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On a nameless November night, Goa Lore gazed pensively out the front window of the car, a nondescript platinum-gray electric on loan from Matoolas Intelligence, as Kentar Gierplun steered cautiously along the narrow mountain pass that snaked up to Seterek, a tiny, forgettable settlement nestled among the snow-clad summits of the Loeba Range. The visibility the headlights and occasional lamp posts provided did not extend more than a few meters, obscured as it was by thin curtains of snow descending gracefully from the clouds and blanketing everything in sight. To his left, the sheer mountainside rose dramatically, as though the peaks were reaching up for the stars. To his right, beyond the waist-high guardrail, the terrain dropped away rapidly, plummeting hundreds of meters and promising a grisly fate to the inattentive.

The road’s navigable condition reminded the travelers of their fortuitous timing: once the snow turned to ice, it would be too dangerous to drive anywhere except on the regularly maintained throughway, and by the time it melted, they would be too late. But they had decided not to travel by helicopter—the alternative means of transport to Seterek—as it would draw undue attention to their visit. They needed not alert the whole hamlet of their arrival. The fewer who knew about the Administrative President and Intelligence Director’s top-secret trip to the Kevtabs, the better.

Goa felt physically exhausted, utter weariness seeping into every bone and muscle—the reason why Kentar was driving—but his mind remained wide awake. The events that would transpire in the coming hours held titanic significance, Goa knew; this night could very possibly be one of the most important of his life. The steady influx of this anxiousness—a variety impervious to the techniques he had developed throughout his political career—compelled him to remain constantly, agonizingly on edge, like an eyelid pried open for hours on end.

He wanted nothing more than to throw himself onto a soft, cozy, fluffy bed and collapse into a weeklong slumber, and he simultaneously possessed an unflinching conviction to stay on full alert as long as necessary, his body’s lassitude regardless. He continued to stare out the window, observing nothing in particular, his mind too preoccupied to appreciate the scenic view.

Kentar—who, lucky for him, had managed to grab a couple of hours of sleep before their departure—made a sharp left, the last one before they crossed into Seterek. Over the next minute, the land on both sides of the road leveled out; the cliffside into which the roadway had been hewn relaxed into a hill, then flattened completely. Although the whiteout prevented them from glimpsing their destination a few kilometers ahead, they knew they had entered Victor’s Vale, the slender valley home to the settlement.

—

Goa looked out at the rest of the Dauiland Council, arranged by delegation in the Tiricia branch building’s Special Reception Room—a high-ceilinged circular chamber twenty meters in diameter that glistened with recently-installed steel walls, an automatic security alert system, and other high-tech innovations from across the Alliance. Currently, they were listening to a spec-ops corporal deliver their report by remote link from Camp Wraith, an AJM base in their native Crimtonian Spectre.

“The findings of myself and my team,” Corporal Jole Bract was saying, face enlarged on the monitor mounted to the portion of the wall opposite the door, “seem to corroborate General Kivon Orrian’s explanation. If the Councilors will recall, he attributed the disaster he presided over in the Wastes to Imperial deception tactics. He stated that the ‘awakened threat,’ as it was called, was nothing more than a ruse concocted by the Imperials with the aim of luring AJM units into a costly ambush—which is exactly what happened.”

Goa and his co-delegates, Sary Hykks and Ilazi Buaryn, exchanged knowing glances. They remembered that meeting well. Orrian, who had reportedly lost most of his bluster after his devastating defeat, had evidently regained that indignant bravado upon entering the DC complex. After the Chief Councilor finished making introductions, Orrian had stood up and launched a lengthy, passionate, colorful, and meandering tirade against those who had apparently plotted his and his task force’s downfall. Barely restraining himself, he had variously pinned the blame on General Aladín Detrane, General Metellius Grau, an Imperial impostor pretending to be an AJM garrison scout, an Imperial impostor pretending to be a Dauilandian impostor, his subordinates’ staggering incompetence, his superiors’ staggering incompetence, radiation poisoning due to a prolonged period in the Wastes, the Unidalanian observer Henuchi Kano, fate, and a conspiracy among the Richompian delegation to the Dauiland Council.

“I’d be remiss not to mention General Seletz’s aid in examining the data we collected in the Wastes,” continued the corporal. “His firsthand experience in the battle helped us parse our discoveries that much more quickly.”

After Orrian’s final claim, Rikel Nozash had had the general escorted back out to the waiting room, and the newly-promoted Seletz had been ushered in. His debriefing had been far more productive, and when asked to translate his erstwhile superior’s fervent ramblings, he had recommended that the DC discard all of Orrian’s accusations except those against the Empire and its saboteurs.

“Anyone else?” Councilor Samantha Vacker piped up from the Nazbethian table, to which Sara Keaton smirked surreptitiously.

“Of course,” Bract responded. “It was your suggestion in the first place to deploy a military intelligence team to assess the threat, given our unique ability to access the benefits of both the realms we straddle. That wasn’t our job here, but I believe we’ve still achieved a conclusion…”

As the officer went on, Goa wondered whether he should speak up. He had never truly trusted that the threat was all a lie. There had been a myriad of indicators implying it was genuine, and while much of that evidence was circumstantial, there were also some parts he saw as irrefutable—not to mention Orrian’s steadfast bungling of the operation beginning to end, a factor that wasn’t exactly conducive to accurate post-mortems. Goa hadn’t voiced his reservations during the meeting Orrian and Seletz had spoken at, and if he stayed silent now, he doubted there would be another good opportunity before the appropriate time passed.

Once Bract finished describing their team’s methodology, Goa said, “Corporal—and Councilors—I have a question. Even if the Empire ended up using it to make their trap more believable, could there have been a real threat in the Wastes?”

“Are you referring to the possibility of a pre-existing presence?” inquired Chief Councilor Sofia Sarrafi. “One which the Empire chose to exploit under its strategic prerogative?”

Goa nodded. He turned to the video stream of Bract, who answered, “We investigated the spot Orrian designated as a weak point of the threat, and found nothing out of the ordinary. Energy readings were never anomalous, either, after we took battle debris into account. While further analysis would probably fall into the realm of politics, which is more your domain than mine, my personal interpretation is that if there was an actual threat, it was also set up by the Empire to reinforce the deceit.”

“That certainly fits in with our prior knowledge of the Imperials,” Lainey Johannsen concurred.

“Are we in consensus that it was entirely an Imperial ploy, then?” Councilor Nozash asked, to which most of the Council replied in the affirmative. Still, Goa had misgivings.

—

Misgivings: they had plagued Goa for weeks, and had only intensified as the days wore on, now threatening to rip him unceremoniously apart. But he held on. He made himself hold on. There was simply no other option.

And it helped that he had Kentar with him. “Seterek Locality,” the NIB Director began to rattle off, employing the flawless recall that had so aided them during their ultimately-futile journey to Liberlitatia. “The sole constituent of Seterek District and Seterek City, which belongs to Loeba County. Seterek’s population is 335, has never exceeded the three hundreds, and was zero from the first census until settlers founded it a quarter century ago.”

Kentar paused and cast a meaningful look in Goa’s direction. “I’m sorry if this isn’t helpful.”

Goa, suspecting his friend was trying to distract him until they arrived, waved away the concern. “Don’t apologize. Even though I don’t think it’s going to work, I appreciate the effort. I’d been hoping to use this time to prepare and think about what I need to say…” he trailed off.

“But for an occasion like this, it’s best to speak from the heart,” Kentar finished, “right?”

“Right,” Goa agreed. “Plus, it’s not like I can focus on getting ready anyway.” Somehow, while it didn’t reduce the underlying stakes, talking about it helped alleviate the pressure.

“Not that you need to,” Kentar said. “This is all we’ve been thinking about for almost a month—”

“Rightfully,” Goa clarified.

“Rightfully,” Kentar echoed. “So then it would seem that you’ve already done essentially all you can to prepare. And remember—my offer from yesterday still stands.”

“Thank you,” Goa said, “but no. At least, not yet. I value all you’ve done for me, but I think this is something that I’ll need to figure out by myself. But you’ll know if I change my mind.”

“Good,” Kentar acknowledged. There was a silence as they continued down the road, which gained sidewalks as it transitioned from a serpentine mountain pass into Seterek’s main street. He let out a quiet sigh. “We’ve been made to run around the country for weeks, with few clues to the motives of our… host,” he said. “We need to be ready to expect anything.”

“Especially given who it is,” Goa added. “I need to be cautious.”

—

“Despite his faults as a commander, General Orrian’s mission report is, for all intents and purposes, accurate,” Bract stated.

“Nozash, do you have anything to say?” Councilor Lebowskii asked, peering across the room to his colleague.

“In what sense?” the Richompian said. “Corporal Bract’s debriefing has been successful and conclusive.”

“It’s obvious,” Lebowskii said, obviously trying to stoke a confrontation between Nozash’s delegation and the representatives of the TNA. “You, as a proud Richompian, feel the need to protect your countrymen, so you’ve intimidated the good corporal into diminishing Orrian’s incompetence.”

“I don’t know of any such thing,” Bract said.

“Of course you don’t—Lebowskii made it up,” Nozash replied, slowly beginning to lose his cool. “I hereby suggest that the Dauiland Council resolve this meeting before it deteriorates into a slugging match used by certain members to score points with their constituents at home.”

“How dare you accuse me…” Lebowskii began, his tone irate.

Someone gave Goa a single, firm tap on the shoulder, and he missed the rest of his temperamental friend’s riposte. He turned his head. It was the senior attaché of the Unidalanian mission to the Dauiland Council complex in Tiricia: Lener Tharral—a phlegmatic sexagenarian of middling competence with degrees from four countries, a penchant for circumlocution, and a personality as diminutive as his stature. This time, though, Tharral appeared equal parts distressed and perplexed, whispering, “A pressing message awaits you, Councilor Lore. If I might lead you from the chamber…”

Goa nodded, rose, and followed the diplomat to the antechamber, which hadn’t been renovated in the style of the Special Reception Room and was accordingly furnished with polished wooden walls and evenly spaced landscapes and still-lifes borrowed from a nearby art museum.

“We received it from a most protected backchannel originating in Unidalania,” Tharral said furtively, “and I was instructed to deliver it to you posthaste.”

“Who is it from?” Goa asked, his trepidation from the meeting inexplicably resurging.

The attaché passed him a slip of paper which contained the sender’s name and the contents of the message. Goa’s stomach lurched when he read the first line. He hadn’t expected this, he hadn’t expected this at all. And if it was connected to his earlier fears—if, somehow, the two were connected—

Then he read the second line; his chest instantly constricted, and he felt on the verge of being unable to breathe. The coincidence is too great. It can’t be anything else. He returned the slip to Tharral’s hand and, trying to conceal his swelling worry, started to walk back to the main chamber.

“Anything else?” Goa heard himself ask the diplomat, his mind aswirl.

“Yes, one more thing, Councilor,” Tharral said from behind him. “A postscript that wasn’t included in the message. I wasn’t told to apprise you of this, but I suppose it’s reasonable. The sender included a deadline. For what, I cannot say, naturally, and, verily, the message itself makes little sense to me.”

“Tell me what it is,” Goa said impatiently, “verbatim.”

“ ‘I invite you to my retreat in three weeks’ time,’ ” Tharral recited. “Anything else, Councilor?”

“No,” said Goa. “Thank you.” He didn’t hear the reply; as he pushed open the door, crossed the room, and took his seat next to Sary and Ilazi, his ears were filled with the sound of his heart palpitating, and his mind swam, afraid, uncertain, determined, while before his eyes the backchannel message from Unidalania repeatedly flashed: three words, small words, simple words, but words that rendered him mute and distant and glassy-eyed for the remainder of the meeting, words that confirmed his worst suspicions, words that together held the future in them, the future that meant everything to Goa.

It has him.

—

Buildings, mostly huddled around Seterek River, came into view as Goa and Kentar drove through wooded Victor’s Vale. Their destination was the last address on the right: a cabin, Kentar had learned, whose owner, traced through a dizzying circus of shell organizations, was indeed the sender. With trees and buildings collecting a great deal of the snowfall, and the blizzard milder in the protection afforded by Victor’s Vale, the visibility had increased, and Goa could see that the settlement was as quiet as Kentar’s statistics had implied. It helped that it was nighttime—the community was centered around three geothermal-powered greenhouses which took advantage of Seterek’s unique setting to grow a rare medicinal herb, an occupation requiring few night shifts.

Their car was alone on the street. Neither did any pedestrians or cyclists occupy the sidewalk. The wind whistled in the gaps between the low houses and stores, amid the frosty leaves that protruded from the branches of evergreens, and through the simple, sturdy decorations adorning many facades and porches.

And as things became clearer outside, so did Goa’s internal struggle relax—at least marginally—as though his exhausted body and frenetic brain had temporarily put aside their opposing yearnings, agreeing on what was most important.

It has him.

Goa didn’t, couldn’t, rely on this reprieve, but it granted him resolve to know that he would be this little bit readier for the time of truth, a time that drew ever nearer. His limbs still ached for a rest; thoughts still buzzed and burned within his mind like heated gas particles ricocheting off the barriers of a too-small enclosure. But now, atop this, a blanket, like the blanket of snow outside, settled upon Goa’s tempestuous psyche—pushing those two opposing pulls beneath, while he breathed fresh, crisp air, the air of solemnity, the air of truth.

Kentar, sensing Goa’s pensiveness, wordlessly located a parking spot adjacent to the cabin and pulled into it, gently bringing the car to a halt and turning off the ignition after a three-hour drive.

There was a street light a few meters to their front that emanated a dull, diffuse yellow, identical to all the other street lights in town. It illuminated the edge of the road and the elevated sidewalk, both carpeted underneath the mat of snow ubiquitous to Seterek; the boundary between the two was marked only by the height difference. Lastly, they could see the beginning of the stone pathway—which had to be heated, as it wasn’t covered in snow—that led to the cabin. The retreat itself was in the dark, unlit by the lamp post and, to appearances, devoid of any internal lighting. Evidently, Goa and Kentar’s host was equally keen on keeping an inconspicuous profile.

The Secretary of Intelligence pushed open his door and stepped out, allowing the fresh, crisp mountain air to circulate throughout the car. It stung Goa’s face and jolted him out of his rumination. Kentar walked around to his friend’s side, opened the passenger door, and invited him out onto the sidewalk.

Before getting up, Goa glanced at the time on the center of the dashboard. It read midnight on the dot. Zero hour.

—

“…And with that final matter settled, I believe it is time to adjourn,” Chief Sarrafi concluded; Goa could hear her, faintly, but it was like trying to parse words from a sea of radio static. She rose and turned to the video screen, adding warmly: “Let us again thank Corporal Bract and their military intelligence team for their brave, sedulous work, without which our resolution would not have been possible.”

“The pleasure is mine,” Bract replied. “I think it’s time for me to go as well. We have a team conference in thirty minutes.” The AJM officer offered a small parting wave to the Dauiland Council, and the monitor went blank.

As the delegations stood up and filed out to the antechamber in turn, Goa whispered to Sary and Ilazi, “I need to talk to Kentar.”

“Of course,” Sary said. She nodded to Ilazi and they followed the Crimtonians toward the door.

Goa turned and made for the side doorway, which led to the rapid street exit. His head was still pounding, his thoughts in a frenzied, overwhelmed tumult, as worry surged and began to erode his sanity. He walked at a careful pace through the Special Reception Room, then, upon entering the corridor, burst into a sprint, covering the twenty meter length, and shoved open the girthy metal door when he reached the end.

He fell out onto the broad sidewalk of Blue Lynx Boulevard, Tiricia’s sunshiny climate and the startled stares of passersby beating down on him. He didn’t care. He broke into another run, in the direction of the special monorail that would take him to the Unidalanian embassy, weaving—and more often stumbling—through the masses of diplomats, dignitaries, and bureaucrats strolling down the pedestrian forum. His focus was solely on the sign pointing to the stairs to the monorail, and when he reached it, heart and head thumping even more, he vaulted up to the moderately busy platform, uncaring of the symbolism only he could know.

“Name and purpose?” prompted a lanky, uniformed guard on his right.

“Goa,” Goa panted, “Lore. Embassy… TLU.”

The guard peered at his face, then inclined his head. “Very well, AP Lore. Your monorail will arrive in—” He glanced at his watch. “—three minutes. Is there anyone you’d like to contact in advance?”

“Gierplun,” Goa breathed.

—

Two men in dark suits with dark demeanors trudged down the winding stone trail to the cabin, their somber bearing belying the bitter cold of the air and the burning heat of their tension. Equipped with flashlights and paying no mind to the modest breeze or the gradual accumulation of snowflakes on their forms, neither one spoke, though they exchanged a significant look at the halfway point. There was no turning back now—and neither of them wished for a moment to do so. This was the apotheosis of their efforts, of even that effort which had begun so long ago with another off-the-record meeting with the same host.

They stopped in front of the entrance to the cabin, a birch door onto which the marking “1/1” had been etched. The rectangular building was made of the same uninterrupted material—long, narrow slats of wood with thin caulked seams—was about five meters wide, and seemed one story tall. Presumably, the simple bucolic exterior belied a more sophisticated interior.

The first man knocked twice with quick, sturdy raps. He and his companion needed not wait more than a few seconds, as the door promptly creaked open, revealing an elfin man clad in a navy blue parka and matching gloves and headwear, holding a fist behind his hunchback and beckoning the men to enter with his other hand. The only exposed part of his body was his face, which bore a kindly, hospitable expression along with deep wrinkles.

“Please, come in,” he croaked, averting the men’s gaze and their flashlights’ shine. “Our master has been expecting you.”

The men traded glances again, but followed him when he turned and ambled back into the cabin. There was no air conditioning or lighting on the inside, and as the men moved around their flashlights to illuminate the space’s floor and walls, it became apparent that it was, in fact, completely empty. It was silent as well, save for their guide’s contended humming, the patter of snow onto the stone pathway, and the gentle blowing of the light breeze.

Before they could speak up, the tiny man stopped in the center of the room, identified a floorboard, and gave it a hard kick, chuckling in satisfaction. The men immediately shifted their flashlights to cast light upon his bizarre actions. They watched the wooden plank glide away, suggesting it was on rails. Without waiting for his visitors, the man took a step forward and began descending down the hole.

“There must be a hidden stairwell,” Kentar muttered to Goa as they treaded across the floorboards, which creaked, though didn’t depress, when they stepped on them. Kentar shone his flashlight down the aperture, shining yellow light on what was indeed a steep, cramped shaft—it couldn’t have been more than a meter tall and half that wide—into which an equally dizzying flight of stairs had been inserted. A slight grimace surfaced on Kentar’s face, but he quickly suppressed it and gestured to the stairwell.

Goa took the cue, and crouched down to where his knees were barely above the ground, shuffling into the passage and warily going down, stair by stair. Kentar waited until he was a few steps down, then replicated his friend’s posture and followed his descent.

The navy blue-wearing man was waiting for them at the bottom, tracking their exit from the stairwell and into the basement with the same obliging comportment. This space shared few commonalities with the ground-level cabin—while it was also roomy and spare, roughly ten meters square, it was more modern than anything else in Seterek. Enclosed by clean white walls, with a crisp blue floor a tone more azure than the guide’s outerwear, the chamber contained in its center a transparent circular table with two austere gray chairs. Unseen sources issued moderate white lighting and temperate air conditioning, and the left and right walls were each interrupted by a blue-gray door.

The man extended his hands from behind his back toward Goa and Kentar, somehow producing two plated tea cups filled with a steaming, honey-colored liquid. Smiling genially, he said, “Your gracious host would like you to enjoy some authentic Loeba herbal tea.”

Goa waved away the cups. “We’re alright.”

“Our master insists,” the man said, exposing an unexpected steel beneath his warm tone. He would brook no deviation.

Kentar leaned down and accepted the drink from the man, who nodded eagerly. Kentar threw a meaningful look in Goa’s direction. Sighing, he took the other tea cup and plate.

“Sit,” the man said. “Then enter the left door.” Without waiting for Goa and Kentar to reply, he bowed and slinked away, vanishing into the stairwell with fading footsteps and leaving no trace of his presence.

“Do we trust it?” Goa said, indicating his tea.

“No need to guess,” Kentar responded. He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a slender sterling needle that he dipped into his drink. When nothing happened after he pulled it out, he set it on his plate, saying, “Nothing out of the ordinary. The tester would’ve changed color if he’d spiked it.”

He strode to the table and settled onto a seat, motioning for Goa to follow suit. Reluctantly, Goa nodded and sat across from Kentar.

“This might actually help,” the NIB Director suggested after taking a sip. “I read a climatology report on Seterek before we arrived. The plants they grow here are supposed to have beneficial qualities.”

“Then the question is why,” Goa said.

Kentar knew how Goa must feel: inundated, conflicted, and unsure, ceaselessly reminding himself of the stakes. How vital it was to perform to the absolute best of his ability. What would happen—or not happen—if he failed. Kentar had been in a similar place before, and he had had Goa—and now Goa had him.

“I think it makes sense,” Kentar offered. “We know our host revels in an intellectual joust, and will want us to be at a place where that’s possible. And perhaps that also means only being satisfied with an agreement that’s made when you’re fully…”

“Competitive,” Goa supplied. He picked up his tea, looking somewhat reassured—for which Kentar was glad—and tasted it.

It was piping hot, of course, its exquisite scent wafting up from the cup, and the tea rolled delicately through his mouth, filled with rich, distinctive herbal flavors; it scalded his esophagus as it went down.

That first sip was the most difficult, he would reflect later that day. “Drink the rest,” Kentar encouraged, though. “Beneficial qualities, remember?”

Goa nodded. By the time he had drunk half the cup, his mind, bunched-up and tense, had relaxed significantly. The mental knots were in the slow, strange process of unfurling. Stress gradually gave way to the warmth and peculiar tang of the tea, and to the safety it somehow assured.

He and Kentar drained their tea cups. When the last drops had been drunk, Goa, although he could not entirely say why, felt those final ounces of readiness he had been awaiting, that final measure of security he had conceded to being inaccessible. He felt an energy in his body that staved off the weariness banging at the gates of his sanity, and possessed a calm in his thoughts that counterbalanced the apprehension that had been inundating his mind so long that he could not remember what it was like before. But he wasn’t ready to put his faith into this transformation. If he knew one thing about his and Kentar’s host, it was that craftiness was a given.

He voiced his concern to Kentar, who replied, “You can control your thought processes a lot more than I can. All I can suggest is that you either put aside your misgivings and dive in with your heart, or tap into them and use them to fuel your passion and compassion without letting them conquer you.”

“In a way, I need my misgivings,” Goa said thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t be who I am without them. I think I’ll take the second option.”

Kentar said, “Please do, then,” and cast a brief glance toward the door the guide had told them to enter.

Goa rose tentatively and directed his gaze toward Kentar. He inhaled deeply, held his breath, and exhaled. His body suddenly tensed—so preoccupied was he that he had just realized the very real possibility that the two of them were being listened to. After a moment, his muscles relaxed, as he remembered that Kentar was on top of things—he always was, this trip being no exception—and would’ve said something had there been a listening device planted somewhere within the room. Goa was usually on top of things, too, but he had been finding it incredibly difficult to be his typical fastidious self as of late.

“I know,” Kentar said, and somehow Goa got the sense that his friend knew why he’d tensed. “But you’ll succeed, as long as you’re yourself—which you are.”

“Yes,” said Goa, nodding pensively. “Kentar?” he added quietly. “I think I want to go in alone.”

“Of course,” his friend said. “May I stand outside?”

“Yes,” Goa said. He took another three deep breaths, counting out the seconds in his mind, and walked to the simple blue-gray door. He trusted and was sustained by Kentar, the help his friend had so unfailingly provided, the allaying Seterek tea, the conviction that what he was doing was right, the knowledge that it was his right and responsibility to face this challenge and succeed, and, finally, himself. He had transcended now the point of confidence or unconfidence, of worrying himself to death over preparedness, of his physical and mental forms playing an exhausting tug-of-war. What he felt was focus, determination, and conviction.

He turned the handle and pushed open the door.

—

Not eight hours had passed since Tharral had tapped on his shoulder when Goa skidded to a stop. Kentar was already waiting for him at the edge of the plaza, a grandiose commons paved in glittering blue and green marble tiles that matched the Unidalanian flag and that was characteristic of the Magnificent Locality in design and opulence. Beyond the forum grounds lay the Library of the Republic, an enormous, sprawling edifice whose palatial vaults collectively housed more information than any other site in the country.

Goa and Kentar made eye contact and walked briskly toward the building’s fore—where a long line of revolving doors separated the plaza from the library’s cream-colored marble frontage. Kentar took out the coinlike entrance passes he had acquired for them and handed one to Goa; they dropped them into the slots and entered the library.

Unlike the last time they had gone to the library, Kentar had not booked them a helper—one of the GX-9500 android librarians of Liberlitatian manufacture the curator had commissioned to assist visitors. Goa had conveyed a sense of utmost urgency in his laconic mid-flight message, and Kentar had responded that they could use the NIB’s private room at the library.

That was where they went now, Kentar leading Goa through a labyrinthine series of doors and corridors until they arrived in a room ten meters long and twice as wide filled with computers and the low whirring sounds of their operation. Kentar crossed to the main interface console; Goa stood beside him.

“We have twenty days, eighteen hours, and access to all the public records created in the history of this nation. Although we also had cues and clues last time we set out, this time the evidence is much more concrete, and we know where we have to go—literally. Let’s get to work,” Kentar said.

—

The room beyond the door was smaller than the vestibule, but equally spare, and also rectangular. Lamps in the corners radiated light into the area, creating a sheen on the mahogany desk that sat central in the space, perpendicular to the wall containing the door. On the opposite wall was a pair of windows, blinds pulled down. There were also two chairs, one on each long side of the desk, similar to the seats in the anteroom, but with a tad of padding.

The chair on the near side of the desk was vacant; the one on the far side was occupied. In the wall behind the opposite chair was another door, closed. Goa closed the door behind him, hearing the click as it latched shut. He imagined Kentar would wait a few seconds, then skulk over to the other side of the wall and hold his ear to the door.

Goa steeled his resolve and sat down. His host, who had been silently scanning the top page of a thick packet of paper, slid the document into a drawer beneath the desktop, and looked up—gaze rising to meet Goa’s—with an unreadable expression. Delight, impatience, seriousness, he couldn’t discern. This was it, he knew. His moment; his chance.

—

Goa spent the next two weeks on tenterhooks waiting for a call from Kentar. Grinding, cumbersome bureaucratic chores piled up like refuse accumulating in a Deplandian landfill, and the cause was similarly alarming.

Anticipation, apprehension, and agony ate at Goa’s being like a pack of psychotic weasels bent on devouring him from the inside out. His self-invented methodology for handling his astronomical workload disintegrated, the winds of anxiousness and suspense scattering its shreds. He slept less, leaving him exhausted when he awoke, reducing his efficiency, meaning he had to work longer and longer into the night, giving him less time to sleep.

He dared not take any time off to recuperate. He knew he’d have to abandon his post indefinitely if—when—Kentar came through.

Two weeks and one day after Tharral had shown him the message, Goa dressed up inconspicuously and rode the 7 AM tram to the Magnificent Locality, where he briskly walked—the fastest pace he allowed himself, as he was a moment away from breaking out into a sprint—to the library. Chest constricted, heart pounding, he arrived in the NIB private room. The machinery hummed to itself, but there was no all-caps message, no flashing red alert, no Kentar materializing behind him and announcing, “Good thing you’re here, Goa—I’ve just located the retreat.”

He knew better than to succumb to these fretful, desperate delusions, but he still did. Letting out nothing but a crestfallen sigh, he turned and plodded back out of the library, taking the return tram to NatGov, where he stopped by his apartment to change into formal attire. He had an 8:30 meeting with the coordinating committee of Civic Students Ascendant, the Liberal Party’s youth political participation program—and the Administrative President mustn’t be late.

So it went: day after day after excruciating day, his anticipation inching ever closer to making life utterly untenable. He evaded Sary and Ilazi when they asked if everything was alright, relieved they had at least forgotten his erratic departure from the Dauiland Council meeting or didn’t make the connection.

Finally—after what had felt like a lifetime of waiting—Kentar called him. He was in one of his many offices, only moonlight illuminating it, as he had neglected to turn on any lamps when the sun had set four hours earlier. He was mired in paperwork, currently scrutinizing some bumbling Qoipol Intendant’s inane request—the purpose of which Goa had still not deciphered—when his phone rang with the special ringtone he recognized instantly as belonging to his friend.

His brain panicked—he leapt out of his cavernous seat, swept the stack of files off his desk, sat back down, fumbled for the phone, grabbed it, slammed the accept button, and clutched it to his ear. “Kentar, what is it?” he demanded frantically, his fatigue vanishing on the spot. “What’s going on?”

“Get to Montada as soon as possible,” Kentar said rapidly. “The central train station. Coordinate while we’re on route. I’ll arrive tomorrow morning.”

Goa felt his heart leap into his throat. “Yes,” he said, almost incapable of speaking. “Yes, I’ll do that. I’ll leave now.” He ended the call and shoved himself away from his desk. There was no one else in the building at this ungodly hour, so when he burst out of his office into the corridor, heart palpitating, thoughts afire, he ran the fastest he’d run since Blue Lynx Boulevard.

—