Doghouse Blues: Gorman's Game

By Lee Bond

Thirty thousand years from now, Humanshkind has spread to 3⁄4 of The Universe. Life is at once more diverse and rich than imaginable, yet relatively peaceful, than at any other point in time.

At the helm? Trinity Itself, a machine mind of impossible complexity. Called The Shepherd of Humanshkind, Itself's sole, self-professed goal is to ensure that Humanshkind continues to occupy nearly all corners of space.

What does this matter? Nothing at all, so long as you're not Garth 'Nickels' N'Chalez.
If you ARE Garth Nickels ... Well.

You'll have been found inside an Impossible Spaceship hidden inside the bowels of Pluto, alongside 14 other men and women of ... Surprising abilities. You'll have been there for about 30,000 years. You'll be suffering from profound amnesia that blankets everything except Pop Culture.

You will be quite, quite useless to anyone.

And when those 14 other men and women make an escape attempt, during which they destroy the mining facility where you'd all been found together, and require the presence of Trinity Enforcers to be put down like the dangerous entities that they are, and when YOU don't die, or display equal talents and when you are, mysteriously, the sole survivor ...
You'll be taken prisoner by Itself. You will be tortured for a year. You will be asked which Military agency you worked for. You will be asked about the ship, which remained hidden in plain sight, for 30,000 years and is well in advance of anything currently in Existence.

You will be asked about your powers. You, of course, will not be able to give any valuable answers, display any powers, offer any insight, because you have amnesia most profound.

That year will come to a close.

And then you will be charged, tried and convicted of crimes you did not commit.

You will be sent to Special Services. You will be an honest (probably) Man amidst psycopaths, sociopaths and criminals. You will be expected to survive, without training, without skills, without hope, in a mercenary organization that travels the Universe, doing Itself's dirty deeds.

You will be thrown into The Doghouse, to hunt a most dangerous criminal.

You will be tested.

Will you survive?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lee Bond
• Release date: Aug 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005413170

Lee Bond

Born: 1972Where: New Westminster, BCTime: Some timeI started reading when I was something like 3 years old. My first 'grown up' book was given to me by my grandmother, and it was Piers Anthony's 'Castle Roogna'. From that moment on, I was hooked on the wondrous worlds of science fiction and fantasy.I can't remember when, exactly, that I started writing, but I usually stick with '5 years old' because that sounds like a good time to start. I definitely remember writing all kinds of things when I was a young boy, but it wasn't until I hit grade 8 that I really buckled down and started working on the Garth N'Chalez Universe.When I'm not writing, which is never ... okay, when I'm not physically sitting at my computer writing, I'm either wasting time devouring entire series' of shows like Breaking Bad or, more recently, The Sopranos or goofing around with friends.I've always had a story to tell, and this wonderful world of self-publication gives me the opportunity to bring those stories to you, the reader, without too much delay.Anyways, as those of you who've read my stuff knows, I can go on and on and on an ... yeah, you get the picture.

Book preview

Part the First: Who in the Hell is Garth Nickels

Chapter One: Groundy List #2567

Commander Aleksander Politoyov of Special Services stared moodily at the flickering VDU screen in front of him, preparing himself for the morning’s work. While he’d slept, an update concerning the next batch of SpecSer ‘participants’ had been sent in and he was of a mind to see what the next generation of Specters entailed before regular duties intruded into his life.

The Screen, an obsolete, purely ancient piece of Voss_Uderhell tech ripped straight out of the guts of an abandoned V_U flier more than twenty years ago and repurposed to work without AI support, flickered mutinously.

Aleks gave the monitor one good, solid thump around the side.

Might occasionally being right, the unit, coded with sublevel programming making it about as smart as your average house pet, decided to behave itself.

For now.

‘Enjoying’ a full-bore netLINK connection to Camp Nova’s heavily shielded level 8 AI sphere, Windswept Echo, meant that Vidu might turn cantankerous at any moment; thanks to the odd effect Nova II had on even heavily shielded AI spheres, the connection Vidu shared with the base 8 was a necessary evil, but it was not without its fair share of tribulations.

Windswept Echo was a semi-refurbished BishopCo sphere with a SpecSer overlay, and since BishopCo was perpetually at war with Vidu’s manufacturer, the conflict shared between those two Conglomerates often spilled over into intelligent and semi-intelligent coding.

Base Technical Specters swore they’d finally managed to root out the kernels causing the electronic strife, though they were never quite as successful as they claimed.

Aleksander hoped the status of the VDU and Windswept’s virtual conflict was at low tide this morning; the list of fresh Groundies aboard Ganymede Ursa en route to Camp Nova was 100 strong. If he had to wade through the profiles of 100 men, women and things that were the absolute worst society had to offer by hand, his mood, already sour, given what was coming out of Nova Cee, would become positively lemony.

Vidu. Aleks addressed the half-intelligent computer system. How are you feeling this morning?

Not genuinely high enough on the practical scale of electronic/artificial intelligence to have true feelings, the VDU -or Vidu- nevertheless thought it was, and so, appearances needed to be maintained.

"Feel fine. Fine … feel. I feel fine."

Aleks sipped thoughtfully on his piping hot coffee. It would have to do.

Compile attributes of Groundy List #2567. Aleks leaned back in his chair, enjoying a small smirk of triumph. Somewhere on base, his XO, the heavily augmented Kaptan Innit, was undoubtedly troubled, sensing someone relaxing.

"Okey. Yes. Okay."

Lounging was rare for an officer of his caliber, so Aleks enjoyed himself as much as possible while sipping his coffee and considering what ailed Camp Nova and the attached city, the adequately named ‘Nova City’, or ‘Cee’, for short.

The base was … ‘fine’. Operation Imago had been maintained perfectly well for over a year now, unless Itself decided to make a drastic change. Until then, everyone on base would continue enjoying the mysteriously lax conditions to the absolute fullest, with absolutely no desire to dig into why their leashes had been lengthened. Other than that, Camp Nova was a tolerable mishmash of bad attitudes, missing cargo, Specter on Specter violence and the occasional Innit-provoked case of Spontaneous De-Headification.

Nova City was … Aleks slurped his coffee.

Cee was Cee.

The hardy colonists who insisted they loved a challenge continued to insist such, all while attempting to surreptitiously petition Black Market smugglers and traders to make secret planetfall out in the deep deserts. When they weren’t doing that, they actively courted disaster by messing with furloughed Specters. When they weren’t doing that, they risked even more than their lives by inviting conversation with the true inhabitants of Nova II.

If ever there was a thing that’d shorten the already hard life enjoyed by the Cees, attempting to palaver with Novinians was the equivalent of cozying up to a black hole. You’d get close enough, all right.

Then you’d get torn to pieces.

Vidu, contact Marcie. I need to speak with her concerning Operation What’s All This Then? And remind me I need to talk to her about proper naming conventions.

"Will do. Roger. Wilco." Vidu’s small speakers blipped and, rather disconcertingly, blatted once, very loudly. "Profile assessment complete."

All good things must come to an end.

Aleks smiled wryly, returned to Official Position -though he did sip more coffee- then got down to brass tacks. All right, Vidu. Main grouping.

"33% Yellow Dog conscription rate. Usual assortment of crimes. Rape, murder, assassination, one count city-murder. 2/5ths of 33, mild augment range. All combat ready. 2 pilots. Of 33%, a full 75% suspected plants. Captain Colonel Marks addendum: ‘will provide en route tests for full determination’."

Good boy, Vidu. While it wasn’t unusual to get handfuls of ex-Yellow Dog Clanmembers, Vidu’s plant-count was a little on the high side but understandable; Yellow Dog was presently one of the pre-eminent multi-Galaxy criminal organizations inside Trinityspace, and with the Next Age announcement making the rounds throughout Itself’s Domain, things were hotting up as everyone started planning for the eventual end of life as they enjoyed it.

To that end, groups like Yellow Dog, who found themselves and their various operations under the direct and loving attention of Specter fireteams, were undoubtedly seeking to ameliorate their SpecSer problems.

If any of the suspected plants survived Marks’ on-board tests, they, like everyone else who attempted to infiltrate SpecSer for their own ends, would learn, very quickly, that it just never worked.

SpecSer wasn’t a career. It wasn’t something you could infiltrate. It wasn’t something you could demoralize. In fact, it often took all you were as a Humanishbeing to make it to breakfast.

No one believed that Special Services was entirely populated by criminals who ranked amongst the worse The Universe had ever spawned. Most tested scarily high on any aptitude test you cared to apply, most were fiendishly evil in one way or the other. It wasn’t hard as a plants or saboteur to get through the screening process, but survival after that became something of an ordeal.

Those spies and infiltrators either realized that the ‘olive branch’ extended to them by Trinity was worth the effort or they got killed and eaten by their own teammates.

Vidu continued after an appropriate length of time had passed. "15 variants. 2 extreme. Crimes irrelevant as applied to Humanish standard legality. Tertiary test phase mandated by Itself to determine feasibility of widespread Trinityspace inclusion."

Hrmph. It was always good to get variants inside the Service.

Not only did ‘accepting’ Humanish variants show they were ‘friendly to all forms of Humanishkind’, acquiring new variant species was always a boon to SpecSer; many Humanish variants that wound up SpecSer-bound were resilient and well-adapted towards the extreme rigors that was part of a Specter’s life.

As an extra-added bonus, many fresh variant species being inducted into Trinityspace had absolutely no preconceived notions of how The World really worked. As a result, these fresh additions were hard to bribe, harder to manipulate and had next to no connection to or concern for standardized Humanishbeings.

Most importantly, they were very keen to prove that their variant species should be given full access to Trinityspace, so there wouldn’t be a lot of missteps from them.

Failure meant enclosure. Enclosure oftentimes meant the death of an entire civilization.

Inform Kaptan Innit. We’ll need to open up Barrack 9. Imago-related. If there was anyone in Special Services who could handle fresh variants that included two extreme types, it was his heavily modified, utterly unique, manifestly terrifying XO, Kaptan Innit.

"Okey. Vidu clicked and clacked. Resuming list. 27 standard Humanishbeing inductees. 10 North American Unity. No affiliations. High IQ with attendant personality issues. 4 city-deaths, 2 planetary hijacks, 1 planet-death, 3 ‘for-hire’ mercenaries with long sheets. Mid-to-high augments. Threat level: standard. Remaining subsets: 6 FrancoBritish citizens, suspected ties to ‘Feu Couvant’, a pro-FrancoBritish terrorist organization in Cai-Shen-Hooni-9337 Serpentis. 7 IndoRussians, all from Glass Hammer. Usual crimes. From Keluarga Tamzanny. All heavy mods. 3 unaffiliated EuroJapanese. 1 guilty of murdering a rival Tynedale/Fujihara Executive. No mods. 1 guilty of systemic financial collapse. No mods. 1 guilty of intentional global reactor sabotage. World-death. Mid-range mods."

Banner crop of ne’er-do-well Prime Humanishbeings again. Aleks drank some coffee and regarded the updated list.

NAUees were NAUees.

As much as he hated to admit it, they’d fit right in. As one of the ‘oldest’ Humanish demographics in Trinityspace, they were … flexible to their surroundings.

It had a lot to do with the fact the old earthbound Bishop Conglomeration had been at the forefront of systemic colonization during the First Exodus, 30,000 years ago.

With their now Age-locked, proprietary skipdrives and colossal generation ships, they’d gone further and faster than the other merged demographics fleeing Earth at the time. By the time the EuroJapanese, IndoRussian, FrancoBritish and the sadly lost AE Union generation ships had entered new systems, hopeful to find land, they had instead found thriving BishopCo colonies greeting them with open arms and reasonable rates of exchange.

While it might not be fair to generalize all NAUees as being corrupt to the core, it was fair to say that every North American Union representative hitting his doorstep was.

Aleks moved on to consider the FrancoBritish on the list. Though there was only a small handful, Aleks was hopeful they’d prove as solid as their brothers and sisters already in the Service.

He had yet to meet a FrancoBrit that wasn’t extraordinarily adept at war. In every facet. It was a shame this particular cluster was coming to him by way of Smoldering Fire, though. A quasi-religious cult with savage leanings, Smoldering Fire bred lunatics rampant with dogmatic principles.

Unless they could shake their religious indoctrination loose in short order, it was a certainty they’d either die on their second or third deployment. Specters had no time and even less patience for religious fanatics.

The non-Yellow Dog-affiliated EJ’s would likely be a problem. Since they’d enjoyed positions of authority and influence inside Tynedale/Fujihara or one of their subsidiary ‘gloms, it was obvious they were intelligent and capable. You just didn’t rise to that level without having a few tricks up your sleeve, but if they couldn’t redirect their minds to a more … subservient setting and quickly, they wouldn’t last.

Unmodded, coming from the Executive Branch of their various organizations, they just didn’t have the upbringing for combat. What to do with them?

Those last three are political. Aleks commented.

Vidu yapped. "Yep. Yepyep."

Inform Redrock. They’ve got brains in their heads for certain but were still too stupid to avoid getting caught. Let’s see what the good doctor can do with them. They might try angling for Technical Specters, but we’re full up in that department. Maybe they’ll find a home as a MedSpec. If not, they’ll have to work twice as hard and three times as fast to stay alive. Aleks paused to drink some more coffee. And the last 25?

"24 unremarkable. Low-mid augment range. Threat level, low. Continue?"

Aleks shook his head. No. They’re all cannon fodder from the sounds of it. Not worth the time and effort. If they prove themselves, they prove themselves. If anything, they’ll wash out during transpo. What about the remaining soul?

"Class-class-classified." And with that, Vidu shut down with a squelch of dying speakers.

_

There is no such thing as classified for me. Politoyov said at long last, tapping Vidu’s dead screen exasperatedly. "I’m Commander of Special Services. Vidu! Here boy! Wake up!"

When Vidu failed to respond, Aleks sipped on his now-cold coffee. The name of the final inductee to Special Services wavered in his mind. Garth Nickels.

Who was Garth Nickels, and what could he have possibly done to manage a ‘classified’ category? At that very moment, Special Services was home to no less than 400 entities that various parts of Trinityspace wanted so very dead that they’d voluntarily detonate their own suns for vengeance.

Classified indeed.

Who’s Garth Nickels, Trinity? Aleks didn’t even need to check to see if Itself was present in the room. Of course the machine mind was: there was only one way for something to be classified at this level of intelligence operations, and that was directly, expressly, by the machine mind that Shepherded Humanishkind through the Universe. And what’s he done to warrant Special Services?

"Garth Nickels is a puzzle that needs solving, Commander Aleksander Politoyov."

Trinity. The Old Man made no effort to nod, salute, rise, or show the AI any kind of obeisance. The machine mind didn’t care one way or the other. If you felt you needed to give It homage, Itself would allow you to do so.

It was very fond of allowing Humanishkind to do as they pleased, so long as they played by the rules when Itself insisted. Woe betide the Humanishbeing that failed in that respect.

There were worse things out there than SpecSer.

"You have questions concerning this man."

Not unless I am allowed to. The Old Man rolled his shoulders. He suspected, quite rightly, he would learn shortly, what was going on and wished it weren’t so. A hundred year old conversation that’d given rise to his small organization played in the back of his mind.

Couldn’t be. Too much time had passed between then and now. Surely not now.

There was already too much going on inside Trinityspace.

"The agreement we made together a century ago guaranteed your full autonomy in all things, Commander Aleksander Politoyov. You argued most persuasively to that end and as a result, you alone of all my subjects have absolute and total freedom to think, speak and act as you will. You have questions. They will be answered, as promised. I would have it no other way."

Aleksander quashed the groan that wanted to rise out of him.

This was about The Agreement.

Aleks supposed he was embarrassed with his response to Itself’s sudden mention of that ancient conversation. An entire century had passed between then and now and while the machine mind had promised that this day would come, he’d allowed that same passage of time to convince him otherwise.

But of course, that’d been a foolish conceit.

Itself worked with spans of time eons in length. A hundred years was nothing.

Besides, Itself never walked away from a contractual agreement.

Aleks tapped his lips thoughtfully. Tell me about this … Garth Nickels, Itself. He must be quite the figure, to earn such an unlikely security rating.

"Data is forthcoming, Commander Aleksander Politoyov. A heavily encrypted wafer, complete with pertinent intelligence, is presently aboard the SSLC Ganymede Ursa, in CS Captain Colonel Marks’ care. Windswept Echo possesses the appropriate keys. The wafer is secure. As it stands, we can have no further conversation on the man beyond what I expect for him while in Special Services."

‘Secure’ meant that if anyone tampered with the thumbnail-sized wafer, or if it was even jostled before Echo unlocked it, the damned thing would go hypercritical. They wouldn’t even find greasy atoms.

The Old Man wondered if Marks knew he was carrying something that deadly aboard his precious Ganymede Ursa.

Aleks nodded. "Is he anyone special? Any unlikely talents or traits? Any skills or abilities that’ll make his integration into Special Services easier?"

"On the surface, it does not seem so, but I know this cannot be true. The methods I have employed to solve the puzzle thus far have met with failure, which is why the second phase of resolution, Special Services, has been activated. When you have access to the secure wafer, all, including my reticence in discussing this even over encrypted Q-comm lines, will be made clear, Commander Politoyov. Rest assured that while the man may seem to be ill-fitting, he is quite the opposite. I am confident that once he is in a militaristic setting, he will … relax his guard."

Aleks stared off into the middle distance.

Itself was asking a lot.

Special Services had been created, with Itself’s direction, for a ‘purpose’. At the time of SpecSer’s inception, the machine mind had gone out of Its way to avoid addressing what that purpose might be, stressing only that the moment would come. Indeed, since that initial, formative discussion a century ago, Itself had never once mentioned either Its expectations for Special Services or that side of their agreement at all.

To that end, Aleksander had built Special Services up to be a preeminent clandestine organization that did terrible things Universe-wide. Sometimes what they did was at the express request of Itself, but most of the time what SpecSer got up to was designed to relieve pressure. If that meant destroying a planet or destabilizing a systemic economy or just assassinating a single Humanishbeing, so be it. So long as equilibrium in Trinityspace was more or less maintained and Itself wasn’t mentioned, they were free to do as they pleased.

They were equal opportunity mercenaries with a side contract with Trinity Itself. If you could pay the bills and ignore collateral damage, Special Services was your beast.

With the sudden announcement that a new Dark Age hovered in the distance, some 20 years out, Aleks had earnestly believed their agreement would include some sort of all-out assault on what lay beyond the impenetrable Cordon, but …

But now Itself was suggesting all his efforts had been to give one man a place to hang his hat.

Something was off. There had to be more to this Nickels than he was being told. Much more.

After a moment, Aleks asked a question he felt certain Itself would prefer he didn’t, not even over ultra-encrypted Q-Comm. Is The Agreement coming to fruition?

"It may very well be. As I mentioned, the initial phase of testing was inconclusive. Hence, induction into Special Services."

Aleks nodded grimly.

Since it seemed that Itself had been planning for the arrival of ‘Garth Nickels’ for about a century, it wasn’t hard to imagine the machine mind would prefer it if this second round of ‘testing’ didn’t kill the man straightaway.

Very well. I’ll arrange for him to wind up as base personnel. TechSpec or Machines and Maintenance while you figure him out.

"I have never made suggestions as to where your soldiers are placed, Commander Politoyov, though in this instance, I must insist."

Where were you thinking? Aleks asked. MedTech? Stores? Burdturgler isn’t someone I’d trust with a Groun …

"There is only place for Garth Nickels, Commander Aleksander Politoyov. I believe you call it ‘The Doghouse’."

Aleks blinked, shocked to his core. That … he … will …

The Commander took a deep, calming breath. Reminded himself that he was Commander. "Doghouse Blues … they are … it … that situation is fragile to say the least. Its highly unlikely he will even survive long enough for a Run to appear on their Board. Gringl and Vizio are … particularly hostile at the moment. Brain … is Brain, and their CS? Grumbly is … well. Imago. Tossing a Groundy into the mix, someone who’s never completed a deployment, never spent time with a Training Command-level Specter, someone with no relevant skills … that’s a recipe for disaster. They’ll eat him alive."

"The risk must be taken, Commander. You cannot argue that though they currently labor under the yoke of their past failures, Doghouse Blues possesses the skills and abilities necessary to turn a so-called Groundy into an effective Specter, and in short order. Given how slowly Runs appear on their Board, Garth Nickels will be afforded ample opportunity to train with CS Grumbly in the Pants and the others."

"CS Grumbly will do everything in his power to prevent his team from acquiring a Groundy, Itself. Their … his ratio in particular … I’ll make sure it happens all the same." Aleksander didn’t want to push Itself any further, but he needed more, if only to prepare more efficiently. "Give me something, Trinity. If only to tell Kaptan Innit, my XO. He will raise an ungodly stink if I drop a Groundy unceremoniously into The Doghouse. Why here?"

"As it relates to induction into Special Services, all I will say over this unsecure line, Commander, is that it is possible this man started a war. While there is no corroboration of this, I believe this to be true. Just as equally, I believe this war has not yet come to an end. There are signs only I am capable of seeing that support this. If he has done this thing, your inestimable organization is perhaps the only institution within Trinityspace capable of keeping him under control."

I … see. The Old Man wished he didn’t, but he did.

It was a verifiable truth that Itself was 30,000 years old and had been Shepherd of Humanishkind for all that time. If the machine mind said there were things that only It could see and understand, then he, a mere Humanishbeing, would do well to have faith.

No matter the whole situation was dodgy as hell.

"Excellent, Commander. Trinity paused. I have made a decision to broach more of the topic. Prepare."

Trinity changing Its mind happened very infrequently, but it did happen. Aleks indicated he was ready to hear whatever needed to be said.

"In an effort to ensure you prepare yourself and Blues properly, certain aspects of Garth Nickels’ condition will now be addressed. He was recovered from a stasis chamber. During stasis, he incurred long-term retrograde amnesia and cannot presently offer anything of value about his past life prior to Decantation. He is a quick study and will progress rapidly, so the injury is by no means debilitating. Case in point; he learned nearly every variation of current-day NAUee as it is spoken within Trinityspace over the course of 2 days. It is a guarantee that Garth Nickels will engineer a cover story to explain both his amnesia and any lack of skill, perceived or otherwise. You are to facilitate this effort only if it becomes necessary. Nickels knows little of the current timeframe, so his cover story will be … creative. You will adjust your personnel files to reflect this. Wherever possible, you and yours are to assist Garth Nickels in the resurrection of lost memories, and to report to me on any success. That, more than anything else, is of utmost priority. Do you understand your orders as they have been given?"

Commander Aleksander Politoyov nodded grimly but his thoughts cycled.

A Decanted? This was all for a man who’d survived long-term cryostasis?

How long had the man slept? An ancient warrior’s instinct and imagination covered the possibilities in leaps and bounds. Had to be a long time, else Itself wouldn’t have mentioned ‘current day NAUee’. So … at least Last Age? 400 years?

More?

It was a bit of a slap in the face, learning that your pride and joy had been born into The World, not for a grandiose purpose like overtaking the ¼ of Universe that lay on the other side of The Cordon, but to house a single amnesiac.

And yet … Aleks was no stranger to this kind of improbability.

He’d been ‘just one man’ a hundred years ago and he had given rise to Special Services.

Who was he to say that the same thing couldn’t happen again, with Garth Nickels?

Seen, Trinity. The Old Man nodded. There was nothing he could do, save prepare. As he had always done, as he would always do.

"Be vigilant, Commander."

And suddenly, Trinity was gone.

Commander Aleksander Politoyov reached into a bottom drawer and yanked out a bottle of IndoRussian Vodka, fidgeted with his coffee cup, poured a bit of the clear liquid in.

Then he took a pull right from the bottle.

Rigid compartmentalization after more than 150 years of military service prior to giving birth to SpecSer made it easy for Aleks to deal with the sheerly ridiculous prospect of taking on an amnesiac Humanishbeing who’d most likely been alive before or during the Last Age and not only putting him into Special Services, but dropping him into The Doghouse, day one, amidst the pack of vipers and dangerously unstable Specters suffering for their sins, but it didn’t mean he had to like it.

There was one thin thread to hang onto. Itself had given him the impression that It wasn’t entirely certain Nickels was the reason behind Special Services, that SpecSer was to be a secondary trial for the amnesiac until further proof could be found. Undoubtedly, the man’s lack of memory was part of the reason for his rude invitation into the organization, but …

Why drop him into The Doghouse?

The … ‘special nature’ of those particular Specters would make it nearly impossible for someone like a Groundy to function. They were close knit, morose, inclined to bouts of suicidal rage and were, quite literally, on their last legs. With their punitive ratios sitting where they were, they’d see a Groundy in their ranks as an actual death sentence.

CS Grumbly would, in simple Specter terms, flip his shit.

Aleks took another pull from the bottle.

Itself’s desires to test Nickels ran counter to Itself’s decision to put Nickels in Blues.

Even if the Groundy survived long enough to hit a deployment with Blues, it was all but written in the stars that the Groundy wouldn’t be returning.

In short, it seemed as though the machine mind wanted the reason for Special Services’ inception to suffer a short, hard death.

Commander Aleksander Politoyov muttered moodily as liquor met lips again. It isn’t for me to understand. Only to follow. Vidu!

Vidu’s Screen came alive in a burst of green/white static and his speakers barked. "Yesyesyes."

Get Marcie up here. Now. ‘What’s All This Then’s’ timetable is being moved up. The Old Man leaned back in his chair. If Itself wanted Nickels in The Doghouse there was only one way that was going to happen.

Given the state of Cee right now, there was a good bloody chance that Groundy Garth Nickels might not even make it to the base without dying along the way.

Itself never lied, but Itself rarely told the whole truth. If Special Services truly had been developed as a testing ground for one Humanishbeing, that Humanishbeing was someone to be watched.

Itself help us all. Aleks took another pull on the bottle before tucking it away.

Chapter Two: An Amnesiac Contemplates His Immediate Past

Garth lay on a cot amidst a hundred other cots.

His tiny little cot was far off to one side of an enormous retrofitted cargo bay that’d been split into 10 even sections with 10 cots apiece; each bunk had a single designated occupant, and should anyone not belonging to that cot be in that cot, fists met faces. Over the last two days, small conflicts concerning real estate had already happened and would likely continue happening.

As he lay abed, Garth surveyed the … ‘rich and storied’ men, women and occasional thing that may or may not be a man or woman through slitted, watchful eyes. Since every single one of them, himself included, wore the brightest shade of orange jumpsuit this supposed Future had ever invented, it was remarkably easy to do.

At the moment, his … well, Garth guessed you could call them his ‘shipmates’, were down the other end of the holding area in what was far too similar to a free-range pen than was comfortable, getting in their steps, testing the waters of their new and dynamic hierarchy, all under the watchful eye of armor-clad, be-weaponed soldiers who strolled around up top, on the gang walks.

Feeling like Will Smith, if Will Smith had instead been farmed out to a paramilitary organization full of mercenaries aboard a spaceship alongside 99 criminals bound for some place called ‘Novinia II’ instead of heading off to Philly to hang out with a rich Aunt and Uncle and their kids, Garth couldn’t help but laugh.

He was fucked. Completely and thoroughly fucked.

And knowing that he hadn’t even ever really had a choice in the matter certainly didn’t make it any easier.

The unwilling convict sucked at a tooth, vainly trying to unstick a wedge of horrid protein-composite from a molar. While he did this, Garth considered the series of events that’d brought him to this point.

But where to begin? Where he was, that moment? Who had put him there? How he’d been found, a year ago? What’d happened then?

It was all a blur. Nothing made sense. Everything was wrong and strange and broken.

Garth made a decision.

He’d let his subconscious drive the bus, let his thoughts and experiences of the last year flow through him.

In so doing, he hoped to come to some kind of deeper understanding about what was really going on in this Broken Future into which he’d been awoken. And more importantly, maybe find proof that he actually was 30,000 years beyond anything and anyone he’d ever known.

_

On the SSLC ‘Ganymede Ursa’ and bound for Nova II -the unofficial but oft-used name for Novinia II- that was itself sole HQ for Special Services, Garth ‘Nickels’ N’Chalez was the victim of foul play. That much was evident, even to an amnesiac. Everyone from Judge Judy to Perry Mason would agree. Hell, even Doctor Phil’d throw in his two cents.

Tried and convicted for crimes he hadn’t committed because he’d had the poor luck to be the only fool left standing and because Tynedale/Fujihara had needed someone to blame, he’d spent the last year under direct questioning by a man named Kant Ingrams.

Kant Ingrams worked for an organization referred to as ‘The Historical Adjutancy’, and while the official duties of that august group had eventually been fully explained, never once had ‘boundless and vigorous torture’ come up as part of the job description.

Kant Ingrams -eerily resembling a very mild-mannered tax accountant from the Midwest all the way from his thin, pointed face to the fastidious way he walked and talked- had been the epitome of ‘Awkward Guy You Try to Avoid in the Office All Day Long Only to Get Stuck in Conversation with Him at the Watercooler’. Not the sort of person you’d actually associate with ‘efficient and zealous torturer’, not even if you were the sort of filmmaker who liked to play heartfelt, emotional songs during scenes of explicit violence, yet Kant Ingrams had nevertheless approached the topic of torture and interrogation with gusto.

Ingrams’ job had been about as simple as possible.

Find answers to several questions.

Where had the ship come from?

Who had built it?

How had the others managed their escape?

Who are you?

Of course, there’d been other questions, but they’d all shared one thing.

He hadn’t known the answers to a single one, and this had, in essence, driven the Adjutant mad.

_

In direct contrast to his entirely homogenous torturer, Garth was presently eyeball to eyeball with a wider variety of Humanishkind than was properly imaginable, and he’d been led to believe, again, by his constant companion, Ingrams the Dickhead, that no matter how many diverse forms of life he saw, whatever he beheld was but a fraction of a percent.

Right that second on Ganymede Ursa, there were men and women who had the requisite number of arms, legs, ears, eyes, noses and fingers to appear Human but when those eyes, ears, noses, tongues, lips, hands, fingers and everything else were blue, or green, or furred or scaled or bumped or ridged …

The reality that he probably had been in stasis for 30,000 years grew a little more … concrete.

Garth tried savoring the notion of that much time passing.

For him, it’d been the blink of an eye, but sometime in between opening and closing those eyeballs, he’d lost everything. He knew nothing of who he was, why he’d been on that ship, how the ship had wound up inside Pluto, who the other people in the ship had been or how they’d managed to do as they had.

Thirty thousand years.

Ingrams had had a real hard time with that number. So did he, if Garth was being honest with himself.

Even more difficult, though, had been accepting that the destruction of the mining facility and everyone inside, in less than half an hour, had been accomplished by the other occupants of the Impossible Ship Hidden Inside a Planet for 30,000 Years.

Devastation which he, Garth N’Chalez, had most definitely not been party to, but had ultimately been held accountable for all the same.

_

That was a sore spot for Garth. It really was.

It was hard for him to commiserate with the Tynedale/Fujihara Conglomerate when they were the ones who’d willingly and without forethought opened up that Impossible Ship. It was like no one in this Hypothetical, Broken Future had ever seen a sci-fi movie in their lives.

You left weird shit in inexplicable places all the fuck away alone. That was the rule. You didn’t touch the glowy space rock, you didn’t try to make first contact, you didn’t wake 15 people up who’d apparently been asleep for 30,000 years inside a ship stuffed to the rafters with technology that defied description.

You just didn’t. And if you did find something like an Impossible Ship inside an already thoroughly-scanned Pluto, a miraculous craft that was only visible to the naked eyeball no matter what you threw at it, you called up the thing known as ‘Trinity Itself’ way before you decided to open it up and you let It deal with whatever was actually inside.

But apparently in this Hypothetical, Broken Future that was 30,000 years in advance of anything Garth remembered, if you were the powerful Tynedale/Fujihara Conglomerate, you could not only do that very thing, you could also piss and moan and demand remuneration from the one dude who’d accidentally managed to not die while everything else around him exploded right the fuck up.

"I’d still like to know how that happened. I was in my cell, reliving the glory that was ALF when those … other people … had reenacted season one of Prison Break as told by Alternate Stan Lee." Garth said this to himself softly, eyeing the orange jump-suited free-range criminals warily.

The memories of that moment were still as fresh as the day they’d happened. Rack and ruin had rained down upon the heads of everyone employed inside that mining facility. Devastation on a level that he’d only ever seen on the silver screen, taking place on the other side of his ‘holding cell’, viewable through a tiny unbreakable plastic window.

It’d been glorious. It’d been breathtaking. It’d been … impossible to accept.

Impossible or not, though, it’d happened.

The facility, destroyed. Pluto, now even less than a moonlet.

He’d been trapped inside his holding cell, miraculously kept alive through a combination of luck and engineering; somehow managing to avoid destruction during the escape attempt, the square cubicle had broken free from the shattered remains of a block of cells, turning into a kind of free-floating escape pod in the process.

_

Garth glared at a bald-headed convict with tattoos all over his face and one missing eyeball as he ‘randomly strolled’ through Cot Block 9. Inner instinct told Garth that Baldy McOneEye might turn into a problem.

As had always happened since waking up, attempting to probe the depths of this silent instinct proved futile. That ‘instinct’, most often a dry, sarcastic voice, hid behind the black wall of amnesia, coming out only when it wanted to, never really going out of its disembodied way to explain anything.

Baldy McOneEye made another casual circuit then took himself back to the main area, allowing Garth to return to silent, miserable introspection.

_

The ‘allegedly 30,000 year old man’ would never forget being told that ‘Trinity Itself’ -apparently an artificially intelligent machine mind that’d been protecting Humanity for very nearly eternity- had questions concerning his presence inside the Impossible Ship, his role in the destruction of Pluto, and how it was possible that they’d all managed to stay out of sight for 30,000 years.

Garth recalled how … how unspooled he’d felt at hearing those impartially asked questions, how … unreal … it’d all felt. How disconnected he’d been made to feel. It’d been awful. It’d been dreadful. He’d held on to the belief that he was being lied to, for some unknown reason, that everything he’d experienced and endured up to that particular moment in time was all part of an act designed …

To do something. To get him to say something. To prove he knew something.

How he’d begged and pleaded for the truth. How he’d demanded to know what was going on. How he’d denied the absurd notion that he’d somehow managed to slumber for 30,000 years.

That neutral, androgynous-sounding voice still rang in his ears. "Garth Nickels, all you have been told is true. You have slept for 30,000 years. I am the Shepherd of Humanishkind. My reason for being is the protection of and continued growth of Humanishkind and you, with your memories of pre-Exodus Earth, will assist me."

Even now, it was too much to believe.

In fact, Garth still didn’t believe it, but it was getting harder to argue that whole ‘30,000 year nap’ thing.

Especially when he considered the facts.

_

The facts were these.

He could not recall the spaceship he’d allegedly been found in. He wouldn’t know it from Buck Rogers’ Star Fighter.

The first thing he remembered definitively was waking up inside a tiny, 6x6 room that contained a single, hellishly uncomfortable bed, one toilet, mounted to the floor, sans seat, one sink, no hot water, a single lighting track that left no shadows anywhere in the room and one single door with one tiny window, apparently built to withstand Juggernaut.

Through that window, he’d observed a structure that appeared to’ve been devoted to some form of heavy industry, so mining had been as good a possibility as anything.

But.

Until he’d been tumbling gently through space, staring down -and sideways, and upside down- at the shattered remains of Pluto, that mining operation could’ve just as easily been in the Ural Mountains as well as 5 billion miles away from Earth.

Since that disquieting moment, tumbling further and further away from ‘land’, he’d not been afforded an exterior view of anything, so … call his presence on Pluto half-possible.

_

Working at that wedge of gross green food, Garth wondered if the Ganymede Ursa had any exterior windows. And what it might take to get a peek outside. According to an announcement made over shoddy speakers, the journey from Indeterminate Point A to Nova II would take a few weeks, so the prisoner shelved the idea for the time being but resolved to keep an eye out for opportunities.

_

After that … the facts grew spotty.

He couldn’t clearly recall being rescued from decaying orbit around possibly-Pluto.

Only waking up.

He’d awoken to the news that he’d already been tried, convicted and condemned to appease a Conglomerate known as ‘Tynedale/Fujihara’, a nameless corporate entity spanning -as he’d been told- literal Galaxies. Was it true? Hard to say.

He’d been told that this ‘Conglomerate’ possessed enough power and influence to make things moderately difficult for Trinity Itself, something that the ‘Shepherd of Mankind’ was of a mind to avoid for the time being. He had also been informed that Trinity Itself found the case of his ancient slumber and his cohorts aboard the ship fascinating.

To that end, the ‘machine mind’ had come to an arrangement with Tynedale/Fujihara.

He, an alleged 30,000 year old man, was to be passed around like some kind of commodity.

Thusly; the agreement made between Itself and the Executive responsible for the destroyed outpost gave Itself’s minion, Historical Adjutant Kant Ingrams, a single year to learn all they needed before that powerful Conglomerate was allowed to take their pound of flesh. After that, he would be returned to T/F, so that he might work off the debt he’d foolishly accrued by not dying.

He didn’t know where he’d been held, and he’d been held there for about a year. Over the course of that year, he had been tortured. Excessively. Brutally.

By thin-faced, dry-humored Kant Ingrams, he of the ever-growing zeal for ancient truths buried under 30,000 years of progress and expansion to all corners of the Universe.

Hotel Torture Your Face Off. Garth shuddered at the darkness that blossomed whenever he thought about that place, of the things that’d gone on there, on how angry Kant Ingrams had grown with every unanswered question, how much more precise his efforts at eliciting truths had become.

By the time the disease of madness had flourished fully grown inside Kant Ingrams, by the time Garth had been offered ‘freedom’ by Itself, he had come to the conclusion that something was terribly wrong. With everything.

If he was in the Future, it was Broken.

That dry voice, tucked away behind the darkly shimmering veil of amnesia that quietly insisted everything he was seeing, from spaceships to laser guns, from the clearly unhuman people he presently shared bunk-space with to the undeniable majesty of that Tynedale/Fujihara mining facility before it’d exploded into atoms by ordinary-seeming people, was wrong, that everything should be better somehow.

If he hadn’t slumbered for 30,000 years, nestled in the high-tech embrace of a ship that astounded scientists of the day, then there was still something wrong because the Earth he remembered wasn’t nearly this advanced and someone was going through Herculean efforts to convince him he’d lost all that time.

30 millennia lost to a nap or complicated con, he just couldn’t explain how things should be, just that nothing was … right.

No matter which direction his thoughts took, Garth N’Chalez couldn’t help but remain convinced that he was being lied to. Not about the amnesia. That was a fact. Together, he and ardent Kant Ingrams had plumbed the absolute depths of the emptiness inside his mind. Going over the same questions, over and over again, incessantly, endlessly, almost mindlessly.

But everything else?

From mining facilities to spaceships, from views of deep space to the unhuman beings he shared meals with … someone, somewhere, wasn’t letting him learn everything he needed to know to soothe his soul.

And if this was all true, if he was in the future, all that did was give rise to other questions, questions he also couldn’t answer.

Why had he been on that ship?

Why had he been with those people?

Why had they all slept for 30,000 years?

There was little doubt that everything that made him him was behind a Wall in his mind. Just there, ever out of reach, shrouded in dark drapes, never to be revealed, the only thing coming forth the occasional dry witticism that was more sarcastic than helpful.

He wasn’t empty. Far from it. At his mental fingertips there lay everything he’d ever seen or read for fun. Every movie, every TV show, every comic and every book.

Just nothing important.

_

No first kiss. Garth shook his head miserably. Being shipped off to an uncertain fate was doing a real number on his frame of mind.

At least, and he couldn’t believe he was going to admit this, at least with Ingrams, he’d had the torture and the mind-numbing banality of ‘conversation’ with the man to keep him preoccupied. But not here. Not on the Good Ship Convict.

"No first job. No Mama and Papa N’Chalez, teaching me how to shave and how to drive. No getting drunk with my buddies, nothing real."

_

A sharp noise drew Garth out of his sullen and altogether moody miseries.

It turned out that Baldy McOneEye had found someone else worthy of his furry eyeball; down the row, in Cot Block 2, Baldy and another convict were engaging in some lively bickering that included -but was not limited to- a few jabs and a spectacular effort by Baldy to eat his target’s whole entire ear.

Two armed guards whistled piercingly and brandished their terrifically intimidating rifles. Baldy and his new BFF shook hands like gentlemen and they wandered off to separate corners, sharing all manner of hooded eyes and silent promises.

These idiots were to be in Special Services along with him. Two days into the flight and one guy had already tried to eat another guy’s ear off. From what he’d heard from his chatty escorts from Hotel Torture, everything he was hearing and seeing here, on the Ganymede Ursa, would pale in comparison to what he could expect once he was in Special Services.

All thanks to Trinity Itself, the so-called ‘Shepherd of Humanishkind’ …

_

"Garth Nickels."

"It’s pronounced N’Chalez." Garth repeated wearily. While it was fair to say his sampling of this ‘future’ was limited to less than a handful of people, not one of them had gotten his name right.

Which was fine, Garth supposed, especially when he accepted the fact that he himself couldn’t really explain why his last name was spelled or pronounced the way it was. It was one of the many things in his life that ‘was the way it was’.

What he couldn’t accept, though, was that a hypothetically 30,000 year old machine mind that was just as hypothetically in control of a volume of space that was allegedly equal to ¾ of The Entire Known Universe couldn’t get his damn name right either.

You’d think that an AI mind that old and powerful could manage something as simple as a weird last name, right?

Apparently not.

"As previously discussed, the methodology employed by Historical Adjutant Kant Ingrams in assisting you with memory recovery in a practical manner ran counter to our efforts and violated several terms of the initial agreement. Prior to this egregious act, you were to be handed over to Tynedale/Fujihara. This is no longer the case."

Oh. Garth moved from the bed and made his way over to the edge of his prison; unlike the cell he’d enjoyed at Chez Pluto, the rooms here at Hotel Torture Your Face Off were spacious as anything you might find in an Italian villa, but try as hard as you wanted, you couldn’t get past the beads of light that stretch floor to ceiling unless someone let you. The prisoner lay a hand against one of the scintillating pillars of diamond-bright light and pushed.

As always, nothing but presence. He’d tested each pillar, time and again, over the last 365 days, and they all felt the same. Like nothing. But they were implacable.

So, Garth resumed, resting his forehead on a hand, what was the thing that broke your so-called agreement? Was it the other day, when he peeled the skin off my body and hooked those weird electrodes to my exposed nerves?

"No. The device Historical Adjutant Ingrams utilized in the earliest days of your time together to model your brain was done without direct authorization. As a result, any attempts Tynedale/Fujihara might’ve employed to recoup their losses are no longer possible."

Garth recalled his time under the influence of that particular machine with distinct unhappiness. The man had done an awful lot to him across the hours and down through the days, but that machine … it’d been something entirely different.

"I was under the impression the cats at Tynedale/Fujihara could cause you difficulties if they couldn’t put me to work slaving away in the Cobalt Mines of Epsidani-224." Garth pointed out.

"There is no such place." Itself paused, Its absolutely neutral tones echoing hollowly through the cavernous room.

"Just so I’m clear on this." While Itself did not appreciate being hurried, It did allow for clarity to be sought, and allowed a surprisingly wide latitude in the questions It’d answer. "Torturing me every day for something like a year is an approved tactic for the recovery of memories that’ve probably been irrevocably lost due to being held in stasis for, apparently, 30,000 years, but using one specific machine breaks the whole damn deal? I would’ve thought the whole ‘skin peeling, electrodes on nerve endings’ thing mighta been the straw for that poor camel."

"The situation is complex."

It really is not. Garth countered. "I can’t remember anything, you guys tortured me for a year because you thought I was like … those other guys, only I ain’t. You made an agreement with Tynedale/Fujihara wherein you’d kick me loose after a year, only now it turns out that your buddy used some kind of illegal brain mapper like, day 2 and that broke the deal. As a result, you’re no longer sending me to a T/F facility to undergo stuff that’s probably similar."

"Given the nature of your shipmates’ displayed abilities and the slight modifications the device made to your brain chemistry, it has been determined that the risk in leaving you in the hands of a Humanish Conglomerate would be unwise. A different agreement has been made with the Executives responsible for your account with them. They may not like it, but I am Trinity Itself. They have accepted with extreme reticence."

"What changes were made to my brain chemistry? Garth demanded, chilled to the bone. Am I, like, some kind of other dude now or something? He examined his hands and fingers. I don’t feel like another dude."

Trying to play it off as a joke was working, though just barely. The possibility that he wasn’t who he’d been a year ago, that his time with Ingrams had changed him already bothered him more than he could possibly say.

To be told that his brain chemistry had been irrevocably altered?

Nightmarish.

"The changes are infinitesimal to your core personality and personal motivations, Garth Nickels, yet turned out to be ultimately responsible for Ingrams’ overall failure in extracting memories or eliciting responses similar in nature to those displayed by your shipmates."

Well that was fucking hilarious! Garth bellowed with hollow laughter for a good, long time, not caring one way or the other if he was irritating the machine mind. If the voice he spoke to was even something like that.

That’s too rich. Garth chuckled. He ruined his efforts. Ruined your great plan. He what? Made me immune to torture?

"In effect. It has been determined that there is now a significant disconnect in your mind where pain and fear are related. You still feel pain. You still feel fear. The very specific methodologies of torture, however, no longer trigger in quite the same way. It amounts to an immunity."

So … things are settled with T/F? Garth asked hopefully. If I can’t be tortured into revealing anything other than I’ve already told you, I’m useless to you, right? I’m free? I can … I can leave? I can … go see whatever the hell Trinityspace is? Garth didn’t necessarily want to get his hopes up, but they rose anyways. The amount of agony and abuse he’d endured was nearly beyond reckoning. If he truly was in the future, he wanted to explore it.

He felt he’d earned that right. Especially since it’d all been for naught!

And if he wasn’t in the future? If he was still in the early days of the 21st century?

Well shit. He’d fuck off to the nearest Slappy Burgers and order himself a Slappy McSuper D-Lux with all the fixin’s, a double order of Large & In Charge Spicy Curly Fries and a damned Dr. Pepper float.

Itself’s response was swift. "No."

Garth instantly felt like a bug smashed against a window.

He … he didn’t know why he’d even bothered hoping.

"Please. Garth begged, hating himself for the weakness. You just said the agreement was different. Let me go. Or kill me."

"You misapprehend, Garth Nickels. While you are no longer being sent to them, there is still the matter of remuneration for Tynedale/Fujihara’s losses."

Garth laughed so bitterly that he actually wept. What in the actual fuck are you talking about? You just said the agreement had been changed, that I’m no longer of value to them.

"Though I govern Humanishkind in an effort to see you all move forward towards the End of Time itself, the laws created by and for Humanishkind maintain an order and balance that I am unwilling to disturb unless events warrant my direct involvement. In this way, I allow Humanishkind to feel in control. Though it is an illusion, the illusion of control imparts stability. Stability leads to progress and harmony, and reduces the need for direct action. Trinityspace is vast, Garth Nickels, the concentration of Humanishkind and all it’s variants vaster still. Disruption leads to instability, and this close to a Dark Age, instability is to be avoided at all costs. Trinity paused. Tynedale/Fujihara is a definitive vector for instability at the best of times. Losing access to you has exacerbated this by a considerable degree and as my focus is pointed elsewhere within Trinityspace and shall be for some time, I am unwilling to give them reason to lash out in ways that would be deleterious to those goals. To smooth things over, a different contractual obligation has been made."

What even do they want? Garth demanded faintly.

"Immaterial."

Something twigged in the back of his mind. "I think you let them believe they’d have access to me only you never had any intention of letting that happen. Did that weirdo machine even actually do anything to me?"

"Garth Nickels, you are living proof that something occurred to render you immune to torture and interrogation. Itself replied reasonably. The methods utilized by Historical Adjutant Ingrams over the course of the last year were guaranteed to provoke some form of answer other than what you gave. Even if only to have him stop. That is the function of torture. Yet you never once betrayed yourself. You held to your core statements, regardless of what was done. I can state with absolute certainty that no Humanishbeing of any category could withstand what you underwent for a month, let alone an entire year. Your beliefs that I would choose to deal in bad faith with Tynedale/Fujihara merely highlights your ignorance concerning matters outside your purview. Trinity Itself has not and never will deal in bad faith."

Since he had no other choice but to accept the machine mind’s reverberating words as truth, Garth pushed the conversation where Itself clearly wanted things to go. "So what’s the deal now? What’s this about me being responsible for remuneration? Remuneration for what?"

"Where before Tynedale/Fujihara was willing to absorb the cost of damages done to Pluto One during the violent outbreak that resulted in its total destruction in exchange for access to you, it has now been agreed that you, Garth Nickels, are to repay 90% of the total cost of Pluto One, to the aggrieved party."

"And how much is that?" Garth could scarcely believe his ears. He was losing his mind.

"Four hundred trillion, three hundred thirteen billion, twelve million, one hundred thirty-six thousand dollars and fourteen cents, adjusted to 21st century currency for easy comprehension."

Garth smiled emptily. His mind filled with all those zeroes. "Of course. So, is there a Bank of Trinityspace willing to underwrite such an exorbitant loan? Bearing in mind all my assets were likely destroyed somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty fucking thousand years ago and I have precisely zero job skills or offers."

"Untrue. There are several avenues available to you, Garth Nickels, though there is one in particular which I believe will suit you admirably. This particular opportunity will not only reduce the overall fee to 0.9% of the total, but will also afford you the opportunity to ‘explore Trinityspace’, as you have wanted for some time now."

Sounds too good to be true, Trinity. Only an epic fool would so blindly trust an offer made by the very same machine mind that had, as recently as yesterday, condoned brutal methods of memory extraction. Even though Itself was eminently logical and passionless, there was always something else going on. What’s the catch?

"There is an organization known as Special Services. Members of this institution travel the length and breadth of Trinityspace in pursuit of worthy goals. In plain terms, Special Services is a paramilitary organization loosely connected to Myself whose mandate is simple: Specters engage in less-than-legitimate tasks for individuals, governments and societies that may wish to … avoid more legitimate means of assistance. From time to time, they are called upon by Myself or My agents to fulfill a function that I cannot be directly associated with."

You’re suggesting I join an intergalactic A-Team? And what? Fly around the Universe blowing shit up and whatnot? From an abstract point of view, the offer was what every kid back home would’ve jumped through burning hoops of fire to grab. "I like where your head is at, Trinity, but there are a couple things. First off, there’s that pesky ‘I don’t know how to do anything’ situation I’m dealin’ with here and secondly, what if I want to try out one of these other, curiously unmentioned dealios?"

"Special Services is a preeminent institution, Mister Nickels, filled with a wide array of Humanishkind and their variants, all of whom are highly-skilled and trained. Such training will obviously made available to you, as will the time to learn all you can. Trinity paused. The other options do not afford the opportunity for travel. It is a truth that employment in SpecSer will be dangerous, but it is also a truth that the other prospects currently available to you are significantly more so. Though the danger is less overwhelmingly inherent, working in a radioactive environment to mine various forms of power crystal will see your life drastically shortened. As would deep space salvage and reclamation. I do not go into great length about these other choices because an in-depth review of your personality profile suggests to me that while you dither over the offer, you will in fact choose Special Services. Every other choice is lacking in the very things you seek for yourself here, in Trinityspace."

From the sounds of things, Garth had already made up his mind, but Trinity seemed unusually talkative, "all of them sound pretty shitty, but you still haven’t brought me up to speed on the catch, Trinity. You’re right. Special Services sounds like just the thing I’d be okay with, but I can’t help but feel there’s something about ‘SpecSer’ you’re tryna keep secret."

"An apt summation, Garth Nickels. It is pleasing to me that Historical Adjutant Ingrams’ efforts in freeing you from your amnesia have not resulted in loss of reasoning. You are correct. There is a ‘catch’. Trinity’s neutral voice lapped at the walls. Unlike every other branch of My Martial Arm, Special Services is populated solely with criminals and the deranged. It is a truth that you will not find a single innocent amongst the rank and file. In fact, the majority of them are violent misanthropes who, before being conscripted into Special Services, were guilty of various Crimes Against Humanishkind."

I’m sorry, what? Garth asked, smile faltering.

"Specters are no ordinary violent criminals, Garth Nickels. In terms you may understand, the vast majority of them test quite highly on dozens of personality tests measuring intelligence. They are resourceful and resolute. More importantly, Garth Nickels, they have two traits I require."

"Annnnd what might those be?" Intergalactic A-Team indeed! But where Face, BA, Mad Murdock and Hannibal weren’t actually guilty of wrongdoing, it sounded like Itself was putting guns