It was a very old world. It was part of the systems classified as retrograde. The events you participated in there, or related to your actions, were recorded in an official record because you were on a mission initiated by a cover institution; because of this, everything that is known is incomplete or distorted. In the eyes of the world, you had to establish a consular office, in preliminary agreement with the general secretary. The hidden goal was to retrieve an artifact.

The mission was delicate, because it required that the religious sensibilities of the relict population not be offended. The planet was bypassed by the usual trade routes, precisely to avoid direct contact of the inhabitants with crews or passengers from outside. The representative government had a commercial consulate in Proxima Centauri through which all operations of Earth—or World One, as it was known—were conducted. This world had once witnessed the Intersection—the moment when the human species had briefly mingled with another intelligent form of matter, something you weren't too interested in anyway. History was not on your list of concerns…

I was looking for you for one detail... I had to find it, because it could change our whole view of the world.

A mental command… The brain reflexively working out a coded sequence, received by the bionanonet, the subquantum stream instantly directed by one of the galactic communication systems to the primitive interface of one of the few virtual matrices… An embossed shell, with three-dimensional effect, pseudo-metal corroded, scratched chiseled in runic arabesques, with coarse knobs, appearing like rivets, rough and moist to the touch. A Hell-Metal enclave, lost in the out-of-control conglomeration of galactic networks, where you felt at home for several years…

Pressing, crunched by rust rubbed against rust, the iron hallucinatingly dissolving into the bubbling greenish foam of a VirtuaDraw pixel acid, then the heavy, undefined smell of the endorphin bar. The smell of your own brain, as you liked to say…

"Thunder-Chaos…" A snap of the fingers emerging from the severed glove, the silver ouroboros ring glinting dimly in the diffused light of the bar, the contacts turning the pupils into small logos in the shape of skulls, peering necromantically into the distance. "You should try it." First contact after all these years, and you were theatrically offering me a whiff of cyberdrug… "I didn't come for that." You shrugged, the antique horn that served the cocktail slowly dissolving in your hand. “I thought I was being forgotten by you guys,” you grumbled, somewhat unwell. "Not by me." My smile was reflected in your eyes, strangely mixed with the skulls drawn on the lenses. "I have no obligation to you. It was a mistake. I don't know any more than that."

You looked around among the chrome sheets folded crudely over the steel bar frames that held ancient motorcycle saddles, shaped like hearts of hard black leather, sliding on hinges with rusted springs. You knew it wasn't just an illusion. The place had a counterpart in reality, and you were sitting there in the rockers' bodega on Arcturus-4, trying to figure out what the stakes of the game you were reentering were.

"It wouldn't be a big deal to send someone after you," I added. "That would be unpleasant." Arcturus had transfer cabins as uncomfortable as World One, but that wasn't what worried you. You were filled with a deaf and helpless rage. “So I'd like to go back to Tamaris first for some mental exercise, if you don't mind. I'm sure you met her there." You flinched and frowned. "You can start with that if you want."

Some said it was a cursed place. Others, that it is something that makes you see what you want, or that you can fulfill any hidden desire. The most abysmal ones said that no one comes back from the swamps easily... Or that sometimes they don't even come back.

Once upon a time, at the edge of the mists that hid the terrible smurfs, patrolled the guards of Prevotia, mounted on their terrible war horses. Distant descendants of gentle beasts of burden, these were extremely aggressive carnivorous beasts. Many who had once tried to cross the forbidden territory had fallen prey to their jaws. The riders, ruthless border guards whose identity was unknown, did nothing to stop the beasts. The barrier had been almost impossible to cross until a new group of illegal settlers appeared.

World One had been officially closed for a thousand years, but there had been many attempts to break the containment convention. The galactic authorities did not intervene, so the Earth government had the right to take whatever action it saw fit. As a rule, foreigners were executed, or at least so the leaders of Terra announced through diplomatic channels.

At one point, an unknown ship landed in a desolate desert area, disembarking a group of people who later proved too difficult a nut to crack for terrestrial malice. The newcomers were tough, rode Nemesis motorcycles, and were dissidents exiled from a Hells Angels organization on Algol-2. Their leader, Harald Wargoth, was obsessed with reviving a chapter on the planet where the first "renegade of the roads" club had been created. A smuggling ship helped them discreetly, regularly supplying them with everything they needed. The government of First Earth protested, and when it realized that no one would take any action less than four light years from the Sun, it sent its malice to crush the wicked. The Outsiders, skillfully maneuvering their strange vehicles, defeated the guards, killed and then ate their warhorses, captured a few hostages whom they made to witness the massacre of their comrades, after which they released, to give a warning to the authorities. Nobody fuck with the angels! Their Chapter, pompously and menacingly named the Black Sun, was soon recognized by the rest of the similar clubs in the galaxy; an influx of new members helped keep it going, and within a few years it had become the most exotic and sought-after "bad guy" in the galaxy.

Earth was a dry, hot world. Ninety percent of the land surface was desert. The vast planetary wasteland was accessible, however, thanks to highways left over from Earth's technology-loving days. Before the Islamic-Christian Left.

The members of the Black Sun Chapter had endless spaces in which to unleash the horsepower of the subquantum cells that powered their Nemesis. The small towns strung along the relict highways, suffocated for hundreds of years by a religious fundamentalist government, suddenly witnessed a different way of life. Bikers clad in long leather tunics, some cut from the skins of slain warhorses, riding chrome machines, or in tattered vests showing hideous tattoos and riding rat-bikes looking like ancient beasts, carrying weapons, some homemade , other infernal devices smuggled out of who knows what illegal arsenals, would speed down the main street, park at the community's licensed coffee shop, and begin a party that could last for days. Small attempts by the locals to put up resistance were quickly defeated. It was not a wanted violence, but only reactions to the attempt of some authorities to force the intruders to obey the order, considered arbitrary. All the angels wanted was beer, barbecued meat and women. The first two brought money to the cafes—the angels paid quite honestly. Women usually created problems. Whether they were fascinated by the mechanized barbarians and ran away with them, becoming troop girls or partners, or being chased by angels and sometimes abducted, the communities they had been a part of were always outraged and demanded that the government intervene.

One of these women created a huge scandal, involving the consul of the Galactic Protectorate and the General Secretary of the Islamic Christian Left; it is claimed, probably with good reason, that when she was very young, Tansella Arthan guided the Angels to the swamps that hid the site of the Intersection, the world's first curse…

Tamaris was the hypernode of the Proxima Centauri cluster, jointly administered by the local inhabited systems. Five transport lines were available from it, including Kaenari Galtrann, the only one accepted by the earthlings. The spaceport was a modular station that stretched about 30 kilometers around the generators. Through the transparent dome of habitable modules you could see ancient decommissioned ships set up as luxury hotels, or asteroids transformed into casinos, amusement parks, astronaut recreation bases. Tamaris was a place that was never quiet, a bustling cosmopolitan conglomerate.

From a table lost on the esplanade of a promenade level, Lerro Mentese contemplated the view of the station, in front of a glass of champagne. He had been waiting for someone who was late, making him increasingly impatient. He took the stem of the glass, brought his lips to the ghostly bubble of liquid and felt, after a slight tingle, the cold and effervescent taste of Dom Perignon.

"You'll never really feel like you're drinking champagne unless it's served in crystal glasses," commented a woman's voice.

Lerro let out an exclamation of surprise and turned to see who it was. Tall, her head covered by a leather cap and early aviator-style flying glasses, she held out a hand to him, looking at him with energetic blue eyes.

"Mentese, I suppose." I'm the contact you've been waiting for.

Lerro shook her hand and instantly the sensors confirmed the truth of what she said. He had long since stopped wondering how it was possible to identify a man he had never seen before. The fact that the technique worked was enough for him.

"I wasn't expecting a woman," Lerro said.

— In a place dominated by men, it is normal for dissent to be female. I pray, if there are still separate sexes… And only two, laughed the unknown, alluding to the biological polymorphism of the species more and more widespread in the galaxy. Terra is still an ultra-conservative place, which we hope to change, right?

- Maybe, Lerro smiled uncomfortably. Champagne? he then tried in a kind tone.

The woman refuses him with a gesture. He liked her gesture. Fast, sure, categorical.

- So straight to the point, he deduced.

- This is better. To begin with, to establish an identity. My name will be Sheila. We're both nanocoded, so we won't have communication problems, but… There are places on Earth where it's not good to use the Protectorate technique, so don't be surprised if we send each other messages through other less convenient means. I would like to know what we are looking for…

The man looked her straight in the eye. She was the contact, but seemed hesitant to speak to him. The almost metaphysical transgnosis of the technology he was surrounded by became rarer and rarer from this point on. How much longer could she be relied upon?

"I have some coordinates." An old satellite image indicates the presence of ruins. That's where I should end up.

Sheila already had the information. The remains of an ancient city quarter, 20th century, after a dating of historical use, concrete and weather-eaten stone lost in the violent green and orgy of flowers of an exuberant swamp vegetation. The intersection. The area where no human was allowed to tread.

- It will be difficult.

- Know.

"And expensive," she smiled.

Lerro Mentese shrugged, a sign that he was ready for whatever was asked of him.

You had the first contacts with the general secretary's emissaries on Tamaris. Four men from the Terran government, who called themselves High Emissaries, of uncertain age, bureaucrats to the hilt, dressed all the time in sober shades, at one point presented themselves at the Protectorate's local office. Terra wanted to ensure that no non-canonical influence would enter the planet through the consulate. Accredited personnel were to meet only with authorized members of the government, live in an isolated compound on an oceanic island, and travel only on approved routes and accompanied by representatives of the authorities. The terms were non-negotiable and offered trade advantages in return, local products at extremely low prices, which the Protectorate could capitalize on in the exclusive markets of the luxury worlds. It wasn't a brilliant deal, but Mentese needed to get a political bridgehead on Earth.

After the first few days of discussions, you received a request to meet informally with one of the emissaries. He was waiting for you in a hotel room on an asteroid. He was the least talkative of the four, a thin blond individual, impossible to contact other than verbally. You understood why Sheila warned you about the ways of communication. Those on Earth were practically in the stone age. Roard Gerd, the emissary, told you that the Terran government has two more unofficial requests. One was a negotiable and short-term lifting of the embargo on high-tech weapons, and the second involved the fixed-term lease of a warship.

You knew that ships were rare in the galaxy. They were not in common use for several hundred years. They still existed, however, most in the preservation of orbital docks, belonging to more paranoid worlds. The Protectorate had a few capital-sized battleships in the Vega system, but it would have been ostentatious to use one of them. A small patrol craft, once used to guard smaller solar systems, had to be found. Within seconds you had your answer: Dark Spear, M-class corvette, three Dendra hyperbarley cannons, one megaton at 500 billion kilometers, available in the Archenar system. You had only one doubt: who did Terra want to kill? The emissary was mute at this question. Then there was the problem of the crew. Such a ship was fully automated, but still, at least one person had to establish simcommand with the onboard AI. That involved an extra person, a mercenary perhaps, who could talk about something that should never have happened. The emissary answered you dryly. You were to pilot the Dark Spear. There was precise information about when a contraband ship was going to enter the terrestrial solar system. You were to locate her and destroy her without warning. To your surprise, the Protectorate, like a shadow in your hyper-connected mind, immediately agreed.

Now you knew. The artifact was very important.

In Protectorate space, travel was very comfortable. Those who wanted to travel somewhere outside the planet or artihabitat where they were placed an order with a transport agency. If they possessed a shuttle, they would enter it and mentally connect with the simcommand, get the coordinates, and one of the galaxy's systems would do the rest, almost instantly and imperceptibly. The passenger was informed that he had reached his destination, he left the cabin and that was it.

There were areas toward the center of the galaxy where nearly all residents had access to individual transportation. Energy was abundantly available in the space between the central worlds, allowing the etheric transport system to honor a large number of requests. For convenience, the incredibly ancient term flight had been retained. The flight had to do with the invisible energy of interplanetary space, the colossal black hole at the center of the galaxy, and was also a legacy of the Intersection. You could move anywhere in the Universe with it, provided you were nanocoded and had a sufficiently extensive level of access to it.

The fringes of the Galaxy, cold and low in energy, were subject to natural restrictions. The flights took longer and were shared, in more or less comfortable hotel-like structures called transspaces, or tess. Terra had only one tess—the Eaton Parass KG—a ten-million-ton freighter, the top level of which was set up for passengers—a semi-transparent dome, beneath which lay a sort of old-fashioned VIP lounge, spartanly furnished with black leather armchairs and chrome side tables. The Tess only raced Tamaris, so the amenities were minimal. The two light years required a two hour "flight", quite a long time by the standards of the galactic center. The Tess was administered jointly by Kaenari Galtrann and the Earth government; personnel were recruited exclusively from Earth, except for the commander, who alone could access the transport system and order flight.

Lerro Mentese was tired. He had had a nearly hour-long conversation with Roard Gerd, in which the chief of the terrestrial representatives had briefed him in detail on the many rules of a world where there was no instantaneous means of data transfer, and human contact was subject to rather complicated political and religious restrictions . He had tried smoking; Gerd had offered him a rare and expensive cigar, the smoke of which he promptly choked, coughing, to the amusement of the delegation. She had drunk a glass of champagne, poor and served in a primitive crystal glass. He had been relieved when the delegation had withdrawn, given the secretary some instructions for disembarkation, and decided to take a walk through the tess.

An elevator took him down to the first level. A steward asked him if he could help him with anything. He signaled no. He walked over to an open door and peered in: the room beyond appeared to be the tess' control room. In an armchair sat a man in the blue uniform of Kaenari Galtrann, with whom he immediately established contact. It was the commander, Bart Harden. Accustomed to earthlings, he stood up and shook her hand. Was everything okay? So it seemed. It was the first time he had met a high official of the Protectorate. He wasn't that tall. If you need anything look for me. All right.

He continues his walk, beginning to feel that he is being followed. He looked discreetly over his shoulder a few times, taking advantage of the meandering corridors. He arrived in a room where some large machines were stored in two rows. He bent down and read an inscription stamped on one of them. "Generator," someone whispered in his ear, making him flinch in fear. "From Vega," Sheila added with a laugh, then pulled him toward her, beckoned him to be quiet, and pointed in the direction she wanted him to go. He took his hand, Lerro still trying to calm his beating heart, and took it between two generators. The woman was dressed in a gray cloak, her head covered by a hood in the style of Islamic-Christian left-wing activist monks. Lerro noticed that she was barefoot, a fine silver bracelet glinting on her ankle to the rhythm of her small, quick steps. Still more surprised, he was pushed into a small cabin behind a generator. "Gerd is dangerous," Sheila said, letting her hood fall back. "Did they ask you to destroy a ship?" Lerro agreed, feeling a strange erotic tension in the fact that they were almost touching, in the agitated breaths, in her passionate looks... Sheila had the hair on her head shaved, or maybe even permanently epilated, and on the skin that remained smooth and tanned was drawn a tattoo like a hieroglyph, mesmerizingly continuing the lines of his face. In a split second, the woman's presence hit him like a drug, turning him on in a way he had never felt before. They hugged and kissed her, hands searching greedily and clumsily through her clothes, a wave of heat exploding dizzyingly as it hit her skin under the cloak, then the undulation of her shoulders and the garment falling, like a flower unfurling, leaving her bare before his…

It took you a long time to recover from that unique orgy of the senses. For minutes after she was gone, you were unable to move; slumped over your own clothes in the coarsely upholstered chair, your mind was full of flashing snapshots of the moments of the incredible sex party he had given you, transcendental, as if brought on by ritual intercourse with a Babylonian priestess. The man reaching the absolute with the help of the woman. You felt that you had reached an end, a nirvana, and that whatever came next would be insignificant. You were afraid that all this living could be exposed by the sophisticated communication system that included you, even if you had been careful to disconnect when you felt yourself going crazy. Then you realized something disturbing. Sheila was no nanocode. Her body had no nanomachines that could be detected by yours. They would have no way to communicate with your systems. They couldn't have induced those formidable states, orgasmic dislocations of the mind in you without the bonds of the nano-matrix. It was an enigma that hit you like a hammer, destroying your confidence in the safety of your own being. Who was Sheila? The Protectorate had chosen her as their contact. What game, larger and with unknown rules, are you entering?

You returned to the passenger dome, retreated to your VIP suite and suddenly became interested in a certain history. You learned things that made you wonder, just like now, when you were looking at what I had laid out for you on the table of the virtual bodega. The kernel of the program was used by a special graphic applet. The original was somewhere in a physical archive, a warehouse in who knows what air-conditioned bunker of the galaxy—the simul-stim replica was admirable, a photograph on paper, you could feel its texture, smell its three-millennia age, and wince at the sight of her, the same woman in a provocative pose in a sepia nude among the beasts and rust-splattered concrete of a ruined warehouse, riding a rusted, cobweb-covered Triumph motorcycle, still hitting your subconscious like a subliminal command …

“It took me a while to find this,” I confessed to you. "What is this?" "Good question. A dead artist from the time of the Intersection, whom you slept with after three thousand years. That would be the simplest answer. Unless you have a better one…” Disdainful snort, shrug, undefined fear creeping into the folds of your self, desperate attempt to assemble the elements of the world into a coherent vision, returning to Earth for a mental exercise… Thinking your like a kaleidoscopic program of analysis, typical of a diplomat, computational node on the hyperdimensional network, opening to infinity, of galactic signs, all originating in the minds touched by the Intersection, as a revelation of true divinity...

Could there be an explanation? Of course, it would have made everything look different, as I feared.

The General Secretary was a small, slender man in a simple feldgrau tunic, wearing only the badge of the hammer-cross in a semicircle, and looking somewhat older than in the official portraits ubiquitous in all public spaces. He had a firm, even violent handshake, denoting an inner energy that was dangerous to ignore. Blesior Arthan was the last in a long line of politico-religious leaders of Terra, succeeding Eaton Parass, who had partially reopened contacts with the rest of the galaxy. The accreditation ceremony had been brief, with the consular staff lined up in a huge, cold, blindingly lit hall, with Lero Mentese a few meters ahead, facing Arthan and the members of his government, two paces behind the leader. A handshake, the official Protectorate card handed, then given by Arthan behind a second, another handshake, applause, cocktail… As had been forewarned, no women had been present. The Protectorate had also taken care to assign him an all-male team, so as not to violate local customs.

The people who were part of the official land institutions were all men. Each had the right to a partner, whose existence was very discreet. Blesior Arthan, although not as open as Parass, his predecessor, still allowed his wife to attend some events of a more private nature. The dinner given to Lerro Mentese had been one of these.

The atmosphere had been one of a religious council, with a rather spartan meal, motivated by the principle of the spiritual component of the diet, which should not be a distraction to the senses, but only a nutritional intake. Lerro had politely sampled the bland dishes, but artistically arranged on the plates. It had been explained to him that each arrangement has a meaning for the activists-priests, contributing to the remembrance of some truths written in the holy bible-Qoranic platform. The consul had willingly approved, annoyed in himself by the oppressive despotic and totalitarian obscurantism of the world he had arrived at. He was just wondering how he could shorten his presence at the dinner even more when the secretary-general's wife, Tansella Arthan, appeared. No introductions were made, Mrs. Arthan quietly sitting to the right and a little behind her husband in a smaller chair. His face was partially covered by a fold of the cap he wore on his head, and his body was lost in a long gray cloak. Tansella Arthan did not eat, but only occasionally answered the secretary's whispered questions over his shoulder. At one point, he looked briefly at Lerro and he flinched. He could have sworn it was Sheila's eyes…

Sometime later, he was led by Blesior Arthan and her to a massive atomic limousine, a relic of the planet's former technology-obsessed era refurbished especially for Parass. The closer proximity increased his suspicion that the Earth leader's partner was the one he had recently slept with in the tess's hold. He was totally upset. He got into the limousine and brooded all the way to the consular residence. He entered the apartment, was alone, and almost immediately received an incredible transfer signal. Somewhere on this planet there was a transport mechanism compatible with him that had contacted him. He thought for a moment, then took his weapon and confirmed the transfer.

You exited the transfer booth with a terrible headache and threw up a few times before you realized where you were. The facility was immemorially old, masked with plywood panels in a concrete courtyard surrounded by the decaying walls of a house. Through the cracks in the concrete partially covered by a green, sun-baked pool, grasses as tall as a man were sticking out. Unseen insects emitted their dry elytra sounds in all directions, as if reinforcing the desolation of the place. Someone Whistled at You: You saw a shadow within a portico on the verge of collapse, which disappeared as soon as it thought you noticed it.

You went out cautiously. An individual in camouflage overalls looked at you through sunglasses and motioned for you to get into an all-terrain vehicle. Niva, it was written on his back, between the rust marks. It was probably something unique in the entire galaxy, you told yourself, and you jumped into the hard, uncomfortable chair. You were, of course, in the swamp where you had to search for the Artifact. Too quickly and completely unexpectedly. The guy was chewing on a cigar identical to the one Gerd had given you, he wasn't answering any questions, just jerkily maneuvering the rickety steering wheel and the gear shifter. He took you to what was probably once a market and stopped, motioning for you to get off. He packed the engine and then sped back into the swamp from whence he had come. When the noise made by that vehicle faded, you could hear a different sound. You turned and saw, along an ancient boulevard, a bizarre procession of motorcyclists approaching almost in step, as if in a parade. They were all riding modified Nemesis, looking fierce, like knights of the apocalypse. They all stopped, forming a circle around you. Only two advanced to your side. A bearded, tanned guy with a black bandana around his neck and worn leather clothes, on a maroon motorcycle with a horse skull emblazoned on the front fender, accompanied Sheila. Wargoth, the leader of the Black Sun Chapter.

From that moment your double life began. Like everyone else on that damn planet.

"What would you like to know?" You were tired. You lived adrift with the tenuous belief that you would see her again someday. The photo overturned a scaffolding of theories. The land was quarantined, the population deported, access totally forbidden. The only way to get there was by sublight ship, which involved decades of flight from the nearest inhabited world. Why had the Protectorate reacted this way?

You were there. You were in touch with what they wanted. Your report has been made missing. What had happened?

The Dark Spear was hovering in the transplutonian zone, the area where Mentese knew that the sought-after ship should emerge from the hyperspace jump. He had been there for two days and wondered if Wargoth's men had changed their plans. Another vehicle should have appeared, unmanned, with an insignificant load, for Lerro to attack. The irritating ship that was bothering Secretary Arthan and Gerd and supplying the insurgents would appear to have been destroyed; Dark Spear was to tow its remains into a circum-Earth orbit, where it would be visible through a telescope.

The ship's brain contacts him, signaling a gravitational anomaly forming about a thousand kilometers from the Dark Spear. Mentese adjusted his position in the pilot's chair and cocked the guns. He saw the expected ship appear, a strange arrangement of shipping containers around a central sphere, then suddenly, the blinding orb of light from a lightning explosion in close proximity to the frigate. He was under attack, Lerro realized with a daze. The sensors on the Dark Spear were picking up nothing. He contacted the sign and ordered a scan of the area, using the special security codes he had access to. He had fallen into a trap. The ship automatically goes into an evasive maneuver routine as the bombardment intensifies. Lerro ordered him to approach the other drifting ship at top speed. One of the enemy's cannonballs detonated fully in it as soon as the Dark Spear passed within a few meters of it. The beacon transmitted the coordinates of an object detected ten billion kilometers outside Pluto's orbit. He transfers them to the fire director and orders fire. The bombardment stopped immediately, and the sensors picked up a loud explosion in the area where he had fired. The attacker had been pulverized. Thirty seconds had passed since the fight had begun.

Lerro Mentese felt a cold rage. Little did whoever set his trap know that he had access to over 90% of the Protectorate's capabilities. Some ignorant primitives had tried to kill him. His death should have caused a diplomatic incident. Who would use them? He slammed his right fist into his left palm in a furious gesture, then ordered a hyperjump towards Terra.

You killed Wargoth that same night. The angels had gathered in the desert at the makeshift spaceport where the contraband ship was descending. In its place landed the freighter that was supposed to serve as a target for the cannons on the Dark Spear; the on-board computer intentionally got the descent sequence wrong and the ship crashed into the ground at a thousand kilometers per hour. The explosion vaporized everything within a kilometer radius. You watched the scene from the geostationary orbit the Dark Spear had entered. Nothing mattered anymore. You finished programming the ship for return and descended to Earth. A few minutes after your transfer, the corvette made the jump to Arcturus, disappearing from the Solar System.

You left the cabin with the same sick feeling. It was as if you were seeing the obscene graffiti inside the transfer device's metal cage for the first time. The dawn light revealed them in a rosy halo. You walked out of the ruined yard, Niva's driver let out a startled cry and tried to pull out his weapon. You just thought about what you wanted to happen, and the hypergun you carried on your back detonated a few grams of explosives inside his skull. Beheaded, the driver slowly ran through the open door. You removed a protective sheet and covered the bloody seat, got behind the wheel and placed the scanner on the right seat. When you turned it on, it indicated a presence, a concentration of energy. It could only be the Artifact.

“So? Is that where you found her?” "Yes". "And the Artifact?" "There was nothing there but..." The disturbing image of a black figure sitting in the square and waiting, crouched in a classic meditative position. "Have you spoken to her then?" "I ran out of time." The Protectorate cyborgs appearing as if by magic, the summoning, the woman rising menacingly, unfurling her cape from a strange phosphorescent skeleton, the deafening thunder and the darkness of the concussion that knocked you into the dust ten meters away… You woke up to something later, among the charred remains of the cyborgs, trying to understand. Sheila was gone.

So does the Secretary General's wife. You saw her portrait displayed in the hope that she might be seen by someone. With his face uncovered, he was exactly your contact.

You looked at the photo again. The intersection, like a work of art… You looked around, feeling like you were in the middle of a game with Russian dolls, inside the smallest matryoshka… A world within a world within a world… All generated by one mind.

You took the photo and left…