The Thirteenth Guardian

By Angi Reed

Livvy was a remarkable child, who grew into a remarkable woman. Then life got complicated. Thrust into a world of allies and monsters, she must decide which is which.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Angi Reed
• Release date: Nov 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005112073

Book preview

Chapter 1

I am #13. More accurately, I am one half of #13. The other half is Robot. Strictly speaking, Robot is not actually a robot, but he looks like one, and I had to call him something. Sorry, this is getting confusing, let's start over...

Out there, in the world, I was Livvy. I was born to middle class, working parents. I went to school, went to college, fell in love, got married, got widowed. Basically, a pretty normal life story, right? Like all normal life stories, though, once you get past the outline, it gets much less cookie-cutter.

You see, I did all those normal life things on an extremely accelerated timeline. When my parents took me for preschool testing at age four, my I.Q. was found to be...well, that’s not important. Instead of preschool, I was enrolled in a school for the gifted. Of course, all education is free in the Unified Western Hemisphere, but things like boarding, travel and general living expenses had to be covered. I was granted a scholarship that not only covered these things, but also allowed me to come home on the holidays.

The school I was sent to was in Brazil, thousands of miles from everyone I had ever known and millions of miles from anything I had experienced. My parents put me on the plane with many tears and kisses. And sweets, and books, and did you remember your coat, and listen to your teachers, and make friends, and be good, and we love you. By the time it was time to go, I was beyond ready to start this new adventure.

The plane was mostly full of students, most of them older than me. I took a seat next to the window in an empty row. No one came to sit next to me. The plane took off and I suddenly felt very alone.

We landed and were collected by the school. We each had individual rooms – which were actually small stalls in a huge room – each containing a single bed with drawers underneath, a small desk and a chair. There was a small rod with school uniforms on the wall across from the bed. Aside from a couple of wall-mounted lights, that was it. I unpacked my two small bags quickly and went out to explore my new home – carefully locking my door behind me as several signs on the walls had instructed.

Everything was huge. The dormitory bathroom had a dozen shower stalls, sinks, and toilets. They gymnasium was almost as big as the entire school back home. I followed the painted lines on the floor to the assembly room. There was theatre seating for about five thousand people and almost all the seats were filled.

I scurried to a seat at the end of a row. There was a big girl, an upperclassman, in the seat next to me. She turned her head to look at me and I smiled. She sneered at me and faced back to the front.

Way down on the stage, a man in a more grown-up version of the school uniform was showing slides on a big screen. He gave a short history on the school, a review of the rules and an overview of services like counsellors and workshops. We were released for free time, during which groups of people would be called in alphabetically to receive their schedules.

My guidance counsellor was a kind, but no-nonsense sort of woman. She greeted me and had me sit in a too-tall chair. Once I had settled myself, she handed me my schedule and set about explaining that each class had been chosen based on my scores and my preschool records. She handed me a basic map of the campus, asked if I had any questions, and gently pushed me out the door to make way for the next student.

I wandered through the massive building, consulting the map and finding all my classrooms. Students stood around in clusters which closed off when I approached. Teachers were nice enough, but made it clear they had no time to talk. So, I wandered, through the halls and out to the playing fields. There was a large game of kickball going on. I stopped to watch. Everyone looked like they were having fun, running around on this bright and sunny day. The ball was kicked off-sides and hit the toes of my shoes, bouncing up into my waiting hands. A boy a few years older than me jogged off the field and snatched the ball from me. You’re too little to play with us. Go away.

I turned abruptly and ran back to my little cell, tears stinging my eyes. I managed to unlock the door and slam it closed behind me before the tears fell. I sat huddled on the bed with my head on my knees and cried myself dry. Then I called my parents and begged to go home. They were sympathetic but told me to stick it out – that I would make friends, and soon I’d be begging to stay. I doubted it but nodded like a good girl. They asked about my classes and I showed them my room and they told me they loved me and signed off after one last suggestion. Call Nolan, he’s worried about you.

Nolan, the neighbor boy, was my friend. My only friend. He was a year older than me and had always been there. In a fair world, he would have been at school with me. But the world is not fair, and because his particular genius was not quantifiable on an IQ test, the education system wasn't interested in him. He was smart, very smart, in the top tier of people who still went to regular schools even. More importantly, he had a gift. Most people thought in straight lines, ordering the world into easily navigable freeways, but missing the scenery. People like me thought in curves, experiencing existence in great, swooping arcs and tight, precise spirals. We saw the scenery, but often missed the importance of the uniform bits of life. Nolan had the magical ability to do both. His mind could travel down a straight path for metaphorical miles, then suddenly veer off into a probability curve. He could ride a spiraling idea all the way to its logical terminus and instead of crashing at the bottom, level out and make it work. He is the only person I have ever known who saw the whole world, lines, circles, and all.

Once, when we were small, he asked me what my name was. I was confused. Livvy. You know that.

With the authoritative air of children everywhere, he informed me that "Livvy is not a real name. Not a whole name."

Is so. It’s my name. Always been my name.

But it’s short for something, right? Livvy would be short for Olivia.

It’s not! I’m just Livvy.

"So, no one calls you Olivia?

No. Why would they? It’s not my name.

He smiled and put his arm around my shoulder. Good. Then I’ll be the only one. I’ll call you Olivia from now on.

And he did, for about a week. Then it got shortened to Olive. From then on, he never called me anything else.

I hung up with my parents, wiped my face, and called him. His face appeared after the first ring, looking concerned. What happened, Olive?

I tried to put on a brave face and tell him everything was fine, but he saw right through it. He crossed his arms. Olive.

My composure broke and I miserably sobbed my way through the story. When I had finished, he nodded sagely. Well, you can’t blame them.

Hurt, I pushed tears off my cheeks with my palms. What? Why?

Well it’s obvious, they were too intimidated by your awesomeness.

I rolled my eyes, but I laughed. His lopsided grin lit up his blue eyes. There’s a smile! Now, go wash your face and get something to eat. They’ll warm up once they get to know you.

***

Though I was fairly tall and strong for my age, I was still one of the youngest there. I was also new, alone, and more than a little scared. In short, I was easy prey.

The school year was divided into three three-month semesters with a month off between each. In that first three months I had been subjected to every torment the bullies thought they could slip past the watchful eyes of the adults. I came home for my first holiday thoroughly discouraged.

My parents, though sympathetic, just couldn't see how a little schoolyard adversity could be so bad. There had been no violence beyond normal playground fights and they couldn't comprehend the evils that could be concocted by clique of a dozen scheming geniuses.

Whenever things would get bad at school, I would call Nolan. When I was home he always protected me from the neighborhood bullies. He said I had to deal with it enough at school. He wouldn’t teach me to fight as such, but he taught me how to defend myself. Use your environment, watch your opponent, and never be ashamed to hit them with something. Rules were for prizefights, in a real fight the only rule is get it over with as soon as possible.

He also taught me to never believe that something was going to hurt. It sounds counter-intuitive, but it was excellent advice for a small person who was constantly getting beaten up. Think about it. When you are surprised by something painful, it hurts. But when you see something painful coming, you flinch, you cringe, and you tighten up. You think about how much it’s going to hurt. By doing so, you not only extend the painful experience itself, but also end up getting hurt worse than you would have if you had been loose and able to ‘roll with the punches,’ as it were. This is a naturally developing behavior. It is designed to keep you from entering situations where you would get hurt. It makes you freeze up and avoid the source of the potential pain. A vital resource when avoidance is an option, a major hindrance when it’s not.

Nolan helped me retrain myself to not anticipate pain. It was extremely difficult, but well worth it. Any second you don’t hesitate in a fight is another second you have to devote to getting it over with.

Everyone thought Nolan and I would grow up and fall in love and live happily ever after. I suppose we might have, had circumstances been different. Instead, he became my brother.

A week after my seventh birthday, my father died in an industrial accident. My mother followed six months later. Nolan’s mom told me she had died of a broken heart, which was a lovely way of telling a child that her mother cleaned out the medicine and liquor cabinets in one fell swoop.

Nolan’s parents took me in. They were kind people and would have adopted me, but it was in my best interests to remain a ward of the government. But they provided me with a home and family when I wasn’t away at school and while I can’t really say that they treated me like a daughter, I at least attained something akin to a ‘favorite niece’ status.

Nolan, on the other hand, took his new job of big brother very seriously. Bullies who had come after me before had gotten a sound thrashing, now they were put down for so much as looking at me.

People often had a hard time accepting Nolan as my brother. I was average sized with dark hair and green eyes and he was of the solid Nordic stock so prevalent in our hometown. Of course, if they were in doubt, all they had to do was pick on me. Or later, try to date me.

Even while I was at school he was a constant presence. We didn’t talk every day, but at least three times a week. And any boy who was interested in me had to be immediately presented to the viewscreen for inspection.

Chapter 2

When I graduated I also emancipated from wardship. I was officially an adult. Nolan had graduated the year before and I spent the summer with him before moving to New Jersey to work at the Ministry of Public Affairs.

Truth be told, life at the Ministry really wasn’t much different than life at school. I had a small apartment on the facility’s campus instead of a small cubicle in a dormitory and most of my peers were either nice or disinterested. Other than that, it was basically just a change of scenery.

I had only been there for a couple of weeks before I got my first big project. I was to manufacture a standard of male physical beauty. It was to influence the public to place trust in the elected officials of the Unified Western Hemisphere.

It was an intensive process. I analyzed thousands of photos of politicians, past and present, as well as popular celebrities. I compiled hundreds of mash-ups of various features and ran them through focus groups.

In the end, it came down to two options in a tie. I had to make a call, so, completely subjectively, I chose the one that I felt inspired the most confidence. Tall, fair, and mostly symmetrical but with a tendency for one side of the mouth to turn up higher when smiling. It wasn’t until some time later that I realized that, though the composite picture didn’t look like him at all, I had basically set Nolan as the very embodiment of trustworthiness.

The Ministry of Public Affairs controlled the media. If you saw something on the news, you can be sure it went through the Ministry first. But it didn’t stop there. Television programs, movies, books, music, even advertisements had to be rigorously approved or were outright constructed by the Ministry.

After about a month I was assigned to a department. Known within the Ministry as Department of Frivolities, we handled fads and trends. When a handbag suddenly skyrocketed in popularity or a celebrity fell from grace, we were behind it. It does sound frivolous, but we were honestly one of the most important departments at MPA.

The war with the East had been going on and off for as long as anyone could remember. It used resources and depleted the workforce. While we were currently taking the war to them, there was the constant threat that the tide would turn, and the fighting would come here. For obvious reasons this caused a certain strain on the populace. Such strain could incite riot, or even rebellion. My Department provided much-needed distraction from the stress of being in imminent danger. The work required flexibility and quick thought because fads had to change often to hold the public interest. We also had to keep thousands of trends going at once, keeping an eye on each one, analyzing its worth and longevity, determining if it should be developed or dumped and replaced. The answers to these questions could change from moment to moment. We were always on our toes. Nevertheless, many of our colleagues considered us to be somehow less, as though what we did was not real work. On the occasions that we had to work with another department, we were usually met with resentment.

One time, for about a month, my department was invaded by War Correspondence. Their systems were down, and we were deemed best able to accommodate them. They were loud and brash and came in like they owned the place, setting up temporary workstations wherever they felt best, they even went so far as to move our stations out of their way. I generally paid them no mind, smiling politely at anyone who approached and going about my work the rest of the time.

Many of my coworkers resented the intrusion, arguing vehemently against being moved, always futilely. So, when a group of five men approached my station I reached into my desk for my purse and stood up. The men stopped in front of me. Miss, we need to move you. The speaker’s tone was one of firm resolve. Several people around me stopped what they were doing to watch. I had developed a reputation as a firecracker. I also knew to pick my battles. This one was not important. The men noticed the extra attention and changed stance, prepared for yet another fight.

Instead, I smiled at them and nodded my assent. All right. I’m going to lunch, where will I be when I get back?

A stunned silence surrounded me. One of the men pointed wordlessly to the far wall. Still smiling, I nodded again and walked out of the room.

I usually ate at my desk. Today I went outside to the Ministry’s gardens. I found a small bower among the rose bushes and sat, enjoying the warmth of the sun and the smell of the flowers. It was a perfect moment. I dozed.

I woke a few minutes later and made my way back to the office. The War Correspondence guys were none too careful when moving our workstations, and I expected to come back to a disaster zone. So I was very surprised to find my desk relocated to the back wall, in exactly the state I had left it. Well, almost exactly. When I had gone to lunch there had been a half-drunk bottle of water next to my monitor. Now it was in the middle of my desk, holding a single white rose. I looked around, but no one was looking at me. I carefully moved it back beside my monitor and sat down to work. Throughout the rest of the day I stole glances at this gift and smiled.

By the end of the day no one had approached me. I knew the rose had to be from one of our invaders, but whom? I had not paid any notice to any of them, so I didn’t know if any of them had been paying me particular attention. It was most likely one of the men who had moved my desk, but in all honesty, I wouldn’t have been able to pick any of them out in a crowd. It occurred to me that the flower could have just been a thank you for not giving them a hard time. Indeed, since I had so gracefully acquiesced to being relocated, the rest of the department was less resistant to their presence and some of the tension had gone out of the room. That thought was immediately dismissed. The flower was obviously picked fresh while I was at lunch. If it were just a thanks, it probably would have been a zinnia, they were close to the door, pretty, and generally easy to get to. The white roses, on the other hand, were thorny, right in the middle of the garden, and most telling, only grew where I was sleeping at the time. That meant someone had sought me out and found me asleep, but still wanted me to know they had been there. But, given the absence of a note, not who they were. It was puzzling – and admittedly a little creepy – but very exciting. I’d never had a secret admirer before – at least that I knew of.

As soon as I got home, I called Nolan to tell him all about it. He was less enthusiastic.

Olive, you don’t know anything about this person.

That’s not true. I protested. I know they work in War Correspondence, I know they are romantic enough to give me a flower they found me surrounded by. I know they are shy, or they would have left a note. I know they pay attention to detail because they put the rose in water, and they’re resourceful because they used the bottle already on my desk. I know they are meticulous and creative and have an IQ of at least 185 because they work in WC.

Yes, Olive, but that’s all general stuff. You don’t know who this person is, or even what sort of things they like.

I’m willing to bet they like fairytales. At least Sleeping Beauty. I said glibly.

And I know you’ve read the original. He retorted.

Yet here I remain, unmolested. Honestly, Brother, you worry too much.

I just don’t like it. They sound like a stalker. Besides, I don’t like you getting involved with someone who works for the government.

I laughed. "Nolan! I work for the government! You contract with the government!"

He gave me a lopsided grin. "Exactly! And who would date us?"

I couldn’t take it anymore. I collapsed into giggles.

Still smiling, he said, But seriously, as soon as you find out who it is, you present him for inspection. Immediately.

No longer giggling but outright laughing now I snapped off a mocking salute. Sir, yes sir, Brother Sir!

When I arrived at work the next morning there was a note. It was held down by an insulated cup from the cafeteria. The note was typed. It said:

I had to guess. Hope it’s okay.

:-) A

Cautiously, I took a sip. It was a good guess. It was widely known – at least throughout my Department – that I don’t drink coffee, so they had apparently done some asking around. It was not my usual South American tea – which I had developed a taste for at school – but it was a very nice white tea with hints of rose and honey. It was still hot.

I looked around. Just like the day before, no one was obviously paying me any attention. I smiled anyway and took another sip, then sat down in front of my computer.

I didn’t get much work done that day. The mystery consumed me. I had some clues now. It was likely one of the men who moved my desk. They were really the only ones I had interacted with. That didn’t help much because I hadn’t really looked at any of them, but they were all men. Unfortunately, since my pool was the War Correspondence department, that only narrowed my odds by 8%. Well, it was a start. Next, he signed the note with the letter A. It was most likely that it was his first initial. It could have been for a surname or a nickname, but statistically, first name was my best bet. So, a man whose first name began with A. A was a popular letter. Nevertheless, my options were now narrowed down to fifty-four potential candidates. Okay, not great, but better.

I still had some tricks up my sleeve. There were no surveillance cameras inside my department, but there was one by the door. Since the tea was still hot – hotter than I like, even – when I had gotten there, I figured it had been brought in within 10 minutes of my arrival. To be safe I went back 15 minutes and watched the footage. Forty-nine people from WC entered in that time. Every one of them was carrying at least one insulated cup. This was a department evidently devoted to caffeine.

Out of the forty-nine, thirty-six had names beginning with A and two were not facing the camera well enough for identification. I was down to thirty-eight candidates.

I called the cafeteria to ask how many people had bought that particular tea today. Working with more than three thousand people who dealt in statistics, they were used to such questions. I didn’t really expect a helpful answer from that quarter and so, was not disappointed when a prompt reply of 314 was given.

I had one more resource. I had saved the best for last. Lauren. Lauren was a sweet lady in her thirties. She looked like everyone’s favorite aunt and would listen to even the most inane story with an expression of rapt attention. As such, Lauren knew everything about everyone. At least in the Department. She was the obvious person to go to if you wanted to find out what someone liked to drink. There was also the fact that she had been sneaking glances at me all day. Every time I caught her at it, she most emphatically did not giggle. I could see how hard it was for her not to, eyes sparkling and lip caught between teeth. Yes, come lunch time, I was going to talk to Lauren.

We sat down with our trays and I started in with the questions right away.

Lauren, who brought me tea today? And a rose yesterday?

She gave me a sly look across the table. What makes you think I would know?

I rolled my eyes. Because you know everything that goes on around here.

That made her smile. I do, don’t I?

So… I said impatiently.

She gave me an impish grin. It was a guy from War Correspondence.

Exasperated sigh. I already knew that.

"You did not. You guessed."

I figured.

Same thing.

It’s not, and you know it.

Another impish grin.

So, come on Lauren, give me more.

No.

Why not? Now I really was exasperated.

Because I’ve never seen you have this much fun. I’m not going to spoil it.

I was pleading now. It wouldn’t spoil anything! It would let me concentrate on work. Please, Lauren?

"Oh, but it would spoil it. It would be like reading the last page of a book when you’d only got to the middle."

I collapsed back into my chair with another sigh. I hate how right you are.

I know. Smiling smugly. People often do.

Will you at least give me a hint?

She tapped her bottom lip with her fork. Well, he knows your favorite tea.

Then why did he get me a different one?

Because you’re one of, like, three white people who drink that dross. They’d remember him and you were bound to call the cafeteria.

My mind raced. I assumed white meant not Hispanic or African, which narrowed my options to twenty-four. I was getting much closer, but I said; that’s not really a hint, Lauren. Surely you can do better than that.

She rolled her eyes and shook her head at me. She knew I was playing dumb.

Please?

She relented. All right, but this is the last one.

I leaned forward eagerly.

You know your masculine beauty standard?

I nodded.

Let’s just say he’d never be the poster boy.

So, he’s ugly?

Would that mean he had no chance?

I was hurt. Of course not! He’s already proven to be sweet and romantic. That’s far more important than looks.

She smiled as though I had passed some test. Well, that’s good, but luckily for you, he’s quite pleasant looking. He just doesn’t fit all of your criteria.

"Whoa! Wait a minute! They’re not my criteria! They were picked out by focus groups, remember?" I protested.

Perhaps, but you chose the final standard, remember?

I chose between two extremely similar profiles! I was nothing more than a tiebreaker!

She smiled again. I know, Livvy. I’m just teasing you.

I smiled back. So, that’s really all you’re giving me?

She nodded. There was no use pressing for more, that was all there was to be had.

Back at my desk I looked at my twenty-four candidates. Not very many ticked all the boxes for poster boy. There were several who were fair skinned but had dark hair or weren’t tall or had perfectly even smiles. Lauren’s first clue had eliminated more than her last. In the end I only lost two more options. Oh well, twenty-two was still better than twenty-four. It was a lot better than seventy-eight, which is where I had started.

The next morning, I walked into work excited to see what my mystery man had left me this time. I felt a crashing disappointment when I arrived at my desk and there was nothing. I chastised myself for acting like a silly little girl. Whoever this guy was, he didn’t owe me anything, especially not daily gifts. I sat down at my computer and started my day.

There was something odd in my email. It was a message from a no-reply address. No-reply emails automatically went to the junk folder, always. But here was this one with no subject line and an anonymous address that I couldn’t even respond to. I tried moving it to the junk folder, but it wouldn’t go. When I tried deleting it, I got a message saying it could not be deleted until opened. I should have called IT, but I was annoyed by the absence of a gift and annoyed with myself for being annoyed. Furthermore, I was intrigued by this email. I clicked on it, hoping against hope that it wouldn’t give the whole department a virus. It opened, and I smiled. He hadn’t ignored me today.

The email was short and designed to drive me crazy – in a good way. Over a picture of a white rose, in all caps, were the words:

LIV,

FOUND ME YET?

;)

-AL

Okay, so I had a name, or at least part of the name. I looked through my twenty-two candidates, all of them white men from the WC who had come in during a specific fifteen-minute time period and whose names began with A. I felt confident that I could find him today. How many Als could there be?

None. It turned out there were none. Not a single Alfred, Alan, Alphonse, or Algoth among them. Out of twenty-two names beginning with A there was not one that could logically be turned into Al. Not. One.

I was crushed. Somewhere along the line my process had gone awry. But where? I went back to the beginning and reviewed the entire department. In seventy-eight names there were four names that might be turned into Al. Three women; Alice Alyssa and Allison, but Lauren had stated unequivocally that it was a man. She may have tried to misdirect me, but she wouldn’t have outright lied, that would have thrown the game.

The one man on the list was literally the least likely person to be trying to attract my attention. His name was Alfredo. He was an elderly black man whose three children and twelve grandchildren had recently converged to celebrate his fiftieth anniversary with his husband. He was a serious, straightforward man who wouldn’t have played games like this even if he were single, younger, and interested in starting an office romance with a sixteen-year-old. I was disappointed that I didn’t find my secret admirer, but relieved that my system had not proven flawed.

I decided to put the problem away for now and actually get some work done.

It was good that I was more than caught up on my work, because that resolve didn’t last very long. To be fair, it was a different problem that caught my attention this time.

War Correspondence was having a meeting. We were doing our level best to ignore it, but the louder their voices got, the harder that became. It became impossible to do anything but listen to what was quickly devolving from a talking point to an all-out argument.

The meeting was probably classified, but most of the people in my department had a high clearance and everyone at the Ministry had signed a nondisclosure agreement. Truthfully though, they were so caught up in their discussion that I doubt they would’ve cared if they were on the Boardwalk.

Apparently, this was not the first time this particular subject had been hashed out. The beginning of the fight was someone wistfully expressing the desire to be able to track the movements of and connections between civilians. The arguments for such an ability were innumerable, the arguments against it insurmountable. The cons boiled down to; cost, efficiency, and backlash once it was eventually discovered. The debate raged for over an hour until it nearly came to blows.

It basically came down to a screaming match between two men, each of them the very embodiment of one of the two types of people in the WC. WC was composed of people who were obsessed with war and people who were all about the spin of correspondence. The first of the two men was definitely War. He was roughly the size of a tank, with a buzz cut and muscles obviously acquired at the gym. Gym rat or not, he could have ripped Correspondence in half. Lengthwise.

Correspondence was short. Shorter than me. His hair was unruly, like it hadn’t seen a comb in years, and his glasses looked to be in danger of sliding off his nose at any moment. Nevertheless, his body language was becoming more and more hostile by the moment. When he was about a second away from taking a swing at War – and signing his own death warrant I was sure – I stood up with my fingers at the corners of my mouth and delivered a piercing whistle that brought everyone up short.

Everyone – the combatants, their coworkers, my coworkers, the mailroom guy making deliveries, everyone – stopped what they were doing and stared at me.

I put my hands down by my side, palms out – a non-confrontational gesture. My voice was calm and even as I approach these people who had done nothing but disrupt our normally Zen-like work environment for the last three days.

I walked slowly toward them like I was approaching a wild dog – it sort of felt like I was. Hey, I said firmly but with no malice, I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but it was a little hard to not overhear you. This got a few titters from the Trends and Fads people and even a couple of smiles from WC. War and Correspondence, however, did not find me amusing. They retained their hostile stances but now they were aimed at me. Not the desired result, but a step in the right direction, sort of. At least they were presenting a united front.

War snarled at me, Don’t you have ‘work’ to do, girly?

I smiled benignly. "In fact, I do have work to do. I gestured to my colleagues ranged around walls, we all do. Unfortunately, we can’t seem to get anything done until your problem is solved."

Now it was Correspondence’s turn to sneer at me. "We are so sorry that we’re making it difficult to compare fabric swatches, or whatever it is you waste government money doing here. But you see, sweetie, here he very clearly intended to pat me on the head, but something in my face made him think better of it. You see, what we do is real work. Important work. So, you just run along and let us take care of things that actually matter."

There were outraged murmurs behind me and I heard a few chairs scrape back. I held up one hand and the noise behind me ceased. I gave them a condescending smile. Addressing both of them, I said, Well, since your work is so very important, why don’t you get back to it? And since we, indicating Trends and Fads, obviously don’t have anything better to do, we’ll solve your problem for you.

War actually bent down to better laugh in my face. You? He said between guffaws. You think you can create an effective surveillance system?

I held his gaze. "Of course I can, I’m not an idiot."

He stopped laughing, though several others, even some of his own people, started. His eyes narrowed. All right, girly, you’re on.

Correspondence chimed in, "Remember, it’s got to