"A cipher -- intriguing. Sounds like you're making progress."

"A cipher -- intriguing. Sounds like you're making progress."

"Big time progress. All the time."

"Great. Give me the sequence and I'll feed it to LITOST. If it's machine-breakable, we'll crack it clean in a few minutes."

LITOST. The high priest of mirror tongues.

A crematorium-sized mainframe of groaning reels and dust-choked cores, born in the Bloc's industrial dawn.

"Alright, it goes like this..." (Read the sequence out loud.)

"Hold." You hear scribbling, fast and tight. Then: click -- a muffled silence.

She smooths her skirt as she stands, slipping from her desk and walking over to an ancient mainframe -- LITOST's altar.

Where does the information go after that?

Thirty-two floors down before being parsed by a computational unit built like a reactor -- gigantic, humming, kept alive by car-sized ventilators.

"Shouldn't take long." Your controller's voice reappears. "So, while we're waiting... where did this cipher originate?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Curiosity." A pause. "And also, if you don't tell me, I won't give you the keyword."

We're really gonna grass up HOLOCENE to the bosses? Narc behaviour. Disappointed in us.

Good chance to ask her some questions about your former double... and his discontents.

"HOLOCENE gave it to me."

"Did you find him, or did he find you?" The flick of a lighter echoes, followed by a pause.

That pause wasn't hesitation, it was mourning. She's grieving a less disappointing version of you.

Narc Central! And for what? Bitch isn't even thankful.

"I found him."

"Where has he been hiding?" Somewhere behind her, the sound of a drawer sliding open.

Hard, abrupt words.

"What's with the tone, M?"

"It's concern."

"CASCADE... please don't drag him back into my life." The faint tapping of fingernails on the receiver.

"You are enough."

For a second, you imagine her saying those words to you from the other side of a bed -- lipstick staining the pillow, hair dishevelled.

Unfortunately, the displeasure in her voice catches up with your little fantasy, and slams it all away.

"Say that again, Mel. Please..."

"What?" A pause, then she tuts. "I said you're enough to deal with, CASCADE, without the return of your former double."

Re-entry to the soft, affectionate place: Denied.

"You expect me to just ditch him?"

"Exactly that."

Alternative wording

"Exactly that. Leave him down in that silo."

Two years ago, a decision tree split. You: Retrieved. HOLOCENE: Lost. There are hidden variables.

"He's started his own agency. Called M.I.H.O."

"Me-ho? You can't be serious."

"It's an acronym."

"Of course it is."

"It stands for Monaxial Intelligence and Hermetic Operations."

"Nonsense, in other words."

As you spill his secrets, your former double's face flashes across your mind.

"And what's M.I.H.O's aim, exactly?"

"A partnership with the Opera was offered."

"Consider it declined. I have the authority to shoot that one straight down."

"Too late, I work for them now."

"Oh. Wonderful."

"It's okay, I'm stringing him along."

"Good... I think..."

"He says he knows who betrayed us. Who blew the Crew."

A pause on the other end of the line.

"I'd be careful with that line of exploration, CASCADE. The Operant Bureau reminds you that History has ended. The future is now."

"He's really lost it."

"A mystery group with a nonsense name handed you a classical cipher for no discernible reason."

"There's no 'group', it's just him."

"I feel battered."

"Why did you leave HOLOCENE here?"

"Let me ask you this: why do you think he was assigned to Portofiro alongside you, back in 91?"

You were never told. No formal directive, no rationale. He simply appeared two days after you did, already briefed.

Parallel placement. You recruit assets, he evaluates network stability.

"I assumed it was strategic. Different skillsets -- different responsibilities."

"Correct."

"Operants like him are rare. They track patterns, solve emergent problems you don't have names for. You just need to keep them narrow -- siloed, even."

"He had no idea why we were in Portofiro?"

"Next to nothing. Whatever he learned, he puzzled out by himself."

"When your network was exposed..." She pauses.

He was cheap furniture in a burning room.

"You chose to not extract him?"

"We weren't sure we could get either of you out. There was a window. A narrow one."

"What HOLOCENE knew was more abstract. That's all it came down to. But that's not to say we didn't try."

An acceptable sacrifice.

"He says you never even reached out to him."

"He's misremembering. We did, and he went dark. Which suited us, to be blunt."

"I hope you don't regret asking."

"I should've been the one in that silo."

"Better for all of us that it's this way 'round."

"M.I.H.O.'s right. The Opera really is fucked."

"Only by virtue of the world."

"Strategic choice. I get it."

"I'm glad."

Say nothing.

"Interesting choice of words."

"You give someone like that too much, and they start seeing reflections everywhere."

"No idea."

"Parallel placement."

"What have you got against him? You and the Opera."

"You're not cleared for that tier of emotional disclosure."

Push a little. You can get it out of her.

"Come on, Mel. I worked with him too, point blank. At least you had a phone."

"I'd say this, then. Some operants, you don't control. You merely orbit."

"Can't tell if that's good or bad."

"HOLOCENE doesn't think in strategy or data. It's all foundational. He's drawn to the core of things. I've seen him fax back reports with the premise rewritten in the margin."

"How'd he get away with that?"

"By being ahead of us."

"Early on, he was always right. Not just accurate -- right. Operationally. Philosophically. It's exhilarating. And then it's exhausting. Every day you feel like you're five minutes late to a conversation he's already halfway through."

"When did it go wrong?"

"Inconsistencies started popping up. Some reports didn't add up. He'd go dark for longer than agreed upon. One day, he asked for interpretive authority."

He didn't want to change his assignment. He wanted to change what it meant.

"So cool."

"He told me most assignments didn't fail because operants missed objectives -- they failed because the objectives misread reality."

"That's deranged."

Uhhh... this just sounds like talking to HOLOCENE.

"I'm not following."

"It means he wanted to decide what an assignment meant. He wasn't asking to change them, he wanted to rewrite the logic behind them."

"He always was kind of cocky."

"I thought it was arrogance too, for a while. Turns out he really did see around corners."

"Hold on, taking notes..."

"I wouldn't recommend it. He was the exception."

"Which one am I?"

"You are definitely not cleared for that tier of emotional disclosure."

"Never mind. You're not cleared for my interest."

"How convenient."

The Steel Rod Night Bitch is sealed shut!

"Did he ever say anything about me?"

"He did." An exhale of static. "To be honest, CASCADE, he spoke of you fondly and often."

Her last three words flutter across the inside of your mind, casting quick new shadows as they pass.

"The cipher. I need the keyword." (Conclude.)

"You can have it, with a condition. Beyond this -- please stay away from HOLOCENE."

"For you, Mel -- absolutely."

"Thank you, CASCADE. Hold."

IDEOLOGICAL HYGIENE ABOVE PERSONAL SENTIMENT! THIS IS HOW WE WIN THE NEXT CENTURY!

We can never look him in the face again. First of the gäng to narc.

Plastic being shuffled, then the voice of your handler over the line.

"CASCADE. The keyword is 'ESCHATON'."

The M.I.H.O. report title. Project ESCHATON.

"Thanks, Mel."

"Final word: I hope that cipher turns out to be a resignation letter. I would not put it past him to encrypt one of those."

"Maybe."

"Just about good enough, in the interest of the assignment..."

"I'll be straight with you, Mel -- can't do it."

"Then I can't facilitate this. Good luck with your cipher, CASCADE. Do not give HOLOCENE my regards."

I better focus.

"Did you hear me? Don't bring him back."

"Pitol Tract. Bottom of the old rocket silo."

"He..." She inhales. "That makes sense."

"Wherever the Opera left him."

"Is that your answer, or his?"

"Joint answer."

"Disappointing."

"His."

"Unsurprising."

"Mine."

"I see."

"That, Melita, is the word of the Whole Sick Crew."

"Worth very little, then, as it stands."

"Did you know he wasn't dead?"

"I didn't. But now I do."

"I'm no narc, bye!" (Hang up quickly.)

"CASCA--" The line cuts dead.

Just wait.

"I wouldn't get too excited. It's probably nothing."

"Well, let's see. Give me the sequence and I'll feed it to LITOST. If it's machine-breakable, we'll crack it clean in a few minutes."