The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“What is the best war?”

The man in the video now playing from Julie’s laptop onto the screen of the Equals’ darkened-living room television asked the question of a non-existent studio audience. He walked around a black stage, wearing a black turtleneck; addressing them as if either giving a TED Talk, or unveiling the latest Apple product. Everyone recognized him; a famous technology billionaire who’d died a few months back. Below him a graphic on the screen read “Presentation Rehearsal #8: Internal Use Only.”

“According to that great sage, Bart Simpson, ‘There are no good wars, with the following exceptions: The American Revolution, World War II, and the Star Wars trilogy.’”

He paused for pre-recorded polite laughter.

“But which is the best war? The obvious answer is ‘the one where you win,’ but there’s an even better one than that.”

He stepped back as the giant monitor above the stage lit up with a number of technology companies’ logos merging into a giant S-shape that looked to be made out of a spring.

“The BEST war, ladies and gentlemen… is the one where you win… without ever having to fight it.”

The video changed to a shot of Sean Connery in “Thunderball,” flying a jetpack. Troy was about to say something when Julie mouthed “We know” at him and looked back at the screen. The phony audience oohed and ahh-ed.

“The jetpack,” The speaker continued. “Which of us hasn’t always wanted one? The technology exists, the US Army worked for years to perfect it; some general’s dream of a platoon of jet-pack-wearing Buck Rogers soldiers, soaring over enemy lines to rain down death upon their foes. But there’s a problem. They used to call it ‘the 30-second barrier.’ The problem is that it’s impossible to create a jetpack that can hold the weight of the occupant, the weight of the fuel, and the weight of the pack itself, and attain more than 30 seconds of flight. I believe now it’s been pushed to 34 seconds. Not much of an improvement since Double-0 Seven here flew one, and not practical for military use.”

Troy started humming Tom Jones’ “Theme from Thunderball.” Helen gently whacked him on the shoulder and pointed at the screen.

“So we decided to go back to basic principles.”

The image changed to clips of Olympic athletes performing high jumps and long jumps.

“Man may not have been meant to fly, but he was certainly meant to jump. Since rockets weren’t the answer, we thought ‘What about springs?’”

The image changed to a computer graphic of a pair of large metal boots. It circled around them, then the image changed again to an x-ray view of the boots. It zoomed in on the soles, under which, multiple coiled springs were located. The non-audience oohed.

“What about nanocarbon springs, and state-of-the-art breakthroughs in Inertial Damping technology? Breakthroughs that, when applied as we have, absorb the kinetic energy of impact, and temporarily stores it for higher and longer jumps? Absurd, right?”

The graphic backed away to show the original image of the boots. Vector graphics then filled in a suit of black, metal armor and helmet.

“Iron Man?” Julie said to no one. Various half-giggled shushes came from the room.

“For YEARS,” The speaker continued. “It was said that a man could not run a mile in four minutes! It was absurd to consider! Then, in 1954, Sir Roger Bannister did it. He just… trained hard until he ‘did it.’ By point six seconds, but he pulled it off. And now, athletes break his record often. An idea is only absurd… until someone does it.”

The computer graphics faded away to show a real suit of armor underneath.

“I’ve got to admit, Helen,” Susan whispered. “When you said we were going to watch a video, I thought you mean the other one.”

“Shh,” Helen snickered. “That one’s on the drive, too. You remember the deal.”

“What you are about to see… or, should I say, NOT see… is the future of modern warfare.”

“Ain’t ‘at what they say at the beginnin’ of every movie where technology fucks up an’ starts killin’ everyone?” He faked a Texan accent. “Gennelmen, what y’all’re seein’ here, is the future of modern warfare.”

Everyone but Helen laughed.

The video-within-the-video switched to a desert scene with a helicopter flying about 50 feet over the ground. It zoomed in on the person wearing the Springheel suit and helmet, then panned out as they jumped out of the helicopter. The pilot immediately pulled away as Springheel hit the ground feet first, then bounced back up into the air. High enough that if the pilot hadn’t moved the chopper, the wearer might have been caught up in the rotating blades. He landed again, and began making shorter, smaller jumps, until he stopped entirely.

The fake audience oohed, then cheered.

“’How did he do that,’ you may ask.” The speaker said when it died down.

“Why thank you, sir.” Troy said, in a stuffy British accent. “I may just ask how, indeed.” This time, everyone laughed.

The image switched to a camera inside the suit. An isomorphic view of the surrounding landscape was pictured in a window in the corner. Then a little dotted line appeared in the wearer’s field of vision as the window showed a series of dotted lines, corresponding to the pattern in which the suit jumped before.

“It’s Missile Command!” Mander blurted out. The room exploded with laughter.

“No, no.” Troy said through his howls. “It’s more like Family Circus, when Mommy tells Billy ‘Time for dinner,’ and Billy takes the twisted dotted-line path through the neighborhood to get home.” The laughs continued.

“With satellite data, internal sensors that constantly sweep the surrounding area, and GPS information fed directly to the wearer, Springheel’s trajectory-plotting can be done in an instant. We’re not to the point of ‘leap tall buildings in a single bound’ yet, but we’ll get there in time. That would be enough for some people. But we didn’t stop there.”

“But wait, there’s more!” Julie called out. Everyone but Helen laughed again; she stared intently at the screen.

The video cut to the helicopter’s view of Springheel in the desert, zooming in on it. The person in the suit touched their left forearm, causing a panel to slide away and reveal a small keyboard. Springheel vanished before their eyes. The camera panned back, and little clouds of kicked-up dust could be seen when the suit continued jumping.

“Active camouflage, transmitting data in real time to Springheel and adjusting to provide 360-degree stealth capabilities. And as I said, we can’t leap that far, but we can certainly climb. Climbing lines and pitons concealed in the wrists…”

As he spoke, from out of nothing, a line fired and latched into the side of a rock formation. The line became taught and seemed to disappear until all that was left of it were a couple of feet sticking out of the piton embedded in the rock and leading to nothing. Springheel faded back into sight, and it was clinging to the side of the bare rock, held by the piton, until the wearer bent his knees, pushed off from the side of the rock formation, and the piton retracted back into the suit as the wearer engaged the camouflage and was gone again.

Susan began humming the “Spider-Man” theme as they watched.

“With concealed blades housed in the forearms…” Springheel became visible again, and a long blade came out it’s right wrist before it vanished. “Your enemies won’t know what hit them.”

The scene changed to a night-time view, bathed in the green of a night-vision camera up in a tree outside of a walled-in compound; guards patrolling the perimeter. A caption on the screen read “Not Actors. Home of known drug cartel boss.” A pair of armed guards patrolled the outside. The camera zoomed in on them.

“Stately Wayne…” Troy started to say, before trailing off, noticing now that

Contessa Helena de San Finzione had stopped laughing, and was intently staring at the screen. He paid attention.

“Two coming from the East.” Said the spotter with the camera. He zoomed in on the two as one suddenly found himself hoisted into the air, blood coming from his mouth and chest, as if impaled on something. He fell to the ground as his companion looked about in confusion and terror. The other man started to run, when a piton shot out of nothing and speared him in the back. The guard cried out as the piton dragged him backwards, retracted back into nothingness, and a slit in his throat appeared; causing him to collapse, clutching his neck.

Watching, Helen unconsciously touched the tiny scar on her own throat.

Springheel became visible as the blade retracted into the suit, then jumped over the wall before more guards approached the scene. The camera followed it as it leapt up onto a second-story balcony and the wearer hit more buttons on the wrist, turning invisible again. The sliding glass door opened. There was screaming, a gunshot, and a hole appeared in the door. The screams were quieter after the door closed again, but continued.

The guards looked back to the house and began running toward it. When they were gone, a small cloud of dust was kicked up where Springheel landed in the dirt road outside the wall. It became visible, gave a thumbs-up to the cameraman, then leaped away from the compound before disappearing again.

The canned applause returned as the camera panned down to the speaker.

“Infiltration, espionage, assassination.” The speaker resumed. “Springheel can do it all! Why send your soldiers out to die? Your problem isn’t with the other side’s soldiers, it’s the leaders in charge of them! Springheel can get to them, wherever they might be, and, heh… cut to the heart of your problem.” He continued through the recorded scattered chuckling. “No more leaders, no more war. And isn’t that the best kind of war? The kind you win before you have to fight it? With Springheel on your side, you’ll WIN The Best War!”

Artificial applause played. The video cut to black, and captions in a different font than earlier appeared on the screen.

“The day after this recording, the speaker was found dead of a drug overdose. A fire destroyed the facility with all notes and data on Springheel. The prototype was also presumed destroyed.”

An image of the Springheel suit appeared in a spotlight, the camera slowly rotating around it.

“We have it now. One of a kind, and it can be yours. Lot 15: opening at $100,000,000. Details to follow.”

The video ended and Troy turned the lights back on as Helena went back to the patio. Everyone followed.

“That’s a Wile E. Coyote design, isn’t it?” Julie asked her when they were all seated and Helena had her cigarette lit.

“A suit that makes you Invisible Spider-Man?” Susan asked. “I could see that being worth a hundred million.”

“That’s just the opening bid.” Helena responded. “And there are plenty of governments and criminal organizations who’d be happy to pay it.”

She took a deep drag before continuing.

“I’ve been to that compound. Mander has, too. For different reasons, and we have an understanding about that.” Mander stood behind her and nodded.

“You’re ’er mates, so I’ll be up front wit’cha: Before meetin’ ’Er Countessness, doin’ rotten things because some ’orrible tosser says to were my entire CV.”

“We guessed.” Everyone else but Helena said simultaneously.

“That was the former home of Esteban Lopez. Yes, the one from the news about four months ago. The coke lord brutally murdered in his bedroom, in front of his five mistresses, ‘by a ghost.’ A hit so surgical, yet brutal, that even his former allies are claiming credit.”

Troy took a seat next to Helen, took in what she said, and faced her before speaking.

“Ok, it said Lot 15. Is that a location?”

“No.” Helena replied. “All right, you know how in movies, someone steals the plans for the missile, or the formula for the new rocket fuel, or the list of all our undercover agents; and they say they’re going to ‘sell it to the highest bidder?’”

“Yeah.” Troy said suspiciously.

“Ok, those auctions really happen. They’ve been going on for a long time, and the people who put them on are called The Auctioneers. Lot 15 is an item number. And I’m on the invite list. Unfortunately, I have no way to get a copy of the list and see who else is on it. The Auctioneers like to stay anonymous and on the move. When they get enough items together to hold an auction, they tell us where about a month in advance.”

“Been to one.” Mander said. “Bodyguardin’ one of the attendees. The Auctioneers don’t tolerate funny business at the auction itself. Or after. They’ve a sorta ‘lack of reputation’ to uphold. But before that, anythin’ goes. They figure ’ow we do each other over before ain’t their problem; they can just pull the plug til next time if they ’ave to. During an’ after, they’re at risk; so there’s consequences. Not bein’ invited anymore might not sound like much of a punishment, but if you’re no longer welcome an’ the other guy is; an’ somethin’ like this comes on the block…”

Troy nodded his understanding before talking next.

“I’m guessing, then, the next one’s sometime this week in Seattle? The same time as STRANGERS? Aren’t you needed there?”

“STRANGERS is bullshit, Troilus.” Helena answered. “Granted, those are all important topics, worthy of serious discussion. And San Finzione would be happy to host a real conference on any one of them. But no. When they call an auction, we get the notice so we can cook up something like STRANGERS; to give us all an excuse to be in the same city. They give it a name that’s sure to draw crowds of protesters; someone went overboard this time. Some of the delegates DO think it’s a real conference, so maybe a dialogue or two might happen, hopefully. Then, when they tell the rest of us the exact time and location, everyone can slip out a back way, put on a disguise and grab a protest sign; find a way to sneak out and go to the auction. Rita’s mine. I’m not even going to the summit.”

“So,” Susan asked. “You’re putting her in danger?”

“Never.” Helena said, folding her arms. “The ‘summit’ is too public for Yorkshire to make a move. If anything he says can be believed, he’s some kind of conflict profiteer. Selling the bullets to one side, then selling the bandages to the other; that kind of thing. A stray shot there, and he loses a customer.

“Ultimados have Rita under 24-hour watch. If she has to go out, more pose as a film crew for a new reality show that’ll never happen, so if he plays by my ‘no bystanders’ rule, she’s perfectly safe. That’s the other reason the Green Family Reunion is happening; you may see some of the faces across the street come and go as the week goes by to relieve her detail. Rita’s staying in the La Contessa Suite at a Società Finzione hotel downtown, I get to be your guys’ neighbor for the week. That’s the other reason that your neighborhood is ‘The Safest Place in The World Right Now.’

“If you want, you can come with me to take a stroll around the neighborhood later; let the neighbors know that they’re ok with it all, to go inside and take cover and not panic if anything SHOULD happen, and to just keep an eye out and let us know about anything unusual. Besides the Well-Built Hot People Convention over there, I mean. And we’ll be cooking enough to feed them, too. Help me out, and they’ll just remember that their nice neighbors invited them to a pretty good barbecue.”

Helena watched as Maisson and Velasquez went off for a “stroll” themselves. Velasquez tried to take his hand. Maisson hesitated, then did so. Helen smiled, turned back to Troy, and continued.

“But like we discussed in the bedroom, Troy; I’ll have things to do. I have to find Yorkshire and get to him before he gets to me. You offered to help. Most of the ways I can think of that you could help, by an astounding coincidence, can be done from the privacy of your own Safest Place.”

Troy nodded.

“I guess if you want me looking at money, the internet connection we’ve got is pretty good.”

“We, and by that, I mean primarily me and Mander; will need to do things outside of the zone. That is why I brought along one of Zartan’s Dreadnoks, Troilus.” She jerked a thumb at Mander, who simply nodded agreeably. He then leaned forward and spoke softly.

“Which one’m I, Your Countessness?” He asked.

“Monkeywrench.” She replied. “But, you know, if he shaved.”

“Too fuckin’ right.” He high-fived her from behind, then stood back, menacing no one in particular.

Troy nodded agreement before getting serious again.

“Ok, good. Rita’s perfectly safe, then. What about everyone who isn’t ‘Secured by La Squadra de Ultimados?’ Have you seen what’s going on downtown, Helen?” Troy asked. “That’s a powder keg ready to blow. Rioting could break out at any moment. Seattle had some riots a few years back. They didn’t care for them.”

“That’s the Auctioneers, Troy. They’re one of the few things in the world that I have no control over. I’m just on the list. And looking into them is a good way to get uninvited, so, I got nothing on them. Yorkshire is on the list, too, and he wants Springheel badly enough to kill me for it. He knew I’d be his only real competition. Because yes, I want Springheel, too. One of us is going to walk out of that place with it.”

“Or jump out of the place.” Susan whispered to Julie, who started laughing.

Mander stepped in.

“Per’aps, Your Countessness, we should take detailed discussion of the Wampeterutsis inside?”

She nodded. Then remembered she wasn’t in San Finzione.

“Mander’s got a good idea. Sorry about not asking earlier; Contessa thing. Shall we?”

“I may be oversharing, here.” Susan said once everyone was back inside and the door was closed. “I’m crazy, but it’s the ‘sort-of nice’ kind. However, I speak from experience when I say this: That’s completely fucking insane.”

“I am AWARE, Susan!” Helen said, a bit too defensively and off guard, then hurriedly covering. “I am aware that it’s completely fucking insane! That the thing should come in a big, wooden crate with ACME stenciled on the side! The thing is that it shouldn’t. It should come in a bunch of smaller crates of stuff that the Coyote then cobbles INTO Springheel! It’s a bunch of non-stupid ideas, slapped together until they became Springheel!

“It’s invisible! Like Harry Potter or Predator, more like Predator! That stuff about inertial damping? You guys are more into sci-fi than me, I’m sure you know more about it than I do. I’ve got a 20-page brief from my Minister of Science, and all I got out of it was that it’s something we’ll eventually need for Space and calling it ‘inertial dampening’ is incorrect.”

“Stargate always fucked that one up, but yeah.” Susan said, nodding for her to continue.

“That trajectory-calculating program, was I the only one who saw it and thought ‘roulette wheel?’ Or ‘never lose a game of pool again?’”

Mander raised his hand.

“I did, Your Countessness.”

Helen nodded to him and continued.

“You see? That’s just the criminals in the room talking.” She turned to Troy. “Fuck, Troy, YOU could probably do something like watch the lottery drawings for a couple weeks, track the movements of the number balls bouncing around that clear tumbler and come up with a viable system! Or figure out a way to intercept missiles or something! Visit the Texas Book Depository and sort out what really happened! I know YOU would figure out some way to use it for good, Troy.

“We saw someone jump 50 feet from a helicopter in the thing and bounce away unharmed. You know those old jokes about ‘Why don’t they build the whole plane out of the black box?’ No, we should be making planes and cars with THAT stuff, whatever it is. I want Springheel so I can have my science people dismantle it and see what we can learn from everything that went into it. Put that technology to use that Vincenzo and Propappou would be proud of.”

Troy stood up and looked at her.

“Ok, Helen. Now I know. You would not invoke those names if you had any interest in it as the ‘ultimate assassination tool’ that they’re promising. You just want to learn from it, not make more.”

Helen stood up and tilted her head up to look Troy in the eye.

“My interest in its potential for assassination is entirely the opposite, Troy. Remember our conversation about who the second-most hated woman in the world is? If someone else gets hold of Springheel, who do you think is at, or near the top, of their list of people to use it on? I intend to slaughter this particular Golden Goose, Troilus. The attack made me realize that The Thing has limits. Yorkshire found one of them. Another that occurred to me while I spent two weeks in a chair is that you have to know someone is there in the first place. I know that I am not long for this world as long as Springheel exists. What do I do when something happens that I can’t handle, Troilus? What have I always done?”

“You run.” He answered.

“Yes, I run. I had two weeks of Leg Days to make up for when I got out of that chair. And all the time, I thought to myself, ‘This thing LEAPS,’ Troy. It fucking leaps! And it’s got that Mortal Kombat harpoon thing, too. And that brings us back to the original problem of ‘I have to know it’s there in the first place.’ You know we can’t walk around doing it all day, just in case someone might be there. And what if they put a deaf guy in it, which Yorkshire is certain to do?”

“Well, there’s something.” Susan spoke up. “This Yorkshire guy didn’t just search Google for ‘terminally-ill hard-of-hearing assassins.’ He’d have to have known Frank Morgan from before he went straight and became Gareth Finnegan. Probably knew him under both names. Maybe Morgan was the one who approached him when the money ran out.”

Helen gave Susan a broad smile.

“Hey, I hadn’t considered that. You’re really helpful, Susan. Have you considered that maybe helping people might be your talent? I mean, that’s what you do for Claire now. It’s late in San Finzione, but I’ll ask Ramirez to place a call to a friend of his who might know something.”

Helen had gone back outside to smoke while she called Generalissimo Ramirez. Troy went with her, leaving Mander alone again with Julie and Susan. Julie had gotten everyone a beer from the fridge, and Helen approved Mander for one.

“Is there an issue here?” Susan asked him.

“Nah, ’at ain’t it.” Mander replied. “Jes’ ’at ’Er Countessness’ is givin’ me enough to be able to say when I can and can’t ’ave one.”

“So, Mrs. Equals.” Mander started to say before Julie raised her hand.

“I’m guessing that we’re going to be seeing a lot of each other this week, Mr. Mander. I’m Julie, that’s Susan, and the guy out there with Helena is Troy.”

“Thank you, Julie, Susan. Nigel, I prefer Mander. So, I get that yer mates from way back, excep’ you bein’ recent, Susan. But you an’ Mr. Equals’ve been wit’ ’er from the start, but ’e and Susan call ’er Helen, an’ you call ’er Helena.”

Julie made sure they were both out of earshot before leaning in to say quietly.

“I call her Helena because that’s what she prefers. Also because Propappou gave her the name, and I still fucking hate Wade and hope he’s screaming in torment somewhere. But Helena Medina was going to be Troy’s grandmother when Propappou adopted her, and it never happened, so she says it hurts if he calls her Helena much. None of us are blood relatives, Mander. That said, I’ll be the first to admit that we have a… unique family dynamic.”

“I’d agree there.”

Susan spoke up.

“We’re past it now, but we had problems at first, and I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction. We talked, and I’m starting to get why they blow so much stuff off as ‘That’s Our Helen,’ so, she’s just Helen to me.”

Mander thought for a second.

“Medina? Oh, yeah. She’d said you two picked the name Equals together. Bein’ equals an’ all, I suppose.”

“I love this one, Julie. Can I get it?” Julie took her hand and nodded. “That’s part of it, yes. ‘Partners-in-Everything’ is a phrase you might hear around here a bit. The other part is because as far as Troy is concerned, ‘Julie equals Best Friend, equals True Love, equals Absolute Trust.’”

“And Troy equals all those things for me.” Julie replied before turning to kiss Susan. “And so does this one.”

“If there was a House Equals coat-of-arms,” Susan told him. “The Latin at the bottom would say: Best Friends, True Loves, Partners-In-Everything.”

“I kind of like your old idea for the motto, too.” Julie told her with another smooch.

“’At’s beautiful, ’at is. So, the Master/Mistress deal, that’s like a…” He made a gesture of cracking a whip. “’At kind of thing?”

Julie gave a look to Susan that said, “I’m tired of this one, you wanna take it, too?” Susan kissed her back and turned to Mander again.

“Strangely enough,” Susan said. “Say, ninety-five times out of a hundred, it has nothing to do with that…”

They returned to the patio after Helen’s call. She and Troy continued talking after it ended, so she’d lit a third cigarette. Julie spoke when there was a break.

“Here’s a thought, Helena: Morgan may have been leading you to him. I mean, Troy knows more about spy stuff than me, but why else would he leave his empty pill bottles in the motel room with the psycho shrine that he knew you’d inevitably track him to? With his fingerprints and information on them? Why not take them with him and toss them in any garbage can he passed between the motel and the castle? I mean, he had a brain tumor, right? Who knows what he was thinking?”

“I’ve gotta admit, Your Countessness,” Mander chimed in. “’That’s a pretty rookie mistake for an old pro to make. An’ the ‘advances in poisons’ line? That’s not somethin’ ya jes’ take a wanker’s word on. ’E ’as to ’ave looked it up. If ’e knew ’im, maybe ’e knew jes’ ’ow much of a shite Yorkshire is, figured ’e shouldn’t ’ave it, at any cost.”

“Possible,” Helen said. “But it’s too many Ifs. The only one who could have told us what was going on in Morgan’s head was Morgan. He was doing it for his family. Why leave a trail straight to them? Someone double-crossing someone else? Madness brought on by the tumor? Doesn’t feel right.”

“I should probably get online and see what I can find.” Troy said. “Anything the Generalissimo’s friend can tell us would be helpful.”

“He’s covered his tracks well enough. Yorkshire said he had tech people. I knew he’d take some kind of measures against simply tracing the call, but we still had to try. He told me his tech people routed it through the Mars Rover, and we confirmed that.”

Troy thought about that.

“Hacking NASA sounds like the kind of thing that a sufficiently determined group of skilled hackers could pull off.”

“Troy,” Susan interrupted. “Remember the bank robbery lesson? Something like ‘Hackers Crack NASA’ would’ve been a headline. Someone at Mission Control would see a light on his console or something and call their supervisor about a hack. They’d probably use that exact headline, too. Say it, it’s got a flow. Hackers crack NASA.”

“Hackers crack NASA.” Everyone said at once. That got a small laugh from everyone.

“Oh!” Helen said, happily. “The bank robbery lesson! How’d you do, Susan?”

“Troy said I got the high score.”

“Cool!” Helen replied. “I only got the robbery itself and the extra-credit blowjob right! Did you do it in front of the bank, like Julie, or go somewhere else?”

As Susan opened her mouth to ask someone, likely Troy, about that, the burner phone Helen had set on the patio table next to her cigarette case vibrated, then rang.

“That’s him.” Helen said. “Yorkshire. I have ten seconds to answer. I need to be alone for this.”

“We’re in this, Helen.” Troy said. “All of us, in all of it.” Julie and Susan nodded their agreement. “Let me talk to him.”

The burner buzz-rang again.

“It has to be me, Troy. If I don’t answer, or anyone but me answers…” It rang a third time as Helen chewed on the thought. “It’ll never… ring again… But…”

Contessa Helena de San Finzione flipped open the phone and answered.

“Hello, Miss Pa—”

She cut him off with a shout.

“I am in the MIDDLE of something, Piss Boy! Call back in five! Wait, NO! Nononofuckyou. I am going to call YOU in THIRTY! On YOUR phone!”

She hung up and set the phone down, then put out her cigarette.

“Julie, I need to borrow that laptop. Yorkshire’s fucked up a second time!”

She ran into the house and to Julie’s spot on the couch, where the laptop was still set up. She cleared the frozen image of herself and Rita, smiling at the camera that Helen was holding and waiting for someone to hit play from the screen and tabbed to Chrome. Everyone else followed a few seconds behind.

“Helen!” Susan called to her. “What’d Troy just get finished saying? You’re not alone in this. Your friends want to be on the same page.” She thought a second. “Also, where did you blow Troy?”

“The vault. And HOW?” Helena spat out as she reactivated the mouse that had timed out. “His tech people rerouted the call to the Mars Rover. He bought that thing in a corner shop in Tralee, Ireland; but the hunk of shit can receive calls in San Finzione AND Federal Way, Washington! And he told Molly it would never ring again!”

“They recycle cell-phone numbers.” Troy mused. “And you probably COULD still switch carriers with it.”

“How could he be sure?” Helena asked no one, talking as she walked back outside for the phone. Mander turned to follow, saw what she was going out to do, and waited for her to come back in. “The bigger question is: How do you do all that?” She snorted. “’Exactly ten seconds and never again.’ How can you know a call to this thing will go through? What if it drops? Or it doesn’t ring through from wherever he was?”

Helena stopped to think as she looked at the corner of the screen, then turned to Troy.

“How’re you guys on the Ultimados’ wi-fi?”

Susan stepped forward and raised her hand.

“That was me. Sorry.”

Helena shook her head and went back to the search bar.

“Never mind. Perfect. I presume you’ve only shared it with your friends, so it’s still secure for our purposes. But there’s only one way that Yorkshire could possibly do all that. One reason he’d put all his faith in this hunk of trash!”

Contessa Helena de San Finzione flipped the burner over in her right hand to look at the brand and began typing with her left hand, turning back toward the group as she typed and gesturing for Mander to hand her the file with her right. The gesture forced her shoulder to make her glad that she’d saved some painkillers; she’d feel it and need one once the adrenaline died away. But not yet.

He gave it to her. She opened the file and speed-read one of the reports. She got to Jimenez’s personal effects.

“It was a different color scheme, but the same model. That’s how I missed it. How do you know with 100% certainty that the call will go through? How do you reroute a call via Mars without NASA noticing?”

She turned the phone over and held it out for them to see. They saw the back of the phone and the brand on it: Whyte Telecom, on the back.

“You OWN the fucking PHONE COMPANY, THAT’S how you do it!”