A window popped to the front of Oblivion’s busy task screen.
Priority one electronic transmission. Text only, triple-encoded. From Agent Scanner of the Maximal Security force.
I wonder how that old bat’s doing these days, Oblivion mused to as he began the decoding process. Over the past ten years at his job as head of the Predacon Secret Police, Oblivion had learned a great deal about the methods of his Maximal counterpart. Trading information between the two forces was not particularly uncommon...though Scanner had frowned at Oblivion’s suggestion that the two should meet for lunch.
Electronic codes deciphered, Oblivion opened the resulting message. Naturally, it was in the conspiratorial language Scanner favored for describing high-risk missions.
Board One.
Pawn to King Four.
King. That was a minor relief. Three years ago the Top Secret "King Two" had been a complete bust. Oblivion had deleted two agents over the situation, and that had been the end of it.
Waitacycle. King Four?
He’s got to be kidding.
Usual protocols still applied. Oblivion needed more information: he needed to know which Maximals were going and when. Darkwave would definitely have an opinion about this mission. And the Police would need to choose a mole...
Embereyes gazed back again, wistfully, at the monitor behind her. The image was as motionless as a still, the green numerical clock transposed above it ticking slowly. It was Goldstreak’s second week in stasis.
As usual, she felt a pang of pity for the subjects held captive in the sterile white lab. A week and a half ago she’d received message that a few of the Maximals’ special forces were going to be... "required." After Embereyes had discovered that her star pupil passed all the necessary tests, Goldstreak’s memories were completely wiped. Researchers from the main facility at the Citadel were arriving today to revive him and pick him up.
The young Maximal lifted a beaker with her yellow-glove hands, held it up to the pale light, and turned to walk it over to the locked cabinet. She halted immediately as her door opened. Two of the tall black Maximal Security agents entered, and with them, Scanner and Kitfox from the Citadel. Scanner was a bat. Shades of grey, and not of an astonishing height, he faded unimpressively into most backgrounds, which was probably how he preferred it. Embereyes knew Scanner by reputation only, but she had met Kitfox before, briefly. Small, bronze, and dexterous, he was the head of her project in its main Headquarters in the Citadel facilities. He was undoubtedly a genius, though he never spoke, giving orders instead through typed instruction, or doing work on his own.
"Afternoon, sirs." Embereyes glanced at the clock on her monitor once more. They were early, but it was very like Maximal Security to arrive early. "Just give me a moment to clean up, and I’ll lead you to the stasis cell directly."
"Thank you, but we won’t be requiring an escort," Kitfox said, stepping forward into the room.
Embereyes had long wondered whether the head researcher’s silence was a matter of handicap or preference. And having long studied biology, she knew about the instincts of animals: how a white mouse such as herself would run and hide beneath the shadow of a hawk, even if she had never encountered a hawk in her life. And hearing the sharp-edged voice of the other researcher filled her with such a primal, instinctual terror that she froze, rigid. Her pale orange optics widened, her hands locked open, and her beaker dropped and shattered. Protoformation liquid, turquoise and viscous, puddled on the white titanium floor.
"No need for alarm," Kitfox said, calmly, though he was clearly enjoying the reaction.
"You—you’re—you’re—"
"Of course. And speaking with permission today," he responded, with a snide glance back at Scanner. "Under normal circumstances, your Magnaboss says he is ‘Tired of hearing my voice.’ Can you imagine?"
She certainly could, but said nothing, simply staring.
"Well, don’t be stupid, female, clean that up! What’s the subject’s status?"
Finally wrestling her eyes back to her work, Embereyes grabbed a towel to mop up the organic puddle. "He— he—"
"Speak up!"
"He’s doing well, sir. Normal organic vital signatures. His processor has been formatted and original programming restored." Embereyes stood up again, and walked to her console, entering the codes to summon a cleaning drone. "But—s—sir, I don’t see why a full delete was needed in this case. The improved programming was doing very well to counteract the violent tendencies inherent in—" She stopped and gave a slight gasp, realizing what she was about to say.
As the cleanup drone appeared from a mousehole in the wall, Kitfox walked over to the door in the back of the lab. "It’s time to remove you from this project. Really, I think you’ve gotten a bit too attached to our creation."
"Creation? But isn’t he your son?!" Embereyes cried in anguish, then halted. Now she really had said too much.
Anger built on the fox’s face. He gave a strangled, piercing cry, then, relaxed. "Where exactly does it come from, this notion that we owe some sort of emotional attachment to any of our offspring? Is it something we borrow from humans?"
Embereyes imagined that same hawk that caught the mouse tearing it to pieces to feed it to squabbling young, and she swallowed. "It—it’s part of our organic structures. Part of being animals."
"An arrangement I continue to hope is a temporary one." Kitfox left through the back door, into the hall that lead to the test subject’s quarters. One of the tall agents followed dutifully behind.
Scanner put a hand on Embereyes shoulder. "If you’d like to come with us, ma’am, we’re going to ask you just a few more questions."
The personnel officer was a trapdoor spider. Being an insect, Oblivion had never cared much for spiders, but this particular spider was qualified for the position, and cleared for the information, at least, for the time being.
"Three-tier chess?" the spider asked, bringing up a program on his dual screen computer. "A dull hobby: it suits Scanner well enough, but isn’t it a bit antiquated for your tastes?"
"The code is his invention. But it's solid. A three-tier chess message can mean one of two things. Either it’s Scanner’s nice way of telling me the universe is about to end, and who is to blame, or it’s another one of Magnaboss’ fat-chance assassinations."
"From your demeanor, it looks like this is the latter."
"It is. ‘Pawn to’ anything means they’re sending a Maximal exploration team. They do what they do, which is explore. You don’t expect them to actually make the hit, now, do you? That’s where our people come in."
"And who is the target on such a backwater planet?"
"Board One King, if they find him." He waits a beat to see if his fellow agent solves the code, then, smugly, moves on. "Don’t hurt yourself. In other words: it’s my business. Plus..." Oblivion appended, with certainty, "he isn’t there.
"Based on the information we do have, what gives us the best chance?" Oblivion asked, leaning over to view the screen.
Four fingers on each hand scampered like eight legs on a keyboard. "We are developing agents with toxicity resistance."
"So has the Academy. Do ours have Hypnosis resistance?"
The spider snickered. "Try a blindfold."
"They’re sending us a Master."
"They’re wasting a Master Hypnotist?"
"This one in particular. And we’re wasting a Covert Operative, so let's make this a good one."
The keys clicked confidently. "I know just the one. File Six-One-Two." The personnel officer punched a final key, and a video feed appeared on the monitor. A female operative, running training exercises. She was quick, limber, and very beautiful. And a snake.
Oblivion blinked; his shock was obvious. "Now... there's a design I never get tired of. ...Are they related?"
"Who?"
"Don't play slow; you know what I mean."
"It's a classic design. Of course, they did improve on the original model, somewhat," the spider mentioned, as the female onscreen planted a well-placed kick on the sensor of an attack drone. "For one thing, she's got legs."
"Yes, you people get twitchy about those legs, don't you? Look, like it or not, that's a Maximal line, now, so let's get on discontinuing it." Oblivion snapped his fingers. "She's got a good walk; let me see her scores."
Raw numbers streak across the screen. A well-rounded agent, Oblivion thought, and certainly in more ways than one. "Okay, second question," Oblivion asked. "Why isn't she a Razor?"
"Because we found her first. They can't all be Razors."
"Yes, but they can pretend to be Razors, can't they, now? After all, Darkwave wouldn't waste a Razor on a suicide mission." Oblivion leaned over the keyboard and clicked a few keys. "We'll sign her up."
Personnel record Six-One-Two, Nightfall, was deleted.
Oblivion chuckled slightly, and gave a satisfied sigh. But...wait. He didn't want to be negligent, after all; he turned around slowly and faced his fellow agent. A hungry glint shone in his eyes.
"S—sssir?" The personnel officer leaned back in his chair, watching his superior intently.
Oblivion laughed. He reached out with his right hand, and leaned forward, resting his left upon the armrest of the spider's chair. His fingers quaking slightly in anticipation, Oblivion opened wide his outstretched hand, touching his fingertips to the other agent's head. "I'm sorry," Oblivion intoned, "that I had to tell you so much about the chess code."
—Amanda Flowers