They had been summoned, and arrived, each in turn, under the cover of darkness. Their journey had been made in secret, but only paradoxically so: although none among their respective vassals knew the purpose of their trips, few had not seen the covert lines of affluent transport that had brought each of them to the neutral city of Sherbrooke: private trains with cars loaded discreetly with components of unbelievable affluence, convoys of automobiles escorted by heavy road-tanks and entire armies of disguised soldiers, and, among the most wealthy of the representative delegates, some of the last airplanes in existence.

They brought with them fear, but not fear in the sense that any normal person could understand. Each and every one of them was aware of what had quickly come to be called the Bottlebrush Massacre. The older of them dismissed it, recalling Bridgeport’s long and bloody history- -but the most prudent among them knew that precautions had to be taken. Normal men might have retreated or hidden, but none of these delegates were normal men. In their own minds, they were superior- -they responded to fear with brashness and confidence. Such behavior had led them- -or in many cases, their distant ancestors- -to invariable corporate victory long ago.

A man named Arthur Melville, son of Winston, was among them. He had been among the earliest to arrive, but, being familiar with the customs of his class, had waited in his lavish and exorbitantly well protected hotel room until he felt that the time was ripe for his entrance- -never late, but never early. At exactly the right time, and only then.

On his way, he paused, looking at himself in the reflection of one of the many full-length windows that lined the Central Tower. The glass was tinted red-brown until it was nearly opaque to the point where it was nearly impossible to see the snow-covered city that lay below. It would be buried for most of the year, its buildings secured in darkness as its residents transversed nearly lightless tunnels. Beyond the city, manicured preserve-forests sat. Melville supposed they were probably pleasant enough during the summer months, although trees had never been something he much saw the point of.

Rather than focus on the city below, Melville instead focused on himself. He was tall for a natural-born human, and wide, thanks to the substantial cybernetic upgrades that had been implanted into his body. That was something of a departure from tradition- -he was well aware of this- -but he had deemed long ago that in changing times, changing tactics were required. His body was something he took pride in, and he smiled as he straightened his tie: the epitome of his company’s cybernetics made his body, and his face showed the signs of severe inbreeding that indicated that his family had approached their genetic heritage with an eye toward absolute purity.

When he was done, he turned back to the remainder of the room. Some of the other delegates were already arriving, funneling into the penthouse meeting room or speaking amongst themselves. They spoke equally to allies and enemies, and although some claimed that this group was meant to be homogenous, it only was so in name and goal. Those that had arrived her had come for that one reason: to sit by their rivals, and to not suffer the dishonor of being the one remaining at home while a meeting this grave occurred without them. To do so would be intolerable, and as far as Melville knew, all the principal Corporations were represented.

He began to move toward the conference room himself, taking long strides that were calculated to demonstrate confidence. As he approached, though, three figures caught his eye. He looked at them casually at first, pretending to be only glancing, and he confirmed what he had initially suspected: they were not people he knew. This was indeed a strange development, and in his state of enhanced confidence, Melville decided to be the first to approach them.

As he did, he immediately understood who they were- -or at the very least which vassal they were from. The heraldry on their high-collared shirts indicated that they were from Monsanto. This was curious indeed, as none of them were Bronislav Spitzer. Rather, Melville distantly recognized their apparent leader as one of Spitzer’s many wives, although he could not remember her name. The other two appeared somewhat strange, although they were quite clearly Spitzers, at least in bloodline, most likely bastards.

What was strange, though, is that all three of them seemed to share an identical skin condition. They wore hoods, but were clearly not attempting to hide the fact that not one of them had hair, not even eyebrows. Their skin was deathly pale, save for spots where it was scaly and strangely brown. To Melville, they looked disgusting, but he was not really sure why exactly.

The woman’s eyes immediately flitted toward Melville before he had a chance to retreat. They were strikingly brown, but seemed somewhat out of focus.

“Hello,” she said. “I believe I recognize you.”

“Arthur Melville, son of Winston,” replied Melville. “And if I’m not mistaken, you are from Monsanto.”

“We are,” replied the woman.

“That’s strange,” said Melville, suppressing his mild outrage. “I actually know Spitzer pretty well. I was expecting to see him here. This meeting is of great priority, and sensitivity. It is meant for leaders only, I’m afraid.”

“Ah,” said the woman, her expression not changing. She did not seem offended, only mildly confused. “Unfortunately, Lord Spitzer suffered a rather unfortunate accident. One that I am afraid resulted in his untimely death.”

“I see…”

“And, as the whereabouts of his only son are currently unknown, modifications had to be made to the chain of succession. In the interim, the Board of Directors had appointed me the acting High Chairman.”

“I was not aware. Although, granted, Monsanto is notoriously isolationist.”

“For good reason.” The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me, Lord Melville. To which vassal do you belong?”

Melville smiled. “Etsy, of course.”

“So your primary export is- -”

“Ultra-heavy armaments. Artillery, military vehicles, ships, orbital-strike equipment and the like. Actually, we’ve recently made substantial developments in our new line of auto-targeting heavy machine guns. I’ve been pushing toward the development of small arms to supplement our big-ticket items. Field testing during the recent student protests proved exquisite.”

“Student protests that you caused, I’m sure.”

Melville frowned. “I do not criticize how Monsanto conducts focus testing. There’s no need to be provocative.”

“And I have no need for a sales pitch. The contracts Spitzer had made with Etsy are now null and void.”

“Under whose authority?!”

“Under mine. We have no need for what you have to supply us.”

Melville nearly struck her, but quickly regained his composure, recalling the grueling hours of grooming he had experienced as a child that prepared him for this sort of negotiation. “Well. I see. You beat me too it, then.”

“Oh?”

Melville nodded. “Of all of us, Monsanto was one of the first to start causing trouble…and the first to then inexplicably retract their forces from the hunt for that heretic Twilight Sparkle unit. Do you know what that means?”

“That we will be ostracized by the remaining Corporations. That we will experience trade embargos until our internal economy fails, and other Corporations- -Etsy, perhaps- -will consume our vast real-estate holdings.”

Melville took a step back, unable to contain his confusion. She had stated the exact truth- -but with no reaction to it. As if the death of Monsanto did not even matter to her remotely. Then, as she saw his response, she had the audacity to smile. This time, Melville really was about to strike her- -but froze when for just a fraction of a second, he was sure she had viciously pointed teeth. He blinked, only to see that they looked entirely ordinary.

“Well,” he said, feeling himself flushing. “I suppose this is what happens when a woman is in charge of a Corporation. Under normal circumstances, I would raise this break from tradition with the Committein.”

“The Committein who is also a woman.”

Melville laughed. “We might call her a ‘she’, but her kind aren’t female. You know that.”

“I know many things. I care about few.”

She pushed past Melville and approached the security gate. She passed through the arch easily, as did her two associates. No weapons or dangerous devices were detected in their clothes or on their persons. Melville frowned, feeling his confidence badly injured. Still, he immediately forced himself to step forward, following after them into the main conference room.

By this time, the table was nearly full, and Melville had been made late. He dejectedly took his place, which was not terribly distant from where the Monsanto delegate had sat. The remainder of the room was filled with the most important individuals in North America, save for those in the United States government itself: High Chairmen, CEOs, Elevated Boardmen, Presidents, and the like. All of them were invariably the same: male, and natural-born. Some of them were accompanied by others, which were either lesser sons of their dynasties or tall, transparent-clad noblewomen who served as secretaries or as assistants toward their aging rulers. Melville began to regret coming alone; even the Monsanto woman had auxiliaries, even if they were just Spitzer’s bastards.

Talk circulated the table as the delegates spoke amongst themselves. Many languages could be heard, although derivatives of English were most common. All of this talk, though, ceased as the Committein herself entered the room.

She had come last, and the room fell silent as she entered. She was the only one of her kind in the room: a pony, a Rainbow Dash unit to be specific. She wore an impeccable fitted suit, and her exorbitantly long rainbow hair and tail were braided and fluffed into a complex style. She moved with absolute confidence, and an armored guard followed her wake. Everyone present knew who she was: she bore the deceptively simple name Heather, and was the Director of a minor vassal called R&D Development. Despite the insignificant holdings of her vassal, she was the head of this operations, and the one who had called them all to this meeting.

“You!” cried the delegate from Lockheed Heavy, nearly standing off his chair as Heather sat down in hers. “You have a lot to fucking answer for!”

A thin and infuriating smile crossed Heather’s face. “Really?” she said. “I do?”

“In case you haven’t noticed,” said another delegate, pointing at several empty chairs. “Some of us are missing!”

“Yes. Intel, NeoGoogle III, and Bandwidth Vast will no longer attending.”

“Because they were liquidated! Every one of their ruling class are DEAD! There aren’t even heirs! Their entire structures were liquidated overnight, along with at least twenty subvassals!”

“We have evidence that the War Stone was used to orchestrate their downfall,” said Heather. “And I’m dealing with it.”

“Dealing with- -the goddamn Cult took down three COMPANIES! Do you have any idea- -”

“You can’t liquidate a company from the inside,” sighed Heather. “It’s like a dance. It takes two partners. One to sell…and one to buy.” She looked around the room, and all of the delegates present suddenly faltered in their supposedly righteous rage. The fallen Corporations’ assets had been consumed in minutes, and each of them knew exactly where they had gone.

“This is all beside the point,” said Melville, suddenly breaking the silence. He stood up. “I’ve met with my people. We all have. You can’t hide this anymore. The Cult? Do you even know where they are?”

“And can you even let them get away with what they did?” The CEO of Aetna-Cross frowned and turned angrily toward Heather. “We lost our Board of Directors, and half their heirs, as well as most of our subvassal leaders and their heirs. All in one hit. Our city is tearing itself apart.”

“Due to whose management?” muttered another delegate.

“Don’t try to pin this on me! Arthur is right!” He stood up suddenly. “Where the Hell are they? Do you even have contact? It was your idea to work with them in the first place!”

“And it turned out to be profitable.”

“Bullshit! BULL- -SHIT! Each and every one of us here poured in everything we had! Money, resources, proprietary technology- -and then YOU just let them FUCKING LEAVE!”

“We have no idea where their center of operations is. I couldn’t exactly stop them.”

“Then what was all this for?! Are you that senile, you can’t even remember WHY we did this in the first place?”

“I agree,” added the delegate from Universal and Universal. Unlike the others, he was substantially more aged, and when he spoke the others stifled their rage. He spoke calmly. “Time is running out. We made substantial sacrifice in moving to prevent a breach of our developments.”

“You mean to off one goddamn detective.”

“One detective that all of our combined militaries could not reach, mind you.”

A thin, nearly skeletal man leaned forward. “That one, I think, we can put on you, Foros.”

“Fuck you.”

“As I was saying,” said the man from Universal and Universal, raising his voice slightly. “The government is sure to take notice. My antiespionage division has already picked up spies infiltrating our border cities in response. I am old enough to remember how we dealt with the Japan problem.” He turned his nearly blind eyes toward Heather. “It has to be done swift, and efficiently. No plotting, no planning. Conviction. Every one of us here knows that, or we would not be responsible for ruling the better half of the world.”

“Agreed,” said Foros, having calmed down slightly. “Without their technology, we can’t win a decisive, quick victory. If we move without it, the only ones left to pick up the pieces will be Africa…or Micronesia.”

The entire room shuddered and hissed at the mention of their primary rival, the Paraiah Corporation MHI.

“I understand,” said Heather. “The Cult of Humanity was more capricious than we expected, I get that. And if my thoughts count? I gave a gut feeling they planned this. That they played us for fools.” The mood of the room darkened, but Heather smiled. “But…”

“But what?”

“But apart from the designs we already have? Guess what. I recovered the rest.” Heather smiled broadly and gently tapped her forehead, motioning toward the orthotropic processing core beneath it.

The room stared at her in disbelieve, and then broke out in quiet cheer. Some of them began to talk amongst themselves, congratulating each other on their success, and their inevitable victory over the government- -and each planning the part of the new power structure that they would carve for their respective vassals.

“Yes,” said Heather, chuckling softly. “It’s all stored here, and it’s all already been transmitted.”

Those sitting closest to her- -the ones who had heard her speak- -suddenly froze and went quiet. The rest of the room did not hear, but they seemed to sense a ponderous shift in the mood toward the far end of the table.

“Wait,” said Foros, interrupting all the others. “Transmitted? To who? We’re all here!”

Heather laughed, and then leaned forward. The drone beside her suddenly drew a high-caliber pistol and pressed it against the side of her head.

“Hail Xyuka,” she whispered.

The bullet fired, and Heather’s head was thrown to the side as the metal flecks of her brain spewed from the far side of her skull. Her body tremored and collapsed as the data that the Corporations had spent so much effort and resources into isolating died along with her. Then she was still, and the room burst into an uproar. They screamed and rushed forward, shouting and yelling. In the chaos, none of them noticed as the delegates from Monsanto tossed several small gas canisters down the center of the table. By the time any of them saw the grenades, it was too late; the nerve gas had already been released.

Those closest to it immediately screamed in agony as their bodies contorted from seizures. Their eyes rolled back into their heads and poured forth blood as they fell immobile as they died in torment. A few among them covered their mouths with their clothing or, if they were better prepared, specialized portable masks- -but it was too late. By the time each of them reached into their suit jackets or ornate blazers, the concentration of toxin in the air had already reached adequate levels to render every animal creature in the room with a central nervous system dead within seconds.

Melville stood suddenly. The nerves in his brain were already beginning to burn away, but unlike the others, his body was largely cybernetic. He sensed that he was dying- -or already dead- -but through his confusion and slowly progressing blindness, he was able to look around the room. Heather was dead, killed by her now impassive drone, and the rest of the members were deceased or on the verge of being so. Yet, through it all, three remained: the delegates from Monsanto watched with what seemed like mild amusement. The gas had no effect on them.

“F…fuc..k…y…OU!” cried Melville, reaching into his belt and drawing a ceramic pistol, one that had been designed by his company just for this sort of occasion. Despite his failing brain, he pointed weapon on the Monsanto woman’s head and fired. The bullet struck her through the left eye, tearing a hole through her skull- -but she did not flinch. No blood poured from the wound; instead, the flesh within was pure and white. As Melville stared in horror, the woman stared back at him, unmoved by the fact that he could see the wall behind her through a hole that took up half her face. Then, before his eyes, the wound began to close; it sealed itself, growing from within and restoring the shape of her skull. It grew thick brown skin that flaked away, and she opened a new eye.

Melville tried to call out. To who, he was not sure. There was not enough left of him to know if he should cry to God or his mother, or anyone else for that matter. He fell back into his seat and flopped forward, his brain having failed completely.

The room was silent for a moment as the delegates from Monsanto surveyed the carnage. There had been no survivors save for themselves: the leaders of every major Corporation in North America had been eradicated in a single swift motion. The woman in question- -she had no name, as none of her kind did- -found herself mildly pleased. Their plans were moving forward according to plan.

Then, suddenly, Melville’s body sat up. His eyes were unfocused and had already grown cloudy, and to the Monsanto delegates’ great surprise his torso lurched and turned. One of his arms lifted itself upward.

“Ooh,” he said, his voice projected from some mechanical part of himself as he waved his arm. “Floppy.”

“Excuse me,” said the woman. “Aren’t you supposed to be dead?”

“Oh, he is.” Melville’s floppy arm moved with great difficulty and took a position where his head could be leaned upon it. “Quite dead. They all are. Very effective. But this is the only body I could get to. The rest don’t have cybernetics.”

“And who might you be?”

“I am the War Stone.” Josephine caused Melville’s face to contort in a grotesque parody of a smile. It was not difficult; the contraction of every muscle in his body had already pursed his lips into something quite similar. “I do contract work for the Cult.”

“Ah. Pleased to meet you, I suppose. But why are you here?”

“To help, I suppose. I’m in position on my end. It’s very strange. There’s a lot more cyborgs in the senate.”

“Well, I thank you for your assistance. I doubt it would have been so easy had you not distracted them with Lady Heather.”

“Who?” Josephine looked to the head of the table where the drone was still standing, watching. “Um…that wasn’t me. I can’t even pick up that drone. Hence why I’m in a corpse right now. She did that to herself.”

“Oh…”

The two of them were silent. “Never mind,” said Josephine after a moment. “It’s not relevant. Come on. We’ve got a lot of work to do. Let’s get started.”

Hundreds of miles away, somewhere in the West Side region of Bridgeport, two ponies sat on a pair of stools in front of a street vendor. To the right, a white Pegasus with unblinking blue eyes and wearing a surprisingly frumpy sweater-skirt combination kicked her feet as she hummed. Her motions eventually triggered her stool to begin to rotate, which seemed to amuse her greatly. “Oop!” she said. “I guess I’m going around again!”

The pony beside her did not respond. Morgana instead focused on the world around her. She saw the holographic displays and warnings passing by, once again warning of air quality failure in the district and those nearby, to the point of toxicity in the lower levels. She saw each and every person passing by: mostly ponies or synths, but also humans who wore heavy filtration masks and respirators to protect themselves from the increasingly toxic atnosphere. Morgana could perceive every stich in their clothing and every piece of armor they had in it, as well as every weapon they possessed. Her mind, likewise, touched theirs almost on instinct, to the point where she could continuously hear the dull hum of the digital world around her. The border that technomancers were intended to straddle no longer had meaning to her; in this body, the line had blurred into near nonexistence.

Her form had changed. She still wore a long coat, and on her neck bore a black choker with a single, familiar gemstone imbedded in on the left side of it. It was her body, though, that had changed. Instead of violet, she had chosen to render her skin dark to the point of being nearly indigo. Her cutie mark, though it could not be readily seen through her coat, had been altered as well; Morgana had simplified it and altered the colors into something that she felt was more suiting. Combined with the fact that she had no recognizable eyes, she was off-model- -and she did not give a shit.

“Ha!” said Forth as she rotated back to the counter of the noodle stand. “You look like a dragonfly, Ms. Morgana! Except substantially larger. And with no wings.”

“I never liked them,” muttered Morgana, still scanning the world around her absentmindedly as she thought. “They just never felt right.” She pressed her tongue against her sharp, pointed teeth. They felt strange as well, but did not impede her speech. In fact, they somehow felt more right than the ones she had used before.

“Have you heard anything?” asked Forth, suddenly. Her tone had become much less playful. It was a serious question.

“No,” said Morgana.

“So Lilium…”

“I have no idea. And I don’t really care.”

“But I don’t think that’s true.”

“It is. She served her purpose.”

“I like to think that she’s with Roxanne.”

Morgana paused. “Yeah,” she said at last. “I like to think that too.”

It had been nearly a month since Morgana had seen either of them. Lilium had vanished entirely, as had Roxanne. Morgana had tried to avoid caring, but still found herself walking by the bar near her old office late at night- -to find it abandoned and boarded up, then later converted into an automated aquaculture facility. Its owners were dead, and as far as Morgana could tell, Roxanne had not taken up dancing in any other location that Morgana could find.

“You should have seen her. Said goodbye.”

“It wouldn’t have helped anything. And she wouldn’t want to see me like this.”

“You don’t like what you look like?”

“I do. But she wouldn’t. I didn’t want to see that look in her eyes. Goddamn it. When did I get so fucking sentimental?”

“Maybe it’s the new body?” suggested Forth.

Morgana did not reply. She had, in fact, seen Roxanne- -but Roxanne had not seen her, or at least not recognized her. The new body’s selective polychromatic surface had taken care of that. She had been recovering thanks to a large anonymous donation.

“I tried to talk to Valla,” she said, changing the subject.

“That’s good. How is the new arm?”

“I offered to pay for it.”

“And?”

“She shot me.” The bullet had produced no effect on Morgana’s body, but its meaning had not gone unfelt. “I don’t think she’ll ever speak to me again.”

“Are you sure?”

“No,” sighed Morgana. “That’s how humans are. Their lifespans are short. Who knows? Maybe as she gets older she’ll forget about it. Or she’ll just die. Of old age, maybe. Then it becomes moot in the end anyway.”

“I guess that’s true,” said Forth, her expression falling. “But at least you still have me.”

“Yeah.” Morgana smiled slightly, and turned her distorted face toward Forth. “And you’re actually useful to me.”

Forth seemed overjoyed by this, as though it were supposed to be a compliment. Her wings flapped slowly and nearly involuntarily. “I’m glad,” she said. “I don’t want to be alone. I don’t know if I can again. I just…” She shook her head and laughed. “But why worry? I’m useful! And speaking of which, I’ve made several lists for your new office. Furnishings and stuff. All of them are almost within your price requirements.”

Forth continued to talk, but Morgana did not listen. She had already extracted and read the lists, adjusted them, and ordered the decorations to her own specifications- -but Forth liked to plan, even if her fashion sense was horrible. For the first time, money was not an issue. Morgana had plenty of it. Monsanto had gladly lived up to their end of their reward contract- -because of Elrod’s death, Morgana had enough money to live the next fifty years of her life in luxury. Luxury, though, was of little consequence to her; the money did not matter, except as a means to reestablishing her business. Morgana’s life had been long, and of all the things she could recall, the only thing that still brought her any joy were her cases. Aside from Forth, it was now all she had left.

Internally, she wished there was some part of her that would ask if it was all worth it. Unfortunately, as hard as Morgana tried to summon that internal voice, she could not. It was long dead. She no longer cared if ends justified means; to her, considerations like that had become purely academic and divorced from anything of practical value.

The cases had returned. Life had resumed its normal flow as if nothing had happened, save for the two new bodies she had been given: one for herself, and one for her weapon. Still, a darker consideration loomed in the back of her mind- -a thought of the unknown implications of what she had chosen to do.

“Fuck it,” she said to herself.

“The ottoman?” asked Forth, confused. “I don’t know if I can.” She looked under her skirt. “The Cult did not give me any genitals. Again.”

“Because you’re not supposed to have them.”

Before Forth could protest- -not that she would; she seemed oddly nonplussed by her lack of physical secondary sexual characteristics- -their noodles arrived and were placed on the counter in front of each of them.

“Yay!” said Forth, leaning forward and beginning to lap up the broth from her bowl of ramen. “Mmm…this is probably salty, isn’t it?”

“It should be.” Morgana snuffed out her cigarette as the spiral of her horn ignited and she began to lift a battered spoon. As she did, though, she became conscious of the waiter standing over her- -a Lyra unit wearing a headband, watching Morgana’s display with great interest.

“Sorry,” she said, turning away suddenly and going behind the curtain in the back of the shop to her tiny, pony-height kitchen. Morgana watched her go. A Lyra unit- -one of millions- -artificial, but in appearance no different than what the human Jennifer had become- -and no different from how the children of the Cult of Humanity would appear when they were finally born. Morgana would be able to see the difference, because she knew to look- -but no others would. None would know until it was already far too late.

These were the thoughts that scratched in the back of Morgana’s mind. However, Morgana pushed them back. She was able to tell herself that they did not concern her, and the simple fact of stating it made it true. That was how she had made it so far in life.

She picked up her spoon and sipped some of the broth from her noodles. It probably was salty- -but she would never know. Morgana supposed that in the end, it did not really mater anyway.