PROGRAMS OF BETRAYAL

Job 1: Old And New

1941 AD

A Farming Town in the Netherlands

Straw is everywhere. The floor is bare wood boards, with gaps and knotholes showing plainly, even in the light of dusk; two of the walls are very short, one with a shuttered window, one without. There are only two walls, and instead of the others there's a pitched roof, leaving them all plenty of room to stand in the center but scarce room for someone to lie down at the edges. Bentley has his inhaler out, taking measured breaths; he wheels away from a hole in the floor with Carmelita kneeling by it, pulling up a rope ladder. She drops a trapdoor, sealing the place beneath them. She joins Bentley closer to the center of the room, where Murray is wrestling a large, rickety old table into position by some milk crates for seats. Behind him, Sly walks towards the closed window and flings open the shutters. Rolling fields and windmills and, a decent distance away, a half-built airfield come into view; further away yet is a steep hill with a castle on top.

Without another word, Sly climbs out the window and onto the roof. He's standing on a barn in the middle of several fields, plowed but with nothing growing in them yet. Another barn stands not too far away, a bridge over a river beyond it; a small town, dominated by a large hotel, can be seen there. Large, tall walls—identical to the one that divided the island where they met Henriette—surround the place on three sides, though they're all far enough away that the gang may not have to deal with them. He pulls out his binoc-u-com. "Can you breathe okay yet?"

"I'm fine," Bentley says, though he wheezes a little as he says it. "This safe-house is going to wreak havoc on my computers, though. And there's no way we can power the arcade machine with the van."

Sly winces, but only a little: he's never been as into that as Bentley has. "All right, but we're all here and safe. What sort of photos do you need, Bentley?"

"I'd like pictures of the guards, of course," Bentley says, "but also as many details of the surrounding area as possible. Penelope's here somewhere, and we're gonna have to flush her out."

"I'm on it."

Sly tucks his binoc-u-com away and glances around. The number of moving lights in the field bode well for it being guarded, so Sly paraglides closer, landing on a large pile of seed sacks. A bulky fox stands with its back to Sly, an oversized flashlight in one hand, an even more enormous gun in the other. Sly snaps a picture.

"I don't think any of us want to tangle with those guys," Bentley says in his ear. "They look mean, and just like the zombie unicorns, they have pulse laser rifles."

Sly winces and continues through the fields, following a well-worn path clearly made by horses and wagons as much as by tractors. He stops when he reaches the river, frowning: the bridge there is the sort that can separate in the middle, each side rising to let ships through, and it appears to be raised for the night. He snaps another picture.

"In our time, there would be buttons to control it, but here they have winches. Hand winches." Sure enough, Sly can see a small crank on one side. "And you'd need people on both sides to raise or lower it. You and Carmelita might make it across, but Murray and I will need to find a way around."

May as well do it now, then. Sly turns his back on the bridge and goes back through the fields, passing a small hill on one side. A windmill stands on top of it, with three tiers of landings for repairs; Sly snaps a picture just to be thorough.

"Fascinating. I'm detecting radio signals coming from that windmill, Sly. Take a picture of any others you see; they may provide useful information."

All right then. But as he moves past it, there are no nearby windmills. This area may have been the main farm at one point, or its outbuildings, but now everything is in a state of construction. A large ramp, made for biplanes, stands shiny and new in the center of four buildings that stand in a rough square, each looking halfway between a mechanic's workshop and a farm stand. Sly takes pictures of each building, then climbs the ramp to take a picture from the top. There are electronics here—a working elevator to get biplanes from ground level to this launching pad—but not much else.

"They must be building this because of the war," Bentley says in his ear. "The Netherlands got conquered early on, so most of this will be helping the Germans. Be careful, buddy."

Sly nods, but his attention is on a small figure patrolling the far side of the landing. He moves behind it, careful and quiet, and swallows a gasp. He takes a picture of a rat trooper, one of Le Paradox's rat troopers, complete with gas mask and hazard suit.

Bentley groans. "I don't like the looks of this," he mutters. "Is there anything else you can find?"

Of course there is. Sly paraglides down to another windmill, snaps a picture of it, then runs a line of some sort to a third windmill. There's another one across the dammed stream, but the bridge is closer; the water was low enough that he could just splash across, but he had enough of that for a year already. He makes his way across the bridge, then sees movement from the steep rise to the castle and bounds up a small slope to stand by a tree. A small wolf pack of enormous wolves strolls by, noses in the air; a patrolling rat comes across them and turns on the spot to patrol somewhere else.

Sly takes a picture of the pack. "Based on the time of year, they may have pups nearby," Bentley mutters. "That means they're hunting. Be careful, Sly."

"Come on, Bentley," Sly mutters as he makes his way towards the last windmill, precariously perched so it's almost in the stream. He takes a picture of it. "When am I ever not careful?"

"Do I really need to answer that?"

Sly laughs. "I suppose not." He makes his way through the lightly wooded, hilled area, avoiding the guards—foxes and rats—as well as the wolf pack, heading towards the town. "Something about this place is bugging me, though."

"Any idea what?" asks Bentley.

Sly shakes his head as he walks into town. The street surrounds a well, houses on most sides around it; a bridge over the river is across from where the street he used, and another street, back to the wooded area, to his left. Some chairs are set outside for use in a local cafe. "It just seems—"

A tank drives over the bridge, and Sly jumps on a nearby wheel of cheese and to a roof. It circles the well, red light looking outwards, then goes back across the bridge; moments later, a second tank comes over as well. Sly takes a picture of this one.

"Lovely," Bentley grumbles. "Because things weren't complicated enough."

Now that the tanks have gone back to the other street, Sly drops to the ground and uses a small decorative arch on the edge of the bridge to cross over, keeping him down below sight of the tanks. It looks like they're doing figure-eights around the buildings up here, diverging over the bridge after every complete eight, and then Sly looks at it again and it clicks. "Bentley, this is Holland."

"I know very well that it's Holland," Bentley says, as Sly waits for a safe moment and bounces on a round of cheese to a rooftop. "Holland is part of the Netherlands, Sly. You're not this bad at geography."

"No, Bentley, this is Aces Holland," Sly says, snapping a picture of the hotel balcony he and his friends had once used as a safe-house. The balcony that now has a spotlight trained on it.

And the lid to the sewer he and Murray went through on an inflatable raft.

And the door to the hotel, too, for that matter.

"I don't believe it," Bentley says. "You're—you're right. Penelope went back in time over sixty years to the same place we met her. But why?"

"No clue, pal, but she's definitely involved in this." Sly aims his camera as far up as it can go to snap a picture of a tower, looming over the back of the hotel. "But even if it's the past, she did the Aces tournament for, what, five years? More? She could be anywhere."

"Maybe," Bentley says. "Try going up to that castle. I remember there was a hatch on the roof; maybe it's there in this time period as well. We know she pretended to be the Black Baron for the dog-fighting."

"And the 'Black Baron' lived in the castle," Sly confirms. "I'm on it."

It's the work of a moment for Sly to abandon the roof, now that he knows what's going on, and the sense of deja-vu from every corner has meaning behind it now. The guard patrols are nearly the same, too, including which rooftops have their own reasons to be avoided. Sly slips past them all with ease, finding his way to the hill and up it. And there's still a few convenient ways up the outside of the castle if one goes behind it.

Sly is most of the way up the outside of the castle, inching along the front with his back pressed to the wall between two windows, when the drawbridge lowers with a BANG and two figures step out, one dragging the other with a strong grip on their arm.

Dusk deepened into night while Sly took pictures, but even in the dark, the smaller form is clearly a mouse, and any doubt about the mouse's identity vanishes when she speaks: "If you keep dragging me like that, it's going to come off."

Penelope. Penelope, and she's—she's irritated, that's as clear as the sweep of her tail, but she doesn't seem to be hurt.

Sly isn't sure if he should be okay with that or not.

Sly doesn't recognize the other figure, though he feels he should; it rings a bell somewhere. Still, it's dark, and all he has to go on is the reply, a voice that manages to be both deep and nasally at once: "Maybe that would keep you from wandering off where you're not supposed to be."

The two set off, down the path, and it takes Sly all of two seconds before he abandons his attempts to get in the castle and follows them, before Bentley can tell him to. Here, at last, might be answers.

They don't speak again until they're down the slope, Sly hiding behind trees as he attempts to follow them. Penelope, it seems, is far from willing; she keeps snatching her hand away, taking a few steps in one direction or another, before the other figure catches up to her and grabs her arm again. They pause in the light of a guard's flashlight, and Sly's breath catches. Penelope looks much the same as she did in the previous game: yellow jumpsuit, yellow goggles, but as she yanks her arm away again her sleeve rides up. Tight around her wrist is a bracelet, secure as handcuffs, at least a dozen gems catching the light. "I don't need to be supervised. I'm doing my job."

"And sending romantic post-cards to your old friend," the first voice says, trying to be intimidating but sounding more like a whine. "That was strictly prohibited the first time."

Sly raises his eyebrows, but the other figure isn't shown in the guard's light, and the two of them continue walking, crossing the bridge he crossed earlier, heading away from town. "Does that voice sound familiar to anyone else?" Carmelita asks.

"Not yet," says Bentley. "Keep following them, Sly."

Sly doesn't need to be told that; he's no more than another shadow in the night.

They walk past one windmill, then another. They keep going, past it, to where the four buildings—no, to where, in their time, an airfield is. An airfield that must get its start here. "This is coming along nicely," says the unknown figure, wheezing slightly. "A few more days, a week at most, and this will be ready for German planes."

"You're a monster," Penelope says. "You know as well as I do what happens in this war—"

"I'm protecting history," says the unknown voice. "The exact opposite of interference. We know what's done, so let's make sure it happens."

They move on, heading towards the open fields. Sly shakes his head. "I've never heard Bentley's argument about not changing history like that before," he murmurs.

"I feel like I should bleach my shell," Bentley replies.

"How about it, Carmelita?" asks Murray. "Do you know the voice yet?"

"I should." Carmelita hisses. "None of you recognize it?"

"A little," says Sly, climbing to the roof of their safe-house and keeping an eye on the pair from the barn roof. "I know I've heard it before."

"The Murray has never heard this voice."

"I remain unfamiliar with it as well," says Bentley. "Perhaps this is the police mastermind we've been led to believe is behind this."

Sly snorts—there's no way they'd get that lucky—and continues following them. A pair of guards are waiting on either side of the bridge and lower it as the two get close; Sly uses a nearby boat to cross. He stays on a roof, binoc-u-com out, as the two approach a hotel.

They step into light from the spotlight at the front door, and Sly has his first clear view of them both. The weasel that's been dragging Penelope around has purple fur, darker around his eyes and on the edge of his tail. He isn't much taller than Penelope; he's probably just as tall as Bentley in his wheelchair. His green suspenders seem to be three sizes too big for his body, and he's wearing an oversized bow tie instead of a shirt.

Pinned to his suspenders are two badges. One, a small triangular pin, orange with a white tip, several small gems embedded around the edges. The other, a police badge. Interpol.

Carmelita starts to curse, but Sly ignores her, studying the pair closely. "Do not leave your designated area again," he says, a drawn-out whine in his voice.

Penelope scowls. "Or what? I'll get another lecture? Face it, you need me to get this to work."

"No," says the weasel. "No lecture. But your friend will face the consequences."

Penelope wraps her tail around herself, taking a step back, then shakes her head and steps forward. "You cowards don't have Bentley—"

"Here's a picture of him in the Contessa's custody," says the weasel, handing Penelope a slip of paper. Her ears droop. "Any and all future delays will be taken out on him, understand? Now get back in that tower and make our machine!"

Penelope, still drooping, nods. The weasel puts a hand on her back as he opens the door, and guides her inside—or pushes. It's hard to tell.

Sly lets out a long breath and pulls out his binoc-u-com. "All right, Carm, who are we dealing with?"

"Detective Winthorp," Carmelita growls.

Sly almost drops his cane. "Didn't he work in your department?"

"He did my paperwork for years, until he asked me out on a date. I declined, he put in for a transfer." Carmelita's scowl could make Clockwerk run in terror. "That was a month before Kaine Island."

A month before Sly faked amnesia, that is. "Yeah, well," Sly says, "he's changed since then, hasn't he."

Still, as Sly puts his binoc-u-com away, he stays staring at the hotel for a long few moments. "Why are the cops involved in this, anyway?"

"If you can answer that, then I'm sure you'll find all of life's true meaning," says a voice behind him. "Why are the authorities ever involved in anything?"

Sly turns around.

The raccoon on the roof behind him has a very impressive mustache. Sly blinks, mesmerized by it for a moment; it's curved into the shape of a cooper cane on either side and sticks out a good six inches under his nose. Sly isn't sure they have hairspray in this time period, but they must, because there's no other explanation for it. Sure, the rest of the guy's outfit is impressive—the brown flight suit that covers his whole body, the aerators scarf, the flight cap and goggles, but Sly keeps coming back to the mustache.

That, and he isn't carrying a cane. So even though Sly recognizes Otto Van Cooper from the Thievious Raccoonus, he still isn't prepared.

"Not used to being snuck up on, I take it?" Otto asks. "That's quite all right, Sly; take all the time you need." Otto smirks. "Not that you haven't been doing so. You're here, after all."

Sly laughs. "Otto, I mustache, where's your cane?"

Otto chuckles. "Because some of the others you visited had theirs stolen? Sorry to throw a wrench in your expectations, but I have it here." Otto reaches inside his pocket and pulls out... a wrench. With the distinctive Cooper hook on it.

"Oh great, there's two of them," Bentley mutters over the earpiece.

Sly is grinning too much to care. "So when you steal things, are you throwing a wrench in the works?"

"It certainly makes fighting a gut-wrenching affair," Otto says.

"Seriously, Sly, stop it."

"I don't suppose I could wrench an explanation out of you?" Sly asks. "I haven't figured out what's going on here yet."

"I'm not doing anything I can't be wrenched away from," Otto replies.

"That's just... that's terrible, both of you."

Sly offers Otto his arm. "Then let's wrench out of here."

"That doesn't even make any sense!"

Otto walks over, revealing a limp, and accepts Sly's arm. "Yes, let's wrench our way."

"That does it. I'm turning off the audio. Sheesh!"

JOB COMPLETE

Sly and Otto laugh at more terrible puns as they wait for a tank to pass, then jump off the roof and head towards the safe-house.