistant;) manufactures various poisons, toxins and drugs and delivers them through barbs launched from tail

Residence: Primarily France; also owns property in Canada and the United States

"So it matches the chemicals this nova produces?"

"Not quite, sir. Many of the Manticore's chemicals defy analysis. However, the IntCell assigned to the Manticore had an extensive list of confirmed, unconfirmed, and theorized effects. One of the theories they had is that the Manticore's internally manufactured chemicals are rendered inert abruptly, becoming little more than distilled water. It bears out with reports from his time as an Elite, where people hit by one of his stingers would die of toxic shock, and if enough time passed the symptoms of chemical-related death would remain but the chemicals themselves would vanish. Much like Sting."

"I did up a profile, sir. Pulled up what we knew from Beta-level observation." Nathan stood and walked towards the screen. "He was already on our suspect list - Natalya mentioned investigating him when I first arrived."

"He owns a summer home here, sir." Natalya nodded to Nathan. "Poison related powers put him on the initial list. Even the name fits."

"And now, thanks to analysis of Sting's properties, he is suspect number one. Stellar work, all of you. Where is he now?"

"The cell observing him says that he is at his home in France, sir. They sent us what they know of his travelogue - what they're sure of, anyways." Nathan coughed. "If he has an accomplice with extranormal transport abilities then obviously there will be holes."

"Your trick is profiles, Agent Dayes. What do you think? What can we expect from this man?"

"Uh - " Nathan looked around, feeling nervous. Suddenly all eyes were on him, and he wasn't sure he liked it. "Well, sir, judging by what I've gathered, he's much more of a follower than a leader. It's also doubtful that he has an accomplice. He left DeVries under a cloud - while he follows orders well, he doesn't work well with other Elites as equals, which meant fewer assignments for him now that Elite warfare is starting to transform into multi-Elite warfare. He probably has someone else giving him orders and a support structure now."

"My working theory, Commander, is that somewhere in this city is a facility that can replicate a diluted form of one of the Manticore's drug cocktails." Makeem called up a map of the greater Los Angeles area. "When he comes to town, he gives them samples and they process them, sell it as Sting, and collect the money and launder it."

"I can see why LAPD Vice was shitting bricks." Commander McSweeney stood. "One source for the drug, so no competition. Manufactured locally so it's difficult to trace via drug mule. And the evidence turns into distilled water after a brief period of time, so the evidence is found lacking. Cassandra, send a message down the Railroad. Tell them what we've put together and recommend that James Baron be upgraded to Gamma level threat status."

"Aye, sir." Cassandra readjusted her sunglasses, and turned to her computer.

"Makeem, get on the phone to LAPD Vice. I want to know what the perps sitting in their cells have confessed and what theories they have. Get me a rundown of the ebb and flow of the supply of Sting. Nathan, get me that travel list and dig up whatever intel on the Manticore you feel is relevant to this case. Natalya, get the dossiers on gangs and organized crime in this city and start putting together potential backers. I'm going to go fire up the van, because I have a feeling that word's gotten out about the bust yesterday and there's a drug lab out there about to vanish into thin air."

* * *

Date: March 21st, 2009

Time: 7:58 PM

Location: South Central Los Angeles

Nathan was impressed, how quickly it all came together.

Cassandra, to her regret, was stuck manning the station while the rest of them got coordinated. The data that LAPD Vice had gathered was surprisingly light - whoever these bangers were, they were loyal. Still, whoever had conducted the interrogations had been studying their modern interrogation techniques, since without even realizing it the bangers had given up some info. They'd let slip the rough schedule of their distribution of the drug, and it matched what the LAPD had concluded - and, Nathan noted, roughly with the travelogue of James Baron. The sole standout anomaly was explained away with a quick OpNet search - the Manticore had been in town as part of a private exhibition match with the Clipper, and would probably have needed to conserve his energies.

Natalya had a solid picture of the overall underworld scene in Los Angeles. Besides the gangs, and the private police which might as well have been gangs, there were rumblings from the Camparelli-Zuhov syndicate. An increase in mob violence, which had led her to conclude there was a new player in town or that one of the current players was broadening their horizons. Either the Nakato or the Heaven Thunders Triad, she concluded. No solid connections, but it fit either group's modus operandi.

A few searches had turned up an extensive list of real estate owned by people either definitely connected or tentatively connected with either organization. They were cross-referenced with an LAPD report of gang activity in general and the Bloods specifically. Once some overlap was established and they had target zones, they piled into the van-based mobile headquarters and sped off.

Computers and security cameras and spy satellites and intel analysis were wonderful things, but sometimes you had to ask questions face to face. The people who lived in those neighborhoods would see and hear things, even if they didn't know the significance of it at the time. Kids were the best targets, if you knew how to ask. They each picked a neighborhood to start in from the most likely areas. He heard back on their progress later.

It turned out that William McSweeney was an expert on tactics, close-quarters combat and leadership, but he had no idea What The Kids Were Into These Days, so he switched targets to people closer to his age group. Makeem had better luck, by virtue of just being a patient listener. Nathan hadn't had much luck at all with kids - they made him tense, as if they were going to sneak his gun out of his pocket at any moment - but some young twenty-somethings playing street basketball were impressed enough with his free throws that they didn't notice him steering the conversation towards gang activity.

Natalya, however, had scored a coup. A drug dealer caught red-handed with Sting. One interrogation later, and they had their location.

It was where they were now - a block away or so. The warehouse was old and dilapidated, residue from rainwater silt smeared down the sides, the paint peeling on the sign, the chain-link fencing bent and pulling apart.

William was scouting for a good place to put a laser microphone. Makeem was scouting the neighborhood for other potential bug drops. Natalya had the warehouse framed in a pair of binoculars while Nathan sat in the back with a pair of blueprints.

"Second window on the left, third floor. Cracked."

Nathan nodded. "Cracked." He made a note.

"First windows on the left, third floor. Intact. ... more of them are coming out the front door."

"How many?"

"Three. No, four. No visible firearms. One of them I recognize, the others are new."

Nathan made a note to the side. "Puts us up to thirteen people inside." He then went back to studying the blueprints. "I think that's all the windows."

"Exterior voltage box is about fifty feet away, right hand side. Green in color."

Nathan circled an area of the map. "Kill the power, slip inside under cover of darkness armed with NV glasses..."

"Let us wait to form a plan, Agent Dayes. We may not need to enter at all."

"Right." Nathan leaned back. "Never hurts to brainstorm, though. Natalya, mind if I ask you something?"

"I don't mind."

"You seem a little on edge around me. I'm curious as to why. I hope I haven't done something wrong."

There was silence for a moment. Nathan continued to stare at the blueprints. Smooth, Nate. Smooth.

"You have done nothing wrong, Nathan. I am just uncomfortable with a nova in this cell."

"I see." He paused for a moment. "Do you think I have a conflict of interest, spying on and going after other novas?"

"No. That would be as absurd as you having a conflict of interest doing what we do now - spying on and confronting Americans. It is simply..." She sighed. "Irrational, of me."

"Irrational?"

"My previous assignment before being reassigned to Sundial did not end well. I wish to leave it at that."

"... I see." Nathan nodded. He thought back to Cassandra and to Makeem, and felt a knot tighten in his stomach. It seemed everyone had a story....

McSweeney opened the van door, and stepped inside. "We've a problem."

"What's the problem?"

"Laser microphone won't work. Tried it on all the windows."

Nathan and Natalya spoke in unison. "What?"

"Look for yourself." McSweeney pointed out the windshield. "See that gray caulking around the sides? Changes how the glass vibrates. Messes up our microphones."

Natalya looked, and cursed softly in Russian. Nathan squinted. "Can we readjust our microphones to compensate?"

"Given a day, yes. But they're moving the operation out tonight. The compreaders can't pick up a clear signal either - "

There was a knock at the door. Makeem pulled the door open. "I have four high-value positions and seven lower-grade ones - "

"The warehouse is set up to keep eavesdropping to a minimum, Makeem. Sorry to have wasted your time."

Makeem paused, then nodded. "As you say. What do we do?"

"Well, in my eyes this settles it. If they're serious about keeping bugs out, then I want to know what's inside. I would very much like evidence as to where the money is coming and going from, too. Nathan?"

"Yes, sir?"

"A little birdie from the Forgotten City tells me you can walk on a soup cracker without making a noise. Was this in error?"

Nathan looked around. All eyes were upon him, again. He felt a tingling in his scalp. "Well, sir, that... may have been an exaggeration."

"Oh?"

"I can't do it without making any noise at all, sir. But the noise I do make typically falls outside of normal human hearing range."

"Ahhh. I don't think we'll have to worry about that this time. Also, this same little birdie tells me you're a genius at isolating weak points. Is that correct? No time for false modesty, now."

"I am, sir."

"Then here's the deal, Nathan. You need to mouse around inside. Plant bugs on anything you think will survive the transfer - computers, expensive equipment, anything. If you run into trouble, text us on your phone. We'll set up a code system."

Natalya spoke up. "If they have monitoring equipment up, they'll pick up the signal."

"They will. If he uses code then it won't raise any eyebrows. Can you do this?"

Nathan nodded, slowly. "I think I can, sir."

"No 'Little Engine That Could' crap. Can you?"

"Yes, I can."

"Good man. Makeem, hand him a mouse kit."

Makeem slid open a drawer and pulled out a small, slim case the size of a pack of cigarettes. He flipped it open, and nodded. "All present, sir." He handed it over.

Nathan took it. "You sure that I should go in alone?"

"You know how mousing works, Agent Dayes. The fewer mice, the better."

"Just... well... sir, can I talk to you in private?"

The commander arched an eyebrow. Makeem and Natalya exchanged glances. After a moment, William spoke. "Makeem, Natalya, could you be dears and give us a minute?"

Natalya and Makeem made their way out, shutting the doors behind them. William McSweeney leveled a stern glare at Nathan Dayes. "Tell me this isn't mission twitch, son."

"It's not. I just - "

"Even on your first day you should be ready for this."

"I am, sir. I am ready."

"Tell me what the problem is."

"The problem is that I don't want to be the one guy who saves the day, is all. The one guy who gets through an impossible situation and throws the big pass and... I don't want to be James Bond."

"Ahhh."

"If I do this, then... then the rest of you'll be just sitting around, sir. I think that'll be bad for the team."

"We're all professionals here, Nathan."

"But we're professionals who fight novas, sir. It - everyone seems to have a story about how some nova did them wrong. I don't want to be just another one of them. And if I do this, apart from the rest of the group... then I think that to them, that's what I'll be. Apart from the group. Not a part of the group."

"You're not doing this apart from the rest of the group. Natalya scored the tip that led us here. Makeem did the analysis of the drug that tied it to the Manticore. The LAPD made the bust. The bugs you're about to plant were manufactured by R&D, and the base we use is upkept by the Office. Without these men and women we wouldn't be in this van, having this conversation. No one works alone in the Directive, Nathan. You're going in there by yourself because it's the most expedient course, and that's all. When it's over you'll come back to the safehouse, fill out a shitload of paperwork and we'll have something to drink. And nova metabolism or not, son, I will teach you how to get pissed properly after a mission." He smiled.

Nathan smiled slightly as well. "Okay. Okay." He looked out the front windows of the van, and let out a heavy breath.

"Okay. Then I have a question."

"Ask."

"Do you have a hang glider?"

[Nathan Dayes]

Date: March 21st, 2009

Time: 9:49 PM

Location: South Central Los Angeles, Alleged Sting Reproduction Lab

Note to Self: Stock Hang Gliders in Safehouse.

Nathan peered out over the rooftop, and nodded. He pulled the hang glider into position.

It was the bad time of day for it, since the air was cooling off, but there was a wide enough margin of error that he was sure he could make it. If nothing else, he had brought a suction climber set for the wall, and even at his lowest point he'd be in the blind spot of the security cameras.

Yep. Keep telling yourself that nothing's going to go wrong, Agent Dayes. That'll magically make it true, won't it?

He grabbed the glider and ran.

There was a moment of uncertainty, where he wasn't sure if he could hook his feet in fast enough, but it passed, and he rode the breeze. He spared a quick glance towards the van, a block and a half away. They'd be watching for his exit out the roof, where he would signal with coded cellphone text message, and then he would hang-glide out to the rendezvous point.

What if they find the hang glider, and you can't get out that way? Commander McSweeney's words were still fresh in his mind. In that case, his alternative exit strategy was to simply wait until they'd moved out on their own, and walk right out the front door. Slower dissemination of intelligence, but life was like that.

The rooftop loomed. He shifted his weight slightly, and cleared the edge of the roof by about three feet. The gravel on the rooftop skittered away from the struts, scratching it badly.

There goes our deposit. He thought of the clerk at the rental counter, giving him the stinkeye as Nathan went over each hang glider carefully, looking for the one with the fewest defects as the van idled outside. The investment of time had paid off, because a less well-preserved glider might not have made it.

He unhooked himself and quickly folded the glider up. He looked at the maintenance entrance, which stuck up from the flat, level roof. He stowed it on the opposite side from the door, figuring that would be the least likely place for anyone to check.

He pulled his gun and checked the handle, as he screwed the suppressor into place. Seven bullets.

He didn't have a spare clip. If seven wouldn't do the job, he was screwed regardless.

* * *

"A hang glider?"

Commander McSweeney nodded to Makeem. The three of them were in the back of the van, having recently driven to a different point in the neighborhood that still had a good look at the warehouse. "He'd spotted the building earlier. It's on a side not frequently observed, and in any case the sunset will mean no one will notice the shadow. He determined the rooftop maintenance duct to be the most lightly guarded. He'll slip in through that, and inspect all machinery and computers he can get his hands on."

Natalya frowned. "Do you see any flaws in his plan?"

"Yes, the biggest one being that he'll be tiptoeing around in a warehouse full of thugs packing heat, hoping no one sees him." Commander McSweeney drummed his fingers on the table in the center of the van. "But asides from that his plan was good."

"Permission to speak freely, sir?"

"Granted, Natalya."

"Why him and not one of us?"

And there it is, thought William. "According to his score sheet, he has top marks in stealth and in analysis. Higher than any of us. You both know how mousing works. I'll tell you what I told him - that none of this would be where it is right now without all of us doing what is expected of Directive agents."

"Understood, sir. I am just wondering if this is going to be a trend."

"Sending him along, alone to do all the hard work while we sit here and drink coffee? You're protesting this?"

Makeem smiled. "No one here loves to watch one of the super-people do all the hard work for us, sir."

"And he won't. Count on it. Now, speaking of coffee - "

"While on recon, I found a coffee bar. No sugar, for you, two cream for Natalya?"

"You read my mind." McSweeney pulled out his wallet.

"Unlikely, sir. All I keep hearing whenever I try is the theme to Benny Hill."

* * *

The door was locked, but there were no other security measures he could see. Nathan reached into his pocket and pulled out a modern lockpick set. There was a lock release system in there which he'd use only if he absolutely had to, because a lock that had been shredded by the lock release would look out of place.

After a few minutes working with the tools, the door opened. Nathan pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. Nodding, he opened the door and went inside.

It was a ladder, rusted out in spots. He stepped carefully, testing each rung cautiously to make sure it didn't groan under his weight, finding the best place to put his foot. He had a mirror in his hands with a long handle on it, which he held down to check for security cameras.

None that he could see, so he went in further. The hallway led out into a holding area with a large sink and a hose, both of which were in disuse and covered with cobwebs. The hallway was lit with hung halogen lamps, running on battery power - since the warehouse was abandoned, any drain on the local electrical grid would look out of place. There was one web in the corner that quickened his pulse because at the center of it was a spider the size of a golf ball. He didn't know what spider venom would do to his nova metabolism but he wasn't in any hurry to find out.

He carefully made his way past the web, and saw a row of jackets hung up on hooks, done up in gang colors. He slid open his bug kit and took out the ones meant to be inserted into the weave of clothing - tough, but small, and with a wide recording range. He walked up to the jackets and, one by one, slid the bugs into the weave where the collar met the hood. It was the most receptive place for a bug, as well as the place least likely to be successfully searched since fluff and other crud accumulated in the weave, camouflaging the bug.

Satisfied, he grabbed one of the jackets ad put it on, then made his way to the maintenance stairwell, ducking under a security camera. He went down the steps quiet as a church mouse, and emerged into the main drug lab in the warehouse proper.

The loading door on the west side of the warehouse was open, a truck backed up to it. It was half-loaded with boxed up equipment, the other half scattered around the warehouse. There were about eight people total in the warehouse, boxing things up and loading them onto the truck - but they were being nicely systematic about it, all of them working together in the same general area, leaving him free to snoop around in the corners they hadn't gotten to yet. Thanks to the gang jacket, he would fade into the background. He slid behind some shelves and found his target.

He took the time to examine one of the machines that did the processing. It was well-designed work. Compact, ran on camping batteries - probably so that the work could be done in a building with the electricity turned off. About the size of a breadbox. There were a dozen or so in the warehouse already.

There was a chamber on it that held a large vial of clear fluid. Nathan played a hunch, and shifted his sight into a heightened frequency of perception.

He called it the q-zone - an area of his visual acuity that could perceive the environment on a quantum level. It was invaluable for assessing what powers a target nova had, as well as any residual quantum energies from the use of those powers. Everything around him shifted blue, except for the vial in the top of the machine, which glowed in a dazzling rainbow of colors.

He wasn't always sure what he was looking at when he used this power, but there was little question here; these chemicals were charged with the same kind of quantum energy that a nova would channel.

He contemplated stealing the chemical sample. It would make compelling evidence, if they could match it with obtained intelligence. But they might miss the sample when they came to pick up the machine, and they might be suspicious...

He slipped a bug inside the machine, and plucked a vial out of a nearby box of supplies. He then heard footsteps and ducked behind a support strut, as the little kid from before came past, listening to music.

Once he was gone, Nathan returned to the search, and found paydirt - a clean syringe. He returned to the machine and checked the rubber seal that held the vial of nova-derived chemicals in place. He stuck the needle in, and drew out a few drops, then injected them into the vial.

Perfect, he thought. If they notice anything they'll just notice a blown seal. Okay, I think that's just about everything for around here...

He slipped out of sight, back into the maintenance stairwell. He ducked past the security camera again, and replaced the gang jacket where he found it. Then he headed towards where the offices were located, reasoning that they would be the most likely place to store a computer.

He felt a twinge of fear, and dismissed it as nerves.

* * *

"You're serious? He's going in ninja-style?"

Natalya spared a look through the binoculars. "He went in several minutes ago."

"Oh, wish I could be there." Cassandra's voice came in over the headset. "I hate this surgery crap."

"How are you feeling, Cassie? Better tonight, I hope." William went through the brief notes that Nathan had made.

"Better, yeah. Still not good. I had to switch the base security over to autopilot for about half an hour because I couldn't take staring at the screen."

"Understood. Just make a note of it. Call us if there's any flags."

"Gotcha. I'll get off the horn. I'll check in, in an hour. Tell Makeem and Nathan I said hi."

"We shall." Natalya heard the link go dead, and readjusted her headset. "Hmmm."

"Something bothering you, Natalya?"

"You always say that it's bad luck for the station chief to not greet the newcomer."

"I do, yes. I hope you're not worried about Nathan because of that."

"I'm not. I'm curious why you sent me instead."

William nodded slowly, as one would when confronted with something they knew was inevitable. "Well, you tell me why you think I did as such."

"Because you think I have an irrational fear of novas."

"I think you have a very rational fear of novas, after what that bastard Mikanovich did to you." William turned to face her. "It's only irrational if there's nothing to be afraid of, and the Directive's entire reason for existence is because there is much to fear from novas."

"I know. But you still sent me."

"I still sent you because Nathan is a nova, and he is also a Directive agent - and he is a Directive agent first and foremost. If he had never encountered Aaron Blisney odds are he would still be an agent." William sighed. "I sent you because I wanted you to see how, despite the Mazarin-Rashoud node, he is still very much like us. I know that runs counter to the Directive's internal culture and what they drilled into your head at the City, but..." He shook his head. "I wish they'd cut that shit out, honestly."

"That shit?" Natalya arched an eyebrow. "Why?"

"There's a hard limit in the human brain that limits the number of people you can see as 'real.' Beyond that limit, our empathy begins to fade. It's why the death of someone in our cell hits us harder than learning about two million dead in Sao Paulo. So since so few of us meet novas face to face in a friendly or cooperative manner, they teach us to see them all as walking bombs. Same techniques used in every war ever fought. It works right up until the point where it doesn't, that point being when one of us becomes one of them and suddenly easy labels like 'them' and 'us' don't work any more. So yes, that's why I sent you. I believed that out of all of us, you were the one who needed to learn that the hardest."

Natalya nodded. "You would be right."

"Of course I'm right. I'm Cell Commander, also known as God."

* * *

He used the mirror, and rounded the corner towards another door, this one unlocked. He listened at the door for a moment, then opened it, poking the mirror through.

No one inside. He took care to shut the door and looked around...

He felt his pulse quicken and a dryness in his mouth. There was suddenly a rock in his stomach. Suddenly the back of his brain was coming up with excuses - don't waste time, there won't be a computer, get out get out get out...

He realized what it was, and forced himself to stay calm. They'd had these at some of the City's obstacle courses - phobia fields, based on the same principles as terr'r music, using subsonic frequencies to create a feeling of imminent dread. They were sold in mail order magazines and over the OpNet. A useful security system, since scared people made mistakes. Since mistakes were the last things a Directive agent could afford, they'd taught him to work with one blaring in his ears.

He listened carefully, and looked up at the ceiling tiles. It was probably up there.

He looked around. There was ratty carpeting, more spider webs, wallpaper peeling. An ancient storage cabinet for paper and supplies stood in the corner. He noticed that there was very little dust, which was a good sign, since it meant this area was used frequently when the phobia field wasn't on. There was, however, nothing tall enough to let him poke around in the ceiling without making more noise than he wanted, so he'd just have to work through it.

He looked at the table, and smiled nervously. Sitting on a desk was a laptop computer, a few Sting vials scattered around it.

Nathan went to the table and turned the laptop over and slid one of the expansion slots open. He knew from experience that there was enough dead space in there to hide what he had in mind. He opened up the bug kit and took out, with a pair of tweezers, a small chip that was thin as a piece of paper and self-adhesive. He stuck it into the crawlspace on the laptop and closed the port.

He put the laptop back on the table and -

There was a soft crunching noise from his boot, and Nathan winced. He looked down at the broken glass vial.

A useful security system, since scared people made mistakes.

He heard footsteps out in the corridor, and his pulse quickened. He looked up, at fragile ceiling tiles that would break under his weight - and he'd never get up there in time anyway. He looked around for another door, but there was none. All there was, was the storage cabinet...

He opened the door, stuffed himself inside, and closed it just enough to hide himself, but not so much that he couldn't see the newcomer. He pulled his pistol and waited.

The door opened, and then closed. He heard footsteps, and then the gang member stepped into view...

And Nathan's eyes widened.

The gang member couldn't be older then twelve.

* * *

"God bless him, here comes Makeem , with - wait - "

William reached for his pistol, but the seat belt was in his way. Makeem was marched up at half a run to the driver's side window, a gang banger holding a knife to his throat. The banger's eyes were wide and his pupils dilated, and William saw that he had three friends running out of an alleyway.

"Out of the van! Out of the van, Gramps, or I'll slit his fuckin' throat!"

William felt Natalya's eyes upon him. He looked back towards her, his hand out of gang banger's field of view. He held out four fingers. Natalya nodded.

Makeem was scared - it was on his face - but not scared beyond the ability to react. If he got an opening he'd use it. William turned his gaze back to Makeem, and then his eyes flicked to the banger for a moment.

"Fuckin' do it! Do it!"

His eyes went back to Makeem, who nodded almost imperceptibly. By now the others had made it to the van. Two stayed on the driver's side, close to the one who was probably their leader, and the other one went around the front.

He started banging frantically on the passenger door once he'd made his way around. "Open this fuckin' door! Open it open it open it fuck fuck!"

Most of the reports on Sting were spotty due to the difficulty in testing it. But the symptoms these bangers had were consistent, which meant that they'd be strong and fast - maybe superhumanly so, if Sting was as bad as soma. Which would mean that they wouldn't need the knife at all, and the knife was a dead giveaway that they were up to no good, so they were inexperienced. That would be key.

Makeem, Natalya and William all thought this. William held his hands up. "Okay. Okay." His voice sounded shaky and feeble instead of his usual confident dry timbre. "Just let me unlock it."

"Bitch gets out too!"

"Natalya, come on out. Do what they say." William undid his seat belt and opened the door.

One of the other bangers grabbed him and pulled him out of the car, and yes, yes, dammit, they were strong, they were real goddamn strong... but again, they'd had him unlock the door rather than rip it off, so not smart as well as strong, and that was key.

That was always key.

* * *

The boy - scrawny, mop of unruly hair, blend of racial features - sat down on the table. He looked around, then pulled out a small chip player.

He was scared - that much was plain. But excited, too. He didn't look happy, but he looked like he was enjoying himself. He attached headphones to the player then put them in his ears.

He immediately looked terrified, and even more excited. Nathan could hear the music blaring in the kid's ears from across the room. More terr'r music - he didn't recognize the band, but he felt the fear spike slightly.

The kid had the terrified, excited look on his face as someone riding a rollercoaster. Nathan realized why he'd come in here to listen to the music, and he felt sick.

This kid should be running around trading Nova Philes cards with his friends, and eating Popsicles outside a 7-Eleven. Not running around with a gang that trades drugs, so used to being afraid that a phobia field is like a day at the amusement park. God, I didn't expect this - I thought we'd be going after novas -

He felt something land on his head, and realized with mounting dread that it was another one of those spiders.

Okay. It can't hurt me. I can shrug off AIDS and cancer and bullets on a good day. I can handle this thing's bite. No problem. God there's a spider on my head get it off no no can't move he might see, if he sees me I don't know what I'll do he can't be over twelve I can't possibly shoot him so just get out of here kid, run out those doors and don't look back and hold your shit together Nathan you blow this and they'll do a total sweep and we'll be back to square one and it'll be on my head just like this spider is Jesus oh Jesus

He winced as he felt the spider bite into his scalp. He could feel the venom sliding into his tissues and then into his blood. He gritted his teeth and stayed as still as he could.

There were more footsteps, and Nathan tightened his finger on the trigger. The door flew open and another banger burst in. The kid screamed, and Nathan fought hard not to jump.

"Fuck are you doin' up here?"

"It's th-th-the swuh-sweet spot."

"We're clearin' out! I got eight tons of shit to move! I can't do all that an' go lookin' for you when you run off! C'mon, get outta here, go play in the street - "

The kid was shaking. The banger didn't look too stable either. Nathan, for his part, was about an inch away from slamming his head straight up into the wooden cabinet's ceiling just to get the spider off his head.

"Christ, I hate this place. Wish Sneaky Pete would turn that fuckin' thing off when the rest of us are here." The older brother - Nathan was sure they were brothers - grabbed the laptop. "C'mon, let's go, get outta here."

Oh thank you God thank you God

" - wait a sec." The older brother looked at the floor, presumably at the small pile of broken glass.

Oh fuck you God fuck you God

"Huh..." He shrugged, then turned and walked out.

Sorry God thank you God wait for it wait for it and get off my fucking head

Nathan flicked his hand through his hair. The spider flew off, landing on its back. Nathan opened the door and took a deep breath.

Jesus. Jesus. Okay. Not out of the woods yet. Have to proceed downstairs and plant a few more bugs -

It was then that he heard the shot. It came from outside the warehouse.

There were no windows in the office, so Nathan took that as an excuse to leave, a little hastily. He shut the door behind him, leaving the phobia field behind. His fears had not abated at all - in fact, they worsened, as he heard more shots. One, then two in rapid succession, then two more in not quite as rapid succession.

He recognized the report of the gun, even at this range. It was the ASP.

He recalled the floormap. It would be risky, getting to a window. He was on the wrong side of the warehouse. Cutting all the way back would increase detection risk.

He pulled out his phone, thumbing the keypad, putting together the coded message for "Go or no go:"

do u want me 2 pick up milk on way home from work?

He hesitated before sending it, his thumb hovering over the key. If they were busy - and a firefight qualified as busy - then answering a text would slow them down. In a situation like this, with the flare-up on their end, it might be better to wait for them to send go-or-no-go.

But if they were hurt or dying, then if he ran... the mission would be a wash and the operation would be on to them, but he might make it in time to make a difference. He was certain he could bolt to the roof, make the jump to the ground, and run to the rendezvous point.

The decision to establish contact and give go-or-no-go was theirs. Those were the rules of engagement. The question was, was this the time for rules, or for exceptions?

Sundial is my cell and it works because we have each other's backs, compliment each other's strengths, and guard each other's weaknesses. If you do something like that under my command, you had better have a damned good reason...

Was this a good reason?

He stared at the text on the phone. It was not knowing, that was the hard part. No updates via comm because they might spot the signal or overhear Nathan talking.

Overhear...

Wait. No more shots.

He listened, and sure enough, there had been no shots for at least thirty seconds. There was, however, shouting down below.

One was or another, the firefight was over. If they were okay, then they would still be busy. If they were not okay, then...

It was not knowing, that was the hard part. He realized that it was true for them, too - letting him into a building to mouse around, not sure if he'd be okay.

But, they'd trusted him to do his job.

Slowly, he put his phone back in his pocket, and made his way further into the building. There were still bugs to plant, and a tracker on that truck wouldn't hurt. Still a job to do.

They trusted him to do his job. He had to trust them to do theirs.

* * *

Makeem had been smart. When they'd pulled William out of the cab, the man had turned to follow William, and Makeem had shifted as well - giving William a clear headshot.

Currently, with Makeem in trouble, the odds were two to one. William determined that freeing Makeem was priority one. Letting them speed off with the van was not an option - it would put Nathan's life at stake if they figured out what he was up to, to say nothing of the fact that if the mob was running the show here, getting their hands on Directive technology would be a disaster.

When they'd pulled William, he'd gone with it, reaching inside of his coat. He pulled out his pistol and pulled the trigger. The gun bucked in his hand, the shot ringing out.

The bullet went through the banger's left temple. Makeem twisted away as soon as his grip slackened, reaching for his neck to check if he'd been cut.

Natalya slammed the door open and bolted from the car. The banger on her side was stunned momentarily. She used the opportunity to pull her own pistol -

He went around the outstretched door, and knocked the gun from her hand. She drove a boot down into his kneecap. He grunted. He threw a haymaker which she served back from.

William twisted around, but one of the bangers was on him, grabbing his gun. He was stronger than William. No contest. William saw the barrel turn around and point at him...

Another one rushed Makeem. He never reached him, because Makeem's boot snapped out and pulped the banger's nose. The banger staggered back, hurt but not yet down.

William headbutted the man wrestling for the gun. The man headbutted him right back, and William saw stars, staggering back. He tripped over the prone banger and fell.

"Fuck kinda gun is this?" shouted a voice through the stars.

Natalya swung and connected with a roundhouse kick. The banger staggered back as she righted herself. Seeing her opening, she pressed her attack, aiming a jab at his solar plexus. He blocked with his forearm, and grabbed her by the throat, hoisting her up...

Makeem drew his gun. Seeing William in trouble, he turned and fired, drilling the banger between the eyes. He slumped, and fell over, gone. William's ASP clattered to the ground.

The remaining banger on Makeem and William's side turned and ran. Makeem lined up his shot and fired twice, hitting him in the back on the second shot. William reached for his gun, and pointed it under the van, towards Natalya's side. He saw one pair of boots through the haze, and they weren't Natalya's, so he fired.

This time, the banger finally felt it. He dropped Natalya, who didn't hesitate. She dropped into a crouch and swept at his legs, sending him to the floor.

Upon seeing the banger's head it the concrete, William fired again. The bullet went through the banger's ear, and that was it for him.

William staggered to his feet. Makeem came to help him up. "Sorry, sir. They got the drop on me as my hands were holding the coffee and I couldn't draw - "

"We'll talk later. Go check on your - you're bleeding."

Makeem checked his hand, which was red. He looked down at his shirt, which had a thin river of blood running down it. "Oh..."

"Natalya! Sitrep!"

Natalya scooped up her gun. "Present, sir. Threat down, sir."

William eyed Makeem's neck. "Well, Mak, good news is it's shallow. Didn't hit the vein. Bad news is it's still bleeding. Go patch yourself up. Natalya, I'm in no shape to drive, so fire up the van. We're getting the hell out of here before we're arse deep in dipshits."

"Understood, sir. Sorry again, sir."

"I'll bust your balls later once I can see straight and you're not bleeding to death."

* * *

Date: March 21st, 2009

Time: 10:26 PM

Location: Directive Safehouse NA-662

William's phone rang. He looked at it, and then swore. "Bugger it."

The four of them were packed into the small medical station at the safehouse. Natalya was uninjured; Makeem's cut wasn't serious; William, however, had a concussion. Cassandra was helping to change the dressing on Makeem's neck while Natalya worked on a station computer, trying to put the incident into words.

"Bugger what, boss?" Cassandra looked over to William.

William held up his phone. Everyone craned their neck to look.

hi honey

got off my shift early

do u want me 2 pick up milk on way home from work?

"Uh..." said Cassandra.

"In the midst of all of this, I forgot to message Nathan. This is him telling us the mission is complete to his personal satisfaction, and are they any snags in the plan that he ought to know about?"

Cassandra burst out laughing, then stopped when William gave her a flat look. "Sorry, sir."

William held up his phone, and dictated to it. "We don't need milk. We do need eggs. See you soon." He then double-checked the message as translated by speech-to-text, then nodded, and sent. "He must have heard the shots and though it was us. I've informed him that the backup plan is in effect and that he's to stay put 'til they've moved out - "

The phone buzzed again. William checked it.

gotcha

see u soon

good to hear from u =)

"Sir? What's he saying?"

"I think he's glad that we're okay." William sighed, and set the phone down. He looked round at the three of them, and managed a smile. "I'm glad as well."

* * *

Date: March 24th, 2009

Time: 5:00 PM

Location: Directive Safehouse NA-662

It had been an eventful three days.

The first order of business had been contacting Administration about the shooting. There would be a formal investigation and if Sundial was found negligent then things would proceed from there, but it was highly unlikely that there would be problems since they were operating against the Bloods in an official capacity. The shadows above and around the cell would protect their own.

Nathan had been picked up by Cassandra outside of a 7-Eleven, where he had devoured a bag of pretzels to replenish himself. After cataloging the items Nathan had bugged, the list was sent down the Railroad for a local IntCell to collect, while the sample of nova-derived chemicals was sent to a drop point for similar analysis. Nathan had been glad to see the four of them again.

On the second day, everyone recuperated. William and Makeem visited the doctor, and then everyone worked on their after-action reports. Nathan still hadn't found an apartment, the experience bringing back bitter memories of his first time moving to L.A. after being assigned to an IntCell. He'd had trouble finding an apartment then, too.

On the third day, William had called them all in, and distributed a report put together by a cell called Nightowl. He also had a bottle of brandy out, and a smile on his face.

Nathan read through the report. The bugs had picked up references to James Baron as the supplier quite clearly. It had also mentioned a Mister Yun - specifically, a call from Mister Yun's penthouse in Hong Kong, a combination that tied James Baron to the Heaven Thunders Triad. Analysis of the chemicals showed that it was as close to he Manticore's generated chemicals as could be determined with modern technology, as well.

Once they were done, William turned the big screen on. "They knew we'd want to see this," he said.

A video played. It was jerky, as if from a handheld camera, and Nathan realized that it must be from a camera hidden in a pair of glasses. The video was staring at an oak door with gold handles worth more than any of them made in a year. They opened, and inside was a gymnasium, and man in boxer shorts covered in chitin, with beady eyes and a segmented tail.

James Baron turned to the camera. He said something in French.

"I am sorry," came a voice that had to belong to the cameraman. "But my English is much better than my French."

"English, then. What do you want? My agent said you had a business proposal I couldn't turn down."

Cassandra snickered. Nathan glanced around and everyone was smiling. He realized he was beginning to, too.

The camera man approached James Baron. The nova's beady eyes stared at the cameraman's face, then down at his hands as he was handed a sheaf of paper. "What's this?"

"This, Mister Baron, is a record of a conversation you had with a man named Peter Leary, AKA 'Sneaky Pete.'"

The Manticore growled. "What game are you playing - "

"Just read it, sir."

There was a terse silence as James Baron read through he report. The look on his face was priceless. The sight of it had Nathan grinning ear to ear.

"This isn't what it look like - "

"You are using your chemical-related extranormal abilities to supply the Heaven Thunder Triad with an exclusive corner on the Los Angeles vice trade. Any part of that I seem fuzzy on?"

"I'll fuckin' kill you - "

The Manticore's tail reared back, and Nathan flinched – but then it stopped, as the cameraman held out a badge. "You don't want to add 'murder of a Directive agent' to the list of charges we're preparing, Mister Baron."

"You fucking zip! You're nothing! Nothing! I could rip you in half without trying!"

"Could you rip all of us in half, then? Including all the people who have this information, and more, sitting in their hands? Off in places you can't find? No, Mister Baron, you've lost this one. Your only option will be to turn evidence for the Directive in exchange for a commuted sentence. Otherwise, we're going to have to come after you."

James Baron was furious. He was livid. But the look on his face was plain: he was defeated. "Get out."

"We'll be in touch." Then the video cut out.

Everyone started clapping. William passed the bottle around, pouring everyone a glass. "Here's to the finest agents around, then. And the best damn job in the world. And here's to our newest member's first successful mission - may this," he raised his glass to Nathan. "Be the first of many."

"Here, here," everyone chorused. Nathan stood up and clinked glasses with them, and then took a drink.

"Sir," said Nathan, once he'd swallowed. "I'm pretty sure there's a regulation against drinking while on duty."

"Well, you know what I said to you before about rules and exceptions? This is one of those exceptions. Smashing job, all of you. Even the part where we were carjacked worked out better than I thought it would."

"My throat begs to differ, sir." Makeem set his drink down. "Sorry, sir. The antibiotics I'm on forbid me from doing so."

"If you say so, son. Just means I'll have to get you twice as pissed later. Natalya, you're quiet."

"I'm happy for us, sir. I'm just thinking about the men that attacked us."

"From what was written in your after-action, they were trying to kill you." Cassandra set her drink down as well. "You didn't pick a fight."

"No. Nevertheless. They were criminals, yes, but they were criminals because most likely they were sick. Drawn in via addiction or by coercion. They weren't trying to disrupt our operation, they just had ambushed Makeem and wanted to sell our van for a fix. We had to kill them, yes... but that doesn't mean they deserved to die."

Everyone was quiet for a long moment. Nathan thought of his mother, institutionalized, victim of an overdose that had put her mind away where others could not follow. He raised his glass. "Another toast, then?"

"To what?"

"To everyone whose life was ruined by Sting. And to everyone whose life isn't going to be ruined by it from now on."

Natalya nodded, slowly. "I'll drink to that."

They clinked glasses, and drank, and talked for a time. They swapped stories of past operations, and when it came Nathan's turn to talk about Stephen Klein, once again all eyes were upon him, and he found that while he still didn't like it, it was less so than before. Less as if strangers were staring at him, and more as if friends were listening.

And eventually, after enough of a break had passed, Sundial went back to work.

THE END