UNT’s project planners had wasted no time in sprucing up the GIBlet building. Its blocky bulk, dressed in beige stucco that reminded Danae of grits, formed a broad three-story chevron with a glass atrium at its apex. The main entryway at the inner corner bore an equally utilitarian design, though the three enormous parabolic support arches framing the atrium at least broke the structure’s unrelieved rectilinear pattern. Dozens of DCO agents and operatives walked among those arches every day, and if any of them bothered to so much as notice the building after the first few days, they certainly didn’t let on.
Normally, walking into the building meant Danae would have been wearing her uniform, but since today was Saturday, she strode through the shards of light cascading through the atrium in the comfort of a faded pair of jeans, her blue Super Wench tank top, and the navy-and-black sneakers that fitted just so she could step into them without having to mess with the shoelaces; over her right ear, a handmade dragonfly barrette sprayed diamond glitter over her bobbed auburn locks when a spot of light fell upon it. On her way past the reception desk, she slowed and smiled at the security guard on duty while his console transponder and the one in her pocket held a near-instantaneous electronic negotiation; Lauro, Danae made its expected momentary appearance on his screen, upon which he nod-and-smiled in return as she walked past. Most of the few people there were also in civvies, clustered around the banks of elevators. One or two caught her eye, exchanging nods of greeting as she wove past them and on to the stairwell.
On her way up to the second floor, she laid her hand lightly on the balustrade, giving a particular section of it a firm squeeze when she reached the second-floor landing itself, feeling it give ever so slightly with a nearly inaudible click. A small glowing keypad rezzed in at eye level on the wall to the left of the door that let out onto the second floor proper. Danae tapped her passcode into it. A section of the wall recessed and slid aside, revealing a somewhat narrower stairwell that also led up to the third floor.
A slim figure with short, jet black hair, wearing a black turtleneck sweater and black cargo pants tucked into knee-high boots, popped onto the landing above just as the door slid closed behind her. “Oh, good morning, Miss Lauro,” the Director’s assistant chirped.
“Can’t argue with the ‘morning’ part. Hi, Cube,” Danae returned, joining her on the landing.
“I hope you don’t mind waiting a few minutes. The Director’s in a surprise conference call with — oh. I can’t say.” She flashed a grin. “Sorry.” One hand went up to her ear. “Excuse me …” Cube peeled off to the jumble of holoscreens arrayed over the iCommand unit in the corner. Danae, for her part, flopped into one of the armchairs and yawned. Boy, was she tired. She hadn’t slept much last night again, because . Not being a morning person helped matters none. She pulled out her iPalm and chunked it into the air before her, its keyboard rezzing into translucent blue-white existence at a comfortable angle. She regarded it blankly for several long moments. Then she remembered what it was she wanted to write down, setting her fingers in motion. Cube’s voice had already faded into the not-quite-subliminal thrum of the crystal generator rotating in the atrium.
The clack of a door jolted her back to full alertness. From the Director of the Global Intelligence Bureau’s Division of Covert Operations’ office, a pale, slight figure in white emerged, wispy almond locks drifting dreamily as she turned her head, first briefly towards Danae before swinging the other way towards her assistant, who had her hand at her ear and was apparently carrying on a monologue with her boom mic. “Thank you, Cube,” the Director said.
Cube gave her a thumbs-up and a grin.
Danae lurched out of her armchair to attention, tearing her iPalm off its gravlock, holokeyboard derezzing with visual english. With as much pep as she could muster — which, at that hour, was not very much — she saluted and declared, “Auric grade arcanist Danae Lauro, reporting.”
“At ease, Danae, and good morning,” Yorda replied, after returning the salute. “Come in. I was afraid I would keep you waiting.” Danae stowed her iPalm and followed her in. Yorda’s spacious office, though sparsely furnished, contained several comfortable seats arrayed before her desk. She invited Danae into one with a wave of her hand. “So how are you this morning?”
Another yawn prevented Danae from answering immediately.
“I see. Well, I do regret dragging you out of bed so early on a weekend, but this is quite an important matter.” She glanced at a clock. “Not so important that we can start without everyone here, however. Would you care for something to drink? Soda?”
Danae shook her head. Soda? Hardly her idea of breakfast.
“Coffee, perhaps?” Yorda quirked a small smile at Danae. “Chai?”
Now Danae perked up. “That’d be wonderful, thank you.”
“Chai it is,” Yorda agreed. She picked up a random iCard from the desk, scratched on its surface, slotted it into the edge of her desk and sat back, steepling her fingers. “So,” she prompted.
“So,” Danae echoed. They made small talk for a couple of minutes before Yorda broke off and slid her chair toward the wall-window. Danae got up and looked: the Director’s office commanded a view of the north wing of the building, part of the parking lot, Avenida Principios in the foreground, and the lush green expanse of land running down to the ocean beyond that. Yorda’s gaze was on the parking lot, where the only movement was a lone hovercycle navigating toward a space in front of the atrium.
The hovercycle was known to Danae. It was a brawny, wide-bodied racing model, deep purple with silver trim; she had seen it parked in its designated area of the lot for her dormitory annex, consistently enough that she was fairly certain it belonged either to one of the residents, or to an awfully regular visitor. As she had surmised, the rider was obligated to crouch so close to the body in order to fit behind its low windshield that he appeared to be not so much riding as piloting it.
The rider/pilot in black leathers and pewter-gray helmet slewed sharply, pivoting the entire hov around its front repulsor, and zipped tail-first into his selected space, braking so abruptly he lifted into a low wheelie. Even through the thick plax window on the third floor, Danae heard the crackle of degaussing repulsors (or was that just an impression?) as the hov bobbed and settled. The rider dismounted, grabbing a satchel from one of the saddlebags on the way. Slinging it onto one shoulder, he trotted into the sunshard-filled atrium, pulling loose the tabs on the jacket cuffs and waist. The huge holographic clock above the reception desk on the north wall read 0758: time for a relieved chuckle. Peeling back his left jacket cuff to look at his wristwatch, he made a mental note to resync it to official GIBlet time. Three minutes ahead. A near head-on collision with someone’s chest brought an abrupt end to that thread of thought.
“Sorry,” he muttered distractedly, starting to dodge around the tall Perathi.
“Wait, Jeremy,” the blue-skinned man blurted, setting down his end of a long metal case. Jeremy pivoted to a stop, pulling off his helmet while the Perathi dug in a pocket. “I have those audio files you were looking for …”
Jeremy took the proffered iCard. “Oh! Thanks, Azurik.” He mock-saluted with the iCard, indicating the stairwell with a twitch of his head and eyes. Azurik nodded, his burgundy eyes gleaming teal in understanding; Jeremy glance-and-nodded a greeting at the other Perathi before swinging onto the stairs.
The iCard went into a pouch in his left sleeve on the way up to the first landing; he unzipped his jacket on the way up to the second floor (man, the air felt good on his damp tee), crushed the balustrade there and punched in his passcode. Jeremy dodged inside before the door was more than halfway open and took the stairs two at a time.
“Good morning, Mr. Longblood.”
“G’morning, Cube.”
Cube showed Jeremy into Yorda’s office. Director and agent performed the customary salute. “Eidolon-class psion Jeremy Longblood, reporting!” he declared, holding the salute as his onyx-flecked jade eyes skipped across the space between Yorda’s and Danae’s.
The spark of recognition was still clear in her polychromatic eyes. Granted, she had never seen him with his face fully uncovered or in such good light, so her recall had been stalled until she focused just on the shape of his eyes. From the freckles sprayed across the bridge of his nose, she had received the impression that he was a redhead, though she supposed it would be an ordinary copper color; she would never have imagined it as that vivid a scarlet hue. She noted with delight the centimeter of tusks protruding above his lower lip; people with enough orc blood to show features like tusks were vanishingly rare these days.
As soon as she returned the introductory salute, Jeremy’s own recognition clicked. The last time he had seen her she had been sporting a black jumpsuit and balaclava, but her easy grace, the cerulean brand on the back of her left hand, and especially the eyes, were unmistakable. Only her name had escaped his recall, but meshed instantly upon recognition.
In synchronized stereo, both said, “I thought I recognized you.”
“Hah!” Danae laughed, “I thought you said eidolon class, not esper class.”
“I did.” Jeremy tossed his satchel into a chair. “Unless,” he chuckled, placing his helmet atop the satchel, “the GIBlet has been futzing with the rules again.” He gave the Director a mock-reproachful look.
“Not after five full months of operation. I should think we are well into the fine-tuning stage,” Yorda replied mildly, but her violet eyes glinted with amusement and a hint of a smile played at the corners of her mouth. She was about to say something else when her desk comm pinged.
“Yes, Cube.”
“Refreshments are here,” came Cube’s reply. Yorda drummed slim fingers on her desk. The door slid aside to admit a Moomba bearing a caddy with three steaming cups. The diminutive flame-red felinoid leaped lightly onto Yorda’s desk without spilling a drop, set down the caddy, removed one of the cups, and squeaked a question.
“The Sukarnian blend for me, the chai for her,” Yorda said. The Moomba nodded, set out cream, sugar and milk, distributed the cups and spoons, folded the caddy, traded bows with the Director and the two agents, dropped to the floor and trotted out of the office.
“Hot cocoa,” Jeremy crowed. “Really, Director. Don’t keep this up or you’ll spoil me soft.”
Yorda waved this away, sipping her coffee. “Consider it supplementary compensation for an understaffed class.”
Jeremy scoffed amused agreement at this assessment of his talent rank. Although Danae’s own talent rank was also severely understaffed at barely four arcanists, it was still three members larger than his. Her grade had a further advantage: one of its members, as a technomage, was double-ranked in the organization, giving both his ranks some flexibility in choosing mission operatives.
Between his thoughts and cocoa, Jeremy was the last to notice the newcomer standing in Yorda’s open doorway, until she saluted and declared, “Jillian Bennett, recon group alpha, reporting!”
Danae stood equably, and responded in kind. Jeremy fell back into his chair from partway out of it, inhaling sharply as he did so, actually pulling back in his chair with a white-knuckled grip and gaping brazenly at the raven-haired young woman in — and at the Director’s desk, which he could see through her translucent form.
“You’re a dehin,” Jeremy finally choked out. Yorda and Danae glared at him.
Jill almost rolled her eyes. “Thanks for the update, Captain Obvious. And here I thought I’d just woken up without the rest of my body.”
Jeremy winced and looked abashed.
“And by the way, as we’ve only just met, I’m going to assume you don’t have a problem with it. So I won’t ice down your testicles just yet.”
The Director cleared her throat slightly.
Jill turned to Yorda, gave her a frosty smile. “What? I’ve shortened the rant. It’s practically rote by now. Being selectively tangible may look good on my résumé, but the Mrs. Cellophane gag is only good for so many times. I’m thinking of printing Yes, I KNOW I’m a Frickin’ Dehin on a T-shirt.” She glanced at the words Super Wench printed across the front of Danae’s tank top, over which the mage pointedly crossed her arms.
Yorda levered herself out of her chair and leaned over her desk, one eyebrow raised. Despite her slight frame and mild demeanor, she commanded a force of personality few were inclined to contest.
“Yes, right. Done now.” Jill shook her hair out of her face and hovered at ease by Yorda’s desk.
“Whoo,” Jeremy breathed almost, but not quite, inaudibly. “Hypersensitive much?”
“Oh, bite me. If you can.”
“I’m busy with a mouthful of foot. I’ll pass.”
A silence stretched out, Jeremy studiously avoiding Jill’s searching gaze. At length Yorda leaned back.
“H’hm,” she began, almost apologetically, “I did not realize there would be a personality conflict among the operatives I selected — perhaps a change of roster is in order?”
“No, no. Look,” Jeremy said, standing to address Jill directly. “I know I — sorry: eidolon-class psion Jeremy Longblood,” he interjected quickly with the accompanying salute; “I know I blew my first impression. It’s just — my chi hardness rating is 9.6 so, you know, I hear people talk about dehin all the time, but I honestly never expected to see one in my life. I uh, I hope you understand I was more than a little, um, surprised,” he finished lamely, wishing there were a proper word for the exact mixture of astonishment, fright, delight, anxiety and excitement he’d been overcome by when she first made her entrance.
All Jill had to say to that was, “… oh.” She blinked. “Nine-six, really?”
Jeremy simply shrug-nodded.
Yorda said, “Then I trust this assignment will not cause any problems?”
“None, Director,” Jeremy asserted.
There was a long pause.
“For either of you?” Yorda continued meaningfully.
“Huh?! Ah — no, I … guess not, Director,” Jill replied.