MOLLI REMAINED SHAKEN THAT evening by Oort Cloud’s graphic descriptions of the genetic mishaps he was increasingly seeing at his hospital. Most off-target tech stories had been pushed to the back pages of the news media over the last few years, a victim of overexposure that finally became aged and uninteresting, similar to any bad news that continues droning on. She had all but forgotten about the less fortunate in the geedee community, those who were irreparably damaged.

But she understood there was more to the story. So many small-time entrepreneurs were developing their own concoctions and offering them for profit to the less fortunate. These thousands of black-market labs created unapproved and unlicensed geedee tech to meet the burgeoning market demand while staying one step ahead of the police and regulatory authorities in the various countries.

In a sense, geedee tech was simply an extension of underground products that had always existed in society, like fake designer luggage or pirated movies. One thing was different, however. It had the ability to maim or kill.

“Ears,” she pondered, “was one of the lucky ones, perhaps even the ‘genetic one percent.’ Due to his family’s money and societal position, he had the wherewithal to pay for the most highly tested therapies.”

Today’s geedee was all about the new ease of creation, the lowering of the bar using mail-order lab systems and genetic material such as natural and synthetic amino acids. Open source software from the cloud enabled immediate proficiency, even allowing novices to fabricate unlimited recipes of both human and non-human genetic material.

“Indeed, grade school kids are some of the most innovative at this,” she laughed, feeling a bit uncomfortable at the thought.

She couldn’t get Oort Cloud’s last reference out of her mind: the example of the man who checked into the ER with three partial legs and open nerve bundles protruding from his shin. It prompted her to investigate the many untold horrors of home-grown geedee tech, confirming her worst fears about the pace of social and technological changes that were actively clashing head-to-head.

And it wasn’t like it was just happening in Boston. She knew Oort Cloud’s description was the iceberg’s tip of what was occurring elsewhere in the world.

Particularly upsetting were the human-animal varint experiments. Human and insect DNA were being combined and then rubbed onto or injected in the human donor, creating all manner of hybrid horrors. The freakish results ranged from serrated, bug-like appendages sprouting from various parts of a person’s body to head antennae or translucent wings growing from the back.

She wondered about humanity’s ability to adapt quickly, maybe too quickly, sometimes allowing abhorrent deviations to forever swivel the realm of normalcy.

“It started innocently enough,” she thought, staring at the small yin yang symbol on the underside of her left wrist. “Even I experimented with a minor geedee skin tattoo, right there. Twelve years old. You can’t blame me.”

It was in her early days of interest in all things Chinese and Buddhist, which eventually led to her commitment to Chinese martial arts.

“Funny. Mom let me use rub-on geedee tech for that, but she strongly opposed tattoo parlor needles. If she only knew then which one ended up being more dangerous.”

She thought of her many friends who made similar decisions while in the impressionable years of youth. It was the yearning desire to be different, the willingness to take a risk, an unknown and possibly life-changing risk, if only to differentiate oneself and stand out with daring. Geedee tattoos were so easy that they had become the norm across a wide swath of society. They were painless and often beautiful additions to a person’s skin, with few side effects.

However, one thing generally led to another. It was hard to stop after getting that first blood red, heart-shaped tattoo on your palm. The next thing you might choose was a cleft chin or dimples. Something like that involved considerably more genetic recoding than minor skin color changes, with associated muscle, bone and connective tissue modifications. From there, you might step up to more expansive augments, like enhancing one’s sense of smell or touch. Then on to exotic changes such as embedding mammalian or animal or metallic components in a deeper way into the body’s genetic infrastructure.

“The mechs,” she considered, “are the hairy edge of this new wave. For them, augmentations typically started with metallics. That was helped along considerably by the recently discovered geedee tech that allowed better adherence of flesh and muscle to metallic components.”

Brain-computer augmentations were a natural next-step. These gave a metallic-heavy mech the capacity to counterbalance superior physical capabilities with equally superior mental capacities, coupled with enduring knowledge resource databases in the cloud.

As luck would have it, the mech that kidnapped her was not yet endowed with all the new features and functions. This allowed her to outsmart and surprise him with a deadly hand strike to the throat. However, she knew if there was a next time, she might not be so lucky. And with a part of the mech community targeting her, Peter, and Ears, she realized that could happen at any moment.

“What are we doing that disturbed them so?” she pondered. “It’s only a podcast. Everyone gets an open mic for their idea. And nobody knows how to handle the threat from the obelisk, assuming there is even a threat. It’s not worth killing people or creating anarchy in the streets, is it? If everyone could just take a little step into the varint divergences, they might understand that we can still maintain unity. We must act like a single race of beings, despite our growing differences in capabilities and connectivity. But as much as I’d like to think we could work together, humanity’s chronicle will likely point to a negative outcome; perhaps terminally negative.”

* * *

“We’re shifting things around,” Ears indicated as they sat at the breakfast table. It was Tuesday morning, and they both had noticed Peter returned to the condo in the early morning after his long night out.

“Too much to drink, bub?” Molli snickered while straightening his collar. “Or was it something or someone else that kept you up?”

Peter mumbled imperceptibly, and Ears continued with his plan.

“I moved Nucleator to today because we’re trying to balance this out. We ran OmniBev last Wednesday, Peter’s girl Jessica last Friday to even greater numbers than before, and we’re running the Bard tomorrow and Oort Cloud on Friday.”

“Jennifer,” Peter pleaded.

Ears ignored his retort. “Beyond Nucleator, we have two more interviews this week. Sorry, but I crammed them in as much as possible. I’m getting worried, honestly.”

“About what?” he inquired.

“Did you take a gander outside, my friend? It may be Boston in early fall, and your mind may be on foot massage interludes, but things aren’t normal. We’re being put out there considerably more in the media, and I can’t keep people away. We had three uninvited gents pounding at the door yesterday. Your friends, Molli, had to convince them to leave. And I’m getting heat from the condo’s property managers. Word’s out. They know where we are.”

“The ‘they’ is everybody who wants a piece of us, for good or bad,” Molli stressed.

Ears nodded. “Indeed. I’m not sure how long we can keep this up, so we need to do a fast-finish or risk finishing-off ourselves. Back to what we’re doing then. We had the weekend and a good Monday off, but that means we have three interviews this week on three consecutive days. I told your friends, Molli, and they’re sticking with us. The money helps there, I’m guessing. Also, I’m not even trying more advertising since it opens the Pandora’s box to meet with ad salespeople. In this unpredictable environment, I want to limit any needless exposure.”

Ears stopped for a minute to grab a drink of water at the sink.

“At least the water and lights are still working, though I’m probably not irrational to worry about that. Mechs or other groups are wreaking havoc everywhere in town. For whatever reason, it seems the most virulent and reactive are non-varints. Regular people. Present company excluded, of course. But especially the strong religious types and ardent genetic purists. Always fearful the new ways will upset the balance of their increasingly tenuous belief systems.”

“Well said, my friend,” Molli interjected.

He continued. “Now, let me get back to the three on tap. The Nucleator interview is today – finally. Been waiting to see what his crazy-ass thoughts are on spreading nukes to the masses. Believe it’s a different perspective from our Poison Paul friend. Then we’ll tone it down on Wednesday with the Unager on societal issues of aging tech. Pretty non-controversial. After that, on Thursday, it’s the Brokers, the two folks who are profiting in the various markets from these new alien invader defense strategies. They love our show and what we’ve done so far for their business. Wall Street types, but they work here in the Financial District. After those folks, we have two more interviews – Toxofiend and Hats.”

Peter was still groggy but he chuckled at the last comment. “Ears, these guest names are outrageous.”

Molli looked pensive.

“What is it?” Ears wondered.

“Slapped me.”

“What?” Peter’s eyes grew wide. “Who slapped you?”

“Todd, the ass. It was a punch, really, but I blocked it enough and it barely landed. No damage.”

“The son-of-a-bitch!” Peter shot up from the table. “Why would he do that?”

She hung her head down. “Things were not going well between us, even before the obelisk. He has victimhood and emotional issues. I’m trained and should have seen this all along.”

Ears comforted her with a hug. “No reason ever to hit a woman.”

“Never,” Peter repeated. “Can I punch his lights out?”

“Peter, don’t you dare,” she warned. “He’d punch yours out, I’m afraid. Big guy, big muscles versus skinny guy, few muscles. He was angry at various things, but it wasn’t all me, as I’m near perfect as a mate.”

“Then what was it?” Ears inquired.

“I don’t know how to state it other than tension and fear. He consumes far too much media, particularly the ultraconservative kind whose message is to eliminate other voices, blame everyone else but themselves for their situation, the cowards, and arm each of us with God knows what killer tech. It’s a sense in the air, like you were mentioning, Ears. Everyone’s irritated and volatile. Society is an open vat of turpentine left sitting for months in a closed garage, then someone walks in with a lit cigar. As that hairy detective said, people are being pushed from their foundations. The weaker the foundation, the more likely they’ll spin off the edge. Meanwhile, the media whores profit from stoking the fires. Regardless of his rationale and apologies, however, I can’t excuse it. I understand all too well how a single strike can maim or kill, and you recall I was just there in my unfortunate interlude with that mech. Todd crossed the decency line last night. Once crossed, there’s no going back.”

Peter gently touched Molli’s chin and surveyed her face. “Lucky the bastard didn’t hit you in the ribs.”

“Sorry,” Ears sympathized. “Glad to talk with you if it helps. Not meaning to change the topic so soon, but we must get moving, you two. Nucleator’s driver picks us up in an hour.”

“Oh,” Molli confessed. “I need to shower. Again, why is he picking us up versus him coming here?”

“He indicated for his safety and ours.”

“And my buds on guard? Can they follow?”

Ears clenched his jaw. “Um, he requested us only but assured me his driver is not a guy you mess with. I assume he’s well-armed and capable, from the sound of it.”

“Feels squishy,” Peter protested. “Where’s this dude from again?”

“Had you been here last night, we might have discussed the details,” Ears snickered. “He’s ex-gov and industry, a muckety muck at the NRC and now in a related area of private equity. I don’t believe there will be a black sheet between us, but I bet he’ll be veiled in secrecy like our Control Freak friend, Stu.”

Molli didn’t wait for the last sentence and ran into her room. Peter peered at Ears.

“You think she’ll be ready in an hour? You may need to extract her from the usual bathroom fetish time. Good luck with that.”

* * *

At ten-thirty a knock came at the door, and Peter answered. Expecting a large bodyguard dressed in a black suit and donning dark sunglasses, he instead saw a thin, short young man with a friendly face and outstretched hand.

“I’m Aaron. Very nice to meet you.”

Peter immediately had second thoughts about whether suspending their guards from Molli’s martial arts studio was such a good idea.

“Sorry to be blunt,” Peter insisted, “but we just let go of the friends guarding us. I assume Ears informed you of our troubles and threats, including Molli’s kidnapping. Should we be good with that?”

Aaron smiled as if he’d heard this many times before. He reached behind his back with both hands and pulled out two nine-millimeter pistols.

“I have my own defenses plus an arsenal in the vehicle. When you go where my friend goes, particularly these days, you don’t mess around or you’ll get messed around with.” He smiled again. “And despite my looks, I’m thirty percent mech in all the right places.”

He unbuttoned his sleeve and pulled it back to show a small scar that ran in a straight line from wrist to elbow.

The man’s response caused Peter to break-out in a cold sweat. Despite his belief that he held no biases against any hybrids, mechs made him uncomfortable, particularly after Molli’s episode.

He wiped his forehead and yelled, “Molli! Ears! The driver’s here, so let’s go.”

They boarded two long seats at the rear of the van. The vehicle was compartmentalized and provided no visibility to where they were being driven. A small amount of light from the van’s front window filtered through an otherwise opaque separator between them and the driver.

Molli was nervous and leaned over to whisper in Peter’s ear. “Mech?” she asked.

Concerned that Aaron could hear their conversation, Peter nodded his head.

Molli smacked her lips and stared at the top of the van. “How far, Ears. Did he say?”

“Little more than an hour.”

The hour passed slowly with the team hardly conversing. The van finally pulled off the pavement and onto a rough, dirt road full of potholes.

“Be sure you’re buckled-up,” Aaron warned, directing his message back to the trio. “We’re in a rural area, and the rains did considerable damage.”

“What do your senses tell you?” Ears whispered to Molli.

“Let’s discuss afterwards, assuming all is okay. Hope it’s not a radicalized mech arrangement we’ve fallen into.”

“He checked-out in a thorough review of sources. We’ll be okay.”

Aaron stopped the van and walked to the sliding door to let them exit.

“Here we are. Not your typical office park, but privacy is key. Hard to find a place more private than this.”

The van was parked beside an old wooden farmhouse. A cold wind whipped-up leaves from the large trees surrounding the structure, and Molli wished she had brought a heavier jacket.

“Is it warm indoors?” she inquired.

Aaron didn’t acknowledge her question but instead walked back to the driver’s door and got inside.

“That’s odd!” Molli exclaimed. “Guess we’re supposed to knock?”

Peter was just raising his hand to the farmhouse door when it opened. A gangly, aging, frail man appeared wearing a white, short-sleeve shirt. Gray wool pants barely hung on his frame, held in place by an aging pair of blue and red suspenders. He wore clean white socks but no shoes.

“Caught me early. I usually stay awake until sunrise, so apologies for the wardrobe.”

The man motioned them to sit at a rickety oak table.

“I approve of this place, but it only has electricity if I turn the generator on. Everyone warm enough?”

“I’m a bit cold,” Molli admitted, rubbing her arms.

The man grabbed a handful of logs from a wicker basket and stuffed them into an old black potbelly stove that barely heated the small house.

“They don’t make them like this anymore. Nearly two hundred years old, this one, manufactured not long after Ben invented them. Imagine the people who talked around this. Anyone for coffee?” he asked, putting a small kettle on the stovetop. “Nothing fancy. Instant.”

“No thanks,” Peter replied as Ears and Molli nodded their heads.

“You got a name for me. I like that. Nucleator, which means ‘one who creates a nucleation.’ Fits the facts, in this case. Mind if you call me ‘Padre’ for the interview? How do we get started?”

As Peter and Molli explained the interview process to him, Ears placed the Sony on the table. Then Peter began the interview.

“Today is a follow-up to our Poison Paul episode in which we had an expert discuss how we might disperse nuclear devices globally as a poison pill of sorts. In a twist on that perspective, our guest today is an expert in tactical nuclear devices for defensive purposes. We’re discussing the various ways we might defend ourselves against imminent threats. We’re calling him Padre, at his request.”

“Padre is appropriate, as I’m old enough to be a father to each of you. Maybe even grandfather,” he laughed.

Peter continued, “In that regard, how long have you been associated with the nuclear industry?”

“My boy, the pertinent question is more likely around how much time did I spend inventing and manufacturing nuclear weapons. That answer is more decades than you can shake a stick at.”

“Great. How have those weapons changed over time?”

“That question gets right down to it, doesn’t it? Do you remember the names of the first nuclear devices dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki?”

“Not quite,” Peter admitted.

“Little Boy and Fat Man. You ever seen them?”

“Not sure. Maybe in online images.”

“Son, that ordnance of ninety years ago was first generation. Big and bulky, hard to handle, and took a boatload of people to deliver and detonate. As one might imagine, we are many, many generations beyond that.”

“Understood, and that kind of progress is only natural over time, I suppose. So, what are you suggesting relative to the obelisk and any perceived threat?”

“I appreciate your directness, Peter. Let’s get to the razor line. I’m as skeptical as the next guy whether there’s any certainty of a threat, but I’m also a realist. A realist says to himself, ‘Hey, are you prepared to do what you must do today to make sure you’ll wake up tomorrow?’ Now, people respond to that in multiple ways. Some brush their teeth so their dental health doesn’t kill them. Others go for a bike ride. Still others visit your local gun shop.”

“How does that get us to personal nuclear devices?” Molli interjected, uncharacteristically intervening early in the conversation. “Or should I have said ‘nuclear devices for the masses?’”

Peter’s eyebrows raised. He was surprised that Molli was worked up enough to ask a question this early in the interview.

“Glad you asked, young lady. I’m feeling a little anxiety from you, which is understandable. Any sensible person should ask that same question. If you go back to the Little Boy and Fat Man days, we were dealing with a highly toxic product that affected a large swath of territory with mushroom clouds and fallout for hundreds of miles. These were big nukes intended for big destruction. Those products are far different from what I’m suggesting.”

“Which is?” Peter wondered.

“Very small-scale nuclear products for personal protection. I’m not even talking battlefield, in this case. I’ve been around a long, long time and seen every fear and hatred as well as every weapon designed to alleviate that fear or crush that hatred. Take your bullets or other explosive ordnance, for example. They may work okay on a traditional battlefield, and they don’t possess the lasting side effects of some nukes. But I’ll get to that in a minute. My point is that our traditional ballistic weapons, and this is no news to your listeners, are clearly ineffective against any Martian invaders. Mind you, I’m not suggesting we shouldn’t use traditional weaponry. Only that we swing the odds in our favor by augmenting one’s personal protection with nuclear-based products.”

“I can’t imagine what that might entail,” Molli countered. “Are you inferring we hand out nuclear grenades to every family?”

He tilted his head in response and grinned. “Perhaps it goes to that level, even to every person.”

“But isn’t that crazily dangerous?” she continued. “That’s giving every human being on Earth a nuclear grenade or similar.”

“And what is the tech in this?” Peter asked.

“It’s easy to go overboard on mushroom clouds and preconceptions. The DoD and their equivalents around the world have been working on small-scale devices for decades. Billions of dollars invested. Search on the terms and you’ll find these weapon systems are nothing new. They may not be available in mass quantities at this juncture, but they are easily reproducible to allow eight billion plus to be manufactured within a year. We’re talking state-of-the-art, foolproof products, unlike other responses to this threat in consideration. You generally don’t see your Joe Average cooking up the latest nuclear device, but you damn well see them creating a variety of other lethal concoctions. And yes, I’m referring to this rash of volatile street geedee tech, but not exclusively.”

“You’re assuming,” Peter suggested, “that because nuclear devices are controlled under watchful eyes, and geedee tech is arguably not, nuclear should be the clear winner as alien attack weapon number one in our personal arsenals?”

Molli was wringing her hands, visibly disturbed by this line of reasoning. “But there’s a difference we haven’t discussed. How do you explode this personal nuclear grenade without putting yourself and others in proximity in severe danger?”

“I’m not saying this type of weapons tech doesn’t bring risks with it. For example, if you use nano-probes or such, you’d need to inoculate yourselves against them. Same thing if you used other chemical or biological agents. No simple answers to any defense. Yet we have ways to shield ourselves from small tactical devices. This may include geedee tech to build protoplasmic resistance to radiation in humans. I believe your poison friend inferred that. We’ve honed such tech in recent years, and that’s as far as I can go without exposing too much on the topic. Trust me, though, we have ways to mitigate the effects of radiation.”

Peter was picking up on Molli’s energy. “On the impracticality idea, doesn’t this presume the holder of the grenade is mature and sensible enough to use it responsibly and not in a road rage incident? Add to that, this assumes we will encounter beings like us who are susceptible to such weaponry, in contrast nanobots or much smaller agents that may not be.”

The teapot on the stove whistled, and Padre got up to make his instant coffee. He turned to them, teapot in hand.

“Are you sure you’re good?” he asked.

They nodded, and Padre sat back down.

“Where were we? Oh, susceptibility. Nobody has the snicker doodle on what tech these aliens may possess in their arsenals. Nobody. Our optimal course, however, is to give it our best shot and prepare ourselves to the hilt.”

“What would that look like?” Peter queried.

He took a sip of coffee and drew a deep breath. “Different than you might imagine. It’s likely not news to you, but some voices are calling for a full-scale militarization of the global kind, back to your question about maturity and training. Call it a global army, if you will. I’m not suggesting every two-year-old should be conscripted, but every person capable of reasoning. And for your listeners, I don’t want them imagining they’ll leave home and march onto a battlefield with a nuclear grenade in hand. Far from it. Do you know the Swiss?”

“The Swiss what?” Peter wondered, surprised as such a silly question.

“How the Swiss go about national defense. Every citizen is a soldier and does some type of national or active duty. Many are trained in combat and use of weapons. They also often practice on their own turf, as if they were being invaded. This is only a suggestion that, given the imminent danger, we institute a similar strategy across every country.”

Peter smacked his lips. “I’m not sure I fully understand, so can I paraphrase? This plan takes every able-bodied person on Earth and gives them military or personal protection training. They’d then have access to small-scale, tactical nuclear weapons and receive training on how to use them. Correct?”

He nodded. “It’s being suggested. What’s the harm in doing this? If this is our last shot, wouldn’t you rather we go out with nine billion smaller bangs and leave a dead planet for the few aliens that survive, than surrender to certain annihilation without any bang at all? Give them hell, in other words. This is not a poison pill like your earlier guest suggested. It is putting forth the good fight, a fight for our existence as the dominant species on Earth. Understand?”

Peter was wondering how volatile this line of thinking might be and how it could be construed by his FBI visitor as melting a glowing red cauldron on the stove versus turning the burner down.

“How widespread is this strategy, and where is it being discussed?”

Ears interjected, “I’m seeing discussions in news feeds and social nets. The more conservative ones, anyway.”

“Got it, Ears. I envy you for your ability to take in more of those feeds than I. Age is no friend to the aged, and it’s much harder to improve yourself with augmentations after your DNA has seen as much wear and tear as this body has. Cells lose the code that made you who you originally were. Damned telomeres. Back to the point, however. Although it may be a surprise to your audience, what we’re discussing today is becoming mainstream thought, peeking out from unnoticed corners as a viable strategy for handling this threat. There’s no reason to welcome these creatures. I’m good with using personal nuclear arms to put up a fight, but open arms – no,” he chuckled.

Peter put his hand to his chin. He thought this discussion was so on edge that it should stop before going further.

“Padre, I hate to say it. We’re out of time for today, but we appreciate the discussion. Food for thought.”

“Nukes for thought,” Padre added.

The three thanked Padre and boarded the van. Aaron said nothing other than to watch them step into the vehicle. About halfway home, he finally spoke up.

“Any of you recognize this vehicle or its occupants?”

Aaron activated the rear camera display on a dropdown screen. They peered at the car following them, then at each other.

“No,” Molli insisted, “nobody we recognize.”

“Face and license search,” Aaron commanded to the van’s computer.

They knew what this meant – facial recognition software to match the occupants to databases.

A few seconds later, a voice replied, “No matches.”

“Not matching,” he repeated. “They must be wearing face putty. See the gent in the passenger seat? His nose is too big for his face. A laughable hatchet job. I’m in heavy traffic and will try to lose them. Your seats have grips at the bottom if we swerve. Hang on!”

At that, Aaron hit the accelerator. They heard the van’s electric motor whir as they picked up speed.

“They’re following,” he warned while glancing at his rear camera and navigating past the slower moving cars in front of him.

“Median!” Aaron yelled as the vehicle’s tires climbed over a traffic separator.

They could tell that half the vehicle was raised on the median but still barreling down the road. He then slammed the brakes to a screeching halt, and the smell of burning rubber filled the van.

The suspect vehicle was now two cars behind them, and traffic was backed up at a stoplight.

“Mechs, I assume,” he concluded.

Molli was breathing deeply, doing her best to avoid fear. While Peter and Ears were glued on watching their assailants, she looked away from the screen, closed her eyes, and meditated.

“Too many events in my life,” she thought. “How many times did I face opponents? I never fear that, and I fight all the time in class. Fighting is in the fiber of my being. Doesn’t matter they were kung fu brothers and not out to hurt me. I am a warrior mind.”

“How do you know it’s mechs?” she asked, opening her eyes.

While concentrating on timing the light as it turned from red to green, he responded. “One mech is in the passenger seat. He held up his AK in the window, just for a moment. Now he’s pounding the side of the car with his fist. It’s a metal car, not carbon fiber, and he put a dent in the door. I don’t know if it’s an intentional show of force or if this is his childish way of dealing with anger.”

The light turned green and the van bulleted forward as Aaron sped precariously through the traffic. Attempting to mimic them, the assailants swerved wildly from the right lane, and across the middle lane to the left. Then they heard the whoop of a police siren.

“It’s for him, not me,” Aaron assured them. “Appears our friend in blue is pulling him over. Bad timing, dude! Good for us, though.”

He sped forward with lighter traffic ahead.

“I’m leaving the back cameras on and need you to keep your eyes peeled. I can’t tell you how exhilarating this is! I just live for it these days. You aren’t my only dangerous passengers lately. What bothers me is that they followed us at all. Must be using sky tracking, drones, or satellite. I’ll inform your friend Nucleator of this. And yes, I was in the van listening while you did your interview.”

They glanced at each other with surprise.

“Dangerous?” Ears asked. “How are we dangerous?”

“Not you, per se, but what you’re doing,” he contended. “Nucleator found out about you folks through me. Let me tell you, your podcast is a must-listen for my gripper and mech friends.”

The remainder of the drive went without incident. Once they reached the condo, he didn’t look directly at them as he closed the sliding door of the van.

“A word of caution,” he warned, scanning the horizon. “If you think the last month has been crazy, then you’d better step-up your game. I don’t need to inform you guys about the competing voices working to resolve this obelisk threat. Big money and power. Trillions on the line. You’re kind of in the middle. That’s all I can say. Good luck.”

He climbed back into the van and drove away, and Molli looked at her sweat-soaked blouse and underarms.

“I’m never wet, and I rarely sweat. Let’s get inside because I don’t feel safe outside anymore. I need to call my peeps and get them back to guard us. My detective friend as well. We need to report this. I mean, the guy flagging an AK at us?"