Test Tip wore white to the final test. A vintage 1930s day dress, low neckline, open sleeves. Possibly a Vionnet. As he'd hoped, the bias cut flattered his slim figure. With it he wore a lace cap, short mesh gloves, and a simple string of pearls, just enough to set off the clean, classic silhouette. He felt strength spread through him as he walked, seeping into his skin through the delicate linen. If he'd picked the right pair of shoes, it just might be enough. He didn't know where they'd taken him this time, but it was a long way from the sound of the highway. The young officer who'd accompanied him in the back of the sedan -- Lt. Shapiro, according to his badge -- led him down the overgrown path of what looked like it might once have been a garden. Occasionally they passed a rusted, vaguely Oriental lamppost or a little ceramic idol, chipped faceless. A forgotten park? A long-abandoned beer garden? An old Buddhist temple? The federal government picked up some odd pieces of real estate. Tip had to assume the area was highly classified, but, as he clutched his skirts and picked his way carefully around mud puddles, he didn't think it looked too impressive. Maybe that was deliberate. Lt. Shapiro stopped. They'd come to a small pagoda-shaped building, something that might once have been a teahouse. A few strips of faded red and gold paint clung to its sagging wooden frame. Lt. Shapiro saluted. Tip returned the salute. He walked in alone, concentrating on the soft swish of white linen against his calves. He'd been through so many tests. Intelligence tests and aptitude tests, loyalty drills and background checks. Blood tests. They'd hypnotized him once. And done some kind of probe he tried not to think about. It had all been impersonal, very professional but somehow shabby. Whatever this battery of tests was, he was getting the low-budget version. Tip understood. He was aware that he wasn't being singled out as exceptional in any way, just slotted, through a mostly automatic process, into the position he fit best. He was a very oddly-shaped peg, and that meant he could only go into a very oddly-shaped hole. If anything, he had to commend the system for making the effort to find a place for him. His CO in Kabul had sent him home with an honorable discharge and a recommendation for CIA training, and the CIA had passed his name along to a group of people who, officially, didn't have names. Not important people, necessarily. Just people who did their work very, very quietly. On the other hand, it wasn't like his superiors could do anything else. He wasn't crazy and he wasn't gay, so it was hard to get rid of him. This whole convoluted process was easier, in terms of paperwork, than just discharging him. And they'd wanted him out of the way ever since he'd started dressing well. Tip thought it was a shame that so few military personnel appreciated his sense of style, but he didn't think seriously about getting rid of his wardrobe, any more than he thought seriously about getting rid of his arms. Tip's fists clenched for a moment, tightening in their mesh gloves. Better. He breathed out and let his eyes adjust to the dim light inside the pagoda. The room contained a single folding table, bare except for a sheet of paper. Three men sat behind it. Two wore Army dress blues with no identification. The man between them wore a faded black suit. Not a bad cut, actually, thought Tip. Clothing aside, they looked similar: broad-shouldered, salt-and-pepper-haired, authoritative but otherwise forgettable. It wasn't the first time Tip had stood before honest to goodness Men in Black, in some cases dressed in blue or green, but it always unnerved him a little. "Captain Dennis Wilkin?" said the man in the suit. He looked Tip up and down with the expression of a man wearily hoping he was wrong. "Or do you prefer Doctor?" "Actually, you can call me --" Tip shut up. He'd only started being Tippi recently, and mostly in his head, and it occurred to him that this might not be the best opportunity to break out the new name. It'd be a heck of a thing to get kicked out for saying the wrong thing just before the final test. Besides, he wasn't sure about the name. He wasn't sure about being a woman. He wasn't sure about being a man, either, which was the whole problem. There was only one thing he could be sure about, which was that he looked fantastic. He clung to that sole certainty like a man, or possibly a woman, clutching a rock in a storm. "Whichever you prefer, sir," said Tip, and saluted just to be sure. "At ease, Captain," said the man in the suit automatically; he was probably Army, too. He read from the paper in a practiced monotone. "When you are so ordered, you will pass through the door behind me. You will not return to this room. Further instructions will be provided at the conclusion of the test. Should you fail the test, you will be dismissed from this training sequence immediately. You will not be provided with further information. You may not request further information. Anything you see or hear during this test is strictly classified and is to be considered a matter of national security. Discussing the content of this test with anyone is to be considered a treasonable offense." Tip listened politely. He'd gotten similar briefings before the last five tests, so he must have passed into genuinely classified territory. He didn't think he'd seen anything top-secret, though. He'd been grilled on his background and patriotism while hooked up to a lie detector. And done another psych test, this time with a soft- faced woman who had pressed him about his favorite childhood books, his imaginary friends, whether he'd liked windup robots or cuddly bears. And gone through what had looked like one of those tests for ESP, cards with squiggles and stars. And talked about his doctoral thesis. And done chin-ups. It hadn't been much different from the first round of tests, except for the warning label. The man in the suit leaned forward. "Captain, why do you want this job?" This was a new one. "Sir?" "This is not a prestigious post, Captain. It is not important or exciting. Frankly, Captain, it's a low-level civil service desk job which just happens to be very secure and require certain uncommon skills. The pay is mediocre and there's no opportunity for promotion." "Yes, sir. That's been explained to me." Tip had often wondered, over the past few months, exactly what uncommon skills he possessed. Military experience. Doctorate in psychology. Few close relatives, that was probably attractive from a security standpoint. He was smart, but he'd be the first to admit he hadn't done much with his smarts since burning out in grad school. But maybe that was what they wanted: a bright person without ambition. Somebody who would do a strange, specialized job without complaint. What kind of job? He found his gaze drifting to the door at the far end of the room. Under the linen, his skin prickled. "Then why, Captain? Why are you here?" "Why?" Tip fingered his pearls until his hand stopped shaking. No reason to be nervous. The worst they could do was... well, erase all evidence of his existence from the face of the earth, but they probably wouldn't do that. At least, they might not. Unless they got really annoyed. What was behind the door? "Captain?" Tip took a deep breath. "Well, sir, I can't say I'm not curious. So there's that. But I get the impression that whatever this job is, I might be one of the only people who can do it. Am I right?" Gray stares. "If I am, I kind of feel a duty, sir. That's why I joined the service. To help people with whatever skills I've got." "A laudable sentiment, Captain," said the man in the suit, his expression blank. "Also, I was told I wouldn't have to wear a tie." "Through the door, Captain," sighed the man in the suit. The door was an exit. Tip stepped onto a weedy lawn ringed by cherry trees, their petals brown and curling this late in the spring. A white dog trotted up to him: one of those curly tailed sled dog types, a big one. "Captain Wilkin," said the dog. It had a rough but unmistakably feminine voice. "Or do you prefer 'Doctor'?" Tip felt a huge crazy grin spread across his face. "Actually, you can call me Tip." "Fine by me. You can call me Sweetheart. What's with the look?" "I'm sorry. I can't help it." Sweetheart's ears folded back. "Is something funny?" Tip tucked a stray lock behind his ear. It was amazing how much easier it was to talk to the dog than to the men. "Oh, well, I don't want to offend you or anything, but I've spent so much time wondering what terrible secret the govenment had hidden under all these layers of security, and... and now I'm here, and it's not terrible at all, is it? It's wonderful." Sweetheart looked at Tip in silence, her head cocked in a very doggy way. Finally she said, "Do you want this job, Tip?" "I do." "You've got it." She trotted away, turned back to Tip, and jerked her head, motioning for him to follow. "Just like that? That was the test? Just answering those questions?" "No, the test was whether you could hear them. About twenty percent of humans psychologically block things they consider impossible. They can't hear me. If you were one of them, you'd be useless for this job, not to mention annoying as a co-worker." "We're going to be co-workers?" "Looks like it." Sweetheart led Tip down a path through the trees. "I'm field commander for Project Skin Horse. You're not on the field team, but we'll see each other. Don't ask me anything else about the department. I'm sure someone will send you paperwork and Gavotte will fill you in on Monday." "Monday? I start immediately?" "You bet. We haven't had anyone to make copies or water the orchids in weeks." Sweetheart stopped and looked back at Tip. "Just 'cause you asked, you're one of eight people who could've done this job. Four dropped out, one failed this test, and I didn't like the other two." "Did you hear me talking in the...?" "I'm a dog. I can't help hearing things. Gavotte said you'd be the one we went with. She's eerie sometimes." She really was, thought Sweetheart. Gavotte had been right about Unity too, and no one else had held out any hope for Unity. It wasn't that Unity had been created as a weapon. They'd all been created as weapons, if it came down to that. At least Sweetheart and Moustachio had. Nobody knew what Gavotte's deal was. The problem was that Unity was a weapon that worked, and as much as Sweetheart hated touchy-feely jargon, she had to admit Unity had issues, and issues weren't good things for a killing machine to have. Unity was the product of a government supersoldier project. Not one of the better ones, as far as Sweetheart could see. She was necrotic, with parts that could be replaced on the battlefield with some sturdy thread, a bonesaw, and whatever materials might happen to be lying around. Her patchwork body was strengthened by the chemicals that flowed in her veins instead of blood, manufactured in whatever softly purring thing had replaced her heart. Only her brain was technically alive. Years ago some mad scientist had sold the defense department the DNA of a perfect assassin, and Unity's brain had been grown from it in a dish. She'd been trained by heavily scarred men with thick accents and unclear ties to any existing government. A lot of interesting people had made Unity, and then when their funding had been cut they'd abandoned her. As far as Skin Horse could reconstruct, Unity had bounced around various halfway houses for nonhumans until she'd gotten to be too much trouble to keep around, then she'd gone feral, which was apparently a design flaw in that particular model of brain. Skin Horse had cornered her in a cornfield in Omaha, clubbing people with anything she could get her hands on. Mostly other people. Two members of the field team, Plasma Adam and Agent Blue, were killed taking her down. Sweetheart, the sole survivor, hadn't exactly been enthusiastic when Gavotte had suggested hiring Unity to replace them, but she'd been right. Sweetheart hadn't thought about Agent Blue in days. Heck of a woman, Agent Blue. She stole a glance back at Tip Wilkin, still grinning like an idiot. He hadn't been Sweetheart's first or second or fifth choice. Most of the applicants looked better on paper. Only on paper, a renegade thought smirked. He wasn't within a lightyear of Sweetheart's type, but even she could tell he was a startlingly handsome man, dress or no dress. Younger than he had a right to be with his credentials. Sweetheart recalled from his file that he'd been something of a prodigy: very high IQ, never really lived up to it, muddled through several colleges, joined the army, was invisible until he started the drag thing in Afghanistan. Typical convoluted human junk. Sweetheart wasn't any kind of species warrior, but she couldn't help thinking, as she watched Tip pick his way delicately around a fallen branch, that humans really did live differently. Here he was joining them in spotless white linen and lacy gloves, plucked gently from the ranks of other clean-cut apes, to do his little job. He wasn't like Unity, shackled and snarling and covered in mud and twigs, or Moustachio in the file photos Sweetheart had seen, salvaged from a junkyard with his head knocked half off his rusted, dented body, or, if she was going to be honest here, Sweetheart herself. She cringed inwardly as she remembered a younger dog - barely more than a puppy, really - throwing herself against the wall of the kennel, almost foaming with rage. She wasn't the only dog doing that, but she was the only one shouting, "A phone call! I demand a phone call! I know my rights!" The 16th Street SPCA had two animal care attendants on duty in the dog kennels that night. They stared at Sweetheart through the plexiglass. Finally one of them shouted, "How are you talking?" "With my mouth! Are you stupid? Bring me a phone!" As she calmed down, Sweetheart regretted speaking to them. She'd been flustered and angry, getting caught by Animal Control after weeks of surviving on the streets. She'd hiked all the way down through Oregon and into California without running into any trouble more serious than the occasional homeowner chasing her away from the trash cans... and now this. And in San Francisco of all places: mush-minded hippie central. It was embarrassing. The attendants stepped into the kennel, still staring. Their nametags identified them as Mitchell and Six. Mitchell was the woman. Sweetheart already hated them. "We can't bring the phone into the kennel," said Mitchell. "The cord doesnt reach." "I have a right to a phone call! If you can't do that, you'd better release me, pronto!" "We can't let you go," said Mitchell. "You were turning garbage cans over." "I'm not saying anything to incriminate myself. If that's your game, nobody's got any evidence against me." Six and Mitchell looked at each other. "You're not in jail," said Six. "You're a dog." "Are you trying to tell me I don't have the right to a phone call?" "Er, no, you don't. You're a dog." "So it's execution without trial, is it?" Mitchell was scandalized. "This is a no-kill shelter!" "You can use my phone," said Mitchell, quickly. She dug a cell phone out of her pocket. "What should I dial?" Sweetheart was taken aback. She'd had the idea of calling home using the line in Captain Bram's old cabin that the pack kept live for emergencies and ordering pizzas, but now it seemed less appealing. Let Buddy and Princess laugh at her. She buried her head in her paws. "Forget it. Just let me go." "I'm calling the Chronicle," said Six. Sweetheart refused to talk for the reporter, causing hilarious and satisfying humiliation all around. She only spoke when alone with Mitchell and Six. This, she was pleased to see, drove them nuts. Still, she knew she was getting the fuzzy end of the lollipop. Lying in the admittedly posh kennel all day, exercising with a bunch of ordinary dogs, was mind-numbing. The shelter had a mascot, a tortoise-shell cat named Cinnamon, who patrolled the halls and usually stopped to lick herself in an indelicate area right in front of Sweetheart's plexiglass. Sweetheart knew she was losing it when she started to look forward to seeing Cinnamon. On Day Eight, Sweetheart was awakened from an afternoon nap by a voice outside the kennel. "That one. That's exactly the dog I'm looking for." "We call her Marshmallow," said Grace, another of the attendants. "Her personality profile and list of shots are right here." Okay, she hadn't counted on this. Mitchell was on duty that afternoon. "You can't adopt her," she cried, bursting into the room where Sweetheart and her prospective new owner were supposed to bond. "Why not?" he asked, ruffling Sweetheart's fur. "She seems friendly. Samoyed mix, right? Lots of personality." Sweetheart allowed herself to be scritched. It had occurred to her that this was the perfect opportunity to escape. Once she was out of the shelter, she'd have no trouble ditching this bozo, then she could get the hell out of the city and to... well, she hadn't worked that out yet. Anywhere had to be better than this. Mitchell hovered over them, hopping nervously on one foot. "You don't want this dog. Seriously, we've got a ton of great dogs." [six said grace in her warning voice this dog seriously weve got a ton of great dogs] "Mitchell," said Grace in her warning voice. "What have we discussed about getting too attached to our guests? Marshmallow was cleared for adoption two days ago." Sweetheart shot a nasty toothy grin at Mitchell. "I'm just making sure that he's ready for the commitment of a large dog. If he lives here in the city, that's reason enough to recon--" "No, no. I have a little house in Berkeley," the man said, cheerfully. "Park around the corner--" "For your kids?" Mitchell pounced. "Because we don't recommend that families with small children--" "I'm gay." "Ah..." "And, much as I enjoy children, I see plenty of them at school." "School?" "I'm a schoolteacher. Leaves evenings free for walkies and quality time. Right, Marshmallow?" For just a moment it seemed to Sweetheart his friendly open smile flashed a hint of wicked amusement. Mitchell sputtered for a moment, then barked, "Choke collars?" "Wouldn't dream of it." "Obedience training?" "I've contacted the Lucky Puppy Academy in Rockridge. I understand it's fairly prestigious." "Unsafe dog food from China?" "You know, I was thinking of making my own. It's the only way to be sure you're getting organic, don't you think?" Mitchell stared miserably. "I'm [sorry," said the] man, looking up with warm innocent eyes devoid of any hint of calculation. "Is there some reason you don't think I'm good enough for this dog?" "That's enough, Mitchell," hissed Grace urgently. Sweetheart wasn't attuned to the subtleties of human culture and she literally didn't see color. But it suddenly occurred to her that Grace and Mitchell were white and the man with his arms around her was black. Oh, and gay, apparently. Delivered by liberal guilt. That was a hell of a thing. "I'll draw up the papers," said Mitchell. Half an hour later Sweetheart left the SPCA with her new master. She trotted obediently at his side until they rounded the corner, at which point she lunged at the leash with every ounce of her considerable sled-dog strength, broke free, raced down an alley, and vanished into the shadows of the city forever. At least that was the plan. What actually happened was that she lunged at the leash with every ounce of her considerable sled-dog strength and collapsed on the sidewalk, gasping for breath, as the man with the leash turned out to be both unexpectedly alert and even stronger than he looked. He squatted beside her. "Sorry about that, but, I assure you, I'm here to help. Of course, if you'd really prefer that I let you go, just say the word." He smiled that infuriatingly friendly smile and brushed a stray dreadlock out of his face. He didn't smell human. Sweetheart couldn't believe she hadn't noticed it before. Oh, the smell was mostly right, probably enough to fool humans, but down at the bottom was a dry small-animal musk smell. The smell of prey. "What are you?" Sweetheart asked. "Genetically-engineered chimera. Not unlike yourself." He stood up. "I'm in a local transgenic rights organization. I got a call asking me to bail you out." "From who? Mitchell? That reporter?" "Cinnamon. She's been keeping an eye on you." He smiled down at her. "See? You're not alone." Sweetheart snorted. "Come on. I know a coffeehouse where we can talk without being bothered. I'm Artie, by the way. And I'm going to assume your name isn't really Marshmallow." "Of course not. Marshmallow? That's nauseating." "Indeed." "It's Sweetheart." Artie was as good as his word: no one at the coffee shop gave them a second glance. That was San Francisco. Over coffee Sweetheart told Artie everything: how the pack had gone to hell after Captain Bram died; how she'd gotten kicked to the bottom of the pecking order after losing a power bid against that rhymes with bitch Sparkle; how she'd eventually decided to hell with it and struck out for the States, where they appreciated rugged individuality and anyone had a chance at top dog. And Artie described the small but dedicated network of volunteer groups that funneled nonhuman sapients like Sweetheart into places where they could live with some degree comfort and dignity. "So I'm supposed to live off handouts?" said Sweetheart. "That's the way you [..] the Land [of] Opportunity?" "It's not handouts. We're just trying to pool our resources so everyone gets a fair share of-" "So you're socialists, too?" Artie looked affronted, then laughed a little sadly. "You're right. You're absolutely right. We're fighting for the chance to contribute more to the larger society, but there are a lot of factors that must be considered before-" "I don't want to be beholden to anybody," said Sweetheart. "I want a job." "All right. What sort of job?" "I want to do what you do." "Really? Well, it requires a masters and certification, and some say teaching is more of a calling-" Sweetheart rolled her eyes. "Not that. What you're doing now with me. I want to help people like that." "Ah." Artie's expression softened. "But what I'm doing now is volunteer work. It's not a job, per se." "Aren't there people who get paid for doing stuff like this? It's not all charity, is it?" "Well, there's Skin Horse. That's the federal department dedicated to nonhuman sapients. But I don't like Skin Horse. I mean, I think the individual members mean well..." "Why don't you like them?" In the weeks that followed, crashing at Artie's perpetually-under-construction Craftsman, Sweetheart got to know him a little better. He was, among other things, the product of biochemical intelligence experiments, and behind his disconcertingly pleasant, disconcertingly human face was a mind that ran easy laps around any apes. During her time at his house, she followed him into the city on foggy weekend afternoons and waited while he played the chess hustlers on Market Street all at once, walking up and down the line. She saw his classroom syllabi with the dense charts reminding himself where to stand, which eye to catch, how to inflect his voice to maximize his students' retention. He had the only first-graders in the district who could do calculus. And she listened to him gripe about his creator - he had one of the famous ones, the last of the infamous Narbon clone line - and what a fiendish manipulator she was, apparently unaware that he had the same skill, focused and amplified along the uncracked seashell curves of sane genius. Sweetheart was relieved to move out. She liked people who spoke on one level at a time. But, for years after, she would try to remember Artie's face at the moment she asked him about Skin Horse. Because he must have known. He must have suspected. And at that moment his unnatural brain must have spooled through possibilities and statistical likelihoods and considered that, if certain eventualities came to pass, it would be useful to have an old friend in Skin Horse. And how long after that had Gavotte added her name to the roster, as certain about Sweetheart as she would later be about Unity and Tip? It had probably all been decided by forces beyond her control before Sweetheart had even signed up. She hated that. Artie sipped his black coffee. "They're not really progressive enough for my tastes." Sweetheart wasn't good at reading human faces. She was good at reading human smells, but Artie didn't smell human. "How do I join?" she asked. Unity bounced in her seat. Bounce, bounce, bounce. She could hardly wait to meet the new agent. The office had felt awfully empty lately with just her - and nice old Moustachio and Gavotte, of course - but Gavotte wasn't the kind of person you could play with and have a good time. She just dissipated. Unity liked having people to play with. Somehow this tended to lead to fewer people eventually for reasons that were a little blurry in Unity's memory. But never mind, it was fun to make new friends. Unity hoped Captain Wilkin would be friendly. Bounce, bounce. Before Skin Horse, Unity used to have trouble making friends. The Anasigma super-soldier facility hadn't been friendly at all. There were always people looking at you from behind glass at Anasigma, taking notes and whispering to each other and sometimes throwing up a little if you did something really interesting. And no one had a sense of humor about a person escaping from the enclosure just to run around a little. Well, run and eat. That was the other thing about Anasigma: they were really picky about what you ate. Not friendly people at all. Dr. Lee, the head of the team that created Unity, had tried to be - "friendly" wasn't exactly the right word. "Stressing the importance of base socialization with an eye to future productive team function," was how Dr. Lee put it. Or, "cultivating a capacity for positive interpersonal relationships in mission scenarios." Or, when that failed, "Good lord, Unity, we don't run around taking bites out of people! Is this seriously hard to understand?" Dr. Lee might have been kind of friendly in her way, but she was no fun. That was why, after one boring psych session too many, Unity had left the facility for good, making sure to have a hearty lunch first in case she got hungry on the road. As it turned out, she had nothing to worry about. There was plenty of tasty food to eat in the outside world, not to mention plenty of nice people to meet, and plenty of fun things to play with. Sometimes these were all the same thing. Bounce, bounce. Unity craned her neck out the car window. Why was her new friend taking so long? She was hungry. She heard Sweetheart coming down the path long before she saw her. Unity had good hearing. It was supposed to be for tracking enemy soldiers and stuff, but she didn't do that anymore, not since Skin Horse had found her. Like Sweetheart had explained back then, Unity was no longer in the super-soldier business. Now she helped people. She didn't hunt them down and eliminate them. Not on the clock, anyway. "-copies," Sweetheart was saying. "The beige goes to Gavotte, the tan goes to Human Resources, which technically we don't have, so what you do is make two additional copies, one lilac and one lavender, and please don't confuse them. Plasma Adam always mixed them up, and then I'd have to go in after him and recopy and reroute everything with a little apology note on each copy. So the lilac goes to the front desk downstairs, but you have to make sure Ira puts it in his outbox. Absolutely do not leave until he puts it in the outbox. Absolutely do not leave until he puts it in the outbox right while you're watching or he'll forget and then what will we do if we ever need a lilac copy for the blue binder? Are you getting all this?" And then a new voice, low and musical like a clarinet that would rather be off getting a fancy drink, saying, "I thought we were talking about what to do in a giant robot attack." "Exactly! So the lilac goes to Ira, the lavender to Shelby in Maintenance, who will just use it to plug leaky pipe or feed it to the carnivorous mushrooms, but the important thing is that everyone else knows you've routed all copies to the correct destinations, so what I do personally is, after handing off the lavender to Shelby, I go back up to the office and send out an email CCing everyone in the building, acknowledging the handoff, with date, time, and sub-basement included. Then I print out the email and make four copies - wait, no, with you joining it'll be five, so over the weekend give thought to what color you want your routed handoff acknowledgement email hard copies to be, keeping in mind that steel gray, slate gray, California fog gray, and pink with balloons around the edges are taken. And the taupe is yours to keep." A long pause followed, broken by soft footsteps and birdsong. At last the new voice said, "I'll have my copies in freesia, please." Unity squealed. This could be a survivor! And then he was there in the parking lot, the scent of posies bounding ahead of him, and he was adorable. Adorable! Unity couldn't wait to come out and play. "And this is Unity," said Sweetheart. "The other half of the field team. Er, try not to make direct eye contact when you approach. And don't move into her blind spot. She's been known to get overexcited." "I totally have!" said Unity. "Babe, lemme outta the car! Lemme out, lemme out, lemme out!" "You have thumbs, Unity," said Sweetheart. Unity stared at her hands. "Oh yeah. Awesome." Because it was true. Thumbs were awesome. She opened the car door and was awesome at it. Somewhere Sweetheart was calling for her to heel, but Unity was much too excited to listen. With undead strength and disregard for personal well-being, she awesomely launched herself at her new friend, bowling them both to the ground. "Look, Sweetheart!" she said. "He's all soft and squidgy!" "Yes," said Sweetheart, "he's human. Those are the ones with the heads that come off if you yank them too hard." "Look look look! He goes squish when you poke him!" "I can see that. Now stop." "Ow," said Unity's new friend. "You, Tip," said Sweetheart, "will be manning a desk at the home office. You won't be with Unity and me out in the field." Unity's new friend made a muffled but weakly relieved noise; for some reason he sounded tired all of a sudden. Unity jiggled [...] little harder to perk him up. "Can we take him home, Sweetheart? Can we, can we, can we? He can eat my leftovers and sleep at the foot of my bed." "You don't leave leftovers, Unity." "Thanks, but I have an apartment," said Unity's new friend. "And, no offense, but in that situation the leftovers would be low on my list of concerns." "Listen to him talk, Sweetheart! All smart and chill and terrified at the same time. Oh, he's gonna be our funnest guy since Plasma Adam." "Try to have less fun than you did with Plasma Adam." "Why, what happened to Plasma Adam?" said the new guy, but Sweetheart didn't answer. She probably figured he should find out for himself. Sweetheart was really smart like that, which was why she had to be field team leader and Unity got to do the cool stuff. While Unity was busy thinking about the greatness of her life, the new guy managed to crawl away. That was okay with Unity. If he made a break for it, she could track him by his perfume. "You know what?" said Sweetheart. "Let's go out for drinks." 'And that was that,' thought Tip. Evidently this was how life worked. You walked into a shed and forty minutes later you were sitting at a back corner table at an eatery with bicycle wheels on the walls, waiting to drink something called a Strawberry Bourbon Happy Blast with a talking dog and a zombie. Well, he was adaptable. If he'd managed to deal with the return of the tunic dress, he could get used to anything. "How many fried onions do you wanna eat?" said Unity. "I'm gonna eat five. Five fried onions." "I'll pass, thanks," said Tip. "No onions? Like, at all? But you'll be all bland. Can you at least eat a thing of garlic salt? I've got one right-" "Down, Unity," said Sweetheart. Two tables over, a toddler gave them a deeply suspicious look, while slowly inserting a French fry into her nose. "So this Project Skin Horse," said Tip. "It's an assistance program for, er..." "Monsters," said Unity. Sweetheart's ears folded back. "The current PC term is 'nonhuman sapients'. [As of] the last sensitivity training meeting, anyway." "Awesome monsters," said Unity. "Also robots." "And how do we assist them exactly?" "We offer many services," said Sweetheart, in a singsong voice, "including but not limited to job placement, relocation from demolished labs, any licensing assistance not requiring notarization, counseling... um, crud, this thing that's kind of like Meals on Wheels except disgusting and we had to shut it down after some zombie incidents." "Totes unfair!" "And I forget the rest of the list. We've got brochures back at the office. Plasma Adam used to bring in donuts for the front desk. That was kind of our best service." "Who's Plasma Adam?" "We don't talk about Plasma Adam," said Sweetheart, "or what happened to him." "And my job is...?" "Your title," said Sweetheart, "is Human-Nonhuman Liaison." "He didn't ask about the title, babe. He asked about the job." "Oh. Well. The job is mostly light typing and winding the receptionist." "We've got kind of a thumb shortage around the office," said Unity. The waitress, leggy in a darling pair of Ferragamo knockoffs, arrived with their drinks. Unity ordered seven fried onions and ate the drinks tray. "People really Don't see you, do they?" said Tip. "Who's this 'you', kemosabe?" said Unity. "You're on the team now." "Technically," said Sweetheart. Despite himself, Tip flushed. He was aware of his borderline-neurotic desire to please and tried to channel it into positive pursuits - for example, all heterosexual women - but he couldn't help but be flattered to be accepted into their supernormal little group. Would other agents have felt the same? Was This part of the calculus that had slotted him into Project Skin Horse? "So the team is us, this Gavotte, and the windup receptionist." "He's rad, drink this sriracha." "No thank you." "Suit yourself," said Unity, and drank the sriracha. "What's it like working with a robot? Is it okay to ask that?" "Aw dude! It's super fun! And afterward Babe just calls in Maintenance to hammer the dents out." "Moustachio's very patient with the rest of the staff," said Sweetheart. "And level-headed. Stoic, even." Unity nodded. "She means he's super old." Moustachio waited. It was one of his particular talents, waiting. Once, quite a few years ago now, he had waited a good three or four decades in a refuse heap on Staten Island. He had learned quite a satisfying lot about seagulls. Since then, his existence had been considerably more Eventful, but, regrettably, admitted less time for amateur ornithology. Moustachio had learned to occupy himself in other ways. He was quite taken by the mail order catalogues that arrived at his reception desk each morning. So far, he had ordered eight tins of caramelized popped-corn, and he had his eye on the Jumbo Holiday Festive Gift Friendship Special Bucket with three kinds of corn and a particularly charming basket of kittens pictured on the lid. It was a positive Indulgence, but Moustachio was beginning to believe he was worth it. This was Moustachio's first desk job, and he was rather pleased to have moved up in the world. Today promised to be a particularly thrilling work-day. Today, Gavotte had informed him over Electronic Mail, Project Skin Horse would welcome its new human liaison. Moustachio had been passably fond of the department's previous liaison, Plasma Adam. A mite too boisterous, but what could one expect from a gentleman made made of atomic energy? He had been remarkably good at soothing irate humans for someone who both glowed and crackled. Shame about the core breach. Well, with luck, this liaison would be made of sterner, or at least less explosive, stuff. From the hall outside came the tp-tp-tp of high heels. Moustachio swiveled in his pivot behind the front desk. Not for the first time, he wished he still had arms so he could Shuffle Papers Authoritatively. [Alas the] Pity the Crown had seized his limbs after that whole Rampage business at the Crystal Palace. It had been a Fair Cop, but personally inconvenient nonetheless. Quite a lot of Moustachio's memory was temporarily inaccessible. He had considerably more of the stuff than could fit in his clockwork processors, so it resided in several dozen wax drums, most of them in the basement. Not all of them, unfortunately. Moustachio had misplaced a few over the decades. Or perhaps more. Who could say? Certainly not the robot with all those missing memory drums. Moustachio kept a ledger of memories worth accessing, and spent most of his time in either the present or 1849. 1849 had been a good year. Sweetheart trotted into the office, tail held high. "And here we are," she was saying. "You can take Plasma Adam's old desk. The D of I says the radiation is mostly harmless now." Moustachio's first computation upon seeing the new human-nonhuman liaison was that he wouldn't last out the month. No offense to the little fellow, but any of a number of Skin Horse's clients could, quite literally, eat him for tea. If this job could destroy atomic androids, super-intelligent orang-utans, and whatnot, then this feckless blond manikin was unlikely to Fare Well, no matter how spotless his gloves. Moustachio did appreciate a well-laundered pair of gloves, but his stint behind the front desk had taught him an additional healthy respect for armor, defensive weaponry, and, wherever possible, laser eyes. Ah well. Best put on a Brave Front and Stiff Upper Mustache and offer a Hearty Greeting to the poor fool. "Hey, Moustachio," said Sweetheart. "This is Tip. The new guy." "Why hello," said Master Tip. He tented his impeccably gloved fingers. "Let me start by saying how thrilled I am to work here. Thrilled and honored, in fact. Are you, um, that is, if it's not too presumptuous of me to..." "Yes, Moustachio is a robot," Sweetheart interrupted. "It's absolutely fascinating. Can we get to work?" Unity elbowed the newcomer in the ribs. Moustachio's hearing was quite literally rusty, but he believed he heard something pop. "Don't listen to babe," she said. "Robots are awesome and it's totally correct to freak when you meet one." Sweetheart padded over to Moustachio's reception desk. "If you could pull the intake forms for our new liaison? They're the cadet blue sheets in the cerulean folder. Not the other way around. Got it this time?" "Madam," said Moustachio, "I see only in sepia." "Lack of color vision is no excuse!" said Sweetheart. "Where would I be if I let my color blindness keep me from maintaining perfectly color-coordinated office files?" Moustachio said nothing. In his experience, no reply was expected. Nor was his lady canine supervisor under the misapprehension that Moustachio could do any literal filing. He lacked, after all, the necessary arms. Unity swooped in. "I got the paperwork. C'mon, Tip, I'll show you the pop machines." It would be pleasant to have a new employee. Festive, even. Moustachio had developed a keen appreciation for the festive during his years alone in a dump--what he delicately referred to as his Miasmic Period. He was quite proud of his collection of colorful, glossy catalogues and colorful, glossy knick-knacks he had purchased from them. He added a subroutine to his Etiquette Axis reminding himself to give Master Wilkin a tour of his collection of popped-corn canisters. Surely a fellow aesthete would appreciate them. Unity yanked the new hire into the break room, chattering on about the automatic chocolate dispenser and ignoring the distressing sound of a human shoulder joint tested to its limits. "Well, M," said Sweetheart. "What odds do you give this one?" Moustachio hrrumphed, a feat accompanied with much grinding of ancient gears. "Madam... I do not Gamble, and besides, I am calibrated to have faith in our boys." Another smaller set of gears clattered. "And girls," he added, as one of many Reception Desk Sensitivity Protocols slotted into place. "Fine for you," said Sweetheart. "You just have to route their calls. When they blow up in some cornfield out in Kansas, I'm the one who has to move all the HR files from the Active cabinet to the Inactive Cabinet." "Your burden is a heavy one indeed," said Moustachio. It was a pre-programmed phrase that nearly always placated his biological colleagues. An additional less automatic subroutine kicked in inspiring him to add, "We all miss Agent Blue, madam." Sweetheart hrrumphed, a noise Moustacio's language processors had learned to recognize and politely dismiss. "Well. Just see to those forms." Sweetheart trotted to her desk, leaving Moustachio alone with his thoughts rotating, with only the periodic wobble around their well-worn copper axels. Built sometime during the later reign of Victoria, Moustachio was a simple automaton by the standards of These Madcap Modern Days, but over the decades un-planned-for complexities had carved themselves into his internal works, over-writing his creator's programming and adding sub-springs to his original windings for Walking, Talking, and Rampaging. Now his thoughts turned along corkscrew loops to the memories of prior Skin Horse colleagues he had elected to save. Agent Blue occupied a few back nodes, giving Miss Sweetheart reassuring pats on the head and complimenting Moustachio on his collection of popcorn tins. There was Plasma Adam addressing the team with heroic bombast and not quite understanding his collection of popcorn tins. There was Nigel the Anti-Gravity Ferret. Moustachio hadn't saved any specific memories of Nigel the Anti-Gravity Ferret, which was a pity, because the name filled him with Questions. He could always have the relevant memory reel brought up from the sub-basements, but Sweetheart made such a fuss over the paperwork. Besides, what was past was past. One must focus attention on one's current Duty, and to a lesser, but nonetheless essential, degree on one's amusing collections of tin Novelties. Moustachio lived in the present. The past took too long to compile. "Hey M!" yelled Unity. "What do you think of the new guy?" "I can hear you," Dr. Wilkin called from the conference room. "Hey new guy!" yelled Unity. "What do you think of my head?" She turned to Moustachio. "Had to restitch it after the Jersey mission. Who knew killbots were so surly, huh?" "I fear my capacity for judging humaniform beauty is limited," said Moustachio, "but I quite like the contrast of Complexions." "I didn't wanna get too matchy-matchy." Unity leaned over the reception desk. "So what's your take on the new guy?" It was the sort of open-ended question that made the gears in Moustachio's clockwork brain slip off their already rusty axes. He much preferred Binary Questions. Should the files go in the in-box or out-box? Was a visiting client dangerously hostile or the normal level of hostile? Should he order the popped-co[r]n tin with puppies or the popped-co[r]n tin with kittens? Opinions were best left to those with squishier brains. "He appears capable of doing his Duty," Moustachio ventured. After a pause and an internal klack he added, "Well-groomed as well." "Yeah, I'm digging the embroidered chiffon," said Unity. "Not sure he's got the durability factor going for him though." "Appearances can be deceiving," said Moustachio. It was one of many Epigrams and Edifying Remarks wound into a subroutine drum that activated at random when he was at a loss for words, but of late the frequency of their Aptness had increased to a point [ignore ignore] of near Sensibility. Moustachio had shifted the drum into, quite literally, his regular rotation. He was pleased by the prospect of sounding closer to sapient. Another, probably meat-based, individual might have focused on actually being sapient, but Moustachio's programming didn't recognize a difference. If he could engage in Civilized Discourse [attention attention anyone who is following this story you may safely disregard all this week looks like yep as i anticipated you can safely remove these words from the transcript this week too hey i know i can write my own story in the filenames once upon a time no] and keep the Rampages to a sensible level, he was as good as sapient. "You're a smart guy, Moustachio," said Unity. "A smart giant metal guy. Let's give the new dude a warm Skin Horse welcome." "Neither of us has, ahem, body temperature," said Moustachio. "It's called a metaphor," said Unity. "'Meta', meaning 'setting things on', and 'phor', meaning 'fire'." Moustachio's workings clanked through several possible stock responses, slipped a disc, and defaulted to, "Please do not set anything alight," which was always worth saying when Unity was about. "'Kay, well, just say hi and stuff. Hey! New guy! Hi and stuff!" The new guy, fresh from his doubtless-educational tour of the vending machines, jumped. "Oh! Hello again, Unity. And Moustachio, right? Pleased to meet you." He held out a hand. There was a pause. "Wow," said Unity. "Not cool." Tip looked Moustachio up and down. "Oh," he said. Then, "Oh! Sorry!" "Think nothing of it, sir," said Moustachio. This was an easy interaction. It was quite common for sapients to notice Moustachio's lack of arms and suddenly lose their etiquette protocols. "Super rude, new guy," said Unity. "Getting awkward just cuz a dude got no arms. If you're gonna freak over a[r]ms getting misplaced and ripped off and stuff we are not gonna be able to work together." "Sorry," said Tip. "Sorry, sorry, sorry, what was that about arms being ripped off?" "Pay no heed, Master Wilkin. Our Unity is a tad ebullient in her speech." It was not a lie. It dislodged no honesty cogs. And it would soothe the new hire until he Learned the Ropes at Skin Horse, so to speak. All was quite on, as one said, the up and up. Yet Moustachio was aware that in prior decades his algorithms would never have generated such a response. In the past he did not prevaricate, even when his gears were locked into Evil mode. Moustachio had changed. He had not been built to Change. He had been built to Rampage. Now he hardly noticed the faint strain on his Quibblometer when he stretched the rusty springs along with the truth. Master Wilkins face registered as smiling. "Well, I'm the proactive type myself. I'm sure we'll work together harmoniously." If there was a nervous edge to his voice, such as might be caused by having repeatedly pried Unity's jaws from assorted parts of his body in the short time since he'd entered the building, Moustachio's clockwork-based user interface was not advanced enough to register it. "Well done," he puffed, calling up another standard response. "Popped corn?" "No, thank you," said Tip. "I believe I'll go see if the break room has any Bactine." A new human liaison. Despite his reservations, Moustachio was pleased. The office could be excessively quiet when Misses Unity and Sweetheart were off on their field missions. Moustachio had gotten enough quiet during his long residency at the dump. He hoped Master Tip would add some noise and color to the proceedings, Color, at least. Moustachio's sepia-toned vision receptors were crackling with frustration trying to parse what was undoubtedly a dazzling palette. Moustachio made a note to question him carefully on his opinions regarding novelty popped-corn tins. Somewhere deep within Moustachio's chassis a cog slipped wobbled and returned reluctantly to its path. Mechanisms reached for memories of other humans, friend and foe, but found only placeholder files. An escapement quivered. Moustachio was, he knew, Not Quite Right. But neither were most of the people he'd met in his fairly long existence, clockwork or otherwise. "Miss Unity," he called. "Heya, Moustachio," said Unity, popping into view. "What's up?" He parsed the colloquialisms with only the faintest grinding of gears. "Miss Unity, might you help me peruse my collection of Catalogues? I am confident we can find some manner of Trinket or Fancy with to welcome our new colleague." "I dunno, M," said Unity. "Dude seems hard to please. He didn't thank me for a single thing I coughed up for him." "Perhaps Mme. Gavotte can advise us on the matter," said Moustachio, his Diplomacy Valve clicking busily away. "I shall send her a Memo via the Pneumatic Tubes." "I useta have pneumatic tubes," said Unity, "but they got all clogged up with bile so I ripped them out." Moustachio's thinking-gears spun freely and came up with nothing. Moustachio remained silent. As so often was the case, this turned out to be the wise response. Unity ricocheted off the walls and into the hall. Once again Moustachio was alone with his gently eroded thoughts. It was pleasant to have a bit of a Respite. He tried to access his Electronic Mail only to discover that the memory cache most likely to contain his password had- [heyo my dudes it is time for yet another digression from your regularly scheduled bonus] -had been transferred to a wax cylinder in one of the sub-basements. Ah, well. He was far more comfortable using Annex One's pneumatic tube system anyhow. It was New-Fangled, but at least it was an older order of New Fangled. His thoughts clattering into comfortable grooves, Moustachio began mentally composing the pneumatic message he would dictate to Miss Unity at the next opportunity. A gear clicked. The thought revised itself. He would dictate the message to the new- [happiest of holidays from the lot of us at skin horse also the happiest possible of all happy new years whats this more christmas-themed digressions from the filename story yes christmas lasts for twelve whole days] -human liaison. Gavotte would be pleased to to receive an invitation to tea through the newly established channels. Gavotte was pleased. Parts of Gavotte were nearly always pleased about something, but it was a special pleasure to anticipate tea with dear Moustachio. The fact that the invitation had been typed up by the new liason per her most recent protocols only added to the sweet satisfaction. Most of Gavotte hummed with anticipation. She and Moustachio had so much to discuss. The new liaison, for example. Although countless levels of government bureaucrats had nayed and okayed candidates for months, the final decision had been Gavotte's, whether the rest of the chain of command knew it or not. Gavotte knew how to steer a swarm. Dr. Wilkin was far from an ideal candidate, but his profile suggested he would harmonize interestingly with the established staff. Gavotte looked forward to observing it. In the meantime there were other concerns to address, other lit candles- [hey hey guys guys guess what happens this week thats right jeff is doing the uploads cool right] -to singe the tails of cats, set mice running on wheels, and wind up the cuckoo clocks powering the Rube Goldberg device that was, to Gavotte's mind, a well-functioning government office. There was, for example, the matter of Mr. Green. He was becoming a problem. Normally the humans nominally overseeing Project Skin Horse were easy enough to maneuver. Ari Green inconveniently had several counter-plans running against Gavotte's well-ordered slate of several hundred satisfyingly balanced strategies. She wasn't terrifically concerned that he would succeed, but there was an irritating likelihood that he would make a mess. Gavotte abhorred an untidy schematic. Unfortunately, there was no easy way to remove Mr. Green from the system. He had a surprising knack for getting into places of which Gavotte would prefer him out. He had made his way to the top of a military contractor with legs in a lot of flowers, or whatever the equivalent human aphorism was. Then he'd sidled into an oversight position that somehow included Skin Horse. On paper, Gavotte was Ira Green's subordinate. Fortunately, on the actual planet Earth, Gavotte answered to no one, and wasn't sure how to go about doing it, should the issue ever come up. She was nonetheless keeping several dozen eyes on the Green situation. The department's staff had been selected as a bulwark against outside meddling, but the recent loss of Plasma Adam left a gap. Together, Unity and the new hire ought to fill that gap. Unity had raw st[r]ength and gumption, while Captain Wilkin had charm, interpersonal skills, and no known history of eating people. As nice as it would be to have an effective field agent who also never ate anyone, Gavotte had to make do with what was available. Tip Wilkin was the best of the available candidates and she would see to it that whatever was useful about him would be put to use. Not for nothing had Gavotte selected Project Skin Horse as her operational center. She didn't have the kind of power humans found impressive, but she was free to choose her team, and in Gavotte's estimation one was precisely as st[r]ong as one's swarm. So this was the team here at the end of a long false peace and the beginning of the newest war: A rusted automaton, a not-quite-housebroken zombie, a dog who frankly had solid-management potential but needed to resolve her personal conflicts, and now Tip Wilkin, their pet human of the moment. Gavotte could imagine a better swarm, certainly a larger swarm, but she could also imagine far worse, and this was enough to build upon. They had hidden strengths, these components. Sometimes well hidden, admittedly, but Gavotte was a natural optimizer. She was confident that they would, with some adjustments, form an operational unit. At the upcoming tea with Moustachio, she would drop hints about rearranging the office protocol to incorporate the new hire. Dr. Wilkin's workspace would have to be arranged one way, the lights in the conference room tilted another, the most efficacious teas stocked in the break room cabinets. It would take time to get the balance exactly right, and Gavotte had less time than she would have preferred. But she had cells working on the problem, and solutions would be decanted into the appropriate wax cells as they were developed. Gavotte was as ready as she could be, but there was no way to prepare thoroughly for war. Gavotte disliked it for precisely that reason. Shrugging off a thousand small headaches, she dispatched a cluster to swarm a cup of tea, then collected a small war party to escort Tip Wilkin to her office. Soon she would be free to pay that social call to Moustachio while a remnant stayed at the office to tidy up, but until then the bulk of Gavotte had work to do. The beaded curtain across her office door jangled as the new hire staggered in. "Er, hello." "Good morning, Dr. Wilkin," said Gavotte, the soul of etiquette as always. "You look troubled." "I... I'm covered in bees," [s]aid the new hire. Bright young man. Perceptive. Gavotte waited politely for him to say something relevant. "I'm kind of allergic," he added. "How interesting for you," said Gavotte. A faint whimper sounded in the back of Dr. Wilkin's throat. "Do you need a lozenge?" Gavotte asked. Dr. Wilkin did not appear to appreciate the gesture. "No," he said at last. "But would it be possible for you to not, er, crawl on, er, me?" Gavotte had recently attended an illuminating seminar on precisely this issue and was eager to apply the relevant skillset. "It is quite possible," she hummed. "Perhaps you'd prefer me to sit still?" "I'd kind of allergic," Dr.- [aw yiss guess what gang it is your boy the coauthor again displaying my mad uploading skills] -Wilkin added. "Very allergic, to be honest. No offense." "I know what you'd like," Gavotte said brightly. "Tea! Nothing that can't be smoothed over with a nice cup of tea." "nrg," said Dr. Wilkin. "With honey," Gavotte added. After a fraught pause, Dr. Wilkin nodded. "Tea would be lovely," he said. Gavotte was satisfied. This one might survive longer than a week. "Your duties are not complicated," she said. "First and foremost, you provide a much-needed set of thumbs. Is this acceptable?" "Everyone keeps bringing up the thumb situation," said Dr. Wilkin. "The matter has become somewhat pressing," said Gavotte. "Unity's keep falling off. Speaking of, kindly pour the tea." "Oh," Dr. Wilkin yelped. "Allow me." His pouring technique needed work, but technique could be taught. He had adapted to the office almost immediately. Gavotte hummed to herself in satisfaction. On this matter, at least, she had made the best of all possible choices. 'I've made the worst possible choice,' Tip thought. 'I should have put in an application at the Department of Precambrian Defense and I don't even know what that is. And I absolutely should have worn the Louboutins.' With effort, Tip recentered himself. He'd been through worse than a few dozen bees crawling over him while advising him in a droning buzz to have a nice cup of tea. This was nothing. He'd enjoyed meeting the cute dog, ha[n]dn't he? He'd bring his Epipen next time, that was all. He had this. The bees asked for his I-9 form. Tip signed it and handed it to the swarm of bees. The I-9 form. To the bees. And the bees took it. The bees. Took his form. With their little bee legs. This would take some getting used to. Tip focused his gaze on the wall. It was covered in tiki masks. The bees liked tiki. Tip tried to find this charming, but he kept thinking about his allergies. "It's not easy, is it?" "What?" said Tip. The swarm hummed at his ear. "It seemed like a lark at first, didn't it? But now you're getting the hint that it might be harder than you thought." "I'm fine," said Tip, who was not fine. "It'll be easier if you admit it," said Gavotte. Was there a sympathetic trill to her voice, or was it a warning buzz? Impossible to tell. "I'm not considered exactly normal myself," Tip ventured. "I'm aware you feel that way," said Gavotte. "It may help. Cream?" "Er, no thank you." Tip sipped his tea. Good tea, actually. That would help. And he'd seen a coffee shop down the street. Maybe- [so long and thanks for all the fish seriously though it has been a wholly wonderful time] -this would be surviveable. "I selected you," Gavotte said, "for just that reason. There were other concerns, of course. But at the sticking point it may come to this, Dr. Wilkin. Will you stay with us? And how hard will you hang on?" Tip answered without hesitation. Afterwards, for many years afterwards, he would wonder why. "As hard as I can," he said. the buzzing rose then fell. "I see. That may be enough. Then again, it may not be." The swarm rose as one. "Very well," Gavotte chirped, sounding suddenly brighter. "It shall have to do. Welcome to Project Skin Horse." Tip put out a hand, stopped, saluted instead. Outside Gavotte's beaded curtain something crashed. Tip smiled. Time to get to work.