"Set the woman down. Hands where I can see them."
The sweep team leader's weapon tracked Kasper's center mass. Emergency lighting bathed everything in red that reminded him of the neon signs flickering across Buenos Aires at night. Art deco fixtures overhead sparked and died, victims of the firefight. Lydia felt wrong in his arms. Too light. Like her consciousness had already started leaving through copper wires and vacuum tubes still warm from overload.
Kasper lowered her to marble flooring inlaid with geometric patterns that had survived since the building's construction in 1932. Her head lolled against chrome detailing. No resistance. No muscle tension. Just weight that used to be a person who made choices.
"Now step back. Three meters."
Twelve Association operatives in uniforms that blended military precision with art deco aesthetics. Chrome accents on body armor. Streamlined helmets with art nouveau flourishes. Their weapons hummed with the distinct frequency of vacuum-tube powered directed energy systems.
Kasper's nanobots ran calculations. Fighting meant dying. Dying meant Lydia waking alone in some Association medical facility decorated with geometric murals and brass fixtures, wondering why everyone abandoned her.
He stepped back.
"Kasper de la Fuente, you're detained pending investigation into unauthorized operations on sovereign soil." Zip ties bit into his wrists. Plastic cutting capillaries despite being manufactured in factories where workers still hand-assembled components to art deco specifications. "You have the right to legal representation. You have the..."
Medics rushed past. Their equipment cases featured the streamlined design philosophy of the era. Chrome corners. Bakelite handles. Analog gauges with art deco numerals.
One pressed fingers to Lydia's throat. Counting pulse. Another aimed a scanner at her skull. Copper antenna array extending like geometric flower petals. The machine screamed. High-pitched vacuum-tube whine that meant readings outside normal parameters.
"Christ, her neural patterns are... boss, I've never seen anything like this."
"Can you stabilize her?"
"I don't even know what stable looks like for whatever she is now."
The medic's hands shook as he prepped an IV. Glass syringe with chrome plunger. Medical technology that hadn't changed much since enhancement research began in the 1920s. Professional training fighting against the realization that textbook medicine didn't apply to someone whose consciousness lived in server farms and human neurons simultaneously.
Valerian and Rui were already on their knees. Hands behind heads. Professionals who understood that winning sometimes looked like losing.
The sweep team leader yanked Kasper's restraints. Testing. Making sure the plastic cut deep enough to prevent any cybernetic enhancement from breaking through.
"Where's the hostile commander?"
"Gone. Evacuated before you breached."
"Convenient." He keyed his radio. Brass and chrome device clipped to his belt. "Level secured. Four detained. Multiple hostile casualties. Requesting forensics and diplomatic liaison."
Through reinforced windows framed in geometric bronze, Buenos Aires sprawled beneath them. The city glowed with neon and incandescent light. Art deco towers rising like chrome monuments to an era that refused to end. Emergency services responding to fifteen sites simultaneously, their vehicles trailing streamers of light through streets lined with buildings featuring zigzag patterns and sunburst motifs.
The sweep team leader studied Kasper the way you studied equipment before deciding whether to repair or replace.
"You know what this looks like? American enhanced operative conducting unauthorized military action in allied nation. European Union's going to crucify you for this."
"I was following orders."
"Whose orders?"
Kasper watched them load Lydia onto a stretcher. Chrome frame. White leather restraints with geometric buckles. Her eyes moved beneath closed lids. REM sleep except she wasn't sleeping. Probably experiencing seventeen different realities simultaneously while her brain tried to decide which one was real.
The leader smiled. "Yeah. That's what I thought."
The detention facility occupied a converted government building from 1928. All the original architecture remained. Geometric tile work in bronze and cream. Light fixtures shaped like sunbursts. Marble columns with zigzag patterns ascending toward vaulted ceilings decorated with industrial murals celebrating the Machine Age.
But underneath the beauty, the smell. Industrial cleaner that had given up fighting institutional fear sometime around 1955.
Kasper sat in an interrogation room that belonged in a museum. Steel table bolted to terrazzo flooring. Art deco chairs designed to make your spine regret existing while looking elegant doing it. Mirror framed in chrome with geometric etchings at the corners.
Hour six.
His nanobots tracked time with precision that made every second feel longer. Six hours since detention. Forty-two remaining before they had to charge him or cut him loose.
The door opened. Brass handle. Frosted glass panel with etched geometric design.
Association investigator in a suit that cost three months of operative salary. Tailored in London but cut to complement the art deco aesthetic Buenos Aires never abandoned. Digital recorder housed in chrome case with bakelite switches. Late thirties with an accent that placed her somewhere between Cambridge and the House of Lords.
"Mr. de la Fuente. Special Investigator Pemberton. European Union Liaison Division." She set the recorder between them with careful placement. Establishing territory. "This interview is being recorded per Article 47 of the Vienna Convention on Cross-Border Enhanced Operations."
Kasper watched her settle into the chair. No wedding ring. He'd been wrong about that detail. But expensive fountain pen. Waterman. Art deco design from the 1930s. The kind of person who believed rules mattered because rules had always protected people like her.
"Let's begin with jurisdictional authority. Under what legal framework were you operating in Buenos Aires?"
"Private contract."
"Contract with whom?"
Silence.
Pemberton's smile carried the warmth of contract law. "Mr. de la Fuente, let me clarify your position. Fifteen civilian sites across Buenos Aires experienced what our observation teams documented as coordinated military assault. Enhanced American operatives treating sovereign Argentine territory as an active warzone."
"We saved lives."
"Did you?" She pulled up files on a tablet. Chrome-cased device with art deco engravings. Government-issue technology that married 1930s aesthetics with modern computing. "Preliminary reports indicate eighty-nine casualties in Lima, Peru. Hospital bombing. Pediatric wing specifically targeted. Would you care to explain the correlation?"
The words landed like shrapnel. Kasper's enhanced hearing caught the slight acceleration in her heartbeat. She believed what she was saying. Genuinely thought he was responsible.
"We were stopping al-Zawahiri's demonstration. Lima was his response to us destroying his network."
"Al-Zawahiri. Yes." Pemberton scrolled through files. Her fingers moved with practiced precision across the tablet's brass control switches. "The alleged cyberlitch commander. Quite the convenient scapegoat, particularly given our forensics teams can locate no evidence of his existence in any database, registry, or surveillance system across three continents."
"He uploaded his consciousness forty years ago. You won't find him in your databases because he stopped being data you could categorize."
"Uploaded consciousness." She touched her fountain pen. Small gesture. Unconscious tell. Same function as a wedding ring. Object of security when calculating risk. "You understand how that sounds to rational analysis?"
"I understand you don't want to believe it because accepting it means your entire framework for understanding enhancement technology is obsolete."
Pemberton leaned forward. The light from the art deco fixtures overhead cast geometric shadows across her face. Sharp angles. Precise lines. Like the buildings outside.
"What I understand, Mr. de la Fuente, is significant structural damage to Buenos Aires infrastructure. Potential violations of the Treaty of São Paulo regarding enhanced military operations. And coordinated action that bears all hallmarks of unauthorized warfare." She paused. Let the silence work. Let the fluorescent hum of vacuum tubes in the light fixtures fill the space. "The European Union is prepared to pursue extradition for trial on terrorism charges. I've built my career on cases exactly like this. I don't lose."
There it was. Personal investment. This wasn't just jurisdictional procedure. Pemberton needed this win.
"Get in line behind everyone else who wants me dead."
Hour fourteen.
Different interrogator. Association bureaucrat whose nameplate read "Director Méndez" in art deco lettering. Same questions cycling through like a playlist designed to break you through repetition rather than innovation.
"Under what authority..."
"Private contract."
"Contract with whom?"
Silence.
Méndez slammed a folder on the table. Manila folder with brass corners. Government-issue since 1934. Performance. Trying to provoke reaction through manufactured aggression.
It didn't work. Kasper had survived worse in Costa del Sol. Had sat through interrogations where they didn't just ask questions, they made you wish they'd stop asking and just kill you already.
This was daycare by comparison.
Hour twenty-two.
Pemberton again. Fresh suit. Fresh coffee in art deco porcelain that probably came from the Association executive dining room. Geometric pattern in gold and cream. She'd slept. Showered. Maybe had breakfast while reviewing case files and calculating her next career move.
Kasper hadn't closed his eyes in thirty hours. His enhanced physiology kept him functional but exhaustion crept in through the margins. Small degradations in processing speed. Slight delays in threat assessment.
The coffee smell hit his dehydrated system like violence. His stomach clenched. Saliva flooded his mouth. Autonomic response to stimulus his body desperately wanted.
The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed. Constant electrical hum that normal hearing filtered out but his enhancement amplified into physical sensation. Like insects crawling inside his skull. Like the city outside, always humming with electrical current running through copper wires in buildings that had been wired for power in the 1920s and never properly upgraded.
"Your associate, Mr. Rulvan, has been more forthcoming in his debriefing."
Lie. Obvious lie designed to create doubt. But effective lies didn't need to be believable, just destabilizing enough to make you question your own certainty.
"Good for him."
"He confirmed you were operating without governmental authorization. Private venture with significant civilian impact." She sipped her coffee. Deliberate. Showing him what he couldn't have. "That constitutes terrorism under EU legal definitions. Career-defining case for successful prosecution."
"Then you have your answer."
Pemberton set down the cup. Geometric pattern catching light. Pulled out photographs. Started laying them across the table with clinical precision.
Hospital wing reduced to rubble. Rebar twisted like broken bones. Concrete dust coating everything in gray that used to be white walls and children's drawings.
Small bodies under sheets.
She had more.
A stuffed rabbit in the debris, still clutching what used to be someone's hand. Pink sneakers under yellow tarp. A backpack with cartoon characters rendered in art deco style, split open, scattering crayons across blood-stained floor.
"Lima, Peru. Eighty-nine dead. Sixty-three of them under age twelve." Pemberton's voice carried no emotion. Just facts delivered with the precision of someone who'd rehearsed this moment. "The explosive placement was professional. Precision work. Someone who understood structural engineering and blast dynamics. Someone trained in exactly the methodology you were trained in, Mr. de la Fuente."
Kasper stared at the images. Made himself look at every detail his enhanced vision could process.
The charge placement patterns. Load-bearing walls targeted first. Secondary charges timed to catch responders. Tertiary explosives positioned to maximize casualty spread when people tried to evacuate.
His training automatically analyzed it. Recognized the technique. The precision. The professional competence.
He would have done it the same way.
That realization hit harder than Pemberton's accusations. Not that someone had killed children. That they'd killed them using methodology he'd been trained to execute. That somewhere in his skill set, in his professional competence, was the exact knowledge required to turn a hospital wing into a mass grave.
Somewhere in Buenos Aires, in buildings with art deco facades and geometric chrome detailing, were training facilities where they taught people like him how to place charges with this kind of precision. Where instructors used mannequins and scale models to demonstrate optimal blast patterns. Where success was measured in structural collapse efficiency and casualty maximization.
He'd attended those courses. Passed those tests. Received commendations for his proficiency.
Now he was looking at the practical application of his education, executed on children who probably liked the same cartoon characters he'd watched as a kid. Before enhancement. Before training. Before he became the kind of person who could analyze blast patterns and recognize professional work.
His hands were shaking. Minor tremor his nanobots couldn't quite compensate for because this wasn't physical exhaustion. This was something else. Something that lived in the space between what you were trained to do and what you could live with having done.
"Still think you saved lives, Mr. de la Fuente?"
Kasper's throat was too dry. Tasted like copper and fear and institutional cleaner that couldn't quite mask decades of other people's breaking points.
"We didn't bomb Lima."
"But you triggered the response that did. Foreseeable consequence of unauthorized operations." Pemberton collected the photos with the same clinical precision she'd used displaying them. "Article 23 of the Enhanced Warfare Conventions establishes criminal liability for predictable outcomes of military action. You created the conditions. The deaths followed. That's culpability in international law."
She stood. Straightened her suit. Touched her fountain pen one more time.
"I'll let you think about that. In the meantime, the European Union is filing formal charges. Terrorism. War crimes. Crimes against humanity." She moved toward the door. Brass handle gleaming under art deco lighting. "Your arraignment is scheduled for tomorrow morning. This is the case that makes my career. I'd suggest you reconsider your position on legal cooperation."
The door closed. Geometric etching in the frosted glass catching light as it swung shut.
Kasper sat alone with the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Vacuum tubes heating. Electrical current flowing through copper wires installed in 1928 and never replaced. Constant hum that felt like the city itself, always alive with electricity and motion and people who lived and died without knowing that in rooms like this, other people made decisions about their lives using blast pattern analysis and casualty projections.
Twenty-two hours without sleep. Without food. Without anything except his own thoughts and the memory of pink sneakers under yellow tarp and the professional recognition that he would have placed those charges the same way.
He started laughing.
Couldn't help it. The absurdity was too perfect. Here he was facing extradition for terrorism while the actual terrorists had already moved on to their next target. Here was Pemberton talking about legal frameworks and career advancement while children died because legal frameworks couldn't stop someone who'd stopped being human forty years ago.
Here he was, enhanced operative with training in optimal casualty projection, horrified by the professional application of skills he'd been commended for mastering.
The laughter turned into something else. Something that might have been screaming except his throat was too dehydrated to make the sound properly. Just raw noise that echoed off art deco tile work and geometric murals celebrating the Machine Age and human progress and all the beautiful lies they told themselves about what they were building.
Hour thirty-six.
Kasper stared at his reflection in the chrome-framed mirror. Wondered who was watching from the other side. Probably Pemberton and her team, analyzing every micro-expression for signs of breaking. Calculating when to apply pressure. When to offer mercy. All the professional techniques they taught in the same facilities where they taught optimal blast pattern placement.
The door burst open.
Aurelio entered like an explosion compressed into human form. Slammed a folder on the table hard enough to make the recorder jump. Brass corners hitting chrome surface with the sound of metal on metal.
"Destroyed half the facility! Violated international protocols! Compromised ongoing investigations that took years to establish!" His voice echoed off geometric tile work. Pure fury that felt real because underneath the performance, some of it was.
But his eyes said something different. Something only Kasper could read after eight days of working together.
Keep the story. Onofre's coming. Don't break now.
"Manager Torrealba." Pemberton stood from where she'd been sitting. Must have entered while Kasper was staring at his reflection and laughing at the absurdity of it all. "This is a closed interrogation under EU oversight."
"Manager Torrealba has primary jurisdiction over operations conducted in his territory." Aurelio grabbed a chair. Art deco design that probably cost more than the table. Sat with barely contained violence. Leg bouncing. Fingers drumming against chrome armrest. Physical tells of someone fighting to stay professional. "And I want to know why my asset decided Buenos Aires was his personal battlefield."
Pemberton touched her fountain pen. Tell. She was calculating odds. Jurisdictional arguments versus maintaining investigative control versus career advancement through successful prosecution.
"Mr. de la Fuente was clarifying his operational authorization."
"Authorization?" Aurelio's laugh carried genuine bitterness. Sharp. Ugly. Real anger bleeding through performance. "He doesn't have authorization. He has a reputation for collateral damage and a documented history of ignoring command structure when it suits him. Ask me how I know. Ask me how many times I've cleaned up his messes."
The performance was almost perfect. Rage that felt authentic because Kasper had compromised him. Put Aurelio in a position where he had to choose between protecting his asset and protecting his career. Made him complicit in whatever diplomatic nightmare this became.
And underneath the performance, real resentment. Because some of what Aurelio said was true. Kasper did leave messes. Did ignore command structure. Did cause collateral damage that other people had to explain to oversight committees in rooms with art deco fixtures and geometric murals.
"I operated under private contract," Kasper said. Playing his part. "Legal employment."
"Contract with whom?"
"Confidential."
Aurelio stood abruptly. Started pacing. Not random movement. Controlled circuit around the room like caged violence looking for outlet. His footsteps echoed on terrazzo flooring. Geometric patterns in bronze and cream that had witnessed decades of interrogations and breaking points and people choosing between bad options and worse ones.
"Confidential. Of course. Because admitting who hired you would expose connections you'd rather keep buried." He turned on Pemberton. Invaded her space. Establishing dominance through proximity. "How long has EU been trying to get him extradited?"
"That's not relevant to..."
"It's absolutely relevant. You want him for questioning about operations that might expose your own observation teams' failures to prevent this." Aurelio moved closer. She held her ground but her hand went to her fountain pen. "You had teams watching Buenos Aires for months. Where were they when al-Zawahiri was setting up his demonstration? Too busy documenting violations to actually prevent civilian casualties?"
Pemberton's grip on the pen tightened. Kasper's enhanced hearing caught the stress in the metal clip. "Our mandate was observation, not intervention. We don't violate sovereign territory the way American operatives do."
"Right. Observe and report while civilians die. Then blame the people who actually did something." Aurelio's voice dropped. Became colder. More dangerous than when he was shouting. "The European Union can file whatever charges it wants. But Mr. de la Fuente operates under Association Latam jurisdiction until formal extradition proceedings conclude. And those proceedings take time. Considerable time. Time you might not have if you're trying to build your career on this case."
Pemberton's jaw tightened. "The EU is prepared to..."
The door opened. Brass handle turning. Frosted glass panel swinging wide.
The man who entered didn't announce himself. Didn't need to. His presence did that work.
Silver hair perfectly styled. Suit that cost more than Pemberton's car. Tailored to complement art deco aesthetics without being costume. Subtle pinstripes. Chrome cufflinks with geometric engravings. Eyes that calculated value in everything including the oxygen people wasted breathing.
Behind him, three lawyers carrying briefcases. Chrome corners. Bakelite handles. Art deco design that suggested these weren't just attorneys but instruments of power housed in aesthetically perfect containers.
He let the silence work. Let Pemberton realize her authority had just become theoretical. Let the room understand that power wasn't about jurisdiction or legal frameworks. It was about knowing which strings to pull and having the resources to pull them.
When he finally spoke, his voice carried the cultured accent of someone who'd been educated in Europe but spent decades in Argentina absorbing the local aesthetic into his presentation.
"Legal counsel for Mr. de la Fuente's employer." Onofre Salazar set a briefcase on the table. Chrome case with geometric engravings. The sound of money hitting chrome surface. "My client was operating under contract with a private security firm maintaining full governmental authorization for counter-terrorism operations in coordination with local authorities."
He opened the briefcase with movements that suggested every gesture had been practiced until it became art. Withdrew documents. Spread them across the table like cards in a game Pemberton didn't know she was playing.
Permits. Authorizations. Official seals from governments that technically had authority to issue them. All printed on paper with art deco letterhead. All featuring signatures that would match official records with forensic precision because they were perfectly forged by people who understood that authenticity was just another form of performance.
"These documents demonstrate Mr. de la Fuente's legal employment under the Treaty of Caracas regarding private security operations in sovereign nations facing enhanced threats."
Pemberton grabbed the documents. Started scanning with increasing frustration visible in the way her jaw tightened and her fountain pen hand trembled slightly.
"These are..."
"Legally binding international contracts? Yes. Certified by the Argentine Ministry of Defense? Quite so. Countersigned by American intelligence liaisons? You'll find those signatures match official records with forensic precision." Onofre smiled. The expression carried genuine warmth that somehow made him more threatening than if he'd shown cold calculation. "I assume you're prepared to prove forgery through proper channels?"
"This is obviously fabricated."
"Madam Investigator, that's quite the accusation. I assume you're prepared to prove forgery through proper channels? Excellent. I'll await your findings with interest." He checked his watch. Chrome timepiece with art deco numerals. Probably cost more than Kasper's yearly salary. "Though I should mention, document verification through Interpol typically requires six to eight weeks for international submissions. And under Association Protocol 47, you can hold Mr. de la Fuente for..." Precise pause. Calculated timing. "Another twelve hours without formal charges."
The room went silent except for the recorder's mechanical hum and the fluorescent lights' insect buzz and the electrical current flowing through copper wires in the walls, powering a building that had been designed in 1928 and never quite updated for modern needs.
Aurelio stood. "If Mr. de la Fuente operated under legal contract, this becomes a jurisdictional dispute rather than a criminal matter. Association Latam maintains primary authority pending international arbitration."
"Precisely." Onofre withdrew additional documents. Each one placed with precision that suggested chess moves planned several turns ahead. "These demonstrate similar authorizations for his associates. Mr. Xander as private consultant under American security protocols. Mr. Rulvan as contracted specialist with technical advisory status. Miss Ceballos as protected witness under Argentine asylum law with full diplomatic consideration."
Pemberton looked like she wanted to set something on fire. Preferably Onofre and his perfectly forged documents and his chrome briefcase and his calculated smile.
"The European Union will protest this through every available diplomatic channel. My superiors will escalate this to The Hague directly. This case was supposed to be my career milestone."
"As is absolutely their right under international law." Onofre collected his documents with the same precise movements. "But until those protests result in formal charges surviving jurisdictional review, my clients remain under Association Latam authority." He turned to Aurelio. "Shall we discuss release conditions?"
Pemberton's hand crushed her fountain pen. Kasper's enhanced hearing caught the crack. Small stress fracture in vintage Waterman chrome. She was calculating. Measuring political cost versus personal investment versus career advancement that was slipping away because jurisdictional arguments took longer than ambition could wait.
Whatever math she ran, she didn't like the answer.
"This isn't over."
"I wouldn't expect it to be." Onofre's smile never wavered. "Justice is a marathon, not a sprint. Though I find the runners who pace themselves tend to finish more reliably than those who exhaust themselves in the opening kilometers."
Pemberton left. Didn't slam the door. That would have been admitting defeat. Just closed it with precise control that somehow felt more violent than throwing it. The frosted glass panel with geometric etching settling back into its brass frame.
Hour forty-eight.
They moved Kasper to a different room. Conference space in an older part of the building. Original 1928 construction. Art deco murals on the walls celebrating industrial progress. Geometric light fixtures casting angular shadows. Chairs that were merely uncomfortable instead of torture devices, though still designed with aesthetic priorities over ergonomic ones.
Coffee that tasted like administrative oversight but at least existed.
Valerian sat across from him. Rui slumped against the wall beneath a mural showing stylized workers building geometric towers. All three technically still detained but no longer in restraints.
Kasper drank the terrible coffee. Felt his body process the caffeine with desperate efficiency. The cup featured art deco design. Government-issue since 1934. Geometric pattern in bronze and cream that matched the building's tile work.
"Those documents won't survive serious scrutiny," Valerian said quietly. His tactical mind already analyzing next moves. Calculating odds of diplomatic blowback. Measuring threats that weren't visible yet but would be soon.
"Don't have to. Just need to survive long enough for jurisdiction arguments to bog down in bureaucratic process." Kasper set down the cup. Watched brown liquid ripple from tremors in his hands that wouldn't quite settle. "How long do you give us before Onofre decides we're more liability than asset?"
Valerian's eyes narrowed. "He just saved us from The Hague. That bought loyalty or at least the appearance of it. But men like Onofre don't rescue people. They acquire assets. Question is what return on investment he expects and how many uses he thinks we have left before depreciation."
There it was. Valerian saw it too. The economic reality of their situation.
Rui stared at his hands. Circuits beneath skin pulsed with faint bioluminescent light. Cyberlitch systems still recalibrating after the strain he'd pushed them through connecting with Lydia's fragmenting consciousness.
His fingers traced the paths of his own implants. Following copper wire beneath skin. Checking connection points. Physical empathy for what Lydia was experiencing except she had it worse. She was the connections without the body to anchor them.
"Lydia?"
"Stable. Medically. But she's not..." Rui's voice cracked. First time Kasper had heard emotion from someone who usually processed everything through clinical analysis. "She's not gathering. Her consciousness is scattered across too many connection points. Every time I try to interface, I get fragments. Pieces of her experiencing different realities simultaneously."
He touched the port at the base of his skull. Chrome and brass interface following art deco design principles because even cybernetic enhancements followed aesthetic guidelines in Buenos Aires. "What if she chose this? What if fragmenting was her decision and pulling her back together is just forcing her into a shape she doesn't want anymore? What if consciousness isn't supposed to be singular?"
The question hung there. No good answer. Just philosophical implications of personhood and choice when consciousness stopped being contained in meat and started existing in electrical current flowing through copper wires in server farms housed in art deco buildings across the city.
Kasper thought about pink sneakers and blast patterns. About becoming the thing you hunted through methodology and professional competence. About how the same training that made you effective made you monstrous. About how the line between them was just choice and circumstance and whether anyone was watching when you placed the charges.
"Then we let her choose. When she can. If she can."
The door opened. Brass handle. Geometric etching.
Onofre entered. Closed it with the same careful control he'd used in the interrogation room. When he spoke, his cultured accent carried weight that conference rooms couldn't contain. Authority that came from owning the infrastructure everyone else just used.
"You're being released. Association Latam accepted the documentation. European Union is protesting through proper channels but they lack immediate legal authority to prevent it."
"What's the price?" Kasper asked.
Onofre sat in an art deco chair that probably cost more than the table. Adjusted his suit with precise movements that suggested every gesture was calculated. Chrome cufflinks catching light from geometric fixtures overhead.
"Mr. de la Fuente, I just prevented your extradition to face terrorism charges in The Hague. The appropriate response is gratitude, not suspicion."
"You don't rescue people. You acquire assets. What's the acquisition price?"
"Direct. I appreciate that." Onofre placed a tablet on the table. Chrome case with art deco engravings. Government-issue technology that married 1930s aesthetics with modern computing. Pulled up intelligence that made Kasper's enhanced vision ache from information density. "Buenos Aires was theater. Al-Zawahiri's demonstration for European observers. But his actual network has three primary installations we didn't touch."
The screen showed locations across Buenos Aires. Corporate buildings with geometric facades. Industrial complexes housed in art deco factories from the 1920s. Government facilities that officially didn't exist but occupied renovated palatial structures with sunburst motifs and zigzag patterns.
Server farms with complete network backups. Laboratory facilities still producing enhanced operatives. Mobile command centers that could rebuild everything they'd destroyed.
All of it housed in buildings that celebrated the Machine Age while containing technology that had evolved past what those original architects could have imagined.
Valerian leaned forward. His tactical analysis already processing the data. "These locations are heavily defended. Hitting them simultaneously would require perfect coordination and resources we don't currently possess."
"And resources you don't currently possess. Yes." Onofre swiped through additional files. Guard rotations. Security systems. Access protocols. All displayed on screens with art deco interface design because even digital technology followed aesthetic guidelines. "Which is why you'll have my resources. My intelligence. My support network."
"In exchange for?"
"Eliminating threats to market stability I've spent decades cultivating. Al-Zawahiri's chaos is bad for business. His technology falling into uncontrolled hands would be catastrophic for regional economic development. Bad for the aesthetic we've maintained. Bad for the order we've built." Onofre's fingers moved across the tablet. "This city works because we maintain certain standards. Al-Zawahiri represents disruption to systems that function. I don't tolerate disruption."
Rui looked up from his grief and his philosophical questions about consciousness and singularity. "You're talking about corporate interests and aesthetic standards while people died."
"I'm talking about preventing more deaths through strategic intervention that official channels are too paralyzed by jurisdiction arguments to execute." Onofre's voice never rose. Didn't need to. "The European Union will debate this for months. Al-Zawahiri will rebuild in days. Unless we act."
"We." Kasper tasted the word. Found it bitter. Like the coffee. Like the institutional cleaner. Like everything in this building that pretended to be civilized while housing interrogations and breaking points and people making decisions about other people's lives.
"I mean unless professionals with proven capability execute a mission that serves both our interests. You want to stop al-Zawahiri. I want to eliminate threats to regional stability. Our goals align." Onofre stood. Adjusted his suit. Chrome cufflinks catching geometric light patterns. "But alignment requires timeline. Seventy-two hours before backup protocols activate and everything we've accomplished becomes meaningless."
"And if we refuse?"
Onofre's expression didn't change but something shifted in his eyes. Something that reminded Kasper that this man controlled enough power to forge international documents and make Association managers dance and maintain aesthetic standards across an entire city through mechanisms invisible to people who just lived here.
"Then my documents become less legally binding upon further review. Jurisdiction questions resolve themselves in ways unfavorable to your continued freedom. European Union gets their extradition after all. The Hague becomes your new home. Pemberton gets her career-defining case." He moved toward the door. Brass handle. Geometric etching. "You understand this isn't threat. Just economic reality. Everything has a price. I'm simply clarifying what you've already purchased with my intervention."
Not a threat. Statement of terms. Economic transaction stripped of pretense.
Kasper looked at Valerian. Valerian looked at Rui. Between them passed calculations that had nothing to do with morality and everything to do with survival in spaces where laws were suggestions and power was currency and aesthetic standards mattered more than human lives.
"Three installations," Kasper said. "Simultaneously."
"Precisely. Server farm must fall first to prevent data backup. Laboratory facilities second to stop operative production. Command center last when al-Zawahiri is distracted coordinating responses to losing his infrastructure." Onofre opened the door. Brass handle turning smooth in well-maintained hinges. "Your team briefs in twelve hours at a location I'll provide. Come prepared to execute or prepared to face consequences of declining."
He paused at the door. Turned back. Let the silence work one more time. Let them understand exactly what they'd agreed to.
"Oh, and Mr. de la Fuente? I extracted you from international terrorism charges. Now you owe me three favors." His smile never reached his eyes. Just mouth muscles performing expected expression. "The first: destroy what remains of ATA's network in Argentina. The second and third..." He let it hang. "We'll discuss those when the first is complete. I find sequential obligation encourages quality work."
The door closed with precise control. The kind of control that came from maintaining aesthetic standards even in moments of coercion.
Silence settled like fallout. Like dust after explosions. Like institutional cleaner that couldn't quite mask what happened in rooms like this.
"We're really doing this," Rui said.
Kasper stood. His muscles protested after forty-eight hours in detention. Joints popped. Tendons stretched. Body remembering it was supposed to move. "We don't have a choice. Onofre owns us now. Question is what he does with us when we stop being profitable. What depreciation schedule he's calculated for assets like us."
Valerian pulled up the intelligence on the tablet. Started analyzing locations with tactical assessment that had kept him alive through situations that killed others. "These installations... we'll need to split up. Three teams. Three objectives. Three completely independent operations executed within a five-hour window. If any team fails, the others become exponentially harder. Cascading failure probability."
"Three chances for catastrophic failure."
"Then we make sure failure isn't an option."
But Kasper knew they were walking deeper into something that didn't have clean exits. Onofre wasn't saving them. He was buying them. Acquiring assets to deploy until depreciation exceeded utility. Then disposal through methods that maintained aesthetic standards and didn't disrupt business operations.
The question was what price he'd demand when collection came due. And whether they'd still be people capable of refusing by the time that happened. Whether they'd become like al-Zawahiri. Tools that forgot they used to make choices.
Through the conference room window, Buenos Aires spread beneath them like a circuit board designed by architects who believed in beauty. Art deco towers rising like chrome monuments to an era that refused to end. Geometric facades catching neon and incandescent light. Buildings from the 1920s housing technology from futures their designers couldn't have imagined but would have probably approved of aesthetically.
Power flowed through channels invisible to people who still believed laws mattered more than leverage. Through copper wires installed in 1928 and never replaced. Through vacuum tubes and transistors and enhancement technology that married Machine Age philosophy with posthuman capability.
Somewhere in those streets, al-Zawahiri was already rebuilding what they'd destroyed. Analyzing their tactics. Adapting his strategy. Becoming more dangerous through adversity the same way Kasper had. The same way everyone did when survival required evolution.
Somewhere else, Douglas was holding his son who still wouldn't speak. Trying to explain why daddy killed people. Trying to find words that would make murder sound like heroism to a five-year-old who'd watched it happen. Trying to reconcile protection with violence in ways that wouldn't require therapy for decades.
Somewhere in a hospital room decorated with art deco medical equipment and geometric tile work, Lydia existed in fragments. Consciousness scattered across connection points throughout the city. Experiencing seventeen different realities simultaneously while her brain tried to decide which one deserved to be called real. If any of them did. If consciousness was even supposed to be singular or if they'd been wrong about that from the beginning.
And somewhere in Association headquarters housed in a palatial art deco structure with sunburst motifs and zigzag patterns, García was probably staring at Aurelio's desk. Wondering if the fury in that interrogation room had been performance or if some of it was real anger at being compromised by people he'd trusted. If the resentment about cleaning up messes had been script or truth bleeding through.
The war wasn't over.
Kasper pulled out his phone. Chrome case with geometric engravings. Government-issue but maintained to aesthetic standards. Three messages from unknown numbers. All containing the same coordinates. Same timestamp twelve hours from now. Location in industrial district where art deco factories from the 1920s still operated, producing weapons and enhancement technology in spaces designed for beauty as much as function.
He deleted the messages. Standard security protocol. Information consumed and discarded.
Looked at Valerian and Rui.
"Let's go to work."
Outside, Buenos Aires breathed. Inhaled light from neon and incandescent sources and exhaled shadow through geometric patterns in bronze and chrome. City of fifteen million people who believed tomorrow would come because yesterday had. Who lived and died without knowing that in conference rooms and detention facilities decorated with art deco murals celebrating progress, people made decisions that turned civilians into casualties through professional methodology and precise blast patterns.
Kasper thought about pink sneakers under yellow tarp.
About how he would have placed the charges the same way.
About how winning and losing were starting to look the same from where he stood.
About how many more favors Onofre would demand before deciding they'd stopped being assets and started being liabilities requiring disposal.
About whether al-Zawahiri had started exactly like this. Talented operative taking one favor. Then another. Then realizing somewhere along the way that he'd stopped being person and started being tool. That consciousness itself was just another form of infrastructure to be optimized and deployed.
The mathematics said they'd find out soon enough.
The mathematics were never wrong.
Just cruel.
Just indifferent to whether the variables in the equation used to be people who made choices and had names and cried over photographs of dead children wearing pink sneakers.
The city hummed with electrical current. Copper wires. Vacuum tubes. Enhancement technology. All of it flowing through buildings designed in an era when people still believed progress and beauty were compatible. When they thought the Machine Age would elevate humanity rather than blur the line between human and tool until the distinction became aesthetic preference rather than meaningful categorization.
Kasper stood. Drank the last of the terrible coffee from the art deco cup. Felt the caffeine process through systems that weren't quite human anymore but weren't quite machine either. Something in between. Something the designers of these buildings hadn't anticipated but would have probably tried to make beautiful anyway.
Valerian was already mapping approach vectors. Calculating insertion points. Running probability assessments on three simultaneous operations with cascading failure potential.
Rui was staring at his hands. Tracing connection points. Wondering about Lydia and consciousness and whether singularity was requirement or just habit.
And Kasper was thinking about blast patterns and professional methodology and how the same training that made you effective made you monstrous and how the line between them was just choice and circumstance and aesthetic standards maintained by men like Onofre who controlled infrastructure everyone else just used.
Seventy-two hours.
Three installations.
Three teams.
Three chances for everything to go catastrophically wrong.
And somewhere beyond that, two more favors owed to a man who treated people like assets and calculated depreciation schedules and maintained aesthetic standards even when coercing people into missions that might kill them.
The mathematics were clear.
The outcome was probability.
The only certainty was that nothing about this was certain except that they'd agreed to it because the alternative was worse and that's how people became tools without noticing until it was too late to remember what making choices felt like.
Kasper looked at Valerian and Rui.
"Twelve hours. Let's use them well."
They left the conference room. Walked through halls decorated with geometric murals and art deco fixtures. Passed rooms where other people were being interrogated. Other decisions being made. Other lives being calculated in terms of utility and threat assessment and whether they served interests of people who controlled infrastructure.
The building hummed around them. Electrical current in copper wires. Vacuum tubes heating. The sound of a city that never quite left the 1930s aesthetically but had evolved past them technologically in ways that created friction between form and function.
Outside, Buenos Aires waited.
Glowing with neon promises and incandescent lies.
Beautiful and brutal and indifferent to whether the people moving through its geometric streets were still making choices or just executing programming installed by training and circumstance and men like Onofre who understood that ownership was just another form of architecture.
Three installations.
Seventy-two hours.
The war continued.