May 12, 2020

May 13, 2020

The Bronx

New York City

"Uuuuuh, Shit!"

Paul arose with an ache all over his body. He arms felt tight, bound by something, and as his blurring eyes cleared up, he saw several bandages wrapped around his arms and his feet. His head had a terrible, pounding, throbbing sensation, the result of a nasty hangover. Still, the pain was comforting to him, a sign that he was still alive, and safe. The bandages, though tight, felt warm, secure, and snug in their own way, but since his body had revolted against him in a great denial of movement, all he could look at was the ceiling.

The first thing he noticed was that it wasn't his. It was of fairly cheap plaster, coated again in paint and patching by brush in wide, interlaced squares that linked in an off-white chain. A beautiful wrought iron lamp hung over his head, and he wondered at its intricate design, comforted by its strong, but attractive appearance. Suddenly, an abrupt double pop was heard outside with the resonance of not so distant alleyways. At first, he thought it was the massive pounding in his head, but then it dawned on him that it was gunfire. He jumped out of bed, surprising his body, which soon reassured him of it's desire not to move by a wave of soreness.

He was a total mess. His stomach hurt, his arms felt raw, his face was speckled in nicks and spots of furless skin, and the 2.5 Fortys he had so thoughtlessly drank were coming back to smash the insides of his skull like a madman with a sledgehammer. The soft scratch of pad and claws on concrete caused him to perk his ears, of which one, he realized, was held down by bandages. The noise, it turned out, was Sergei, wide awake and milling about his apartment with a stylish green terry cloth bathrobe.

He spoke with a touch of a Russian accent, one he hadn't quite worked out yet. "Ah, good morning." He held out his arms, displaying his palms and showing off his apartment. "Welcome to my humble abode. Do you like it?"

He hadn't really looked around yet, but what he saw was quite aesthetically pleasing. The drab white ceilings and dark brick walls were personalized with landscape paintings, framed family photographs, and a fireplace directly in front of the sofa where he was resting. The fireplace, of course, wasn't real, and a digital TV sat in the alcove, but most of the apartment had an Old World flavor to it, a refreshing change from the constant contemporary themes he always saw. Setting his feet on the carpet, the few exposed spots on them felt the comfortable, thick cloth, and he quickly realized from the fine fibers that it wasn't standard carpeting. Instead, it was a beautiful Afghan carpet with a "star" patterning, the kind where red and white quartered ovals encircle a white shape, normally a star.

The floor, however, was parquet, the kind that pointed in one direction for one strip, then the opposite way in the next, and so on. Despite this, Paul noticed an unseasonably warm temperature inside, and as he continued looking around he spotted a multitude of security devices: Motion detector, three second delay camera, heat sensor, and an unusual setup, a pair of LAM's in the corner. LAM's, or Lightweight Explosive Munitions, were a fairly recent development, a cherry red triangular explosive charge that consisted primarily of a motion sensor, a threat analysis chip, and a highly compacted plastic explosive. They were quite professionally rigged, and Paul suddenly froze in his tracks when he saw the steady glow of the three red lights, a signal that they were activated. Sergei casually looked at them.

"Oh, right, sorry." He turned and yelled out. "Security! Off!"

Suddenly, the whirring of mechanics sounded all around. Not only did the LAM's deactivate, but as he turned around, an M3 rocket launcher aimed at the door hissed and rested on a hydraulic stand, its funneled head resting on the wood surface of the end table that concealed it. As Paul jumped around on his sofa, the mechanics abruptly stopped.

"Uh, Sergei… what… is… all this?"

"Security. Relax, the timers are extended so that if someone busts in, they'll have plenty of time to be discouraged and leave. Plus, that camera, I've reset it to ten seconds before alarm activation. It's a bit unsafe, I know, but it does the job." He stopped and perked his ears, looking at Paul. "Coffee?"

Paul smiled, stunned at his friend's extreme security measures. "Are there any plastic explosives in it?"

He laughed. "Only a little, for flavor." Disappearing into the kitchen, he returned with two steaming cups of Joe and gave one to Paul, who gratefully took it. It had a distinctive bitter taste, and was somewhat unrefined. The less than sterile coffee, he had to admit, had a unique and satisfying flavor.

"This is interesting." He indicated the cup. "Is it any special kind?"

Sergei took a quick sip and looked at Paul. "Ever heard of a Samovar?"

"No. What is it, another one of your security contraptions?"

He laughed again. So far, he had gotten the man to laugh at things twice in two minutes. "Not too shabby." "Only if you consider caffeine a security measure. Actually, it's an old Russian coffee machine, quite novel, very efficient, and somewhat quaint. You take hot coals and put them in a central tube or urn. This urn is encircled by a larger tank of hot water. My version takes this hot water and runs it through a slow percolator, into a second tank, and keeps it insulated and warm so that you can pour it into, well, whatever you want from a faucet."

"Whoa, you didn't have to go through all the trouble for me."

"Trouble? I do this every day. Well, maybe this is just the opinion of a Russian, but I think that Starbucks basically a grand marketing scam made to seduce people into buying liquefied shit. No, I make my coffee, I like my coffee." He took another sip, ever so careful with the hot concoction and his canine muzzle. Paul would have pointed out that it was perfectly fine to lap the coffee, both being wolves and the only ones there, but when he tried it himself he narrowly evaded scalding his tongue. He noticed the calming solitude of the place and began walking around, a bit sore on his scab speckled footpads.

He noticed a picture of a wavy haired, broad built man embracing an attractive young woman in a Cossack hat and a less than traditional green slicker. They were in front of Saint Basil's Cathedral in Moscow. He sipped the energizing brew, this time gently blowing on the surface to cool it down.

"So, Sergei, are you a Muscovite?"

"Hmm? Oh, no, no. That's just where I worked under the employ of Zil. No, I'm an easterner, from the far northern reaches of Saint Petersburg. Terribly cold, but it builds character and teaches you a few things."

"Like what?"

"Well, I'll try and name a few. You realize that it's been a while. Don't lick any poles, no matter what, keeping warm takes priority over almost everything else, and to keep warm… well… let's just say some of our most attractive women are conceived in the east, and it would be a shame not to enjoy the benefits of this."

Paul smiled and looked around some more, noting several pictures of Sergei doing different things. Riding across a frozen tundra in an old BRDM, bundles of tightly grouped friends posing in pictures, and photographs of landmarks that tried very hard to conceal the underlying poverty, but never failed to catch the dirty, poorly fed, and ill clad denizens of wherever the pictures were taken. Of all the pictures, he seemed to have a close relationship with the same woman, a brunette of medium height and gentle facial features. He couldn't often tell what she looked like underneath, as many of the pictures were taken in Russia's long winter.

"So, I take it you're looking at the chronicles of my life. Well, while you're at it, I might as well point out a few." He stepped toward a particularly cluttered picture from inside an old soviet roadhouse of sorts, with dirty wood tables with flecks of food, poorly whitewashed concrete walls, and a caged hanging lamp. A group of ten were intertwined, arm on shoulder, shoulder on arm, and each had more modest clothing on than many of the other photos. He indicated a man on the far left with a skinny white face, a pair of circular glasses, and a near perfect smile.

"That's Anatole, a good friend of mine all the way from the corporate academy. Not much of a soldier, but he could really sniff out evidence on the scene. Oh, by the way, most of these men were my co-workers except for…" he panned around the photograph.

"Ah, Leonid. This was our quick trip to Vladivostok in '15, and he wanted to come and help, so we let him… in a limited manner." He indicated another person, this one a stocky woman with a pretty rounded face and a slant eyed smile. "This is Petya. She was sort of my mentor, and almost the team leader. A very competent, smart woman."

Paul couldn't understand why he had ignored the woman who was coupled with him in so many fond pictures. He pointed her out in the picture, able to see her with somewhat wet hair that fell down to the bottom of her neck. "Who's that?"

Sergei hesitated, without a smile. "That's… Irianna. Why do you ask?"

"I was just curious. She was in a few other pictures, so I just wondered what kind of…"

Abruptly, he barked out. "Who are you to ask about my personal life like that??" Reeling from his sudden aggressiveness, his ears drooped and he massaged his brow. "Sorry, few people have been able to get me really mad, and she is…" He sighed. "She… was one of them."

Paul stood up on doubly padded feet and held in his reaction to the pain. Before he could respond to Sergei, however, the wolf spoke again. "Do not get me wrong, Paul, I know for a fact that she is still alive, but the way things went I would have preferred it if either one of us had died to spare the other too much prolonged pain and worry. Sometimes, it's better for someone just to pass away. It does little to diminish the memory of someone, but it at least gives them some peace of mind, peace that is much needed in these hard times." He sat down in a comfortable looking green armchair and rested his coffee on the accompanying end table before propping up his arms in a pensive position.

Paul walked around. He'd have to get used to it. There weren't any guarantees that conventional medbots could heal his damage, so he tried to accept the idea of healing normally. "Sergei… I know this is kind of abrupt, being the morning and all, and I don't mean to pry, but… what happened?"

He leaned forward, thinking for a moment. "This is my lesson to you Paul. Normally, I know, you see me instructing about demolitions technique and the like, but I want you to know that you should never, ever be fooled by the illusion that your work nor your love is more important than your life and your personal motives. Too many connections to the world around you will eventually rip the soul from your body. I've seen you and Dana, you seem very close… but I just can't believe…"

Paul became a bit irritated, but calmed down a bit as he realized that Sergei was one of his best friends, and was allowed some personal inquiry. "Sergei… you still haven't told me."

"Don't push it, Paul." Some unfortunate memories portrayed an unfortunate expression on his face. Paul knew the scents of wolves very well, being one, and he could tell that Sergei was busy digging up painful memories. "Irianna was the woman I loved. You see, she was one of my co-workers. We didn't always like each other, it wasn't the immediate relationship you and Dana had and still do. However, when we saw that we both wanted what was better for everyone, and the numerous employees of Zil, we made that special connection. We started out humbly, on evening walks and conversations at Samovar houses… it was almost, how you say, "cute"."

He shifted in his seat, resting the base of his muzzle in his fingers and taking a pensive pose. "Soon we were always together, and I soon found out that the possibility of my taking her to France was not the only reason she wanted to be with me. Until then, I had only known poverty and horror." He sighed. "Nobody in America knows the atrocities that happen in Russia, I find it difficult to stomach the overwhelming ignorance. On any given day one can see a policeman brutally beat down someone who's stolen a jug of milk. You can see a man who you first think is sleeping, but when you see the severed stump of his neck, you realize that he is but another victim of the Mafia. I have seen famine, widespread poverty, suicides, brutal gun killings right on the street… Russia is not a safe place for anyone to live. For those who were strong, like Zil and Antonov, they try valiantly to provide some economic relief, but all their efforts are futile. I'll even admit that Zil and Lada were deeply corrupted by the Mafia, and even though I know that many in the Mafia only wish to achieve success, I still weep because honest children starve while gangsters prosper."

He continued. "Irianna and I wanted to get away from all this, to escape the bonds of crippled mother Russia. Simply put, I felt I couldn't leave because I prioritized my job, and she felt that even a handsome paycheck is not worth the trouble of staying in Russia. I realize now that she was right, and I will never forgive myself. Nobody deserves to love a lout like me. I'm Russian, I'm a genetic freak, I kill for sustenance, I prioritize my job over my love, I'm the bastard of a French diplomat and a cheap whore…Irianna taught me that you can only know how low you really are if you're taken up on high and dropped ruthlessly. After my relationship with her, I knew what I had to do. I wanted to help people, use my talents for something wholesome and decent. I should thank Irianna, but I curse her memory for what she has blinded me with."

He sat in his seat, not weeping for anything or anyone. He just took his coffee and gently sipped. Sergei was strong, but Paul had never known that his self-confidence was so completely torn apart. Paul looked at Sergei's hollow, wide pupils in the whitish-gray morning light. "Sergei… is that why you were joined UNATCO, because of Irianna?"

A lonely tear streaked down his face. "I… I thought that America would be a better place to go, to help and be useful, but now I see that now America is going the same place Russia has… and I've betrayed my nation by escaping it! Paul, don't you get it?"

Paul looked up, ears perked. "Get what?"

"This… all this! The Soviet Union, the communist regime… with so little education, Russia has become ignorant, selfish, and vulnerable. Now the American culture has deteriorated, with its racism and its nationalism and its total ignorance to what is really happening… I couldn't save Russia, but now I fear that I cannot save America. I weep not for Irianna, but for the evil seed she has forever implanted in my mind, the seed of utter despair and futility, the knowledge that no matter what I do, it won't matter. And that's why I steer away from friendship, Paul, that's why Irianna is a name that will always live in infamy in my mind."

Paul stood still in his tracks. Sergei was the most melancholy of souls he had ever seen, and while he felt that this was quite unhealthy for him, he was relieved to know that this great burden had been lifted from his friend's soul. Sergei's words shocked him. Cannot save America? What does he exactly mean by that?

"Sergei… you say that America is disintegrating. Why? We don't live any worse, our economy is battered, but still bullish, the people are getting more medicine…"

Sergei laughed in a hearty, half-mocking tone. "Ah, if I had a nickel every time I heard that one. I'll tell you something, you finish your coffee, and I'll take you to the vet, but first we'll stop at the nearby clinic to show you just how well off Americans are."

Paul pondered the statement and first inquired about the vet. "Hold on, we're going to a veterinary hospital?"

Sergei scoffed, standing up. "Of course! What, are you surprised that they'll take in hybrids? After all, we're half canine, and most of these clinics specialize in felines and canines. I'm pretty sure they'll have specially geared medbots to heal up your larger wounds."

Paul continued. "What about the free clinic? What does that have to do with us?"

Sergei replied in his regular, carefree manner. "If someone doubts me, and I know I'm right, I feel very strongly about correcting them. A little less ignorance is always a good thing."

The trip to the local free clinic was a surreal collage of the culture and clashes inherent to the Bronx. Unlike the pure grease and concrete scum so stereotyped in movies, the occasional tree poked out from behind a wall or fence. Some were firmly placed in their own alcoves, which were in disrepair. Posters, rusty nails, and scratchings marked each and every tree's base like a bear that had marked his territory many times. Hispanic, Chinese, Black, Russian, Italian, and Caucasian people all walked the street, sometimes in designated cliques, other times in hurried isolation, the general feeling of New Yorkers. While profane and crude graffiti marked the walls, some truly beautiful pieces were scrawled on what would be dull brick walls, but community workers were still doggedly scrubbing away the different form of art. The men in blue overalls had been stuck in the middle of a society that was half-blind: Their eyes were open, yet they failed to truly see everything for its worth. In their wake they left a cold, bland brick wall, a reflection of their attempt to comprehend their actions.

As the car pulled up to a cracked patch of road in front of a decidedly socialist looking concrete slab building, the suspension creaked and jostled in protest. Carefully easing himself out of the car on the street's side, Sergei seemed to spill out of the car in one flowing movement, his trenchcoat following like a smooth black wake. Spinning around, he stopped and eased his door shut, looking at Paul gracelessly step out of the car with two wounded feet. He seemed to limp, but as each foot seemed to hurt equally, he might as well have walked on his arms. He read the nearby sign: "Laurel Park Clinic", a pleasant, but unsuitable name for the concrete block district. The scene in itself was depressing, but when Paul noticed all the unhealthy looking people milling about, he realized that the great majority of them were walking out of the clinic with the same devastated expression on their faces. It was the expression of someone who knew they were going to die and also that were completely powerless against it. A terribly pale looking man with bruises around his eyes and a swollen neck almost fell into him, scrabbling at the arm of his torn trenchcoat. He cried out in a rasping voice.

"Please! Kill me! Oh, for the love of God, just kill me!" Paul swiped up his arm as the man fell to his knees, sobbing and pleading for anyone to put him out of his misery. Sergei wordlessly continued up to the clinic, dodging a young couple that rudely pushed down the stairs, trying desperately to hide something. At the top of the landing, Sergei abruptly turned around, briefly snatching the sunglasses off his face.

"Those two were lucky, and smart not to show it. They might have caused a riot."

Paul inquired. "You mean they were lucky enough to…"

Sergei cut him off quietly. "Yes."

The inside of the clinic was even more gruesome. The smell of death came wafting out of every crevice, and all around people were clamoring to find out what had happened. Paul spotted a group of unhealthy looking people with their arms raised in anger. They all convened around a single doctor who emanated a smooth, powerful voice with an English accent.

"I'm sorry, but as soon as Ambrosia production increases, congress will underwrite the cost! As of now, we're trying the best we can to get an ample supply of Ambrosia and FNT!"

A slant-eyed, husky man in a brown jacket protested. "This is supposed to be a FREE clinic! I'll bet if I had more money you'd give it to me!"

"I'm sorry, sir, but there's nothing I can do for you now."

"I've never seen any movie stars with the plague… no rich people have it, billionaire Donald Mason doesn't have it, the president doesn't have it… YOU don't have it!"

"DON'T make me call security!"

"You'll need a lot more than security when I'm through with you, ya selfish, sadistic prick!"

This situation was getting ugly fast. It was time for Paul and Sergei to do their job, even if they were off duty. Paul glanced at Sergei, who had the same stoical frown he always had. He stood his ground and extended his palm, letting Paul know he was the man for the job. Limping slightly and gathering his composure, he stepped into the crowd.

"Excuse me, sir."

The man gave him an aggressive scowl and emanated the musky scent of human anger. Paul carefully chose his words. "Sir, please, we don't want to create a situation here. You should try to understand, by helping all of you people, he risks his own health."

The man seemed slightly calmer, but was still indignant. He emphasized his sentence and slowed his words as if talking to a simple minded child. "But he won't give me any medicine!"

The doctor spoke out, the crowd dispersing slightly to reveal his face. He was a man of fair complexion with a moderately well groomed moustache, smooth, short hair, black rimmed eyeglasses, and a doctor's coat. "That's what I've been trying to tell you. We haven't any more medicine. I assure you that as soon as we get some I won't hold it back."

The man scowled, looking at Paul, then the doctor's intimidated eyes. He spoke coldly with a trace of vengeance. "You'd BETTER not!" With these words, the man disappeared from the clinic, and as the man made his way into an office, Paul followed him in.

The office was standard issue, with dull concrete, a holographic computer, medical diagrams, and certificates. The doctor rubbed his sinuses and sat down in an overstuffed synthetic leather seat. "I'm sorry, the ones with Spirovirus can be so stubborn sometimes."

Paul responded coolly. The heavy stink of death was almost insufferable. "No problem. It's my job. Listen, I should get going, I have to…"

The doctor pivoted in his chair. "Hold on… I might be able to help you. It seems we've gotten config programs from UNATCO to program our medbots. So far, it's only been in New York, but I'll offer our services at a special rate."

"Special rate? I thought this was supposed to be a free clinic."

The man sighed. "I only wish it could be that simple. We give free diagnosis, information, and cures for small ailments, but to deal with such volume for such a terrible degenerative disease, we need equipment to deal with it. Expensive equipment. We have two medbots to administer the cure, but Ambrosia vaccines and FNT controllants are in short supply."

FNT, Paul recognized, was a fairly new development that helped slow or control the progress of Spirovirus if contracted. He shrugged. "I don't have the plague, I can't. I'm half lupine."

The doctor shifted in his chair. "Yes, yes, I know, but equipment purchasing and maintenance means there's a cost to use the bots. However, as you have undoubtedly saved me from certain danger, I'll let you use our facilities for a mere 250 dollars."

Paul wasn't opposed at the cost; it didn't strike him one bit. It was the poverty and disease around him that had captivated his attention. He chose his question carefully, knowing that the man would likely lie for Paul's sake, and looked at the doctor's nametag. "Doctor Richardson, I have a question for you, and please be honest. Answer me as you would anyone else, not an agent as myself." The doctor leaned forward. "What impact do you think UNATCO's had on the city?"

Richardson paused, taking off his glasses and rubbing the irritated dents on the sides of his nose. "Well, under most circumstances, I'd tell you that there's been great improvement. There I wouldn't be lying, but I wouldn't be accurately telling you what I think. However, since you strike me as an honest chap, I will also tell you that as much improvement as there has been, there is room for far more. Unfortunately, there is little UNATCO can do to make Mason Biotech drop the patent rights for Ambrosia. If they did, or if they increased production and distribution, then we wouldn't be having these regular riots." He paused. "Just between you and me, I genuinely believe that Mason Industries wants to see people suffer in some perverse way. I know it sounds ridiculous, but what have they got to lose by increasing production? If everyone had access at a lower cost for a higher volume of medicine, they'd still be making the tremendous profits they do now."

Pausing to think, a thought popped into his head. "Perhaps it could also be that a greater power is involved, someone who is trying to reverse the population explosion. Well, I know it sounds strange, but think about it. Spirovirus is a Chimera, a blend of many different viral symptoms from Ebola Zaire to Hantavirus to Mononucleosis… it's so well blended and lethal that it seems almost as if it were man made.

Paul became skeptical. "Do you have anything to back your arguments up? We believe that the FAC might have made the virus. We've proven that they distributed it and got it from the Iraquis."

The doctor smiled wryly. "Alright, try this. The Plague is about two-and-a-half years old. In order to find a cure, even with a massive research team of specialists, it would take months at the very least. Mason Biotech came out with the cure two weeks after the flare-ups. Sounds very suspicious to me. On top of that, thanks to the virus, the world's population is now below 7 billion, truly a terrible thing, but who hasn't worried about the overpopulation of the world? You never know, a poor, overpopulated nation like China may have to become a republic just so the U.S. and Mason can give them more medicine." He sighed in relief, as if he had beaten somebody at his own game. "The FAC? No motive, no known biological warfare history, no way in my mind."

Paul considered the man's words. It was horrific and preposterous to think that Mason Industries was behind all this. He ignored the doctor's words, reasoning that his training had taught him not to be swayed in any way, psychologically or physically. He reached into his pocket and removed a dollar chit, giving it to the doctor. "Thanks for your opinions, doctor. I appreciate your honesty. Now, could you direct me to your services?"

Taking the chit, he looked at Paul. "Certainly. I'll just take care of this and meet you in room 114, just down that hall, third door on the left. One of the nurses will give you a physical from there."

Paul was a bit surprised. "Your staff is trained for diagnosing veterinary problems?"

The doctor got up, snatched the electronic clipboard from his desk, and looked into Paul's eyes. "We have rudimentary training for these sorts of occurrences. After all, we get quite a few cross-kids in here." He remembered the slightly more sensitive term for people, mostly teenagers, who had gotten mild genetic splicing done in their bodies. The most common modification was the eyes, although sometimes they changed hair pigments, sensory organs, muscle, or simply general appearance. The main thing that kept them apart from UNATCO agents, however, was the fact that they weren't pure animal crosses. The doctor continues, opening the plastic door to leave his office. "We get a lot of Latinos. They have a real tendency to try to make things look cool, or at least different. Personally, I like the way I look as I am."

When Paul returned to UNATCO headquarters, he found it both a relief and a terror to be back among friends… and enemies. Last night's brawl with Rick didn't bother him, though, it was the thought of actually seeing his brother again. He felt the area behind his arm where the large gash had been made by an anonymous shard of glass. There was now only a minimal scar, thanks to the precision healing of the medical robots, and what little scar remained was well concealed by his fur. Walking into the main lobby, he looked down at his reflection on the mirrored floor. Without bandages and bloody scrapes, he looked far better than he did before, and the sleep he had gotten the night before made him look slightly less terrible. He was still amazed that they could keep a mirrored floor so clean, but when he thought about how they could do it, he and Sergei stepped up to the main security lock and the corporal attending it. He looked to be deeply involved in a Forbes magazine when he failed to notice the approach of the two, or so Paul thought. To his surprise, the man called out with the enthusiasm and excitement of Ben Stein.

"Welcome to UNATCO headquarters. The retinal scanner's right over there." He limply pointed out the large steel doors to the office, which lay behind a metal detector and bag scanner. "Bags on the belt, coins in the tray, self through the scanner, and all that."

Returning to his magazine, he tersely allowed the men to pass through the unmanned security setup, look into the retinal scanners, and pass through the titanium alloy doors as they silently slid open. Judging by the scant few operatives and workers milling about, Paul confirmed that it was a Saturday. He hoped that Verkerke would be in, or perhaps Hollins.

Almost immediately after the main doors, the area looked almost exactly like any other corporate office in America. The occasional open area was covered in polished black stone, hallways were lined with cheap blue carpets, doors marked offices, cubicle farms, and conference chambers. He immediately headed for the elevators, knowing that he could get updated on the last two weeks' activities in his office. As the triple doors of the elevator curved in one by one and pressed shut in a quiet hiss, Paul turned to Sergei with a grateful look.

"Thanks for taking care of me, Sergei. I really appreciate it. Most people wouldn't have extended me that sort of courtesy." The elevator jolted upward, accelerating into the sky of the cylindrical building. This particular elevator, one with a half-cylindrical glass face, offered an excellent skyline view of Manhattan's dark skyline.

"Well, I'm not 'most people'. Did you enjoy the stop over?"

Paul winced. "No, but I guess that was the point. I'm surprised that it's still that terrible out there."

Sergei responded. That's why I'm in this program, after all. It gives me an opportunity to help alleviate that suffering. Oh, about the trip here, I would have come anyway. I've got a demonstration for aspiring demolitions experts."

Paul inquired. "Cadets?"

Sergei scoffed in a friendly manner. "Yes. I'm one of the top experts in UNATCO's demolitions unit, and while I was opposed to the idea firsthand, I quickly realized that it's sort of fun. I don't really know how well I'm doing, but you have to admit, the subject is more entertaining than jurisdictional analysis"

With a smile, Paul remembered that class. Jurisdictions were a complicated matter, with county, providential, state, national, territorial, county, city, sector, district, and regional jurisdictions to take into account during apprehensions, a whole class was put aside to study the matter for a full semester. He remembered the class as "Sleep 101", as it was probably the most boring logistical crap he was ever forced to learn. He followed Sergei's statement up. "You ever think of taking the job full time once you're off the field. UNATCO could use good instructors like you." Paul's weight seemed to float off the ground as the elevator decelerated around the 24^th floor. He looked to Sergei, who was picking up a hardy black UNATCO duffel bag, and he soon found himself looking into the face of his friend.

The face spoke. "Well, this one's my stop. I'll be teaching until about o-10-hundred, so stop by if you want to." The doors opened in order, taking a couple of seconds to fully open, and before he could think of any response, Sergei was down the hall. He thought to himself, his ears sinking. Looks like it's just me again… and James.

His office was fairly small, roughly ten by fifteen feet, and had the sterile atmosphere so common to modern workplaces. He had a filing cabinet, even though it was supposedly a computerized age, a computer with a holographic screen and an ergonomic keyboard, a plastic coated sauder desk, a stack of data cubes waiting in his inbox, and a neat stack of papers next to it. Entering his room, he sat down and let out a heavy sigh, dropping his arms to the sides of the chair. With the simple command of his voice, the lights turned on, revealing the pictures he had along the wall. Most were when he was still human, posing with Pakistani security forces, shaking the hand of president Curtis, embracing Dana in front of the CN tower… a wave of nostalgia made him remember his humanity. It was so much simpler then.

His computer was state of the art, and, while he felt that he didn't really need 25 terabytes of hard drive space, the instant access to certain classified information and internet sources was a definite plus. He typed fluidly along the keyboard when the login came up.

Welcome to UNATCOnet!

Password: *******

Logging in, the transparent screen before him solidified into a crisp hologram displaying the desktop of his computer's basic contents. A rotating UN globe popped up from the lower taskbar. He clicked on it.

Message From: Jverkerke@unatco.un.org

Subject: Sincere condolences

Paul,

I'm not going to pretend that you don't know the full details about your brother's demise. I'm terribly sorry, as is everyone in the staff, and if it is any comfort he will be buried with full honors in U.S. Military tradition, his body left largely untouched since the incident at his apartment.

Also, I would like you to know that James was one of our finest operatives, and that he will be sorely missed. It gives me no pleasure to announce that you have been denied an investigatory role in the capture of his assailant. As you know, this means you will be restricted from material evidence until after the case is closed, from which you will be able to access all that you need thanks to the Freedom of Information clause.

If you have questions regarding the investigation, or would like to visit the coroner to see the deceased, then please contact Sheila so that you may be authorized. You are slated for a visit to the coroner's office anytime this afternoon. Also, I might add, I have assigned Amanda Hollins as an investigator on this case. Perhaps you should direct your questions to her.

I like keeping you from your brother's investigation as about as much as yesterday's coffee, but I'm afraid that policy is policy. We cannot afford to risk impeding this investigation with personal and psychological issues.

Once again, my deepest condolences,

Colonel John Verkerke

Head of UNATCO Operations

New York, New York

Paul looked at his watch. It was just after 12:00, so he decided that now was a better time than any to visit the office, though it was something he didn't desire to do. After he checked his other e-mails, he found nothing else that stood out as urgent or interesting, except a single message from Amanda.

From: Kangarogue@unatco.un.org

Subject: Saturday

Paul,

I heard about your brother. I'm so sorry, I truly am. John's assigned me the case, so I'll be the first to tell you that I will do my best to find your brother's killer. Also, I have spoken with the commander, and while you aren't allowed to investigate, he has considered allowing you to take place in the suspect's apprehension, should the conditions allow it.

I'm working tomorrow, as are several other members, and I'll likely be in my office going over case related information. Also, welcome back. Everyone here envies your vacation, including myself, but all of us agree that you deserved it and that you're welcome back here at HQ.

Hope to see you soon,

Lieutenant Amanda Hollins

UNATCO Reconnaissance and Intelligence Specialist

New York, New York

P.S. I heard about the fight last night, heard you kicked Rick Delafonte's arse mightily and that you still have some of his leg between your teeth. Congratulations!

Paul smiled, feeling his abdomen. The medbots couldn't fix large bruises and such, but it served as a momento of the fight that, for all intents and purposes, he won. It was also a momento reminding him not to get into such fights again. Logging off of his computer, he grabbed his slick trenchcoat and headed out of his office.

The coroner's department was nestled into the Forensics section of the UNATCO headquarters. It was a bleak, drab, unhappy little place with a poorly lit area that tried in vain to cheer itself up by having fluorescent lights imbedded into the walls. A hall of offices marked the entranceway to the area, and no cubicles appeared to be in the area. The place had the inspirational color of correctional fluids and had the liveliness of a rigor-mortified cadaver. He walked through the hall, activating the characterless lights via motion detectors. The first office on the left was that of the head UNATCO coroner, an important, yet morbid occupation, he reckoned. Noticing that the office was closed, locked, and entirely lifeless, he moved on to the next office, searching for someone he didn't want to meet.

He didn't have to look far. The next office housed Ryland Wilson, deputy coroner. His office was a touch of vivacity in a gloomy atmosphere. His office had a window, or, at least, it was open, all the lights were on, and a pair of potted plants struggled silently for sustenance in the poor light. A secretary in a tacky fuschia dress sat at the front desk. Seeing her less than attractive face topped with the strangest beehive hairdo he had ever seen, he felt lucky to be more commonly acquainted with Commander Verkerke's secretary, Sheila, who was more of a southern belle in a business suit.

The secretary spoke with an unusually flowing, comfortable voice. "Captain Calabrese?"

"That I am."

"Doctor Wilson's in his office. He's expecting you."

Paul forced a smile. "Thank you."

Walking silently with padded feet on padded carpet, the door to the coroner's office slid open in a light hydraulic hiss. Immediately, the man inside noticed him. He was dressed in surgical scrubs, though he lacked the gloves, hat, and mask, and he appeared to be tinkering around on his computer. The man had thin hair that stood out to the eye with a bright red, almost unnatural color, and he appeared a husky man of experience, not the thin bookworm he had expected. He stopped and turned to Paul, who noticed that the man had speckles and small pockmarks over his cheekbones. He always wondered why some people ended up looking like that.

He spoke with a distinct Irish accent, but not so much as a Lucky Charms commercial. "Ah, good marnin', Mr. Calabrese. I've been expecting ya. I'm not really a man of many words, so I'll make this brief. You've probably heard enough mourning, so I'll give the facts to ya plain and simple. Is that alright?"

Paul responded without a hint of emotion. "Sure."

"Alright, then. Let's head over to the examination room, shall we?"

He stood up slowly in his chair, as if age had taken a toll on his back, and he moved casually out the door, into the main hall, and down to a set of double metal doors. Clearing his throat, he spoke to the nearby microphone."

"VPI. Deputy Chief Coroner Ryland Wilson, section 6." The doors slid open, allowing entry to a cold, almost refrigerated area. The thought of seeing all sorts of dead was harrowing enough, but the frigid air sent even greater chills down his spine.

The room was even blacker than the office complex, metal grating against metal plates against stainless steel suspension chambers, body refrigerators, and table wiped absolutely clean. The smell of death was unusually faint, but the disinfectants and medical fluids could have easily masked it. The man's slightly sour scent didn't even change upon entering the room, indicating no emotional stress. Wilson spoke out as he kept walking. "It's been roughly 33 hours since your brother's body was declared dead. Robots, nanobot circulators, and inclusive CAT scans have been largely the only actions taken to examine him, but we did remove a bullet from under his left scapula upon its discovery." The doctor abruptly stopped. "Now, you're sure ya want to see this?"

Paul sighed, small trails of vapor streaming from his nostrils. "I've come this far. Where is he?"

Wilson turned his body, but still faced Paul enough to indicate a nearby room. "Right over there. You'll have to stay back, the robots are still at him."

As the door automatically swung open, he stepped into the room to see a large robotic apparatus moving around a single hovering tray in cylindrical actions. Stepping slightly closer, he saw the wounds, then the caked up blood, then the expression on his brother's face. It was not one of anguish, nor pain, nor even dignity. It was a silent, slight, final scowl that nobody had dared remove from his face, a scowl of vengeance. Paul knew it now, it was clear. He was going to get to the bottom of this, protocol or not.