Aetheral Space

Skipper blinked, sighed as he rubbed his nose. "I figured something like this was coming."

"No shit," said Dragan. "When you kidnap someone, 'why' is a question that jumps to the top of their list pretty quick."

"What other questions are on the list?" said Skipper, resurrecting the cheeky grin that usually contaminated his face. "Any good ones?"

"I'm not playing games. Just answer me."

Dragan tried to project the most serious mood he could, hoping he could kill any joke Skipper threw out before it could be used as a distraction. He felt like he understood the captain more now - every word he said was used to redirect the flow of conversation, to avoid awkward questions or prompt certain behaviours. If he didn't nip that in the bud, he'd come out of this conversation empty-handed.

It really annoyed Dragan that this Crownless man seemed to be a better Cogitant than him without even trying.

Skipper shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "You wanna sit down for this?"

"You've got the only seat," Dragan said, frowning in annoyance.

"Your powers of observation are truly astute, Mr. Hadrien," Skipper shot back with a wink.

Damn, he'd walked into that one. But so long as he kept his focus, Skipper couldn't trip him up.

"Just tell me," he said quietly.

Skipper sighed again, but it seemed more genuine this time, lacking the theatricality that accompanied most of his mannerisms. His eyes turned dull, and for a few seconds he seemed much older, slumped in his chair.

He looked down at the floor, as if considering it. "I can't tell you," he said after a pause.

Well, he'd been prepared for that. "I walk, then," he said, crossing his arms. "We're in a crowded UAP hospital, we're separated from the others, and you're still pumped full of anaesthetic. You're in no condition to stop me from going to the authorities." He honestly wasn't sure whether it was a bluff or not.

Skipper's eyes were pained. "I can't tell you what for," he said, after thinking on it some more. "But I can tell you why."

"They're the same thing."

"They're really not," Skipper said seriously. "My actions and my motivations are very different things, Dragan. For now, I can only divulge the latter."

Dragan frowned. "And why's that?"

"If one wrong person finds out about my intentions, they won't work," Skipper said. His eyes were honest, but there was a sharp, cold glint in them. "I don't mind telling you why I’m doing what I'm doing, but -"

"- but you're not willing to tell me what you're doing."

"Exactly. Is that good enough for you? If it's not, you can walk away. I won't chase you."

Dragan looked deep into his eyes - again, he was telling the truth. Despite how secretive he could be, Skipper was an honest person all the same. The only lies he was adept with were lies of omission.

Was that good enough, though? If he walked away, Dragan had a good chance of linking up with the UAP's UniteFleet and earning himself a cushy position selling out the Supremacy's secrets. He'd be richer, more comfortable, and safer too - the UniteFleet wouldn't want one of their informants to get killed.

He could turn around, walk away, and get himself an objectively better life.

But he was invested now, damnit. If he didn't see this through to the end, it'd cling to him forever like a spider crawling up his back. It'd drive him crazy for sure. It wasn't that he'd gotten emotionally attached to these idiots, but he wanted to know how things would pan out.

Plus, if he stuck around, he'd know why Skipper had grabbed him before long anyway. That would satisfy his curiosity - and it wasn't like he couldn't just leave after that, anyway. It was the smartest choice.

Obviously.

"Tell me," said Dragan, leaning against the wall as he watched Skipper's face carefully.

Skipper's eyes flicked to the door, and Dragan saw him concentrate - watching and listening to make sure no doctor was near as he spoke. "There's someone I want to kill," he said softly.

A chill ran up Dragan's spine. "Who?" he said cautiously, mouth dry.

It was Skipper's turn to roll his eyes. "Not you, kiddo," he chuckled. "If I wanted you dead, you'd be breathing dirt already. Relax."

The tension drained from Dragan's shoulders. It wasn't as if he'd believed that - they'd taken too much trouble to kidnap him - but Skipper was stupid enough for the possibility to be there.

"Who, then?" Dragan said, voice low. "Who is it you want to kill?"

Skipper opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it again. "No, sorry," he said, shaking his head. "That wasn't the right way to explain things - that's more like a component, you know? Not the big dream. Do you know what I mean?"

"No. Explain properly."

"Jeez, you're a taskmaster. I guess…" Skipper closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, when he spoke, he sounded far-away. "I guess I want a revolution. I - I want to change the shape of this world."

The man seemed to have stars in his eyes as he said it, like he was looking directly at his dream. A curious smile played across his lips.

Dragan didn't feel the same. This felt like dangerous talk - more dangerous than Skipper's usual rambling.

"A revolution against who?" he asked quietly.

Skipper smiled. "Who do you think?"

"The Supremacy," Dragan nodded. That made sense - Skipper and his crew obviously had no love lost for them. "How do I play into that? You know I'm not, like, the only Cogitant in the Supremacy, right? We're not exactly an endangered species there."

"All good things," said Skipper, face returning to the same easy grin he'd worn since Dragan had first met him. "Come to those who wait.'

He looked up at Dragan, as if challenging him to turn around and leave as he'd threatened to. Again, he'd read Dragan like an open book. The Cogitant didn't much like the fact that he was getting used to it.

But…

"Yeah," he said, staring as though his eyes could drill the information right out of Skipper's head. "I guess they do."

-

"Bored," sighed Serena, swinging her legs off the side of the bench like a lost child.

"Don't care," said Bruno, keeping his voice low - there were people passing by all the time, and he didn't want to get strange looks.

"You should," pouted Serena. "If I'm bored, you're bored. That's how it works."

"I'm not bored," said Bruno. It was true, he wasn't. He was quite content to sit and do nothing for hours on end. If only his lifestyle permitted that kind of relaxation.

While Hadrien and Skipper had gone to get the final preparations done on the artificial arm, Serena had wandered out onto one of the hospital's colossal balconies - and, by extension, dragged Bruno along with her.

Denied entertainment by Bruno, Serena huffed and marched down the hallway, arms crossed. Ruth had gone to talk to the doctor who'd installed Skipper's new arm - she was concerned about it, because of course she was - so there was nobody willing to distract Serena.

"Hey," he said. "We should stay put."

Ignoring Bruno's half-hearted internal protests, Serena turned the corner and walked out of a spot without even looking to see what was beyond it - and when she did, she skidded to a halt on the smooth floor.

Her eyes widened with awe, and a gasp of amazement escaped her throat.

The word 'balcony' was something of an understatement - you could have probably fit a few houses into the garden that protruded from the side of the skyscraper, looking out at the very peak of the city. Bruno could hear the sounds of birds - a rare experience in a megacity like this.

The sun was shining, a gentle artificial wind was making its way through the installation, and quite a few residents of the hospital were taking the chance to enjoy it. The whole thing was a vision made of light.

"It's so pretty," mumbled Serena, grinning at the scene.

Bruno had to admit, she wasn't wrong. After their interrogation, they'd recovered in a dingy secret UAP hospital for several months. If they'd been in a place like this instead, would it have taken as long? The place seemed designed to calm every sense.

Serena took a few steps forward past a gentleman in a wheelchair, her feet crunching on the artificial grass. For a second, Bruno was concerned she'd start running around and making a scene, but she didn't get the chance.

"Do you like birds?" croaked a voice from behind them.

Serena turned around. It was the man in the wheelchair that had spoken. He was emaciated, almost a skeleton, bones clinging to his skin as though they were eager to slip free. Only a few tufts of white hair trailed from his wrinkled head. His eyes were deeply recessed, making it look as if they were staring out of twin dark tunnels. Still, there was a kind of dignity to him - like a giant that had been worn down by time.

The wheelchair he was sitting on was a manual model - unlike the chair Skipper had used, which would only work in the hospital, this was one the old man likely used all the time. He wore a pinstripe suit that, small as it was, still looked oversized on him.

"Do you like birds?" he said again, lips barely moving. He didn't look at Serena, but it was obvious who he was speaking to.

Serena frowned for a moment at the sudden address, but then nodded enthusiastically. "Sure do!" The sounds of tweeting birds intensified around them a little, as if excited by the acknowledgement.

The old man held up a trembling finger, pointed at a nearby bush. "Look over there."

Not even considering the fact that it could be some kind of trick - and ignoring Bruno's protests to that effect - Serena skipped over to the bush and poked her head inside. Bruno stuffed down his annoyance; even if he wasn't the one behind the driver's wheel, he could still feel the branches dragging against their face.

A tiny speaker was nestled right within the center of the bush. The sound of tweeting birds emanated from it.

"Oh," frowned Serena. "It's fake."

The old man half-grinned, but his eyes didn't move in the slightest. "Do you know what a bird is?" he rasped.

"Sure I do," said Serena, pulling her head free of the bush. "It's like a mouse, but with wings."

"No," said the old man, twitching his head in what was probably an effort to shake it. "A bird is three-hundred thousand and twenty-two UAP credits a year."

"No, it's not. It's an animal. Are you okay?"

The old man ignored her, his gaze sliding over to look at the bush, at the speaker cradled within it. "The birdsong you're hearing right now," he said, breathing heavy, just speaking obviously requiring a great deal of effort. "Is from the Salavian Red-Jay. It's a bird that's been extinct for fifty-two years now. The hospital pays the company that owns the rights to their birdsong three-hundred thousand and twenty-two credits a year so they can use it here, in this garden." He chuckled darkly. "That's all that's left of them. Numbers on a spreadsheet."

Serena's face dropped, crestfallen at the sudden pessimism, but it quickly hardened into Bruno's scowl. He didn't much care for the way this man was speaking to Serena.

"If you have a problem with me," he said, heightening the pitch of his voice to match Serena's. "I'd prefer you keep it to yourself, thanks."

The old man ignored him. "It's the same with you, too, you know," he croaked, staring off into the distance.

Bruno furrowed his brow. "What is?"

"We'll turn you all into numbers in the end. That's all you are to us. Sacks of unliquidated assets. We'll auction off your skin and lungs and hair and even your thoughts and dreams. We'll pry open your ribs and sell your hearts."

Bruno hardened his expression, tensed his body. His mind began running a familiar calculus - who was this person? Did he want to hurt him? Could he?

"Are you threatening me?" he said, voice low.

The old man glanced at him. Bitterness seemed to ooze out of every pore on his face. "I'm telling you the truth, brat. Oh, but you won't listen. You never do. We've already sold you, brat. We've already sold your souls. You should tear me limb from limb."

And with that, he laughed - a mirthless cackle that rang out across the garden like a funeral bell, before trailing off into a series of coughs. "We've sold everything," the man mumbled, as an orderly approached from behind.

"Director Sait," the orderly said gently, as he took hold of the wheelchair. "Perhaps it's time to go inside?"

"Mm," the old man called Sait mumbled, closing his eyes to sleep. "Get me out of this sun, boy. I don't like the way it's looking at me."

And with that, the orderly wheeled Sait back inside. The orderly had called him 'Director' - did that mean he ran this hospital? That nihilistic rant had hardly seemed like good bedside manner.

Bruno shuffled awkwardly, ignoring the uncomfortable looks from the garden's other occupants, before letting Serena take control again. She explored the garden, smiling at every leaf and branch, every holographic butterfly, but the joy seemed a little more feigned now.

And the birdsong seemed so much more hollow.

-

To Secretary Zhao's eyes, the President of Taldan seemed much like a dog that had been kicked into servitude.

Zhao still remembered the youthful vigor President Chael had displayed during his election campaign - the earnest yearning for change, the demands for justice, the promises of equality between Toptown and the Pit. As a boy, Zhao had gone to many of Chael's rallies, singing along with his parents and siblings, shouting echoes of whatever slogans they were given.

The world had seemed so much brighter then, watching the rockstar candidate strut along the stage with that devil-may-care attitude. One of the Pit's own, devoted to dragging them all out of the mud.

That had lasted only until Chael had been elected, really. Before long, he'd stopped being the hope of the masses - he was just 'the President', a new face for the same name. Indistinguishable from his predecessors.

Still, Zhao had believed, justified every decision the man made, no matter how little it improved his lot. In his mind, it had all been part of the plan - Chael surely was pulling the wool over the establishment's eyes. Any day now he'd lay out his path to the liberty he'd promised.

Even the memory made Zhao chuckle mirthlessly. As if.

He stood in the hallway of the Dawnhouse's Binary Quarter, waiting for the esteemed President to emerge from the bathroom. The hallway was grim, lit only by gently glowing floor tiles - with the usual reputation a President of Taldan cultivated, they couldn't risk having windows.

Two members of the President's elite guard stood on either side of the bathroom door - another of their number, the President's personal bodyguard, had entered with the man himself. The guards were clad in black armour, the only trace of colour being the glowing yellow sights on their visors, moving this way and that as they inspected their surroundings for threats.

Zhao shuddered at their gaze - he didn't trust Taldan's security, the S4, as far as he could throw them, even here in the seat of government. Shooting Star Security Solutions had been paid a fortune to police Taldan, true, but at the end of the day they were still mercenaries. Zhao doubted they'd be so loyal if someone else added a few zeroes to their pay.

President Chael emerged, wiping his hands on his trousers, followed by his dutiful bodyguard. Zhao suppressed a sigh as he looked at the man.

It had only been ten years since Chael had come to 'power', for lack of a better word, but he was almost unrecognisable. His brown hair had faded to a dead grey in places, his haggard eyes were ringed with dark bags, and the scent of alcohol followed him around like a miasma. Even his clothes seemed perpetually disheveled, his tie looking as if he'd given up on doing it partway through.

"Zhao," said Chael, his voice a post-binge croak. "What can I do for you?"

Zhao sighed, but did his best not to let his irritation show on his face. "If you'll recall, sir, you have a meeting with Taldan's sponsors in ten minutes. I understand they have questions regarding the, ah, the Citizen situation. We were just discussing it."

The President's body tensed slightly as he nodded vaguely. "Right, yeah, yeah … of course. We were talking about that, weren't we?"

"That's right, sir."

This was nothing unusual - Chael forgot things frequently these days, and Zhao often found himself reminding the President of what he was doing and what his schedule was several times a day.

A kind of sickened pity rose to his stomach as he looked at what Chael had become in recent years; it was like watching his dreams rot in real time.

"The sponsors, huh…?" said Chael, rubbing a rough hand over his stubble. His dull eyes looked down at the ground. Zhao didn't blame him - he wouldn't much like to talk to them either.

The S4 guards took over security as they escorted Chael to the conference chamber - Chael's personal bodyguard heading in the opposite direction as his shift ended. Zhao walked alongside the president, doing his best not to look at the weapons the S4 were holding.

Apparently, the things they were holding were more efficient than normal plasma rifles - or, at the very least, they created a more iconic image that the S4 marketing team could use in advertising. Their weapons resembled crossbows, able to be folded up when not in use, containing a number of glass arrows - each of which glowed orange with the plasma contained within. Glass containing plasma could be fired further than plasma on its own, apparently.

Still, Zhao couldn't help but wonder what it would feel like to have one of those shoot you in the back. The stabbing pain of the shattering glass, then the burning of the plasma, and the melting of the flesh. Not a good way to go. If it was up to him, Zhao would take a leap off a tall building any day.

They stopped in front of the conference chamber. "How many of them are there today?" mumbled Chael, blinking placidly, his booze-free lips already visibly dry.

"All of them, sir."

A wave of despair clearly hit Chael with those words, and his face dropped even further - Zhao honestly hadn't thought that possible.

"I see," he said quietly. The doors slid open, and he stepped in.

The room was colossal and shrouded in darkness, like a planetarium just before the show started. Zhao audibly gulped, then jumped as he heard how the sound echoed. Once Chael and Zhao had been led into the conference chamber, the guards turned on their heels and left to watch the outside doors - they weren't permitted to witness the meetings in this space.

"You seem to be in poor spirits, Chael," echoed a gruff, firm voice - made into an even deeper rumble by modulation. The sheer force of the sound seemed to make everything in the room vibrate.

The Sponsor of War's hologram appeared - a huge, skeletal bull, floating up above Chael and Zhao, staring at them with empty sockets. Flames and smoke belched forth from deep within its body. Even with the hologram's fixed, expressionless countenance, Zhao couldn't help but feel a sense of disdain from it.

"Well," shuffled Chael. "You know how it is."

"We certainly do," said the Sponsor of Industry. His hologram appeared too - a massive iron horse, frozen mid-gallop. It hovered over the floor, assuming it's traditional position off to the side. "There is much work to be done, and you have been doing little of it."

"How long will this meeting be?" whispered the Sponsor of Plenty. Her avatar, an emaciated pig with bulging eyes, floated off in the corner, almost indistinguishable from the shadows. "I have matters to attend to."

"That rather depends on the President's attitude," replied the Sponsor of Industry. "Dreams, Expansion, Care. Are you present?"

The Sponsor of Dreams manifested, a giant snail with smiling human lips covering the shell. "Of course," it said smoothly, each mouth moving along with the words, a distinct smug undertone leaking through the modulation. "My schedule's rather sparse, to be honest. You can all feel free to take your time."

"I am also present," said the Sponsor of Expansion, the colossal octopoid hologram appearing above the chamber, overshadowing everything like a great circus tent. "Though I'd prefer this to be brief. The strikes in Sector 17-4 demand my attention if we're to have sufficient storage for the new year. Oh, and I must request increased positive portrayal of manual labour in newer media - transport of these products will not be a small task, and we need all the hands we can get - perhaps if you were to have S4 institute a novel work release program for the prisons, War, that could be favourable, hmm, yes..."

"All in good time, Expansion," rumbled the Sponsor of War, smoke pouring from his nostrils. "Care, respond."

"I am here," muttered the Sponsor of Care. The colossal white snake appeared spread out along the floor. The only hint of colour was the bright-red tongue that flicked in and out of its mouth. "Get this over with."

"Very well," said War, flames intensifying in affirmation. "Chael - what's the progress in apprehending this Citizen character?"

Chael shuffled awkwardly, stepping forward. The attention of all the titans shifted onto him and Zhao. Zhao took a deep breath in, suppressing the urge to shudder. These people could have him killed with a single word: he couldn't afford to show weakness.

"We, ah, haven't caught him yet, unfortunately," said Chael, licking his lips.

"Well, of course you haven't, fool," snapped the Sponsor of Plenty. "We'd know straight away if you caught him - we wouldn't have to ask you, you'd tell us. We're asking you what progress has been made?"

"Not...not much," mumbled Chael.

A moment of tense silence settled over the chamber. The Sponsor of Plenty irritatedly clicked her tongue, the voice modulation making the sound into something inhuman, like the cry of some bizarre insect. Chael flinched, like a dog expecting to be struck.

"You shouldn't be so disappointed, Plenty," chuckled the Sponsor of Dreams. "This man was selected for his role based on appeal to the masses, after all, not his competency. A lack of talent like this is to be expected, surely. Don't be so hard on the poor oaf."

"Thank you, sir!" grinned Chael in relief, clasping his hands. "I truly … truly appreciate your leniency."

Zhao did his best not to turn his nose up at that display, but he couldn't help it. It was just too pathetic. The President of Taldan wasn't even a puppet to these people - he was a pet. The Sponsors were financial titans, and a government was simply another asset to be bought and controlled. 'President' was just another role to be interviewed for and hired.

And to be replaced, if the present occupant proved insufficiently grateful.

"Yes, yes, of course," said the Sponsor of Dreams, like a patient teacher. "Now - answer the question, if you please. What progress has been made?"

Chael pulled a script from his suit pocket - almost dropping it in his haste - before flicking it on and reading through the information. "While we, um, we have no info - information about the Citizen's identity and base of operations, we have managed to identify some of his accomplices."

"Splendid!" said the Sponsor of Dreams.

"Go on, boy," the Sponsor of War said, cutting the snail off.

"For the most part," said Chael, glancing to Zhao as if seeking support as he went on. "We believe the Citizen uses hired muscle from the Blastland gangs, usually without direct cooperation of their, um, their leaders. That's for transport of explosives and dealing with witnesses, we - I think."

"I expected as much," said the Sponsor of Expansion. His tentacles swayed as if in a gentle breeze. "The explosions back then were splendid in freeing up room for mining facilities, but the resultant crime issue has become a problem. Care - you have samples of the pathogen from six years ago, correct? If we deploy those properly, they could cut down on the excess criminal population very nicely. I've had some graphs compiled if you -"

"At a later date, Expansion," snapped the Sponsor of War. The Sponsor of Care didn't reply.

"I find it hard to believe simple Blastland thugs could have assassinated Augusto Price," said the Sponsor of Industry. "He'd purchased a high-tier security package from the S4. Those are highly trained personnel - or so your marketing campaigns say, War."

Chael nodded. "Yes, of course. That's a fantastic opinion, and I completely agree with you there. That's why - I knew you would say that, and that's why I asked my personnel to look into the matter a little deeper."

"How generous of you," drawled the Sponsor of Plenty. You could almost hear the rolling of the eyes. "Stop with the brown-nosing and get on with it, moron."

"Yes, ma'am!" Chael nodded frantically. He brought the script closer to his face to read, squinted. "I'm told a different group of enemy operatives were involved in that, ah, that incident." He tapped the screen and read out the names that were displayed, pulled from security records: "Noel Edmunds, Reyansh Patel, Simeon del Dranell, and, uh, the Citizen himself, of course - although he himself didn't do much in this instance, my apologies."

The Sponsor of Dreams chuckled.

"Something funny?" snapped the Sponsor of Care, voice a hoarse croak.

"I'm familiar with these names," explained the snail, mouths grinning. "A gang of hooligans that have visited a few UAP worlds, performing minor antics. To think they've arrived on Taldan now … oh, it will make excellent videography."

"How would you rate them as a threat?" growled the Sponsor of War.

"A threat?" laughed the Sponsor of Dreams. "Not at all, to be frank. As I said, minor antics. The enemy commander is clearly the one giving the orders - once he's dead, they'll naturally disperse. A bit violently, to be sure - but the resultant panic would be something we could harvest, too."

"I'll trust your judgement on that," said the Sponsor of War in a voice that suggested he very much wouldn't. "I've already sent the Fifth Dead to hunt down the Citizen. That situation should be resolved within the week."

"The Fifth Dead? That can't have been cheap," commented the Sponsor of Industry.

The Sponsor of War laughed, a deep booming sound like the joy of a mountain. "Don't play coy, Industry. You know just as I do that money is not the only form of currency. The Fifth Dead is repaying me for services previously rendered."

"And those are?" said the Sponsor of Dreams.

"Irrelevant. All you need to know is that the situation is already in the process of being resolved. I ask that you all focus on your individual projects rather than wasting further concern on this."

"You say that," said the pig. "But the niain that's taking place tomorrow evening isn't something that can be ignored. If we deal with it improperly, the vermin are liable to riot - and those streets are dangerously close to my farming decks."

"There's no need for us to deal with it," the Sponsor of War reassured her. "Commerce will be very much heightened by a niain festival - in fact, I'd say the increased income from one night of that should more than recoup the loss of dear Augusto Price!"

The Sponsors save Care laughed, the sound mingling together into an incoherent mess. Zhao put his hands to his ears, squeezing his eyes shut with the pain. It really was like listening to a court of the gods - no matter what happened, they benefited. All the planet was a grand plan that they could change to accommodate any variable.

As their laughter trailed off, Zhao felt their attention return to himself and Chael. The gathered Sponsors looked at the man who should have been the most powerful individual on the planet.

"You can go now," they said dismissively.

-

Nearly an hour later, as the meeting had all but come to an end, only the holograms of War and Plenty remained, the emaciated pig remaining in its dark corner while the flaming bull towered above.

"Dreams likes to run his mouth, as ever," Plenty said. War couldn't help but agree: for a man supposed to stay strictly within the sphere of entertainment, he truly loved to stick his nose everywhere else. Annoying, but not unmanageable.

"Indeed."

Truth be told, more than anything else War wanted to end the call and take a long, hot bath right now. He didn't much care for lengthy business meetings - or the personal conversations Plenty always tried to form in their aftermath.

"And Care … do you think he's still trustworthy?" Plenty's tone was cautious, testing the waters.

That recaptured War's attention. Care's demeanour had been as disquieting as usual for the last few years. For the sake of past friendships, he'd elected to ignore it, but if even Plenty was bringing it up now…

"You've noticed it as well?" said War. "It's true, yes. He's lost his passion for his work. It's sad, but he may need to be killed before the year is out."

"A shame," Plenty lied. "I always considered him something of a mentor. Well, he's had a long life, at any rate. He can hardly complain."

War paused. He had a juicy bit of information that Care had passed on to him, but he was uncertain if now was the time to share it. Just as much as Care was becoming an irritant, the same was true of Plenty.

The viciousness that had originally endeared her to him had, in recent years, developed into something more of an inconvenience. He truly didn't want to order her death, but if it became the optimal option he wouldn't really have a choice.

Her reaction to this news should give him a little more data to make that decision with, at any rate.

"I've learnt something interesting," he said. "Care passed it on to me shortly before the meeting."

"Oh? Care did?"

"Yes. Apparently, the man called Skipper has come back to Taldan."

Plenty was silent for a long time after that. When she spoke again, her voice was filled with feral interest. "That's very interesting indeed," she said hungrily. "Do you intend to use him, then?"

"Oh, yes."

After all, Skipper was an investment War had thought long since lost. Now that he'd suddenly presented himself again, War couldn't let him slip away again without getting the maximum usage out of him.

It was time to cash out.