"Operant. Something big is happening, isn't it?"

"Operant. Something big is happening, isn't it?"

"What makes you say that?"

"I saw how you dashed off toward Party Alley. You looked nervous. It had something to do with the ginkyo leaves."

"Constanz, the Luzian ginkyo is just one of many, many assets I've cultivated on this assignment."

"Operant, really." She wrinkles her nose.

"The less you know, the better."

"Right." She pauses. "I don't expect we'll be seeing you again."

"You never know."

"I suppose not." She smiles.

"A shame. I know our relationship is strictly collegial, still..." A tentative smile. "I suppose I've got used to seeing you around."

"So what's your review, of espionage as a vocation?"

"Is that what we've been doing here? Speaking plainly, it seems to consist mostly of odd jobs..."

"Here I thought I was signing up for espionage and romance, and instead I find myself... fixing fax machines, replacing window glass, developing photos on behalf of my least favourite customer. Not exactly thrilling stuff."

"All very special and liminal stuff. I'd say you're just where you should be."

"That's funny, I was just thinking -- perhaps it's a crazy notion, but what if I, you know, came on the assignment with you?"

"What would happen? You would die. Instantly. And then the rest of us would die too, because you'd fuck it up. Be serious, lady."

"Right, of course. Crazy notion, too much time to think, standing behind this desk all the time."

"I suppose it was impressive watching you fashion a gun in my spare room there. Ingenious, I must say. Also frightening."

"An artist of death is only as good as her tools."

"It was also nice inducting someone into the mysteries of grammage."

"Which is completely real and cool."

"Now that you've noticed, you'll never un-notice."

"The debacle with PSEUDOPOD, well... it was interesting to see how you 'make it up as you go along'."

The whisper of a smile at the corner of her mouth suggests she even enjoyed it.

"That was hyper-tier espionage work. People would pay money to see that kind of demonstration. I hope you took copious notes."

"'Hyper-tier' must mean something other than what I think it means... at least he's up on his feet now."

"So where does that leave us?"

"I shudder to think what his revival has awakened upon the earth."

"It is what it is... at least he's up on his feet now."

"Too bad we never found him again."

"I choose to picture him happy... at least he's up on his feet."

The Housing Campaign, bathed in purple light. A man in a brown jacket and no pants looks up into the face of an angel. She regards him with radiant indifference.

"It'll take him a while to adjust to his new... role, but I think he'll do fine."

"Yes, new roles always require an adjustment period... at least he's up on his feet now."

"He still thinks he's me and that I'm the imprint. I expect he'll murder me in my sleep one of these days."

"Bit dramatic, isn't that? I'm just glad he's up on his feet again."

"He still thinks he's a sock importer, but at least he takes direction now."

"I'm sure you'll work out your dynamic in time. I'm just glad he's up on his feet now."

"He's a mute, fleshy automaton. Probably the best we could hope for."

Her eyes turn towards the spare room.

She's often lingered in that doorway here, after you've gone to bed and in the odd hours of the day.

"It does bother me we were never able to help PSEUDOPOD. I feel there must be something we might've done for him." Her shoulders rise and slowly fall.

The club hates to see an operant abandoned on the pitch, deadly for morale.

"We both let him down. Probably me more than you."

"He deserved better, that's all I'll say."

"Forced to choose between deathless life and Luzian techno witchery, I believe I made the right call."

"Did we? Looking at him there, I'm not sure I agree."

"Yeah, we could've smothered him with a pillow and ended this pointless charade."

Say nothing.

"Which continues to not exist."

"So you say."

"Thank you."

"Meanwhile, you've been melting gobs of plastic, turning my spare room into a toxic gas chamber to no demonstrable end... not entirely what I had in mind."

"That was not my finest effort, I concede."

"I suppose it was nice inducting someone into the mysteries of grammage."

"We can't expect every highly experimental procedure to yield results."

"Not this assignment, perhaps the next go-round."

"Next time, yes. Of course."

Alternative wording

"Right, we never know, as you said."

Alternative wording

"Right, that infinitesimal chance."

"I'll have to check with Melita about that."

"Of course, of course. Proper channels and everything."

"Are you mad you never got to poison anyone?"

"That was only a hypothetical example."

'Yes', she means.

"I'll ask the Opera to reimburse you for the fax machine."

"We didn't really get much use from it, did we? And to think, they were so confident it would be an absolute pillar of the assignment."

"It always works like that, you don't know what you'll need until you need it."

"Meaning, I suppose, that we're doomed to repeat mistakes like this for all eternity. Right."

"A massive waste of the People's resources." (Shake your head.)

"Another triumph of central planning."

"That's why I didn't bother fixing it. The Opera are always pulling stuff like this."

"What will you do with it now?""

"Who knows." She frowns. "Maybe I can sell it to some office people in the Sunset."

"Here I thought I was signing up for espionage and romance, and instead I find myself... fixing fax machines and replacing window glass. Not exactly thrilling stuff."

"Here I thought I was signing up for espionage and romance, and instead I find myself... fixing fax machines and developing photos on behalf of my least favourite customer. Not exactly thrilling stuff."

"Here I thought I was signing up for espionage and romance, and instead I find myself... fixing fax machines that don't even serve any real purpose."

"Here I thought I was signing up for espionage and romance, and instead I find myself... replacing window glass and developing photos on behalf of my least favourite customer."

"Here I thought I was signing up for espionage and romance, and instead I find myself... replacing window glass like some kind of handyman."

"Here I thought I was signing up for espionage and romance, and instead I find myself... developing photographs for my least favourite customer, as though nothing ever changed."

"Here I thought I was signing up for intrigue and thrills, and instead I find myself... watching the desk, as though nothing ever changed."

"Is that what we've been doing here? Speaking plainly, it doesn't feel like it."

"What will you do with PSEUDOPOD?"

"He'll remain with me, I expect. Can't very well abandon here, can we?"

"I'll find some way to get him into the aero-tram. Maybe a sledge of some kind..."

"Feel free to leave up my bitchin' posters."

"Right, those. I think, for the sake of any future tenants, I may just... take them down."

Immediately.

"Before I go, can I get one last hit of that ether?"

"I trust you're saving this for a post-assignment rag." The bottle makes an incredibly satisfying sound as it slides across the countertop.

"You're actually very cool, Constanz."

"Don't forget to roll it out. We can't have you getting bubbles."

In actuality, an urban myth prevalent among more casual ether users. Still, sweet of her to look out for you.

Say nothing, just nod.

She returns your nod with a wicked little smile.

"It'll probably get nasty around here. You may want to leave Quisach for a while." (Conclude.)

"Yes. I suppose you're right."

She takes a long, slow look around the little photo shop, as though committing it to memory.

Burning the image into the gelatin silver of her amygdala.

"I've got a demented aunt with an apartment in the Hill of Pigs. I reckon she won't notice if I crash in her spare room a few weeks..."

Alternative wording

"I've got a demented aunt with an apartment in the Hill of Pigs. I reckon she won't notice if PSEUDOPOD and I crash in her spare room a few weeks..."

"Now, I expect you'll want to get some rest. Come at tomorrow fresh."

"Like we always do."

"That's right."

Behind her eyes, flickers of fear and apprehension. But she's keeping them down, for your sake and hers.

"Well, if there's anything else you require, I suppose I'll be right here."

"I have more questions for you, Constanz."

"Go on, then."

"Any other tenants I should be aware of?"

"No. It's just us." Her eyes drift towards the door to the side room.

Her, you, and the breathing mannequin.

"No, it's very secure -- just the three of us."

Upstairs, your double twitches, electrical reflex running to a dead switchboard.

"Ever married?"

"Divorced, actually."

Unwelcome terrain. Tread lightly.

"Any gentleman callers?" (Raise your eyebrows.)

"No, nothing like that. Can you imagine, at my age..."

Younger than your mother, but in her mind, she's an old woman.

"I bet it was his fault. What'd he do?"

"He grew bored of me." Voice flat.

"Probably your fault. What'd you do the poor man?"

"Excuse me, operant. I don't appreciate where you're going. Is this some sort of psychological game you're playing?"

"Any children?"

"Wasn't in the cards."

"What's the clientele like?"

"Most people prefer drop-off and pick-up for their film and prints. No one lingers here for very long."

Some days pass without a single customer.

"How did you join the Opera?"

"A fit of boredom, if you can believe it. Here I thought I'd 'broaden my horizons', so I signed up for a mailing list, one dedicated to foreign literature."

An age old recruitment technique. Let those with a sufficiently 'international' perspective reveal themselves.

"Then one day this very polite man with a very pleasing accent was on my doorstep. I thought he was going to try to convert me to crystal worship, instead he asked if I'd be interested in letting my upstairs room."

"That was PSEUDOPOD."

"Yes, it was."

She likes remembering him this way, in her shop, pretending to discreetly examine her list of services.

"How are you finding the life of a special asset, liminal class?"

"Well, I don't presume to know the inner workings of the Opera, but I have to think I could be better utilised."

"Of course, I'm happy with the tasks I've been assigned thus far. Keeping a safehouse is a major responsibility. But I have other skills, you know."

"Skills. Such as?"

"Chemistry, for one. I have an entire photo lab back here, with access to all kinds of toxic chemicals and powders. And yet, I doubt anyone would suspect a woman like me of, say, poisoning someone...."

Whatever made this woman a plausible asset, it wasn't her knowledge of chemistry.

The disconnected fantasies of someone who only knows how to be alone.

It's better that way. If it's just you, you can't let anyone down.

A failure of imagination. You can always find new ways to disappoint yourself.

"... if the assignment required it, of course."

"If I need anyone poisoned, you'll be the first person I come to."

"I'm not saying I hope it comes to that, just... if it does."

"Getting a bit fanciful there, special asset."

"I was just giving an example. There could be other tasks."

"I'll keep it in mind, thank you."

"Of course. I just wanted you to know."

Who knows what she gets up to when I'm not around?

In the Operant Bureau's most fevered dreams, you would move as ghosts, phasing through walls, a mouthless set of ears and eyes. Ungrounded and all-observing.

No obligations, more time to spy.

Soft clay, to be moulded to purpose in the right hands.

This is her natural condition. She could be no other way.

Your secrets are safe with her because she's got no one in the world to confide them to.

This is a woman who's planned countless 'perfect' murders in her idle hours.

"Sure. I'll pass that feedback along." (Go back.)

"Oh -- well. Much appreciated, CASCADE."

"That'll be all. Thank you, Constanz." (Go back.)

"As I said, not much to tell."

"Are you from Quisach?"

"Born and raised, as were my parents." She purses her lips. "And just as proud of it as they were. It was a different time back then, of course."

"How so?"

"'Quisach feeds itself', my father used to say. There was a steel foundry just a couple of streets away. As was Essilk, leather-workers, bakeries. People used to make things here." She nods.

"Until the Developed World came knocking?"

"I'm no regressionist, operant. I know Portofirans made their choices too." She smiles.

"As I said, I love Quisach. It just doesn't feel like itself on some days..."

The image in her mind growing fainter, like it might disappear the second she stops believing in it.

"What about Quisach now?"

"Less of a chin to it. I think it's been a bit downhill since we stopped making things. But I wouldn't dream of moving."

Keep listening.

"Even the tuk-tuks were our own. Pinto & Filhos, right on Party Alley. That's how people met -- through grease and grit." She smiles.

"I'm sure. Anyway..." (Go back.)

"Yes, of course." She nods.

"How do you feel about La Luz and 'Reunión'?"

"Tragic, what the Luzians do to their old colonies. Displacing all those poor souls, forcing them to abandon their homes. And that's the lucky ones."

"Not to mention the Reunión's affecting us too. You've got refugees washing up here day and night, speaking in gibberish, making a mess. They don't even try to integrate!"

"The ones I met spend their days using a sex line. Like real Portofirans."

"That's... not what I had in mind." Her eyes narrow.

"The Luzians have to be stopped -- that's my final word on the matter." She nods, not looking at you anymore.

She recognises no neighbours -- only potential threats.

"These are our proletarian siblings come to join the great struggle, photo woman."

"Well, they don't have to be so rude about it. You can't even understand a single word they're saying!" Her breath quickens.

"What's not to like about inexpensive, highly disposable labour?"

"I'm confused, CASCADE. Are you a communist or not?" Her brow furrows.

Just stare at her.

"Don't give me that look. You know what I meant."

(Gesture to the TV.) "Do you watch Bagman a lot?"

"No." She pointedly doesn't look at the television. "Actually, to be honest, I find some of the things he says rather upsetting."

"I don't know, I think he makes some good points." (Crinkle your bag.)

"I was hoping we wouldn't have to acknowledge the bag, but here we are."

"Reality's a deeply upsetting place."

"Yes, and it does a good enough job of bothering me all on its own, without Subcommandante Bagman's help."

"It's just entertainment, it doesn't mean anything."

"Well, he does a good job of it. He's got half Portofiro on edge about wiretapped phonelines and orgiastic occult rituals."

"Why don't you just turn it off then?"

"I don't know, I guess I just like having something on in the background."

"Let's move on." (Change topic.)

"Now that we've got to talking... there was something I've been meaning to ask you, when you have a moment."

"Of course. Something else on your mind, Operant?"

"Tell me about yourself, Constanz."

"Is this some kind of assessment?" She regards you hesitantly.

"What if I said yes?"

"Nothing too much to tell, certainly nothing that would interest an international actor like yourself. I've been running this shop for the last three decades, business isn't exactly good, but it's enough. I just get on with things."

"I just like to know who I'm working with."

"You said there was something else you wanted to ask me?"

"I was just wondering: how it feels, you know, being in-theatre again?"

"It's a constant flux of physical, emotional, and intellectual threats."

"Yes, that makes sense. PSEUDOPOD said it could be extremely challenging."

"You picked an interesting time to come back to Portofiro. It's not the same city it was five years ago."

"I'm still getting my bearings again. What's changed?"

"For one, we've become a frontline in EMTERR's Culture Blockade. The powers that be seem to have become more protective of their investment here."

"How does Luzian pop culture threaten EMTERR's position?"

"I should probably be asking you that question. From where I sit, it seems they're rather paranoid about anything that could increase our strange cousins' sway in this part of the world."

"PSEUDOPOD seemed to think they may even have operants working in the city right now."

No match for us.

You swim with sharks and jellyfish.

"Then of course there are the anxieties about 'Reunión'. No one can say whether in five years' time we'll still be part of the Developed World, or whether we'll have been annexed by techno-fascists."

"Do you think they'll really do it?"

"Maybe. They're terribly organised when it comes to getting what they want. My father used to say it's because they're all of one mind."

So this rumour about Luzian 'imprints' goes back at least a generation.

Somewhere within your third left intercostal space, the bullet by your heart makes its presence known with a nasty twinge.

A long time for a rumour to linger.

"'One mind'?"

"Yes, there's a conspiracy... well. There's a theory that the Luzian ministers are all copies of the same man. Some long-dead philosopher. That he's been 'imprinted' onto them."

"But my father also believed that Luzians were training river dolphins to spy on us." She shrugs.

Reports from Operant PROBABLE suggest that 'Proyecto PESCADERA' was aborted in early 78 after one of the study's dolphins developed a violent sexual obsession with his trainer and committed suicide by sinking to the bottom of his tank.

How long dead? How many generations of ministers does this theory implicate?

"And so this is your way of facing your fears."

"It's odd, isn't it? In some ways I have so much more to worry about now. But it doesn't feel that way."

The inextricable swirl of global perils and the middle-aged terrors of a life wasted.

Heart-in-throat, crumpled knees against cold linoleum. A deafening pulse inside the skull. Oblivion oozes through the doorframe.

"So you're not just doing this for the thrills."

"Well. Perhaps not exclusively."

"You felt you had to 'do something', is that it?"

"It sounds egotistical, doesn't it. But I suppose I do. Time will tell whether it's the right thing or not."

"It is what it is."

"Sure. When faced with stark reality, it's easy to resort to tautology. But some of us have to live here."

'Strange cousins'. How locals refer to the menacing techno-fascist superstate across the Noscorrentes Sea.

"I may've run into an EMTERR negotiator already."

"Tis the season, it seems."

"Protective, how so?"

"Withholding 'stabilisation' funds, cutting off access to international credit, pressuring the Guardia Municipal to lock up dissenters. The usual cocktail of coercions."

"Espionage is very easy. It only takes like 5% of your brain to do it."

"Is that so? PSEUDOPOD made it sound extremely challenging."

"I haven't made up my mind yet."

"Of course, you're only just getting back into the swing of things, I imagine."

"I'm not sure how this assignment compares to what you were up to at Satellite Facility B."

The existence of Satellite Facility B is closely held information. There's no way a special asset would know of its existence, unless...

"You read my personnel file."

"Forgive me, operant. It was just... lying out in the open. I wasn't deliberately snooping."