Devona Tench ~ 3-20-2029, 9:25 PM MST

Devona steps into the lobby of Synesis’ Missoula headquarters, granite floor, low lights. Even given the late hour, a young man in a navy suit sits behind the oversized receptionist’s desk. He glances up, nods at Devona as she walks past. Behind him stands one of the night security guards, hands behind his back, eyes flickering towards her and then away. Entirely mortal, this guard, though well-trained and disciplined. This building is too prone to unexpected stop-­ins by local reporters and politicians to use any of the company’s more exotic units in the lobby. 

Stepping into the elevator, Devona presses the button for the fifth floor. The panel reads her fingerprint, scans her irises and the secure access badge she’s wearing. A second passes, then the elevator begins to move upward. Devona forces her shoulders to relax. What if this whole process, of bringing her to Montana, of demanding her physical presence at this leadership meeting, has been a lure to have her quietly removed? This close to the labs, Banality is so high that Throwing is nearly impossible. Being trapped in the elevator is a contingency she hasn’t made a plan for. 

The elevator doors open. Devona traverses the hardwood-­panelled hallway that leads to the  executive conference room. The decor is mid-20th century, too recent to be a throwback to the gentility of a previous age, too old to look anything other than outré. Synesis’ furnishings are the choice of its CEO, Larry Harmon, his personal preference overriding both practicality and marketing sense. 

Two more security guards flank the doors leading into the executive board room. Devona feels a frisson of familiarity in their cold, staring eyes. These two are still human, but endowed by the Maelstrom process with a gift that makes them more than mere mortals. They burn with the cold, sharp taint of Pathos.

Synesis has made altogether inhuman creations out of such men, and women, as well. The deep labs are less than a hundred meters beneath her right now. She suppresses a shudder.

Inside the boardroom, five people sit at a long conference table, four men and a woman. The woman lounges insouciantly, cheek planted against her fist. Garibaldi is among the men; he flashes her a smile as she enters. Larry Harmon is seated at the far end of the table. He stares at Devona with penetrating blue eyes below a shock of white hair, his craggy face drawn into a scowl. 

“We were scheduled to begin nine minutes ago,” Harmon says. 

Devona puts her briefcase down in a chair. “My flight was delayed taking off.” 

“And I’m sure we’re all grateful that you could come out on such short notice!” Russell Manson raises a placating hand and flashes his aging playboy’s grin around the room. Manson is Senior Vice President for Research and Development, a title that masks his actual role as Harmon’s right hand and better half. Devona has often wondered if the two sleep together, but she has doubts; probably the relationship is less sexual and more mental. Manson is Clyde Tolson to Harmon’s J. Edgar Hoover.

“Why didn’t you Throw?” Harmon asks. 

“I’m sure she had a good reason, Larry­--” Manson begins. 

“It’s not important. Can we get to the actual point of this exercise?” Shrinivas Vemulakonda asks; Vemulakonda is the fourth and final man at the table, and head of Post­-Life Energetics Research. His bald brown head shines in the low light of the conference room. He taps a pen against the pointer finger of his left hand. 

Mireia Pearce, the woman, sits up languidly and nods. “Please. I have a critical meeting in an hour.” Pearce is the head of Pathogen Research. Pearce is the only person whom Devona respects, outside of herself. 

“Well,” Manson begins, still grinning. “I’m sure that by now we’re all aware of the issue with James Walsh.” 

“Who even invited him to invest?” Pearce asks.  

“He was a stakeholder in other Brotherhood enterprises,” Devona says. “I was asked to share the opportunity with him.” 

“By someone within the Light Keepers?” Vemulakonda asks. 

Devona nods. 

“Walsh is dead and his mistress has been granted asylum by the Knights,” Manson says. “Where are we on damage control?” 

“I’ve made a list of necessary eliminations,” Devona says. “Who should I transmit it to?”

“Garibaldi will be working with you on clean ­up.” Harmon’s tone is final. Devona represses a grimace. 

“How many people are we killing?” Pearce shifts herself out of her slouch, looking across the table toward Devona with half-­lidded eyes.

“Somewhere between five and seven, depending on our tolerance for risks regarding exposure.” Devona meets Pearce’s gray­-green eyes and doesn’t blink. 

“The tradeoff being one of them talking to the press, as opposed to the press investigating a rash of strange murders?” Vemulakonda asks. 

Devona nods. 

“We ought to move carefully,” Harmon says. “If the press do start poking about…”

“Eliminate them all,” Pearce says.

Harmon looks angry. Even Manson seems taken aback. 

“Care to explain your thinking, Mireia?” Vemulakonda asks. 

Pearce glances at him, shrugs, leans back a little. “Right now, we’re protected by obscurity. Even the Knights seem to only suspect what we’re doing here. If the broader Initiate community becomes aware of our activities, the bulk of the Invictus will come after us. Prime Command will disavow us, so we’ll be dealing with the Argonauts as well. I doubt the Lavender Cabal will have the Keepers step in to protect us from the Knights, the Argonauts and the Invictus.”

Devona stifles a wince, but nods. “They won’t. The Lavenders will claim they had no direct oversight of the project. It’ll be Pioneer all over again.”

Harmon’s face grows redder. “And if the press becomes aware of that we’re killing Senators, even our understanding with the President will be moot in the face of the inquiries--”

“We can remove any reporter, or any Senator, who looks at us the wrong way.” Pearce’s tone is dismissive. “Mortal governments are obsolete. They just haven’t realized it yet.” 

Harmon stares at Pearce for a long moment. His eyes flick back over to Devona, then to Garibaldi. “You have work to do.”

Devona forces herself to relax despite the high-­handed dismissal. She nods, rises, and turns to leave. Garibaldi falls in alongside her. The room is silent as they walk back out into the hallway. 

“Who’s first?” Garibaldi asks.

“His personal accountant. In Boulder,” Devona says.