5.22 a.m.

The first lights of dawn were lazily stretching their way across the distant sky when Lydecker was stopped on the way out the door by the ringing phone in his pocket. It was his own, as opposed to the one slipped into his pocket the day he'd met with Max, and apart from the team he'd been provided with for ops, there was still only one person who had the number.

"Yeah?"

"Have you read the morning papers?"

"Not yet," Lydecker responded, checking his watch and wondering how long his 'sponsor' had been up. "Any particular one I should check out?"

"New World Weekly ."

"That's not a newspaper," he began contemptuously, "it's a…" but he didn't get to finish, as he'd already been hung up on.

7.00 a.m.

Joshua had volunteered for the morning watch, both in order to let Dix get more than two hours sleep, and because the previous morning, a local a.m. chat show had mentioned that their weekly Arts & Leisure feature would be discussing his paintings.

He changed the channel on one of the numerous screens usually devoted to news coverage from a variety of stations, and found the one he was looking for, but what he found was not Arts & Leisure.

When he saw what it was, and heard the mention of his father, he bolted from the room.

Mole, who had nodded off in a mouldy, tattered old Lazy Boy, jerked awake as Joshua rushed past him. He glanced at the television screen and instantly knew what he was looking at, and why Joshua had run off. "Why don't you just call her cell?" he called half-heartedly over his shoulder, the suggestion useless as by then Joshua was well out of earshot, following Max's scent to the old house down the tunnel.

He looked back at the screen, listening for a moment to the show's presenters, one of whom held the magazine up for the camera to see as her co-host read a copy aloud excerpts a piece of the article. "This was a really bad idea," Mole complained to nobody in particular, habitually patting down his pockets for cigars, even though he knew he'd run out over a week before.

8.14 a.m.

Danaide had suffered quite a few personal defeats over the past year. When Manticore had burned and the Transgenics had escaped, her fellow members of the Conclave had pointed to her previous arguments not to destroy the place years ago, insisting to them all that even Sandeman's work could have its benefits. At the time, just after Sandeman had left Manticore, and they'd managed to move McKinley into position to monitor the situation and take action if necessary, she'd recently attained acceptance into the Conclave and the rank of Praetor.

Even though her work up until last year had always been highly regarded, there were some who never let her forget that she'd gotten a place in the Conclave largely because of the weight her father's name carried, and lately, that name seemed to be the only thing working in her favour. The escape, the public exposure of the Transgenics themselves, the loss of the Willoughby school whose management she'd been trusted with, the fiasco at Jam Pony, and now this. Within the space of two weeks, their top Phalanx squad had been annihilated on a mission she had deployed them on, and now this.

Danaide was dimly aware of the draft as she entered the large, high-ceilinged room, though of course it didn't affect her. Dug deep under a sizeable old place just south of Seattle, from the inside it had a very medieval appearance to it – thick walls fashioned from old dark stone, with ancient-looking iron chandeliers hung high from the ceilings.

Even most of the books on the shelves were antiques. Danaide read mostly histories, and when it came to novels, didn't own anything newer than a first edition Lord of the Rings, believing that it may well have been the last book of the twentieth century that had been worth publishing, though she definitely didn't rank it among her favourites.

Apart from the fact that the chandeliers themselves had light bulbs in them as opposed to candles, the only thing that belied the appearance was a brightly veneered desk with a plastic and steel frame, and the flat screen computer sitting atop it.

She tossed the copy of New World Weekly on the desk. Both Cora Sterritt and Ben Mitchell stood on the other side of the desk, their eyes directly ahead.

Sitting down, she let them stand in silence while she slowly, deliberately picked through her briefcase. Eventually, she grasped two files, placing them side by side on the desk.

"You both have excellent records" she noted. "Each of you distinguished yourselves in school and went on to do the same during your training, and your work since then has been very impressive. You've done your people proud. Explain," she continued quietly, "how is it that given the brilliant work you've both done over the years, neither one of you could effectively keep watch over a stupid junkie and an asswipe of a magazine?!" Her voice rising to a roar at the end of this, she jumped up out of her chair so suddenly that her legs crashed into the desk, almost knocking it over.

Neither of them answered right away, knowing to wait, so she started with Sterritt. "He was on a bicycle, I believe?"

"Yes," said Sterritt, meeting her eyes without the slightest hint of embarrassment. "I kept track of him at all times, except for the incident mentioned I told you about before."

"Then you didn't keep track of him at all times," the priestess spat at her. "Bad enough that you bring your partner's corpse back here with his head twisted almost clean off and no explanation other than 'he didn't know when to shut up', you get outrun by an idiot on a bike and we miss out on crucial information as a result! That could have been an opportunity to grab Cale there and then, and we missed it because a throwback who wouldn't know what planet he was living on if he didn't write it on the back of his hand was too much for you to handle."

"I already explained. There was a massive line at a checkpoint, he took a different route and disappeared down a side alley. It was too narrow to follow him in the car, and I would have stood out more than a little if I'd gotten out and ran after him. Even he would have spotted me right away. And as for Bors, I told you…"

The priestess cut her off with a glare and rounded on Mitchell. "You were supposed to control the flow of information," she told him, furious, "keep track of what they knew in case they got a hold of something dangerous. How the hell could you let something like this get past you? They named Sandeman, exposed Ames White – next there'll be lists of names, and they'll be begging the Transgenics leading the hunt to take us out."

"I didn't make the decision to allow this story to run," he countered viciously. "You were the one who was willing to gamble everything on this just for a chance to save your precious reputation!"

Danaide never even got the chance to recover from the shock of being spoken to in this manner by a subordinate. A spitting sound came from the doorway nobody realised had been open, followed immediately by another, then, after the briefest of pauses, the third. Mitchell turned his head to avoid the spray as the third slug zipped through her head, entering just in front of her right ear, liquefying her eyeball as it emerged, leaving an empty socket spewing blood and pus. At first, Mitchell thought she wasn't actually going to fall over. Her mouth twitched a little, as if she were trying to speak but couldn't quite remember how. Eventually she crumpled into a heap, face down on the floor.

"True," McKinley admitted, disengaging the safety, removing the silencer, and placing the small pistol in his pocket, "but after the past year, we really should have known better than to accept her recommendation." Casually crossing the room, he kicked the corpse over and looked down at it. "We really have become far too tolerant of failure."

Sterritt suddenly felt her feet leave solid ground as Mitchell rushed her from behind. Reacting on instinct, she attempted to kick against the nearby desk, but Mitchell, predicting this, tossed her clear over it, slamming her against the wall. She jumped up just in time to meet his boot with her face, and went limp as her head was crushed between said boot and the wall. There was so much blood that by the time Mitchell took his foot away and let the body drop, she splashed with a wet slap into a dark red puddle the floor.

Mitchell wiped the sole of his boot on her Sterritt's, checked the hem of his trousers for blood spatters, and turned back to McKinley. "What's next?"

"Cale played us for fools," McKinley lectured. "He knew we'd risk the story in order to try getting to him, and that we'd be watching the media, trying to control the information flow." Suddenly noticing that the mess flowing from Danaide's eye, nose, and mouth was creeping up on him, he took a step back. "Dropping that story in New World Weekly's lap was an easy way to find out if we had anyone there. All he had to do was watch the kid. Once he'd ID'd you, it wouldn't have been too difficult to go around you, make sure you had no warning of the articles full content.

"We can expect a reaction from Sandeman – no telling what kind of reaction just yet, but this may be our first chance in six years to get to him."

"Rules of engagement?" Mitchell queried.

"Knowing what he did to the Transgenics is paramount, as is finding out if he's been planning any action against us. He has to be taken alive."

"What about the story? It's not just harmless trash anymore. The witch hunts will start pretty soon."

"Then we'll have to present them with a clear target. Start with the magazine editor. Then the reporter. Follow up with their friends, lovers, co-workers, and pets. And make sure you're seen."

"What?"

"The throwbacks need a face to slap on this new monster they're being warned about," the Senator pointed out. "So we're going to show them yours. Spread it out; take your time, and be sure your work makes an impression. I want nobody being stupid enough to even consider picking up this story.

"Cale will continue it himself, of course, but I've gotten that team of Korean techies back online again. This time it will be our people who go after him once the signal's traced. No guarantees we'll actually catch him, but if we keep him on his toes, with any luck he won't get a chance to set up shop again."

"Meanwhile, the rest of the media, and the authorities, will be so focused on trying to find me – the only Familiar anybody recognises – they'll forget all about the bigger picture, at least for a short while.

"Hardly a master plan," shrugged McKinley, "but it doesn't need to be. It's very nearly time, anyway. The Conclave simply doesn't want any last minute hitches ruining thousands of years of planning."

11:32 a.m.

Growling furiously when the other line rang out for what must have been at least the twentieth time, Max gave up on trying to get in touch with Logan. At one point, Dix had approached to ask her something, seen the look on her face, and decided it wasn't that important after all. Instead, she tried Sketchy's home phone for the second time, and when she received no answer there, either, dialled Jam Pony.

"Jam Pony courier service," came Normal 's voice, sounding so polite and cheery at thinking he was talking to a potential customer that Max almost cringed.

"It's me," she announced simply, knowing from Cindy that Normal had already been corrected on the rumours of her death. "Is Sketchy there?"

"The star reporter took the day off," he told her sourly. "Emergency dental appointment – as if he's ever seen a doctor in his life, except maybe the one who dropped him on his head in the delivery room."

"Original Cindy?"

"Due back from a run twenty minutes ago, so she ought to be here in about an hour." There was a brief pause, and Max knew he was checking to see if anybody could hear him, and was willing to bet he did this so clearly that by now the whole building was trying to listen in. "About the bombing," he whispered loud enough to be heard all the way from Sector Nine without the phone, "I haven't heard anything since the day after. Did Alec come through okay?"

"Like it never happened. I'm fine, too, since you're so worried," she added airily.

"Well, I guess that's a blessing," Normal told her in a 'can't win 'em all' tone. Another pause, then, "Here she comes now."

After a little more sonic-boom whispering, the voice at the end of the line changed. "Original Cindy here."

"It's me. I was trying to get a hold of Sketchy, but I guess he's out celebrating his rise to media stardom."

"Probably dancin' drunk on top of the Space Needle with a big neon bull's-eye flashing over his head," Cindy hissed. "Whose dumb idea was that, anyway?"

"Logan's, I guess. Must have slipped his mind to clue me into the fact that he's using my friends as bait."

"He never told you?" Max could imagine Cindy's face as she considered this, and knew the response before it came. "You know what you gotta do."

"And I'm sure that given recent events it'd be pretty damn therapeutic, but if I so much as lay a finger on him, he'll drop dead."

"So wear gloves, but the boy needs his ass kicked, Boo."

"Maybe. I've been trying to call him, but I'm pretty sure he's avoiding me."

"Or he wants to see you face-to-face. Been a while since you guys saw each other, and weren't you ducking him for a while?"

Max though about that. "Makes sense. He knows I'll want to have words – maybe figures if I can't get him on the phone I'll show up in person." The thought that he'd deliberately avoid speaking to her at a time like this just so he could get a little face time only made her angrier.

"I suppose I don't have much of a choice. I'll be in touch. And if you see Sketchy, tell him to come to the Terminal City house – and to make sure he's not followed. It's not safe for him out there."

Alec was standing behind her when she hung up. "Can I come? I got nothing against Logan, really, but I haven't hit anyone in a while. And it's not like he can't fight back with those mechanical super-legs of his."

"Nobody's getting hit – or at least it's not part of the plan," she amended. "I'm going alone."

Alec decided against arguing. Instead he nodded to Dix, who keyed in something on the number pad of the computer he sat at. Max's phone rang, then stopped before she could answer it. "So we can track you," Alec told her. "We can trace your position to within three feet."

"Thanks."

11:45 a.m.

"We'll have to move things along more quickly," came the response. "Make contact with her again, tell her you need to meet. Make all the necessary arrangements. No collateral damage. If this turns into a bloodbath…"

"It won't," Lydecker promised, "though if she brings a security escort again, odds are it won't exactly be a clandestine operation."

"I understand that. Just don't leave any bodies, and try not to wind up on the evening news. I've had enough media headaches for one day, and the day's not even halfway done." As always, there were no formalities, just a click and a dial tone.

Lydecker was halfway through dialling Cale's number when a sharp tapping on the door announced the leader of the team he'd been supplied. "She's moving, sir. The tracker we placed on her bike shows her exiting Terminal City."

"Perfect timing," Lydecker told him, cancelling the number and putting the phone back in his pocket. "Gear up, Otto, and have the team assembled in three minutes. We just got new marching orders."