THE LAB’S MAIN ROBOT looks so cartoonish it could be a character from an old sci-fi movie—a cross between R2D2 and Mario, like its designer was tripping on LSD44 while putting it together.

  “So, the DNA trail’s a dead end?” Zantia asks.

  “Oh, not at all! It gave us ten billion DNA samples—including yours and your mother’s.”

  “Are you messing with me? What the hell does my mother have to do with this?”

  “My apologies, Captain. I was just making a humorous point—your suspects used genetic scrambling. They flooded this shelter with DNA from billions of people. Our chances of identifying them are about as good as finding a needle in the Amazon jungle.”

  “Billions of—? How the hell did they pull that off? Scientific accomplices?”

  “No, it’s actually child’s play. All you need is a small machine to generate organic molecules—been around since the ’70s, believe it or not. Then, just browse online and pick what you need. No need to hack hospitals—there’s no shortage of suckers who eagerly mail their DNA samples to genealogy sites. After that, you load the machine, mix in some dust, a bit of water or mud, give it a shake, and voilà—instant genetic soup.”

  “But not even a single real hair? A stray follicle? Fingernail clippings?”

  “They probably wore magnetic nets and full-body suits.”

  “Alright, then. So we just need to trace the dust’s geographical origin, right?”

  “Already done, Captain! It’s a delightful mix—from the Himalayas to the Sahara, from every nook of our beloved city to your grandmother’s backyard.”

  “And how’d they manage that one?” Zantia grits out, while Pearl chuckles softly.

  “Easy. Thanks to constant construction, our troposphere contains almost as much dust as nitrogen molecules—and I’m barely exaggerating. All they had to do was send up a little weather balloon—cheap, available at any good toy store.”

  Five minutes later, the two officers walk down the alley leading from the lab to HQ.

  “So, what’s your takeaway?” Zantia asks.

  “The confirmed use of scooters suggests these thieves were bold.”

  “Tell me something—since when do service robots have a sense of humor? That one earlier had it in all the wrong places! Did you hear what it said?”

  “It’s the head of the military violence division of the General Staff’s forensic unit. It even has humans under its command. AI has come a long way since ChatGPT, you know.”

  “But why put it in a physical robot? It’s ridiculous! Wouldn’t a screen or a hologram do the job?”

  “DarkNet found that physical presence—even with a machine—helps maintain human interaction… and makes AI seem more human, too. That ‘robot,’ as you call it, has a sense of touch, smell, fine hearing, and even variable internal warmth. You could’ve given it a hug—they love that.”

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  “Oh, great. And what’s next? Sleeping with them?”

  Pearl doesn’t laugh.

  “That’s actually under consideration. Sex is too important to ignore. But they still have a long way to go in terms of design and, well, sex appeal… Hey!”

  As they pass a group of colleagues, a broad-shouldered man steps toward them.

  “So, my little darlings? See you at Darth Vader’s Vat tonight? Group suicide with homemade pastis and dark beer?”

  “We’re not your ‘darlings,’ Boulder. Save the macho act for street girls.”

  “Why so touchy, Pearl? I’m just being friendly!”

  The two women exchange polite smiles with the other Dark Swords but blatantly ignore Boulder—Paul Boulder, a talented, ambitious, and thoroughly unscrupulous officer. Notoriously waiting for his chance to knock them off the top of the DS.

  Once he’s out of earshot, Pearl mutters, “You know what? That main robot has more sex appeal than he does.”

  They burst out laughing.

  “Anyway,” Zantia says, regaining focus, “we’re dealing with some pretty crafty thieves. Their escape strategy was well-rehearsed, their jamming methods smart and low-cost.”

  “But what were they after, these little punks? And why did the Protector attack them, only to let them go? Was the asset among them?”

  “We’ll find out. For now, we’re hunting scooters.”

  Just as they’re about to step onto the police flight deck, a two-star officer intercepts them.

  “Captains Maya and Fisher! Forgive me for the abrupt approach—I despise formalities. Summoning people to my office, protocol... all that nonsense. I prefer meeting on the spot.”

  They snap off a military salute, but he waves it away with an easygoing gesture.

  “Very honored, General... Nadella, is it?”

  “Do you like hamburgers? Best burgers in the entire General Staff—cooked in the fourth basement, ammunitions division. You’d swear they sprinkle in a little gunpowder for extra kick!”

  “I’ll settle for a salad if they have one,” Zantia replies.

  “One salad! And you, dear friend? What’s your pick?”

  “I’ve been addicted to the smell of powder since I was a kid—so count me in.”

  “Off we go, then!” the general exclaims, linking arms with them as if they were old drinking buddies.

  Two burgers and an Italian salad later, they’re seated in the firefighters’ mess hall. Nadella pulls up a series of documents and holographic images, letting them play in the air above the table.

  “These are the experimental WorldNet programs from the last ten years—at least, the ones we’ve managed to uncover. We believe there’s a connection to your recent... misadventures.”

  “Some of these involve DarkNet,” Pearl notes.

  “Exactly. But we can’t limit ourselves to those. The asset everyone’s after—the one you two may be the only ones to have crossed paths with—is going to be difficult to pin down.”

  “Why?”

  The general spears the last of his fries, dips it in ketchup, and pops it into his mouth before answering.

  “We now know that WorldNet’s AI is using computational models to locate this thing—or this person. If they actually understood what they were dealing with, they’d be going about it differently. Flooding our databases with spy bots, for instance. But the activity we’re seeing is barely above standard levels.”

  “They’re fishing,” Zantia guesses.

  “Exactly. And not even with much finesse. They’re groping in the dark.”

  “How can they put such a high price on something they don’t even understand? Risk a war over a ghost?”

  Nadella wipes his mouth and looks regretfully at his empty plate.

  “You’ve hit the heart of the issue, Pearl. That’s exactly what we need you to figure out.”

  “But all we have so far are scooter tracks and scattered intel. We don’t even know who leaked the Protector’s position—post-quantum scrambling wiped the trail.”

  “I know. And as for the money, there’s no tracing which accounts it landed in. That’s why we’re shifting focus—going higher up the chain of command. We need to get our hands on some of WorldNet’s key agents. Someone has answers. And while we’re at it, we’ll do some overdue housecleaning. Forget the scooters for now—I’ve got bigger prey for you.”

  As he dismisses them, he adds with a casual smile, “Oh, and if you need reinforcements, I dug up another excellent candidate from my files. Do you know Captain Paul Boulder?”

  “Oh, no, thanks,” Pearl says immediately. “We’ll manage just fine on our own.”