The ground floor of the ISR headquarters building was simple and spartan. Stone columns descended from a vaulted ceiling onto a black marble floor. The walls and floor were immaculately clean, but completely devoid of decoration or detail. The sole occupant was a square desk situated at the center, with a large elevator beside it.

  A security guard and a Kilo-class frame manned the desk. The war robot bore no markings on its chassis, not even a serial number.

  Over-Commander Tycho approached with an entourage of four MPs and Lieutenant Finnegan.

  "Over-Commander, welcome to ISR HQ," the human guard greeted him, while the robot stared straight ahead, cold and motionless. "What can I do for you, sir?"

  "I'm here to see Penny Sierra," Tycho said. His tone was cordial, but he was all business.

  The frame made its first movement since they entered. "The Spy Master has requested not to be disturbed during ongoing operations," it said in a deep, metallic voice.

  Tycho asked the guard, "They replace your partner with a Kilo?"

  "Temporary, sir. Lieutenant Neferet is out sick today. Food poisoning," he explained. "So, K-000006 is covering for now."

  Tycho frowned inwardly. Food poisoning was exceptionally uncommon given the quality of the ingredients they got from Helsing. It wasn't unheard of, human error still happened, but it was extremely rare.

  He regarded the frame. "Ah, one of the originals. They haven’t given you a name yet?"

  The frame insisted, "My designator is K-000006."

  Tycho gave it a look. The personalities that developed in the frames could be... odd.

  He moved on. "Well, she'll have to deal. We have important matters to discuss. Let her know I'm coming."

  "Of course, sir." The guard pressed a button, and an obelisk with a handprint rose from an opening in the floor. "Please press your palm firmly on the scanner surface."

  Tycho placed his hand on the smooth panel, and every detail of his palm and fingerprints was scanned. The obelisk glowed green and descended back into the floor.

  He then approached the elevator door. A small slot opened, and Tycho produced a badge from his pocket. It wasn’t a standard plastic ID or chip card, but a wafer-thin hard drive. He plugged it into the socket, and the numbers of an endlessly complex encryption scheme began to scroll across the surface.

  It lit up red, and the numbers froze. An alarm chirped once. Tycho's frown deepened. He looked to the guard.

  "Apologies, sir. That’s... uh, never happened before," the guard said.

  Tycho asked, "What, is it broken?"

  "No, sir. It rejected your credentials."

  The frame chimed in, "Perhaps it is best the Over-Commander comes back another time—when issues are resolved."

  Everyone stared at the frame as if it had grown a second head. The audacity to recommend a detour to the Over-Commander should not have existed in any frame’s protocol.

  "That won’t be necessary," the guard said quickly, brushing aside the frame’s words. He retrieved a small black plastic wafer from the desk and shined a blacklight over it. "I pass you, forty-two," he said to Tycho.

  "I pass you twelve," Tycho replied, completing the passphrase.

  The guard produced two keys hanging from his neck. He inserted them into slots in the desk and turned them. "Initiating override."

  The elevator doors slid open.

  "Thank you," Tycho nodded. He and the MPs entered the elevator.

  "How do you want to play this, boss?" Finnegan asked as they ascended.

  "Subtly," Tycho replied. "When we go in, hang back with the MPs. This isn’t a confrontation, it’s a questioning. I brought muscle so she knows this is serious. That woman can be evasive."

  The gravity of the matter weighed heavily on Tycho. At Periscope’s suggestion, he had discreetly investigated ISR’s acquisitions and found troubling transactions. He didn’t want to believe it. A mole in the intelligence branch itself? It hurt to even suggest betrayal, to question the loyalty of anyone in the Vanguard. But he wouldn’t be doing his duty if he didn’t investigate all possibilities, no matter how improbable.

  The elevator dinged, and they stepped out into an intersection of three hallways. Two extended out to either side, and one long corridor stretched ahead.

  At the far end of the hallway was a single door. Two frames, unmarked like their downstairs counterpart, stood guard.

  Tycho was immediately suspicious. There were never guards on this floor.

  As the party approached, the frames did not part. One stepped directly in front of the keypad to the ISR situation room.

  "Stand aside," Tycho ordered, in no mood for further delays.

  "Negative," one of the frames replied. "Our orders are to prevent disturbances."

  "I am the Over-Commander. My word supersedes all. Now, move," he said, more forcefully.

  They didn’t budge.

  "Over-Commander’s override: Red-Six-Sigma. Move or be dismantled."

  "Negative, Over-Commander," they said in unison.

  The MPs reached for their sidearms.

  The frames didn’t hesitate. They raised their SMGs and opened fire.

  In that moment, Finnegan proved he was more than just a staff secretary. In one fluid motion, as bullets whizzed through the hallway, he put himself between the Over-Commander and the attackers. Rounds slammed into his back as he shoved Tycho to cover.

  Tycho watched, helpless, as his closest friend was gunned down by friendly fire.

  The MPs reacted quickly. One dragged Tycho behind cover while the others returned fire. Their sidearms did nothing to the enemy frames.

  Only two MPs and the Over-Commander made it to cover. The others, and Finnegan, lay dead in the hallway, riddled with bullets.

  The frames kept up their barrage, firing in bursts to keep them pinned.

  "Comms are dead!" one MP shouted, slapping the side of his radio.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Tycho pulled out his own communication device—similar to a smartphone, but with satellite and secure network access. Only a handful of High Command had them.

  It, too, had no signal.

  "We’ve been locked out! Someone’s compromised the network!" he realized. The implications terrified him, even more than the hail of bullets.

  Then he felt a wet trickle down his arm. A round had lodged in his shoulder. He was bleeding badly.

  The stomp of a vampire’s boots echoed across the viewing deck atop L.A.’s tallest tower. The steps rang out across the crystalline glass as his presence filled the dome.

  "We had a deal, Persephone. I was to have North America," said the agitated and ancient vampire. His long trench coat billowed with every animated gesture as he addressed the Queen of all vampires, who sat upon a simple wooden chair.

  Persephone faced the sky. Though it was midday, she endured the burn of Sol to gaze toward the Black Sun, which could not yet be seen, but which she could feel. Closer than ever.

  A high-ranking female servant snapped, "You will address your Queen as Master, Agamemnon."

  She stood by Persephone’s side. Dmitry, silent and loyal, stood beside Agamemnon, ready to serve his new commander.

  "I don’t give a damn. A necrologic pillar has been accessed—by Vespera," Agamemnon growled.

  Persephone turned her head slightly but kept her eyes skyward.

  "The sky is beautiful when it is clear," she said. She was not speaking of the warm sun or blue heavens, but the absence of clouds obscuring outer space.

  Agamemnon shook his head, exasperated at her ignoring his concerns. "Are you listening to me? We’ve been compromised! You broke me out to fight your war. I’ve done that. I delivered this city to you. I’ve protected your ‘ultimate’ project germinating within this very building."

  "And yet the enemy rides to meet us, to strike a killing blow." Persephone pointed toward the horizon without looking where a formation of aircraft rose from LAX.

  "Yes, they sortie out to fall on their swords. This building is impregnable. They will fail," Agamemnon said. "But we are being undermined. The Vanguard is hitting all of our facilities—globally. Do you understand me? Globally!" His fury peaked. "Our entire operation is unraveling. And what’s this I hear about your executor leading a coup in Washington? I didn’t approve that! You promised me the President’s head. I had a plan. A strategy. And you’ve undermined it!"

  His words slid off Persephone like rain from a cloak. "Do you perceive his plan, General?"

  Agamemnon's nostrils flared. "His plan—"

  "Is mine," she interrupted. "I see the future he shows me. A future where we rule, in absolution, over a world made dark, eternally." Persephone rose. "You will defeat the storm that approaches?"

  "It was never in doubt," he said, his rage forcefully tempered.

  "Then keep to your role. The Centurion of the Apocalypse plays his," she said, referring to Axton Tambor. "The Seer plays hers." She meant herself. "And the Rook plays his." She gestured to Agamemnon. "Soon, none of this will matter."

  The general clenched his jaw. He could not argue without inviting mutiny. He turned to Dmitry. "Battle stations. Defend the Queen."

  With that, he withdrew, casting a resentful glare at Persephone as he left.

  "Skyhook! Skyhook! Skyhook!"

  Milo danced like an excited monkey. Everyone buzzed with energy, preparing for extraction. Even the usually quiet Tora shared Milo’s enthusiasm as he checked the balloon tethers. The helium balloons would rise into the atmosphere, and a system of hooks and pulleys would catch the dangling lines. Even the LAVs could be retrieved this way.

  The cramped command LAV wasn’t ideal, but it was all Perelli had. He sat across from Vespera in the troop compartment, separated by about four feet. She was still in chains but no longer confined in the coffin-like box she’d been transported in. With Federov’s permission, he planned to use her to gain an edge for the Vanguard.

  The Ensign drew his pistol and set it on the makeshift table between them.

  "Here’s how this is going to go: You’re going to answer all of my questions truthfully, and to the fullest extent of your knowledge. If not—"

  "You’re going to shoot me?" Vespera interrupted, smirking. "You and I both know that sidearm won’t hurt me... nor will it save you if I manage to get out of these chains. You reveal your inexperience, Ensign."

  "You're right, I am new to this. But it's also new for you," he said matter-of-factly and drew the glowing dagger. He clenched it in his palm, and it extended into the full blade that had been given to him by the angel. The tip stopped just short of piercing the vampire's heart. She shrank in its presence, her eyes widening as she strained to back away from it. Being in the presence of holy light was physically painful.

  "Unless you would like to suffer a true, soul-crushing death, you will answer my questions."

  Vespera nodded slowly.

  "Good." Perelli retracted the blade but kept it on the table. He suppressed the rush of adrenaline he got from threatening a vampire and seeing the real fear in its eyes. In all his service with the Vanguard, he had never seen a vampire show fear. It was exhilarating.

  "My first question: Do you know what happened to me inside that complex?"

  Vespera nodded. "It is not unheard of. Individuals with damaged souls—usually conjurers who flew too close to the sun, so to speak—might have visions when the pillars are activated. Usually, they go insane or die immediately. I must admit, it is impressive that you are talking to me right now."

  "I didn't have a vision. My mind was directly invaded by the Black Sun," he told her.

  "Forgive me if I don't believe you," she said, her expression skeptical.

  "That sword is my proof." His eyes flicked down to the blade between them. "I got it when an angel interfered on my behalf. When your Black Sun was in my mind, it told me something interesting. It said, and I quote: 'They know not what they fight for. Their purpose is to sow my seeds. They think they fight for a dark world where they reign eternal... and they will find eternity, as my nourishment.'" He repeated the words exactly.

  He looked for any sign of a reaction on Vespera's face but didn't see any.

  He continued, "Now, during interrogation on the Havoc, you said the goal of the vampiric forces on Earth was to terraform. How?"

  Vespera was skeptical. This felt like a rhetorical question. The Ensign should have known the answer. "To plunge the world into darkness and install ourselves at its helm. And when the Black Sun arrives, he will make us gods, to rule over the dark Earth for all eternity."

  "And that's my point. In his own words, you are being led to the slaughter. It will consume you as well. You believe you are freeing yourselves from death, but you're only feeding all of humanity into a shredder. You are deceived."

  She frowned, regarding him skeptically. "This isn't an interrogation. You're trying to convince me of something," she said quietly.

  Perelli shrugged. "Yes," he stated flatly. "Surely there are—or were—those among you who doubt the path they are being led down. You yourself tried to overthrow Persephone."

  "That was ambition. When the Black Sun arrives, I will rule."

  "You cannot rule over ashes. Help us prevent the Black Sun from consuming everything."

  Vespera leaned back, considering his words. "I don't want you to win." She scowled at him, but then her expression softened. "But I do need Persephone to lose."

  Perelli also leaned back. "We are being deployed to Washington, D.C. I want you to come with us. Tell your compatriots there to stop fighting—to stop the bloodshed."

  "They answer to their Queen," she corrected him, shaking her head.

  "And you tried to replace her before. You can try again," he suggested.

  Vespera took a deep breath, formulating an intricate web of thoughts into her own personal plan. "I need guarantees they or I won't be harmed. Otherwise they will never agree to anything."

  "They will be treated as prisoners in accordance with the articles of the Geneva Convention." He told her.

  "Forgive me if I don't believe you considering all the Vanguard has done to my kind."

  "I could say the same." Perelli pointed out.

  She took in a breath. Vampires didn't need to breath so it was entirely an instinctive gesture from when she was still alive. "You realize you are making a deal with a vampire?"

  "Believe me, it is taking my entire self-control not to kill you where you sit," he said with genuine, unrestrained malice. "But..." he calmed himself. "Warring with an angel and a cosmic horror in your own mind lends some unique perspectives." The Ensign drummed his fingers on the tabletop. "Do we have a deal?"

  "Now that's the kind of initiative I like!" Federov exclaimed proudly, hearing that Perelli had successfully enlisted the vampire’s cooperation. "Tiny change of plans, however," he added.

  The officers gathered around him and listened intently.

  "The transports don't have enough fuel left. They can't skyhook everybody. Not a big deal, we didn’t have enough ammo anyway. So," he laid out their new plan with barely diminished enthusiasm, "I'm only taking two elements. Commander Waller will stay with our stay-behinds. We consolidate all ammo with the units that are going to D.C. Ensign Perelli, I want your teams. But we're leaving the INTERPOL detachment behind."

  Perelli pursed his lips, caught off guard, but understood the Striker-Commander’s logic. "Understood, sir. But I advise we take the U.N. team. Most of them are American. They have a stake in this fight." He pointed out.

  Lieutenant Spier raised his hand. "Second that. We want in."

  "Very well," Federov acquiesced quickly. "For the other element, I want LTJG Olsen's."

  There were other, more experienced officers leading the other two elements in Whirlwind. Perelli was beginning to wonder—and couldn’t tell—if Federov simply liked him that much more or hated the other two by that much more. He and Olsen, the two JOs, had quickly become his automatic go-tos. Perelli wasn't a ruthless careerist by any means, but he expected a promotion wasn't far off.

  There were a few more words as they hashed out details. The transport appeared on the horizon with scissor-like grappling claws extended, ready to yank the first lucky SOB off the ground at breakneck speed.