Chapter 4.

"How do we play it?"

"I dunno, I'm makin' this up as I go."

"Seriously? You were an RAS agent for over four decades, and that's your method? Great flaming cheese-balls...we are gonna get killed."

"Will you be quiet? I'm trying to think."

"Well at least there's that, I didn't think we had a plan at all."

Looking over his shoulder in irritation, Bernard gave Rufus a cool, silent glare before returning his attention to the scene below him. Birch's message had left nothing up for debate-a meeting was necessary, and there was safety in numbers. It was a bold move no doubt, and a risky one-but if anyone could hide them in this great universe of a city, it was Birch Maplewood. With a career spanning more decades than even his own, Birch had built a network of flophouses, bolt-holes and crannies across New York that would rival even Sherlock Holmes' legendary resources. If he said he had somewhere to stash them safely, then it was a sure thing.

"I wasn't planning on goin' into combat, y'know."

Below the two old agents' drainpipe perch, a sight arrayed itself in the afternoon sunlight such as Bernard had seen few times in his storied years with the organization. Scores of agents were arranged in units, equipped with riot gear and standing at attention as several of their superiors inspected them. This was not the RAS that the two friends knew...no indeed, this was becoming something different, something alarming and frightening on a level Bernard couldn't find adequate words to describe.

"Is this what I think it is?" Rufus asked quietly, his long teeth chattering slightly as if touched by a chilling breeze. His small eyes held an uncharacteristic shadow of foreboding, and restless fear that was strong enough to even cast a frosty haze over Bernard's bones. He was tempted to chatter a bit himself.

"It looks that way. This used to be the RAS Elite Rescue Division-I recognize the emblem on the uniforms. But they were never kitted out like this...never in my time."

"Then you think-"

"I don't think Rufus-I know. It's as plain as my own nose, and that's pretty big and plain."

He drew in his breath.

"Bakerstreet's building an army. For himself or someone else, who can tell."

"But for what? There's no active threats out there right now, unless you count the human-sized ones-an' surely he's not crazy enough to take on one of those."

"One would think, but these are new days, old friend. I'm not sure what to think anymore."

"Well if I could make a suggestion, could'ja think a little faster?"

"Sure Rufus. Anything for you."

"Oh come off it-you're as scared as I am."

"Of course I am! But if I stop and start thinking about it then that gets us nowhere."

"I guess so. But what are we gonna do, regardless?"

Bernard sat back on his haunches, considering. Rufus had just posed the question of the week-what were they going to do? Stealth operations at his age were no easy thing, and he wasn't sure if any amount of stealth would find them a way through the sea of soldiers now assembling on the street below. At almost any point they might be seen, and the jig would be up. Chip's resources were stretched to the limits already-he couldn't afford to have the two of them taken out of the game now.

"We need a diversion."

"Ordinarily that was mine and Ronald's job, but I'm not quite as quick on my feet as I was then."

"You were running fast enough coming out of that detention facility."*

"Adrenaline is a wonderful thing."

"It is, at that. I've had to depend on a lot of it more than once, in the old days."

Bernard thought for a moment, a prickling sensation gnawing at the back of his memory. Something was trying to get his attention.

"Hmmm."

"That sounds like an idea sort of 'hmm'."

"No, that's a crazy-as-a-fox-desperate-for-a-chance sort of 'hmm'. Not even an idea, really...just a thought. Maybe a possibility."

He pressed his hands together, massaging the tightness out of his knuckles with stiff fingers.

"D'you remember the evac operation of '04? The big earthquake on Crete?"

"Yeah...the resident feline caliph decided to take the opportunity to stage a coup-we barely got out with our fur. Figuratively speaking," Rufus chuckled, brushing leaf debris from his pink skin.

"That's true enough, but d'you remember that last truck out-the seaside neighborhood we evacuated right before the big pier collapse?"

"Yeah...yeah! The back alley?"

"Those cats never knew what him 'em, except for the fact they'd been had. I've never seen any critter that mad before."

"You think it'll work?"

"It's the only shot we've got, it'd better. All we gotta do now is find a couple of disguises."

Bernard eased his head out of hiding, glancing around at the scores of mice, chipmunks, and assorted other creatures milling toward the streetside.

"I don't see any field packs...they must have brought a supply wagon. Has to be somewhere around here."

"Air drop?" Rufus suggested.

"For this many? Not a chance, the humans would notice in a heartbeat. It has to be a supply tender. Gotta be."

"They must have some pretty amazing camouflage."

Bernard's eyes lit with a sudden, canny light, and he grinned woflishly.

"You might have just said the magic words, kid. Look around...tell me what you see."

"Gloom. Despair. Hopelessness..."

"Be serious."

"I was."

"Then be more serious!"

Rufus shook his head with a sigh, and squinted hard against the low light, his shiny black eyes struggling with a host of details.

"I see troops. Lots'a troops-an' a med station, looks like they're doing vaccinations."

"It figures they're gearing up to enter a human environment then-there's been a slew of new rat poisons developed in the last couple of years. What else?"

"A couple of corps commanders that look like they'd be more comfortable in a dockside tavern."

"Typical, but not overly concerning. What else?"

"Communications skate, cook shack, med tent, communications skate, command sta-"

"Wait a minute-back up. Communications skate...two of them?"

Bernard rose, risking a glance into the growing enemy camp with interest. Sure enough, sitting mere feet apart, two standard RAS communications vehicles sat, hovering several inches from the ground on the harvest rollerskate boosters from which they were built.

"Why would they need two comm links? RAS field communications suites can handle most anything through a single console."

"Lots of long distance calls?"

"Maybe. Or one of them's a fake. Come on."

"Come on? You're not thinkin' of walking into that vipers nest!"

"If they have what we need."

"You must have stuffing between your ears-it'll never work!"

"It will if you pipe down! Now get moving, we don't have much time."

"I knew I should've updated my will," Rufus muttered, following the dim profile of Bernard's shoulders as they slipped through the shadows, keeping their heads down to avoid the ever-present patrols. Despite his misgivings Rufus trusted the older mouse, with his life and more-he'd done so more than once over the years. Despite both of them mostly retiring from field work, they were still much in demand for special assignments, when the situation called for a certain level of expertise. Rufus' experience with Team Possible made him an invaluable resource in many areas, and he often complained he worked for the RAS more now than when he'd been on active duty.

Better times, he thought quietly, tapping Bernard on the shoulder and pulling sharply back as two young squirrels passed by, chattering anxiously to each other as they checked the long laser weapons they had been issued, patting the whining power packs in satisfaction.

"Those things look wicked," Bernard whispered, noting the updated design of the offensive equipment. "Our friend is spending the RAS's savings well, I see."

"Spending it on death rays, you mean. What is he up to?"

"More to the point, what are they up to? That's the question that bears answering. I wonder."

"Wondering or pondering?"

"Both. What if...?"

The old agent rubbed his jaw, contemplating the thought that had entered his mind. It made a lot of sense, knowing the enemy they faced. The thought itself was frightening, and as its' logical end blossomed in his imagination Bernard shuddered, his teeth chattering lightly in the evening chill.

"What if Bakerstreet is just a pawn?"

Rufus looked skeptical.

"We're talking about a guy carryin' around genes from the Great Mouse Detective himself, Bernard. Would he really be that gullible?"

"Intelligence doesn't necessarily mean you're smart, Rufus. I've seen fellows in my career that could earn three degrees at the same time-but they were still as dumb as a box of rocks."

The molerat nodded, taking in the point his friend was making. While Lord Bakerstreet might be a genius in his own right, he was completely out of his element dealing with a force of deception as powerful as Corylus Banastre represented. Basil's heir he might be, but a life of opulence and privilege had softened the one instrument in his arsenal that should have been razor-sharp-his instinct. Old Basil would have been warned as soon as he had set eyes on Banastre, but his descendant might yet be fooled.

"Hold on-stop here. Here, hold it!"

The friends pressed their backs to the side of the large, radio controlled van, and watched for any sign they might have been detected. Seeing none, Bernard released his breath slowly, willing the warmth to return to his blood as he eased the rear door of the vehicle open, poking his head inside.

"We were right. Yes! I knew it had to be here!"

And so they had been. Racks of uniforms hung inside the long tender, alongside crates of field equipment, rations and weapons. Bernard quickly grabbed several field jackets, and threw one to Rufus.

"Put this on-just like on Crete. We blend in and disappear. Standard field procedure in our day."

"Only one problem-we were a lot younger in that day. And a lot faster."

"As a friend of mine once said, I'm as good once as I ever was. Now get dressed-we don't have a lotta time to make this work before they find out somebody's been pilfering. Here, hang on a second."

Reaching into a container he'd picked up, Bernard produced a small canister of dusty-colored cream, a simple formula for hiding fur colors when one needed to get through undiscovered. Dipping his fingers inside he quickly lathered Rufus's face, hands and snout, and anywhere else that might be exposed to prying eyes. Soon all trace of pink was gone, and Rufus felt quite invisible as he considered his hands in the dim light.

"Snazzy! I might be able to get a date with that waitress at the HQ commissary now, lookin' like this-she always said the pink hurt her eyes."

"You are terrible. She's half your age."

"Bianca's a little older than you, remember?"

"That's different."

Rufus sorted, his humor returning in spite of the grimness of the moment as he shouldered into a uniform jacket, inspected his sleeve with a critical frown.

"Buck private. That figures! You always have to be in charge of everything."

"Just the benefit of my experience. And the fact this monkey suit looks better on me."

"You look like a hotel doormouse."

"Y'know, I always thought that about these getups too. Too much flash and not enough function. I mean, where's the pockets?"

"Is that all you're worried about right now? If I end up losing any of my pelt over this..."

Rufus's sentence was cut off abruptly by a sharp rapping at the van's door, and he squeaked loudly in alarm, ducking behind a crate for cover. Bernard put his back to the wall as a loud voice bellowed from outside.

"Hey in there-open up, ya pack rats! We got new troops out here that need supply!'

"Yeah, full supply! Quite playin' cards an' get ta work! Cap'n wants to march out in two hours!"

Rufus gave his compatriot a desperate look, palms up as his whiskers twitched in fright.

"Whatta we do?" he whispered. "If we don't open the doors they'll be suspicious-"

"And if we do we might get caught anyway, for not knowing the procedures," Bernard processed quickly, running the scenario over in his head as he thumbed through several clipboards and stacks of paper on the small counter. "I remember the standard issue equipment for field agents in this unit, but this is now!"

"Open up in there!" the voice demanded sharply, fist pounding against the gated door. ."We've gotta deadline here!"

Rufus squared his shoulders and mustered up his courage.

"Do we run? Or make a stand of it?"

"Stand-two old guys against a troop of these kids? You must be joking."

"Well I'm game if you are. We can't just give up and leave Chip and the rest in the lurch."

"I don't intend to. Follow my lead, I've got an idea."

"May all your ideas be good ones."

Grabbing the gate handles, Bernard threw the heavy rear doors open, adopting a fierce expression as he glared down at the young officer who stood there, his fist still raised to knock again.

"What's the matter with you-haven't you ever heard of giving an old mouse time? Stand up straight when I'm looking at you lad! Straight, I say!"

"Y-y-yessir!"

The mouse standing in the center of his withering stare looked around nineteen, maybe twenty, and by the flabbergasted sounds coming from his mouth it was obvious he was not accustomed to being the one dressed down. Bernard tilted the uniform helmet forward to shade his eyes, and stepped down.

"Where's your supply requisition, Lieutenant-?"

"N-Neatleaf, sir! Lieutenant Miles Neatleaf, at your service!"

"Hmph. We'll see for just how long, about that."

Unfolding the sheaf of official paperwork he Lieutenant handed him, Bernard ran his eyes up and down the list, trying to quickly commit as much as he could to memory; in their current situation any detail might be important. The freshly unsealed orders read like a laundry bill of specialized garb and equipment, and in the analytical corner of his mind it left him with more questions than it answered. A great deal more, actually.

"Anything I can do to help, 'Major'?" Rufus asked, sticking close to his friend's elbow. "Are we gettin' ready to move out?"

Atta boy Rufus. Get them talking, he thought.

"I've just come on duty Private, I'm not privy to the newest orders yet. As if they ever tell us anything down in the Quartermaster basement. Always the last to know, no matter what it is. I am perpetually in the dark sir, is what I am!"

"I-I-I'm sorry, Major! I'd assumed you would have been issued new orders with the rest of us!"

"Well I haven't, have I! And it's left me confoundedly unprepared."

Bernard stared Lieutenant Neatleaf in the eye, and mustered up his best heated glare.

"I do not like being unprepared."

"No-no sir! Of course not, sir!"

"No indeed. Where are your sealed orders? I assume you have them on your person as per protocol."

"I do-yes sir!"

"Well then?"

"Well then...what, sir?"

"Open them up so I may avail myself of what's going on!" Bernard roared, causing even Rufus to flinch. Neatleaf blanched, stepping back slightly.

"I-I-I'm sorry sir, I can't-"

"Can't what, Lieutenant? Your superior officer is waiting for an answer."

"I realize that sir, but-but I-"

"I'm hearing too many buts-are you asking to get yours kicked?!"

"No sir! But I-I have standing orders to protect my sealed papers from all outside view. I respect the uniform sir, but I-I have no idea what your security clearance is."

The kid was good, Bernard had to hand it to him. He hadn't thought of the security clearance, when he'd first come up with this bluff-that was a rusty mistake. Fortunately, he had an ace in his pocket to cover it.

"Clearance level Echo Green, code four-four-seven Charlie Tango."

The lieutenant's eyes grew wide, and Bernard breathed a sigh of relief-he'd gambled that the high-level clearance code he'd possessed at his retirement hadn't changed, and his eager had paid off if he was reading the younger creature's expression right.

"You're very well connected, Major."

"It comes with a long career in the right places, son. Now then-the orders?"

"Oh-oh yes! Just a second, sir."

Neatleaf fished inside the breast pocket of his uniform, and drew out a sheaf of dogeared paperwork already wilted and pencil-marked from being often consulted. The wad of typescript had the appearance of a well-loved novel, and it spoke volumes of the thoroughness with which this youngster handled his position.

"This is a lot of official guidance-what are our precious stuffed shirts up to?"

"A lot sir, if you'll permit my opinion. I've been trying to figure out some of it myself."

"I imagine so. This is a lot for even a unit commander to digest. Have you had a sit down meeting with your CO, about what all of this means for your-for our-troops?"

"No sir-I asked about that, but Colonel Tarquin said there wasn't time."

Bernard made a clucking sound in his throat. Timberland Tarquin was a legend in the RAS, at some points a good one, at some points...well, those under his command didn't call him the Old Stickler for nothing. The old rabbit was a grumpy, curmudgeonly sort, and various factions within the Rescue Aid Society had labored to have him removed from the Elite Services command for years, but political connections and a dedication to getting the job done had fended off all comers well into his retirement age. That itself gave Bernard a glimmer of an idea, and a hopeful one at that-if Tarquin was still in command, then he was willing to wager that his old friend could be trusted; more to the point, it was likely that Tarquin would have just as many questions as he did himself, and would have marked himself as one of Bakerstreet's enemies by the same regard. And even if he didn't come entirely to Bernard's side...an enemy of the enemy was still a friend. Friends were in very, very short supply at the moment.

"Lieutenant, I need to speak with your commanding officer immediately. Can you escort me to his operations post?"

Rufus turned a wide-eyed stare to his friend, his mouth moving soundlessly. What was Bernard doing? Had he lost his mind?

"Sir! The operations post is in the corner park on the next street-I can escort you personally."

"Thank you, Lieutenant. Private, accompany me please."

"Um...y-yes, sir. Right away, sir-may I ask what's on the Major's mind?"

Lieutenant Neatleaf looked shocked.

"I'm sure the Major will share his thoughts with you, Private-when that information becomes need to know! This way, sir."

Rufus fell into step obediently, and waited for the young officer to draw a length ahead before he nudged Bernard's back.

"What in the name of all sweet cheese are you doing?" he whispered frantically. "We were tryin' to avoid RAS forces, and now you're walkin' us right into the lion's den!"

"Maybe-or maybe not. You didn't see the orders-this is Tarquin's outfit."

"Tarquin? Ol' Blood and Guts Tarquin, the guy that's been around forever and two days?"

"The very same. Me an' Tark go way back-and if he's still in command here, it means there's a chance Lord Bakerstreet hasn't been able to marshal his full strength just yet. He's still being forced to lean on some resources that were already in place, until he can get away with appointing his own. If Tarquin has as many questions as we do...I believe we can trust him. At least to a point."

"What about all these kids around him?"

"That's gonna be the rub. I'll feel the situation out when we get there."

Bernard pulled his collar close as the small group made their way through the throng of uniformed creatures swarming the street corners. He thought back to his youth, when his father had read to them from the Old Testament about the human called Daniel, one of the Creator's prophets.

"Into the lion's den,"* he muttered to himself, watching the hustle and bustle with critical interest. The RAS's Elite Forces unit had swelled to the size of a literal brigade, and the growth appeared far from over, with the sheer amount of supplies that seemed to be moving back and forth throughout the organization. He found the fact more than a little alarming-even when the RAS had taken on governing authority, it had never been intended to balloon into a standing army. In the wrong hands, this kind of power was...well, the implications of it made him shiver inside the uniform-gray greatcoat as if chilled by an evening wind.

"Colonel Tarquin's field office is yonder, at the base of that corner oak," Neatleaf pronounced quietly, pointing across the maelstrom of fur. In bygone years the immense old tree had been guarded by a short wrought-iron fence, but time and lack of city funding for parks and recreation had left the old metal barrier rusted and collapsing, its' filigree work a sad reflection of a lost art. Through one of the remaining arches was threaded a line of uniformed mice, with weapons shouldered and standing at attention with fierce scowls. Bernard nodded.

"The Colonel has his own personal guard?"

"In a manner of speaking, sir. Personally, I think they're here to pick him up if he falls asleep and totters off his chair."

"You seem to have a low opinion of your commander, son," Bernard said pointedly.

"I'm sorry sir, it's not that. Colonel Tarquin is just..well...let's just say he is remarkably dedicated to an old world view of things. We need someone who understands today's politics in command, and I'm sorry...but the Colonel is just not that creature."

"I see. Has he shown any signs of being unfit to command?"

"Sir, I-"

"Lieutenant, you can answer that," a gruff voice rumbled from inside the buttress of tree roots, "or you can continue to walk upright without your butt requiring a sling. Which shall it be?"

Neatleaf snapped to attention with an almost audible crack as a figure emerged into the light, a scowl etched across its' craggy features as if it were quite accustomed to being there frequently. Even at his advanced age, Timberland Tarquin cut an imposing figure, the light of battle gleaming from his deep set eyes, almost radiating from beneath his bushy brows with the force of a solar wind. Old-fashioned or not, Tarquin was an officer who knew his ability to intimidate those under him, and he played the role masterfully. The medals on his uniform jacket clinked and clanked forbiddingly as he shuffled slowly but determinedly into the mouse's personal space, the limp from his artificial leg giving him the gait of a menacing seaborne captain of the long past, his left ear drooping slightly lower than the other with the notches of war wounds of a bygone age. He appraised Neatleaf dismissively, appearing not to notice the lieutenant's shaking knees.

"Did you have something to report, laddie buck?"

"N-no, no sir, Colonel! I was-I was j-jj-"

"Stop chattering like a blasted chipmunk and speak up, sah! You'd think the hounds of Perdition itself had been nipping at your heels!"

"Right away, sir! I was bringing the Major and his aide to see you-a question about our supply requisitions. Sir!"

"The requisitions, hmm? What is it this time, can't get fresh rations inside the month? I befriended a weevil once who'd grown quite fat off the fodder you lot sent to us. I'll be interested to hear what excuse there is this time. Lieutenant!"

"Colonel, sir!"

"You're dismissed. I'll deal with these scoff-wallopers m'self. Out I say-out!"

"At once, sir!"

Neatleaf snapped to attention and spun on his heel, marching purposefully back toward the street at parade walk until a quick nip of Tarquin's swagger stick across his hinderparts sent him yelping out the impromptu entrance and back into the swirl of rodents that waited without. The Colonel rolled his eyes, sighing.

"My sister's grandson. I promised to put him somewhere she wouldn't have to worry about him. Somehow this wasn't what I had in mind."

Harrumphing into his bristling moustaches, Tarquin gave his visitors a long, cool look, sizing them up as only a commander can do. His monocled eye missed nothing, taking in with practiced ease every aspect of the two compatriots' appearance, from the height of their collars to the arrangement of their uniform buttons, all the way down to the shine on their boots. Over the course of many campaigns it was the look that had struck fear into many a new recruit and seasoned campaigner alike.

"I say, Bernard my boy-are you going to just stand there? Or tell me what in the name of fur and feathers is going on?"

The eye behind the monocle twinkled, and Bernard breathed a sigh of relief as a tight grin appeared across his old friend's face, easing the tension in the room like a breath of freshness after a summer rain. They were safe-for the moment.

"Tark, it's a very, very long story-and I hope you've got a very large pot of coffee somewhere."

"Do you think this is wise?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. But if I know my old adversary, it will rattle his cage somewhat, and at this juncture I believe that may help us. Introduce an element of instability into our enemy's camp."

"Instability often leads to explosions, in chemistry."

"Does it? Well then-it appears I may have made a wise choice after all. Come, my dear-stay close, and put on that fierce professional face you're so feared for. Yes, yes that's the one. Now we are ready."

His cane tapping resolutely against the polished floor tiles that lead through the lobby of RAS Legal, Birch Maplewood held his back straight and his head high, his hawkish eyes darting here and there as he walked. Silence reigned as one after another the office clerks shrank behind their desks, anxious to avoid his gaze as if the touch of it might burn their fur. Even in semi-retirement Birch's name was a thing of legend, many of his cases required reading for those who would study the law. None wished to be drawn into whatever scheme or errand brought him here today; none wished to risk his wrath.

"You seem rather well known," Acorna Ableheart commented drily, nodding in greeting to some faces that were familiar. Many glared back with open hostility, and Birch chuckled in a low, deep rumble.

"So do you, my girl. They aren't certain which of us to fear the most, I think."

"They might not be sure, but you can bet Hamilton is. He used to always say, the person with the biggest stick wins. Well int his case, that is most definitely me."

"The attempt on your life?"

"Among other questions. I'm alive, and that's a mistake he can't rectify. I'm what Hamilton Limburger fears most in the known world-a liability."

"Quite so, and if we can present that point to the greatest advantage we might yet be able to trip him up. The greatest source of information for a lawyer is often the kind your opponent does not intend to give you-the kind that betrays their innermost thought."

"You sound like something out of a pulp novel."

"I've written a couple in my time. You probably read them as a young thing."

Acorna broke her mask for a moment, giving him a crooked smile.

"So there are layers to the enigmatic Mr. Maplewood then...I'm curious how many I haven't peeled back yet. A lady's curiosity is a powerful thing, you know."

Birch's face turned stony as he strode along, and Acorna bit her lip slightly-her words had come across somewhat more flirtatious than she'd meant, and the last thing she wanted to do was compromise their new partnership before it ever got off the ground.

"I'm sorry...that came across entirely different than I meant it."

His expression softened, and he shrugged simply as they made the turn toward Legal's main office.

"No matter, my dear. Old creatures can be moody things-we sometimes require special handling."

"My mother used to have a saying-there are no old creatures. Just creatures stuck in shells of varying vintages."

"Your mother was quite wise."

"We always said so. I just wish I'd inherited a pinch more of that wisdom."

"I think you'll find my dear, that wisdom comes not only from learning-but from experience and well doing. I think you may have more amassed already than you give yourself credit-just now learn to us it. It's a canny creature indeed who can call upon a lifetime to satisfy the needs of a single moment."

"I'm not sure I'd call myself that canny."

"Hamilton seems to think so. Now then-here we are! Game face on, my girl-we go to beard the lion and see if we may steal a few of his whiskers. Come along."

A large, ornate counter held workstations for two receptionists, who fielded all communications coming into Legal at this level. One of them, a young, platinum-blonde gopher named Letitia, lit up at the sight of the visitors.

"Miss Ableheart! Welcome back-oh, it's so good to see you. Did you arrange to get your old office returned?"

Acorna shook her head wistfully, but allowed herself a small smile for the bubbly desk clerk.

"No, no I'm afraid not, Letitia-I'm here in a somewhat different capacity."

"Different capacity? Whatever do you mean?"

"I'm here to see Mr. Limburger. The firm with which I'm now employed is representing Mr. Corkscrew Hackwrench, and we have matters to discuss to that end."

Letitia's eyes widened in shock, and she nodded swiftly. Scribbling a few notes, she keyed her vidphone station.

"Just a moment, Miss Ableheart-I'll dial in to Mr. Limburger's office. He has been in a meeting but it should be over by now."

"What should be over by now, Letitia? What the devil are you rattling about now, I asked you that I not be disturbed."

"I'm sorry sir, but y-you have visitors, requesting they want to see you. It's rather important."

"Everything's rather important these days-and I still don't wish to be disturbed! Get their names and find out what their business is-we'll deal with it later."

"I-ah...I believe this won't wait, sir."

"And just WHAT gave you that idea, hmm? Have you been armchair-investigating my calls, hmm? What is so important I have to have it shoved beneath my nose at THIS late hour of the evening?"

Letitia looked up nervously, and did her best to hide the lump in her throat. Birch glowered from beneath his well-manicured brows, leaving no question that he intended to have his thoughts heard, one way or the other and no matter how the district attorney felt about the subject.

"Sir, I didn't mean any disrespect-I just thought I should tell you-"

"You tell his highness the District Attorney," Birch said loudly, with a hint of acid and fire giving his voice a red hot edge, "that Mr. Hackwrench's defense counsel is here to see him, and we will see him-elsewise there will be a brief upon the honorable Judge Byrock's desk tomorrow morning by nine A.M. sharp, charging him with obstruction and interfering with discovery of evidence. And I quote."

Acorna, being slightly taller than her older counterpart, could see the look of panic that crossed Limburger's face, the skin beneath his pelt turning a pale, ghastly white. Whether he hadn't expected Corky to put up a defense she couldn't tell, but undoubtedly the stern timbre of Birch Maplewood's voice announcing itself in the situation had served to stir his nerves. Either way they had caught him off guard, and from a courtroom standpoint that would work to their advantage. On the other hand...her father had always said that a cornered opponent could be the most dangerous-the most vicious. They would have to proceed carefully.

"Very well, Letitia-show them in. But have them searched well! I want no surveillance or recording devices."

"Understood, sir. We'll be in momentarily."

Frowning, Acorna made a sound of disapproval as the connection closed, and she found herself more wary than ever of her old employer.

"Very trusting, isn't he."

"Not really," the secretary returned slowly. "He background-checked my entire family when I was hired, all the way out to my third cousins."

"That's not standard procedure."

"That's what they tell me-I mean, I'm a nobody! What is he afraid of?"

"Well, if you had any idea what he actually is afraid of," Acorna replied solemnly. "You would have run away from this job. In fifth gear."

Lifting her arms, she gritted her teeth in annoyance and submitted to the search the security personnel conducted, gratified that the uniformed squirrel and bankvole did so with complete professional aplomb. This was obviously a procedure to which they had become accustomed, which spoke volumes of Limburger's personal and official insecurity-if he was this concerned of outside influences reaching him, he would be doubly on his guard against their questions. Inwardly she hoped that Birch had a good plan-but somehow she couldn't bring herself to doubt the debonair old chipmunk. He seemed unflappable, unperturbed by any of what they had seen, and in spite of her own misgivings she found his quiet steel gave her an infusion of confidence as Letitia gathered her papers and legal pad.

"This way, please."

The walk was brief, but to Acorna's analytical mind it felt like an eternity. How many times had she walked this same path, every day, day in and day out as she rushed to do this mouse's bidding? Was it possible...how many lives had she destroyed at his behest, and how many of those cases were legitimate? The ramifications were staggering, and she tried her best to shut such thoughts away as her heels clicked against the inlaid tile floor leading into Limburger's inner office. Many times she had spent entire afternoons here, processing evidence as she assisted in readying cases for trial, delving through reams of material and photographs as she reached forth to lay waste to a life. Justice was owed for that alone, and if it was possible, she intended to see that Hamilton Limburger received it.

"If you'll have a seat here, Mr. Limburger will see you in a moment. I'm sure whatever matter he's dealing with will be brief."

"You believe that, do you?" Birch asked drily. Letitia blushed slightly, and ducked her head.

"I didn't say that, sir...mine is not to question why, and all that."

"Isn't it, though? I think if you are as bright a girl as I perceive you to be...there may be a great many things you question."

"I'm not sure what you mean, Mr. Maplewood."

"You will, in time. Believe me, dear girl-you will."

Crossing one leg over his knee, the chipmunk propped his cane next to him, and adopted a mask of patient waiting. Acorna crossed her arms, pacing across the expensive tilework anxiously as she ran her litany of questions and counter-questions through her mind, making a thorough check of her list. Hamilton would only be thrown off his game for a moment-they must press him as they may.

"Sit down my girl, you're wearing a trench."

"I can't sit down. I'm nervous."

"You've spent how much time in the courtroom, and this makes you nervous?"

"This is different Birch, and you know it. This mouse tried to kill me."

"Yes, yes he did, without a doubt. He overpowered you, he took advantage of your confidence in him, and he tried to murder you in cold blood."

The old chipmunk sat up, tapped his cane on the floor, and rested his hands on it as he pinned her with that ever-present, piercing gaze.

"Now then, I ask you-are you going to let him get away with it?"

The question was valid. For all her bluff and bluster, this situation was new, and it was something Acorna had never encountered before. Not only was she nervous...she was afraid. Afraid and unnerved, as the scene replayed itself in her mind's eye. She could still feel Limburger's manicured claws digging into her shoulders as she flew backwards off the windowsill, the wind rushing through her hair as the pressure built in her ears, her blood thrumming in the veins of her head while her heartbeat thundered in her mind-

"Acorna!"

Gasping, she caught her breath and quickly sat down, taking Birch's proffered hand as she collapsed next to him. She reached into her purse with quaking fingers, drawing a handkerchief to her forehead to wipe away the cold perspiration that had sprung out there, and she drew in a great lungful of air.

"You're shaking, my dear. Do you want that I should take this meeting alone?"

"I-that is-"

Gathering her wits, the former prosecutor wiped her eyes, huffing into the handkerchief and placing it back in her handbag.

"No. No!"

Rising, she turned on her heel and set her jaw, looking down at her newfound partner with determined eyes.

"I'm not accustomed to being scared-and I'm done with that. Hamilton may be influential and powerful, and determined. But so am I-determined at least. He didn't hire me for my looks-he hired me because I'm that good. And now he gets to regret it."

"Good girl! Never let your fear master you. You might be afraid, but don't ever let it conquer your faculties-evil loves that. It gives an opportunity for you to fail."

"That's not a word I like the taste of. I didn't like it when you defeated me in court, and I like it less now."

"That's good! The less you like the taste of that word, the less likely you are to accept it. I've had to swallow it a few times in my life and my career, and it is a bitter pill. Don't ever get used to it."

Considering him with a slow smile, Acorna sat down at his side and rested a hand on his arm.

"Y'know, you ought to write some of this stuff down-you'd make a dandy motivational speaker."

"Bah-perish the thought. Did you know my dear, I am actually overly fond of speaking in front of people-I just happen to be quite good at it."

She opened her mouth to offer and astonished reply, when the door to the inner office opened and Letitia appeared, beckoning.

"Mr. Limburger will see you now."

"Come, my girl. As old Sherlock was wont to say, the game's afoot."

Thrusting his silver-capped cane out before him, Birch hopped to his feet nimbly, twirling the length of dark wood in his hand as he walked. It was evident with each passing hour she spent with him that he didn't need to lean on it-it simply gave him an air of authority.

"There is more to you than meets the eye Birch Maplewood, d'you know that?"

"That's the mistake prosecutors have been making for years, Acorna-failing to realize that very thing."

In spite of all her earliest impressions, she found herself warming more and more to the genteel, but curmudgeonly old defender. She found herself not dreading the coming encounter quite so much-in fact, it might even be a little fun, come to think of it.

"Right inside please. Mr. Limburger has stepped out to wash up, it'll be just a moment."

"More than likely he's stepped out to do a little shredding," Birch observed in a quiet voice, looking around them as he absorbed the details of the room. Chaos reigned-papers, files and notebooks were scattered hastily across Limburger's desk, and a softly glowing holoscreen to the side of his workspace showed an active file search in progress.

"Someone's been busy," Acorna thought aloud, browsing the names on some of the folders lying open-several she recognized as open cases that had been in processing during her final days.

"Either he's checking to make sure every T has been crossed...or Hamilton is being a very naughty boy."

"I'd wager on the latter."

There was a rattle at the rear of the room, and with a crashing stumble the district attorney floundered into the room, one arm full of folders as he elbowed his way past a filing cabinet.

"Birch Maplewood-as I live and breathe! Or are you still breathing? I'd forgotten to check recently, sorry about that."

"Hello Hamilton. I see you've lost none of your natural panache for handling in-person negotiations. All the subtlety of a bull in a china shop, wrapped up in one short, frizzy package. I never cease to be impressed."

Limburger dropped the files into a pile on his desk and straightened to his full height, a sour look playing around his tight, brown eyes.

"You are one to talk, sir. Can you even straighten to a full stretch off that cane? Or would the effort strain your poor old heart too much, I wonder. One has to be careful at your advanced age."

"One benefit of age is experience, my old friend. And wisdom. I see a great many things that others never conceive of."

The prosecutor turned a sickly shade of green, and turned his back, appearing to thumb through a stack of notes in search of something in particular.

"What do you want, Maplewood? I don't have a great deal of time for you to waste today with your theatrics."

"Theatrics? Theatrics, he says. I may have soundly thrashed you in seven out of ten cases, but I wouldn't call that theatrics, now would you?"

"The ratio was eight cases out of ten, and you well know it. Now state your business, fossil-before I lose my patience."

"Have a care, Hamilton-we have age-discrimination laws in this government, you know."

"Oh, you would like that, wouldn't you. Entrap me on some absurd technicality so that my hands are tied in other matters-oh, you forget sir, I have spent a great many years studying how you work. This is a textbook performance, textbook by chapter and line, and I can read it as clearly as I studied for my bar exam. I believe you will find me a more formidable opponent than you have anticipated."

"Opponent? I am afraid you misunderstand me, Mr. Limburger. We may be adversaries of old, but I am no opponent to you in this proceeding. I am merely co-counsel, here to offer the benefit of my experience."

"Co-counsel? What are you getting at, you expressly stated that you were Corkscrew Hackwrench's defense counsel!"

"Ah ah, I stated no such thing. I only gave the implication that I was here with the defense counsel-whom I believe you are acquainted with."

Holding out his arm, Birch beckoned to where Acorna stood in a shadow to his rear, calling her to the forefront of the passive aggressive conflict.

"May I present the new junior partner in the firm of Maplewood, Mason & Associates-Miss Acorna Ableheart. Counsel for the defense."

If Hamilton's face has been green before, Birch observed that it was positive emerald now, and he thought for a moment that the mouse might vomit on the carpet in front of their feet.

"W-what are you playing at, Maplewood? Your chicanery is legendary, but this-this takes the veritable cake!"

"Am I supposed to know what you are blathering about, sir?"

"This! This obvious attempt to rattle my cage in the official capacity of my own office! I consider the duties of my position sacrosanct, and this is an affront that shall not go unaddressed!"

"Did we affront him?" Birch asked from the side of his mouth. "I would think I would notice, but I seem to have missed it."

"So it would seem-he had that lovely shade of green but it appears more red-ish now."

"More maroon, I think. Would you say maroon?"

"Definitely maroon. Maybe even a touch of crimson, if I squint hard enough. I don't like that as well, it's quite unbecoming."

"Quite so," he agreed. "You have to be a particular type of creature to wear red like that. I remember a case my daughter-in-law told me of once, an undercover arrangement that involved a peculiar red dress of that shade-"

"I am still STANDING here, you antiquated great relic! Do you think me blind?"

"I couldn't say, I'm not acquainted with your optometrist. I can certainly recommend and excellent one, however."

"This ridiculous display will get you nowhere, Maplewood. You know very well that Acorna Ableheart was run out of this office on a rail, on a charge of gross negligence."

Birch looked mildly shocked.

"Were you, my dear? You never told me that in your interview. I merely thought you had taken an early departure for your vacation. Dear me."

"Someone tried to book an early departure for me," she replied darkly. "Fortunately, my flight was...cancelled."

Limburger's hands shook visibly, his throat bobbing as he pulled a bottle from his desk drawer, swallowing hard.

"I...see."

Making an obvious effort to hold himself steady, the mouse seated himself behind his desk, looking over the rim of his glass with fevered, barely concealed interest.

"So you took your departure from our offices as an opportunity to throw in your lot with the enemy, is that it? That's not terribly loyal of you."

Acorna opened her mouth angrily, but Birch held up a restraining hand, cautioning.

"As you can see sir, my skills have not slowed down, but my reflexes have, just a tad-not much, but-just a tad. I have found myself needing a younger pair of legs, and as lovely as my associate's are, I have found them to be holding up a mind of considerable legal acumen. One which you allowed to slip away, I might add."

She kept her face neutral, feeling the tips of her ears blush. The comment about her legs she let slide, but the acknowledgement of her skill was high praise indeed, and she rather enjoyed the strained expression it created in her old boss's eyes. Birch was taunting him, and doing so quite masterfully.

"I take it you had a legitimate reason to see me, other than to wave my ex-staff in my direction? As you can see I have a great many dockets to sort through today, and my time is limited. As I imagine, is yours," he smirked, looking at Birch meaningfully. For his part, the chipmunk took the barb in stride, gesturing to Acorna as means of handing off the conversation.

"As a matter of fact, I have," she stated. "Several reasons in fact, but we'll get to those in due course. Firstly, my client. What is the exact charge of which Mr. Corkscrew Hackwrench is accused? Even withou a writ of habeas corpus he has the right to be accurately represented for the crime he has allegedly committed."

"Ha-hrm. Yes, well...ordinarily that is the case, yes. Any suspect arrested by our justice system has that right as a part of the criminal law code."

"Ordinarily..." Birch echoed.

"Ordinarily. However...this is somewhat of a special case. Mr. Hackwrench is being held under the sedition laws, which I'm sure you are aware changes the situation significantly. Ordinary criminal law procedures do not always apply in these circumstances."

"In other words our client is being held under the auspices of a kangaroo court, and his rights will in no way be respected," the old chipmunk continued.

"Kanga-there is no need to be racist, Maplewood! You know the law as well as I do-when charged under the sedition laws, a prisoner must be tried before the Great Tribunal of the RAS. In which you my dear," he addressed Acorna, "are unfortunately not authorized to practice law."

"You're right, I'm not," she admitted. "Most of the cases I worked on never got that far. You only ever gave me the dockets you were reasonably sure I could win. Just like I'm reasonably sure I can win this one."

Limburger's face puckered at the backhanded rebuke, and he looked down, buoying himself with his paperwork.

"Reasonably sure, indeed. You are a smug one, Acorna-for all your grandstanding and fierce reputation, you are still nothing but a slick-job lawyer, going wherever the recognition flows. It does my heart good to see you denied."

"Well now, about that," Birch interrupted quietly. "If you had let her finish before you began pontificating so profusely, I could have told you that the entire thing is a moot point. We are perfectly aware that Miss Ableheart lacks the credentials alone to practice before the RAS's Grand Tribunal."

"Then I fail to see why you have wasted so much of my valuable time."

"Simple. Because even though Miss Ableheart may not have sufficient credentials alone...I on the other hand, do. And I am legally allowed under the Treaty to extend those credentials to authorized members of my practice as necessary. By hook or by crook-Acorna will be representing Mr. Hackwrench before the bench."

Limburger's eyes bulged to an almost apoplectic size as he realized the full implications of what he was being told. A rumble built low in his chest, and as he leaned over the desk his gaze took on a dangerous glint.

"I forbid it."

Birch blinked for a few seconds, processing the statement...and then heartily gave in to his first instinct. He laughed.

"You forbid? Just who do you think you are sir, the attorney-general of the RAS himself? Or perhaps you've an eye on Byrock's gavel. Just how do you intend to forbid it?"

"I will file an injunction the moment you leave this office, demanding that Miss Ableheart be removed for a grand scale conflict of interest."

"How? She was not involved in Corkscrew's arraignment. She did not prepare the case against him. Indeed, you had already instituted the request to terminate her employment on the night of our client's arrest! You can file your motion sir-but it won't hold water and you know it. You are attempting what my father colloquially referred as a 'bum's rush'."

"How dare you, sir! You have some nerve walking in off the street and accusing the RAS District Attorney for the city of New York of-of-ethical violations!"

Acorna's voice dripped with the frigidity of ice.

"Would it be any better to accuse him of attempted murder?"

The room went silent as the statement dropped to the expensive flooring with the concussive force of a cinder block. Limburger's ashen complexion grew taut, and his fingers clenched themselves into claw-like fists as he gazed down at his feet, words escaping his ordinarily sharp tongue.

"What's the matter, Hamilton? Didn't your hired help know what they were working for? Or do you smile and pat them on the back, and ply them with bonuses to keep them happy-just like you always did to me."

The chilly silence reigned on, and Acorna raised her voice, adopting a more authoritative, belligerent tone.

"How many others had their exit papers stamped by you, Hamilton? I know I wasn't the first-not with that cold look in your eye. You knew you had to get rid of me, and you were well prepared to simply file me under 'collateral damage'. Except this time, the unthinkable happened...somebody saved me. And you've been caught. Well and truly caught, no matter which way you slice it."

"So it would seem."

The DA's voice was low and coarse, almost like the scraping of winter branches against the final remnants of autumn's leaves.

"You can't prove it, you know. It's your word against mine."

"That's true," Birch said somberly. "But we have enough questions and circumstantial evidence on several other subjects to raise serious doubt as to your honesty and professional integrity. Enough to raise some of the honest brows still left in this organization, I think."

"I say again...what do you want, Maplewood?"

"I want the one thing that precious few others can give me...but you can. Information."

"Concerning?"

"Concerning whatever plot is now in place behind the ivory halls the RAS inhabits, in these sad times. Concerning just what the nature is of the relationship between Corylus Banastre, Birchbriar Bakerstreet, and Desiree D'Allure. And the information I need to clear my son's name. And my friend's."

"You must be joking."

"I do not bandy words needlessly with traitors and murderers, Hamilton. You give me what I need...and I will do what I can to see that you do not suffer the ultimate penalty for your crimes. I may regret the gesture...but you have my word."

"Your word...ha-hrm. Your word. A career made of our enmity, and you expect me to take your word? You must think me a fool indeed."

"I do, come to think of it-but for many other reasons. For the moment, your options are quite limited, I am afraid-you may risk your employers' wrath in helping me, and yet escape in the end-or you may risk the wrath of the justice you so treacherously claim to love. Personally, I believe your greater chances lie with me."

"The firing squad, or a fate worse than death. Your options are a bit lacking, to my mind."

"I've already given you my promise that I will save you if I can, although Heaven knows why. I suppose you must decide who you find more trustworthy-a deranged triumvirate bent on some machination of societal domination...or me. The old enemy who could always bring you down with the truth."

"The truth will set you free, mm?"**

"Without a doubt."

The younger attorney sat back at his desk, weighing the paths before him. Acorna had summed the situation up in a neat, plum package-he was well and truly caught. Maplewood would not have taken the risk of walking into his domain unless he had something, some hidden weapon he could use against him. The old shark was too sharp for that. Ancient he might be...but his teeth were as finely honed as ever they had been. There was no way out now, other than to take his hated opponent's hand and beg for mercy.

Or...was there?

"I need time to think, Maplewood. My course is no clearly set thing, at the moment...this is deep, deep water. Give me twenty-four hours."

"He's stalling!" Acorna contested hotly, the blood rising in her cheeks as she bounded to her feet, teeth opened in a snarl. "He's stalling, I tell you! Better to bag him now while we have the chance, rather than risk being left with nothing!"

"I give you my oath, as an officer of the court! All I ask for is twenty-four hours, to weigh the implications of what you've asked. I don't feel that's too much, under the circumstances."

Her eyes blazed with a barely contained fury.

"I won't let you get away with what you did to me! Believe me, if you were going to attempt it-you should have made sure you could get the job finished!"

Birch held up his cane, the ornate silver cap nodding pointedly in Acorna's direction. It was meant to be a disarming, symbolic gesture, but the wintry glare he gave her across the finely tooled stick left little to the imagination.

Let me handle this.

She flipped her hair over her shoulder, fuming, but after a moment gave an almost imperceptible nod. Birch had brought her this far...she had to go with him the rest of the way. It rankled to have to step to the sidelines when her zeal for battle was roused-but for the moment it might be best.

"In spite of my associate's reservations...I agree to your terms. Twenty-four hours, Hamilton-no less, and not a moment more. This time tomorrow, I or one of my agents will be here to collect your reply. And for your sake, friend-I suggest you make it a good one. Come, Miss Ableheart-you and I have an appointment we must keep, and I believe we may now safely leave Mr. Limburger to wrestle with the better angels of his conscience. If he in fact has one."

"But we can't just walk away without-"

"I said come along, Acorna-we have all we need here."

The tone brooked no discussion and was impossible to misinterpret-Birch had shifted into senior partner mode, and his face made it abundantly clear that he expected to be obeyed.

"Yes sir, Mr. Maplewood."

The words were galling. If she closed her eyes, she could still feel the force of Hamilton's hands against her chest as he heaved her forward and through the window, and the cold bite of the night air as she descended into freefall was forever etched into her memory. To be so close to having him within her grasp...

"Twenty-four hours," she ground out darkly, her burning gaze nearly incinerating the prosecutor in his chair as she turned to follow Birch into the lighter confines of the department. "No less...and no more."

*Daniel 6, KJV

**John 8:32, KJV