The fax machine hums faintly. A single sheet sits in the tray, edges curled like a beckoning finger.

The fax machine hums faintly. A single sheet sits in the tray, edges curled like a beckoning finger.

Read the fax from MIHO again.

'CASCADE. POSSESS INFORMATION (CRITICAL). GO ALL THE WAY DOWN. MIHO.'

This won't be of any use to you now. Best get rid of it.

Or you could leave it. A small memento -- a trace of him passing through this world.

"Constanz... what do you make of this?" (Hold up the fax.)

Your landlady glances up, then quickly looks back down with a noncommittal shrug.

Silence is the best method to retain plausible deniability.

Who or what is a 'MIHO'?

Miho? Who know.

Likely an acronym, not a person.

MAJOR INVESTIGATIONS HOME OFFICE.

Many Illicit Hershels Öffensive.

Malodorous Insufferable Humiliating Onanism.

My Intrepid Homosexual Orgy.

Monaxial Intelligence and Hermetic Operations.

That one feels right. And it's definitely less dumb.

But what does it mean?

Only one way to find out.

Nothing in the directories. Only thing under 'MI-' is Mia Holloway, your first almost-girlfriend.

Grand Marshaless of the Bitch Parade.

Your philosophical girlfriend.

Proto-Girlfriend.

Examine the sheet.

PORTOFIRO COSMONAUTICS & SPACE EXPLORATION. Not a letterhead that sees much use these days.

I didn't see any 'MIHO' while I was down there.

You stare at the words 'Silo-1, Sub-Level 4, Pitol Tract, Portofiro.'

Sub-level 4. You didn't go that far down.

This 'MIHO' entity is waiting for you at the dark end of the silo.

I didn't see any 'MIHO' or dolphin-human hybrids down there.

The same location Hauzmann wants you to investigate. Odd.

The same location the heartless guy wants you to investigate. Odd.

The site of the failed launch.

From twenty years ago?

It was abandoned soon after. These days, it's a wasteland of space metal and local myth.

Ominous.

It's supposed to be completely abandoned, per government order -- a wasteland of space metal and local myth.

The Pitol Tract was the site of Portofiro's aborted space program.

What happened?

The rocket went up, but did not come down. All contact was lost sixteen minutes post-launch.

T+16:34: PERDA DE TODOS OS DADOS.

These days, the Tract is a wasteland of space metal and local myth. All that's left is a massive abandoned rocket silo on the beach.

Aborted... so not currently in use?

Hasn't been for two decades. These days, it's a wasteland of space metal and local myth, and a massive abandoned rocket silo on the beach.

Eat the fax.

You make short work of the cheap paper -- soon the sheet is a sodden ball of matter between your teeth.

You swallow it down in one go, taking any secrets with you.

Your throat the dark silo of your own forgotten body.

Place it back in the tray.

You replace the sheet where you found it, now slightly crinkled.

Shred the fax.

You tear up the paper and dispose of the pieces.

A fax from HOLOCENE. Irrelevant, now that he's on board. Get rid of the evidence.

M.I.H.O. is aesthetically compromised. Destroy all traces of that awful, awful acronym.

A fax sent by HOLOCENE. Potentially compromised. Best get rid of it.

Read the fax.

'CASCADE. POSSESS INFORMATION (CRITICAL). GO ALL THE WAY DOWN. MIHO.'

Read the fax.

'Big ticket item about to hit the organ block. Opening bids already coming in by payphone -- Party Alley, West Side. Who will we say is calling, operant?'

Below the scrawled text, a childlike drawing of a heart, coloured in red.

"Everything in order?"

"Just a moment." (Ball up the fax and eat it.)

"What... are you doing?"

Keep chewing. Loudly.

"Oh, dear."

Soon, but not as soon as you'd hoped, the paper is fully mulched up. You swallow with a gulp.

"You were saying?"

"So..." She has yet to stop frowning. "Is it bad news?"

"Not sure yet."

"Well, I'm just glad that thing's finally done what it's supposed to do."

To this marked payphone, then. It seems someone will be waiting for you on the other end.

(Sniff the air.) "Great fuckery is afoot."

"Right." She frowns. "Let me know if I can be of any help."

"It's natural to be impressed."

(Garbled.) "Gastwic Ashid. Itsh how the rweal prwos do it."

(Garbled.) "Cwould yew lwook away?"

"Of course. Of course." She closes her eyes.

"Yeah, all good."

No doubt, it was Hauzmann who organised your release from the jail.

This message is no courtesy. It's a debt slip.

That stranger with his heart in a box must have organised your release from the jail.

What could be sacrificed here?

Image quality and whatever remains of human patience.

Remove the panel.

Your screwdriver makes short work of the star-head screws holding the side panel in place. You set them aside one by one and gently remove the plastic panel.

Troubleshoot the fax machine.

The holy innards of the facsimile machine reveal themselves to you like an offering, waiting to be interpreted.

What have we got here?

You're looking at a Sonatine 'Executive' Series 2, a cursed model, plagued by numerous debilities. Most commonly, a chronically misaligned paper tray.

Another Opera castoff. Maligned and misaligned.

We got this, fax machine. We'll show them all.

The machine is silent. The amber light blinks.

Snap the paper tray back in.

From the machine-bowels comes a pleasing chnnnk as the plastic tray slots back into its receiver. The paper belt purrs as life is restored.

"Much better. Thank you."

"Photo lady! Don't read my faxes, okay?"

"Operant, I would never."

She would. She will.

"That should do it."

The small green light marks its status as 'Ready'.

"Fucking assholes!" (Hit the fax machine with the heel of your hand.)

"Careful! That machine cost 2000 sol!"

It's just a fax machine, no need to get emotional.

You face the angry fax machine once more.

"Eat shit, fax machine!" (Hit the fax machine.)

"Careful! That machine cost 2000 sol!"

Hit it again.

Somewhere inside the puzzle-box of metal and plastic, a belt purrs to life.

"Well. That seems to have done the trick."

Leave it alone.

You're a spy, not a service tech.

There's no sense to be made of the mass of wires, belts, and rollers before you.

"Why am I even considering this? I'm not tech support."

"I was assured there would be many urgent communiques coming through this machine."

Just two. One of which is entirely optional.

"I'll figure this out later."

[Leave.]

You turn away from the fax machine.

The fax machine lies dormant, awaiting correspondence from half-siblings it will never meet.

A single sheet of paper lies in the tray.

At the top of the page is a header next to a greyscale logo you can't make out: 'PORTOFIRO COSMONAUTICS & SPACE EXPLORATION - PAYLOAD AND BALLISTICS. Silo-1, Sub-Level 4, Pitol Tract, Portofiro.'

The fax machine awaits orders.

Something has changed with the machine -- it is more green-ish than amber-ish now...

"Don't worry, CASCADE. I took it upon myself. The monstrosity is now functional."

Not quite an accusation, but almost.

"I did try, you know. Alas, the ways of the machine spirits are inscrutable."

"It's just the paper tray needed to be wiggled back into place."

It's not on you. Technology is mostly a series of baffling design decisions.

(Nod thoughtfully.) "Inscrutable, as I said."

"Yes, well." She straightens her posture. "There's a fax for you, by the way."

"Stupid machine spirits."

"Oh. Well. Thank you."

"You're welcome. Oh, and there's a fax for you, by the way."

"Good work. I'll make sure the Opera hears about this."

"Oh, no need to... but yes, please do."

"There's a fax for you, by the way."

A single sheet sits in the tray, edges curled like a beckoning finger.

"I was literally just about to do it."

"And now it's done. But thank you for the intent."

"This was a test. Glad to see you passed."

Alternative wording

"This was part of the simulation. Glad to see you passed."

"It actually wasn't that tough once I got down to business. Wish we could say the same for PSEUDOPOD." She chuckles softly.

Earnest, masked with a laugh.

"Great. Now I have to take it apart, piece by piece, to check for bugs."

"I have no interest in your faxes, as I've told you before." She shakes her head. "Please don't mess with it, now that it's working. It's quite fiddly."

The thought of spying on you does seem to horrify her.

Of course she'd say that. Keep an eye on this 'photo' 'lady'.

"You mean a wiretap? I would never!" She shakes her head. "Please don't mess with it, now that it's working. It's quite fiddly."

Bad news: The fax machine has not fixed itself.

A humongous white block of office technology sits in front of you. It looks like a sacrifical altar made of plastic.

Inside, mechanical parts are assembled in such a way that it can scream analogue messages across huge distances.