Mega novel in a series of novellas: Passion for Tinnon, Book 1.

CHAPTERS 1, 5, AND 6 of Passion For Tinnon, Book 1.

Introduction

PASSION FOR TINNON NOVEL BOOK 1

A mega science fiction, Adventure, Thriller, and Romance Novel

© Carey S. Fontaine, October 21, 2006 18,006 Words

DESCRIPTION:

After the demise of Old Earth, thirteen families escape to a new planet and try to survive the planet’s hazardous conditions and their flawed human natures, but will they solve one or both problems in time? A riveting mega science fiction, romance, and thriller novel must-read by Cupideros.

BACK JACKET BLURB:

Old Earth is gone. Planet Tinnon is next. It is the year 6,666 A.D., the hazardous planet Tinnon exists near Mars and serves as a home for the thirteen Old Earth families who escaped total nuclear annihilation. Two thousand years later, they’ve rebuilt—and because of greed for resources, their safespace delusional dreams—are repeating the same mistakes.

The Gians, who helped the Old Earthlings resettle on precarious Tinnon, try to bring peace to the planet. But the people of Tinnon have a strange passion for the entire planet and not the halves they rule: the Quoardians in the West and the Galans in the East.

One-hundred and ten years of Galans and Quoardians war failed to teach them to seek peace. But will the ticking-clock black hole threatening to swallow Tinnon in 19 months, do so?

CHAPTER 1: LORD TWEEZER

“How many sheep to screw in one light bulb, you ask?” one NSFPC member said to another.

“Yeah,” grinned the first NSFPC member. “Take a wild guess.” “Two hundred,” spoke the second NSFPC member.

“No. It takes an entire democracy of sheep to screw in one light bulb,” said the first NSFPC member, and the two NSFPC members laughed heartily.

—FROM CONVERSATION OF TWO NSFPC MEMBERS—

A low rumble moved through the Galan Council Chamber in Glaril. The blue plush rug gave an uneasy sense of comfort and security to the women and men sitting around the large council table made of platinum steel. Lord Tweezer stood motionless, stargazing out a large window, thinking to himself. ‘Our peaceful galaxy, out there, is trying to kill us.’ He gave a slight smile at the irony of it all. “We have been battling the Quoardians for some one hundred years. Now our planet Tinnon will decide both our fates.”

“Lord Tweezer, it must be done!” a member spoke rashly out of turn.

Lord Tweezer ran his thick hand through his curly dark-brown hair. Standing, he stared out into space from the massive window in the Council Chamber of Galan. Stars blinked on and off on the horizon. He saw the many lights in the homes and offices of

his people, now under the grave threat of ultimate destruction. “You know very well what those scum Quoardians have done to our people.” He turned around, his face furious, a darker shade of tan. “Why, I’ve taken two laser bullets—” He raised his blue and silver military jacket and shirt. “See, two bullets from them. ” I nearly died from the last bullet,” he said, pointing to the wound. “Just three inches from my heart.” He pointed to the vital organ.

The thirty council members shouted out, divided among themselves, while Lord Tweezer became the neat warrior again.

Vice-Chancellor Akyria banged her fist against the table. “Order! Order!”

“Lord Tweezer, this is bigger than that!” said one member. “Tinnon’s entire history is at stake!” said another.

One councilman stood up. “I’d fuck the Quoardians Queen myself!” he chuckled, “If—if my seed could prevent us from being sucked into that galactic black hole.”

The vice-chancellor stood, slapped her hand one last time, and said, “Ladies and gentlemen.”

All grew quiet.

“While we argue here, uncharacteristic tidal waves are sweeping away our homes along the coast.” Galan’s middle suffers from terrible earthquakes. And Councilman Legöndel, that language and characterization of Queen Morah won’t be tolerated.”

“I’ve pledged an oath to defeat them,” Lord Tweezer said, balling his fist, now facing the council. “I’ve dreamed of marching through their cities, destroying every cherished monument,

burying every mechanical and engineering building housing their weapons of war.”

“Haven’t we all?” said the president of science and space. “And one day we will. But first, Tinnon, our planet, must avert this catastrophe.

“Or else we will be living our last nineteen months,” Akyria said and sat down. “Continue, Dr. Filad.”

Stoic, Dr. Filad wore several badges on his jacket above his heart. One stood for space exploration, a triangle of silver. He wore a rectangular military badge of a two-star general. “As President of the Galan Science and Space Agency, I must urge you to act immediately in favor of the proposal. Scientists, behaviorists, historians, and the medical staff on both countries’ sides agree.

Our two peoples cannot live under this fear for nineteen months. They cannot accept doom as inevitable simply because you refuse to accept an offer of marriage to Queen Morah.”

The dissenters roared again, mostly the military members of various secret organizations and public armed forces.

“Artificial insemination won’t work?” Lord Tweezer questioned, pacing back to the head of the platinum council table. He circled his forefinger in the air. “Tell me again why that’s out!”

Dr. Filad sighed and nodded to Vice-Chancellor Akyria.

“Lord Tweezer, the child must be conceived in the flesh. For two reasons: one, to ensure nothing happens to the transmission of the seed; and two, to make sure the seed is yours.” She steepled her hands in front of her throat. “We don’t have time for errors.

Besides, mutual flesh blending is a stepping-stone to the metaphysics of love energies.”

“Metaphysical Love Energies!” Councilman Legöndel shouted. “Oh, I’ve heard it all!”

“So two logical reasons and love.” Lord Tweezer shook his head negatively. “I cannot love that woman.” He sat down and leaned back on his throne chair. “When you called this meeting, you didn’t mention love. I would have canceled it immediately.” The numerous decorations for bravery swung wildly on Lord Tweezer’s chest uniform.

“May I speak?”

“Sure, NSFPC Security Chief Rolith,” Akyria motioned to him. “Chief Rolith, head of NSFPC Security, our umbrella security agency.”

Chief Rolith was very soft-spoken. He looked like an innocent, harmless man. His face was gentle, almost childlike. “We have a doppelgänger.”

The audience gave a mixed response, some understanding and some not.

“A double,” and Rolith turned to Lord Tweezer. “Looks just like you.”

University of Galan Historian Windir shouted, “I object!” Speak frankly, Rolith. A clone! Don’t try to deceive us with your cloak-and-dagger, smoke-and-mirrors double-talk, Chief Rolith. You knew very well—”

A small group of council members erupted, tipping their hand that they were NSFPC security members.

“You knew very well, thirty years ago, you would do this,” Windir continued.

Chief Rolith raised his hands helplessly and continued in his soft voice, “Perhaps. We look out for the well-being of our Lord. We will do whatever is necessary to ensure his safety. And I might add, the safety of Galan.”

Akyria said, “This clone cannot guarantee either love or a good donation of seed.” She closed a file and looked at Lord Tweezer. “The proposal is preposterous!”

Legöndel jumped in again. “We are 99% sure this clone’s child will fill the chemistry requirements to merge the scientific capabilities of the Quoardians and the PSI capabilities of the Galans.”

“You’re willing to gamble all our lives on a one percent margin of error?” Lord Tweezer barked.

“No. I reject that proposal for personal reasons. I have other plans for this clone. Send Clone Leo—that is what you call him.”

Rolith nodded.

“Send him to me after this meeting at once.”

Chief Rolith made a hand motion, and one of the men left the table.

Akyria gave a wry smile.

Lord Tweezer continued, “At first, I was against this plan, but now, I will personally do the honors.”

“Sir, you must also love Queen Morah. You cannot fake this!” A Quoardians priest said, “The marriage is forever binding.”

Lord Tweezer nodded. “Why not? Love is love,” and he smiled sarcastically.

Vice-Chancellor Akyria said, “UCA Regulation 2990—ending this eternal war. The second action: UCA Regulation 3010, making sure sons and daughters of high government officials are not exempt from the war.”

Lord Tweezer showed no feelings at all. “I invite everyone to share their thoughts.”

Legondel spoke. “Lord Tweezer, as you know, these resolutions speak nothing about the war crime charges that may follow any peace accord.”

“Not only that, Sir,” said Rolith, “Regulation 3010 is likely to put all our children at risk. Can we afford to have the best and brightest zapped to smithereens by Quoardian lasers and molecular shape-changing bullets? No effective armor exists for their latest bullet arsenal. The ability of their bullets to change their molecular shape on impact with our bulletproof vests does not exist.”

Dr. Filad said, “We are . . coming close to several prototype vests that may change the situation.”

“How long, Dr. Filad?” questioned Lord Tweezer. He shrugged his shoulders slightly. “Two or three years. Sooner, if the black hole were not draining our resources and people power.”

“Regulation 3010 possesses several problems for me, and I’ve mentioned them before,” Lord Tweezer continued. “We have to end the war. I don’t want to lose. I will not be the first in my family’s history to give in to defeat.”

“Perchance, we can arrange a face-saving truth,” Akyria suggested. “Something friendly and with supportive praise about the courage of both sides.”

“No. No, Akyria. That will not do!” Lord Tweezer responded.

Professor Windir said, “Such agreements have received favorable press in the past two years.”

“Professor Windir, if this peace fails in the next twenty years, historians will laugh me out of my grave.”

“Lord Tweezer is right, Professor Windir,” said Legondel. “What we must do is follow the path laid out by Lord Tweezer’s dad, who set up the UCA for the possible peace accord some forty years ago.”

Akyria looked back from Legondel to Lord Tweezer.

“Legondel, sometimes you amaze me. You are a bit of a hawk, but yes. Continue trying to secure a peace negotiation in the UCA. I have given them my full authority to make an agreement.”

Rolith spoke. “Sir, you told us a second ago you would not give in.”

“Rolith, will you speak up?” Akyria said this with annoyance at his innocent demeanor.

“Lord Tweezer said do not make peace. Now NSFPC has put many resources into trying to secure a winnable peace treaty—one that is to our advantage. You want us to abandon that objective.”

Lord Tweezer looked away from the UCA report. His confidence lit up his face. He put his elbow on the conference table and made an open hand motion to speak. Then he caught his tongue.

He blinked in a self-reflective flash of thought.

He put his palm on his chest. “Rolith, Galans depend on me. I have a moral obligation to win the war. I am sure they want to see justice done and enemies punished as much as I do. And the Galans look to me, their King, to provide safe passage through these troubled times. But never forget, the Galans want the processes of democracy, choosing no matter how futile the results or how dangerous the solutions might be for us all.

Rolith sat quietly.

Akyria gave a soft nod. Some of the others agreed as if some sudden profound wisdom, recently borne out of familial and historical significance, arrived. Akyria supplied the answer. “So NSFPC is to support the peace effort and sabotage it.”

Lord Tweezer said quietly, “Precisely. There can be no mistake, ladies and gentlemen. The appearances of peacemaking must go on. Consider this: if we allow the UCA to make peace for us, what’s to stop the UCA from declaring war on us tomorrow? No.

We Galans must take control of our destiny. We Galans are the victims of this violent mess. Is that clear?”

The room was hushed. Finally, Rolith said, “NSFPC can do anything, Sir. We have the people resources, nanotechnology, and various cloud groups not on any paper or official channels to accomplish your goals.”

“Will there be anything else?” Lord Tweezer addressed the council group. He looked left and right and down and back up the conference table. “That is it. This meeting is adjourned!” Lord Tweezer suddenly stopped in the middle of standing.

Everyone sat back down.

“Don’t mention the Black Hole phenomena. Let the masses speculate on what the problem may be, but no official of the government is to confirm our planet, Tinnon, is on the verge of destruction. It would damage our war morale, right, Dr. Filad?”

“Yes, I . . . Yes, it would distract the mass population terribly. And what can the population do about it?”

Lord Tweezer said, “Good. Rolith, circulate this view to the NSFPC operatives and news anchors on the major news channels. We’ll just say it’s a bad weather cycle. Tinnon has had bad weather for its 6,666 years, right?

Dr. Filad just shrugged his shoulders. “Yes, these unpredictable weather patterns just happen.”

“Good. Thank you all for a most productive meeting.” Akyria said in a loud voice, “This meeting is adjourned.”

Lord Tweezer said, “Rolith! Send me Clone Leo. At once!” “Yes, Sir!”

CHAPTER 5: NINE POISON DOVES

Double the vision, double the logic. See, using both; see ego and soul.

—FROM THE 3,500 SAYINGS OF THE LAST PROPHET CE—

Queen Morah returned to her child’s room. She always thought of it as a small room. In actuality, it was the size of two master bedrooms. She lived in this room growing up, playing, fantasizing about what life would bring her until the stately duties of becoming queen interfered at age fourteen. She had an entire wall full of Antonia romance novels, the prolific writer of romance amongst the Quoardians. The wallpapered room was a gaudy lavender and pink motif with a series of Quoardian swans landing on lakes.

She stood and read the titles: “Love’s Flame,” “Dangerous Rogue Suitor,”“APassionBehindClosedDoors,”and“ANighttoRemember.” The titles made her laugh now. She could not even believe in them much after her eighteenth birthday. She knew guys were not malleable and adjustable. It’s better to marry someone who already desires the same style of romance and love and lifestyle as you. Guys, especially those connected with thrones and secret positions, didn’t know how to change. Forced change may bring

it about, but another force is just as likely to make them revert to their former selves.

Queen Morah knew she had to have children one day. She went to her small desk and pulled out her diary. She laughed. Where was the inkling of where she’d be today in this room, she wondered? I should have studied war, chess, politics, history, how to trick the enemy into submission, how to bring peace by using lies, and how to avoid a poison dove. Well, that last item the romance novels did help with somewhat. The real problem with all romance novels was the happy ending. She opened the long front drawer and pulled out a golden rose with a green stem. She blew the dust off, and the shine came back as good as new.

Engraved on one of the leaves: FromMadamRose#204Certified Flying Dove Member #138,048.

Queen Morah knew for a fact the NSFPC had sent at least sixteen poison doves. Her first one claimed to be madly in love with her. He pursued her and made all the right moves and curtsies, whatever the courts required to seem acceptable. Then he suddenly vanished after he’d thought her heart was won.

That was one variety of the Nine Poison Doves.

Number One: he liked your body, romanced you, had sex with you, and immediately dumped you afterward.

Number Two: He never had sex with you, only romanced your mind. Then he dumped you.

Number Three: he was violent. He pushed you around physically. His entire goal was to persuade you to agree his violent behavior was your fault. He didn’t want your love, only for you to give up your power.

Number Four: He waited until after he’d dumped you to see if you were willing to give an arm, leg, or throne to have him back. Then he’d let you be the power behind your throne and life while he ruled and satisfied his every material desire, surprisingly wondering why you were stupid enough to let him do that.

Number Five: he romanced you and stole secrets and gave them to your enemies. The more you opened up and trusted him, the more he betrayed you. If you confronted him, he’d deny everything forever. He’d try to make you seem crazy.

Number Six: He romanced you until you were pregnant, and then he’d leave you with the burden and all the responsibility.

Number Seven: He simply hung around you being depressed and sad. He would consistently have some issue in his life that you could never resolve or assist with. By the time he’d recover his joyful self, you’d have been distracted from ninety percent of your own legitimate goals in life.

Number Eight: He simply hung around and espoused the exact opposite of your long-term goals and desires. If you liked painting, he hated it. If you wanted to do things outdoors, he’d want to do things indoors.

Number Nine: He was the hopeless flirt. He didn’t intend to get married but would give you immense pleasure and make you feel like the centerpiece in a romantic novel.

Luckily, the Quoardian Secret Service tested me with all nine poison doves before my fifteenth birthday. They saved me a lot of grief. They simply came in and said, “Exercise closed,” and revealed which poison dove number it was. Although Tembor, an engineer turned correspondent, turned priest, turned race car

driver, and turned socialite, caused me more grief than any girl should have to endure. Crying over planned heartbreaks is a lot easier than the real-life heartbreakers sent by secret enemy agencies to befriend you and then distract, create distrust, sadden, or muddy your ideas and goals.

I always loved wide spaces, and when my mom brought me into the palace ballroom, you could see the delight on my face. The sun shone through the west window, a peaceful normal sun. I remember the sounds of my mom’s clicking heels and my whispering flats. After a few minutes, I heard more footsteps.

“Jaine!” I said and rushed to the center of the ballroom, where Jaine stood looking distraught and frightened. I hugged her and held her arms. “What’s the matter?”

“You don’t know?” “Know what?”

Jaine’s mom and my mom went over to the makeshift little restaurant in the back of the ballroom and sat having tea.

“They’re going to turn us into prostitutes!” and she sniffed. “What! Why do you think that?” I questioned her gently.

She stopped sniffing, and her yellow, eyelidless, brown eyes stared into mine. She wiped her face. “The Poison Dove Training.”

“My mom mentioned it only briefly. She said this is where we learn to become grown women.”

Jaine began to whimper some more. “We’ll have to sleep with nine men!” She stomped her foot. She wore a pretty oriental dress that fell just below her knees.

“Jaine,” her mom said in a bored, exasperated voice, “please stop with the hysterics.”

I studied my mom’s face as she went back to chatting with Jaine’s mom. She had a placid look as if I were out on a picnic, running about, picking stray sunflower weeds from the well-manicured lawn. “Be quiet. What are you talking about? Poison Doves are men sent to befriend us and confuse us and muddle our ideas and goals. I should think you’d want to know how to avoid them.”

“I’m not really into boys yet, I’ll be honest. You know me. Horseback riding, history—gosh, I love history. I have this affinity for chess. You want to play?”

“No, chess is boring. I’ll never use that skill.”

Lomara walked into the ballroom, escorted by her mom. She ran up to us while her mom joined our moms at that little restaurant tea table. We three hugged and smiled briefly before Jaine began to tear up again.

“Oh, a big baby,” said Lomara, and she pushed Jaine’s head up so she could better see her teary almond eyes.

“We’re going to be ruined whores before the year is done. Waaaahhhh!”

Jaine’s mom rushed over. Lomara and I heard the fast-clicking heels, but Jaine was all into her emotions.

SMACK! SMACK!

Jaine’s mom cuffed her with two sharp slaps. “Stop crying this instant. Or you’ll never ride another horse again.”

With that, Jaine found her emotional control and stopped.

We looked back to the front when we heard the door opening behind us. It was none other than Madam Rose #204. Her red hair was coiffured up, much like all of our hair. She was dressed in her finest long red dress, and she wore the most beautiful black open-toe heels. She carried one of those wooden pointers with the rubber tip used at the blackboard for math or science equations.

Our moms came up and stood behind us, and we all faced Madam Rose #204. She stopped.

“I’m sure you girls are wondering what a madam is doing in the Royal Household. Girls, I can assure you everything has been arranged.”

Jaine began to sniffle again. Her mom cuffed her coiffured black hair again.

Madam Rose looked at us one by one from the far distance. “You are all fourteen years of age.” She began to pace back and forth. “Your bodies are changing, and you don’t know what to do with them. Your minds are childish, but your bodies look like those of grown women. I am here to help your minds balance with your bodies’ appearance. You’re young, naive about life, and have probably consumed more than your share of romance novels.

One of you may even be addicted to horseback riding. One of you may even be glad you’re here. No matter what your personal

flaws are, you must remember that this is a new year,” Madam Rose said, stomping her foot smartly. “SLAP!” The sound dashed through the empty ballroom. Startled, Jaine, Lomara, and I jumped.

“Before this year is over, you will become experienced young women in the ways of men and the world.”

The light from the window gave the impression Madam Rose was on stage. I found that fascinating. She turned her pointer on each one of us. “You will learn about the things you have neglected until now.” One, the nine types of Poison Doves in the world.

No doubt, there are more types of Poison Doves, but all of them descend from these nine. Much like the thirteen royal families that fled Earth. Oh, by the way, if you’re wondering why Czech women always run the Madam Rose Brothel or how Czech people got to Tinnon when only thirteen secret service families were chosen, I’ll tell you.

She walked closer. “Those thirteen families realized that if they wanted to create a population again, they’d need more than just thirteen women. ” Closer she came, her heels clicking softly. “So, sixteen women from different lands were chosen to become the prostitutes, aka breeders, to help out.” She was nearly on top of us, a pointer’s length away. She swished her pointer into the center of us, right in front of Jaine. “SWISH.” Jaine jumped back. “Don’t for a second think that we are inferior to the thirteen families.” We are in every position of authority now. Well, nearly. For example, Dr. Filad is Czech, by the way.”

The three of us looked at one another. We had no clue whom Dr. Filad was. We shrugged our shoulders. Madam Rose returned to her sunlit stage.

“Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way,” and her heavy bosom went up and down with her sigh of relief, “we can go on with the training.” As I was saying, one, you will learn the nine types of Poison Doves in the world. Two, you will learn the three golden rules of history. History should be cherished. The victors write history. History is full of lies.” She tapped her pointer on the floor while deep in thought. “Ah, yes. Professor Isénd from the Royal Quoardian University is on sabbatical this year just . . . to . . . train . . . you!” Madam Rose was back on top of us again.

We were positively in awe and somewhat afraid of her now.

“Lastly, three, you will learn how to negotiate while you walk down the wedding aisle.”

Jaine stood up straight, and her eyes brightened. I was horror-struck; marriage was the last thing I wanted. Lomara just swayed her hips back and forth until her mom grasped her hips, stopping the motion.

I raised my timid hand. “Madam Rose, isn’t the marriage a little late for negotiating married life?”

She walked really close to me. I could smell the soft scent of Ksum perfume, sweet and airy. “My dear Morah, men do not listen to women unless…” and she raised her pointer straight up into the air beside her face, “they are doing something together. An activity, a sport, something—say, betting on horses or at a wine tasting or golf. She turned to walk back to the light. Then turned around before she got there. “That’s when men listen to women. Otherwise, they don’t listen to us at all. But I assure you, ladies, there is a proper way to handle each poison dove to your advantage!”

Queen Morah chuckled, still holding the golden rose. We were terrified back then. Madam Rose taught us how to dance, curtsy, eat properly, make full use of our feminine charms, and understand the wonders of being a woman and dragging around all those dreadful long gowns and dresses, wearing short skirts and tight blouses, and loving how beautiful those clothes made us feel. The program had very little to do with men at all. The program provided instructions on how to love ourselves as women. And Madam Rose was right; men don’t listen to women unless they are engaged in some activity together. Negotiating during the wedding has produced solid marriages and made life easier for women in Quoardian society. Of course, history is full of lies because it is written by the victors, but even the victors feel an obsession to rewrite history in a light that tackles future problems or future enemies. As for the nine Poison Doves, there was no better skill and experience to pick up about men. Lomara was very disappointed as we only slept with one Poison Dove of our choice. Jaine was elated that she didn’t have to sleep with all nine. I, on the other hand, was still in amour with the Poison Dove I slept with and enjoyed: Tembor.

As Queen Morah left her little room, she said, “Lord Tweezer’s going to be surprised how immune I am to any Poison Dove games.”

CHAPTER 6: NSFPC

Back in antiquity, psychologists and psychiatrists wanted to solve all the world’s problems with pharmaceutical drugs. Their established fifty-year plan: to have everyone on some type of medication by circa 2000. They did not succeed. They did, however, manage to label millions of young children and teenagers with one psychotic name or another. As a result, many children received labels, and having a psychiatric label became a status symbol.

ADHD being the top-tier psychiatric name, slapped on a child and carried throughout their childhood, mostly of young boys who exhibited too much energy for the female-led classrooms.

In those ancient days, the DVSM listed a mere one hundred syndromes and disorders. Now, we can proudly say the DVSM has over one million syndromes and disorders. We owe a debt to those pioneering psychologists and psychiatrists who started routinely screening pregnant women and their unborn babies at age zero for mental disorders long ago. Because of their efforts, psychology dominates Galan’s society today.

—Opening Remarks at GALEN ANNUAL MEETING OF PSYCHOLOGISTS AND PSYCHIATRISTS—

Rolith sat in a quiet adjacent room to the recruitment-training center at NSFPC Headquarters in Calun, Galan. He wore a standard grey suit, like all Galan businesspersons. Styling his brown hair combed backward on his head, several gray strands

revealed his elderly status. His innocent blue eyes focused on a small metallic tablet PC flashing several speech cards; his ears listened as the air conditioner kicked on. “A sudden heat blast must be in effect.” His thin lips resumed mouthing the lines of his speech and paused. Rolith then nodded as if remembering all the accompanying index card text. He clicked the electronic notepad again, and another card appeared.

Rolith knew this speech by heart. He’d given it more than one thousand times. Of course, sometimes, due to circumstances beyond his control, Legondel did the honors.

Rolith felt secure at Calun. He’d worked his way up through the ranks and did some nasty things in his younger days, even architecting the blowup of Queen Morah’s East Wing palace, killing both her parents. Of course, Queen Morah’s Secret Service retaliated, and Lord Tweezer lost his parents to a video-monitored seeker bomb. When asked by Lord Tweezer why he attacked Queen Morah’s parents when the military convention prohibited attacks on the highest officials’ family members, Rolith, in his characteristic innocent stare, replied, “We must do what no one dares if we are to win this war. No one is off-limits.” Lord Tweezer gave his characteristic sneer and stoic expression, leaving the issue unresolved.

Privately, Rolith knew Lord Tweezer’s peace plans—if he had any secret plans for peace—vanished. The war might go on forever, Rolith mused. His agency might grow to encompass fifty percent of the government. NSFPC might outgrow the Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marines combined. With White Opts Teams (WOT), his off-the-books intelligence agents swarming the two worlds, he already outstripped the military. He’d officially be the single largest CEO in Galan if he didn’t have to keep the thing secret.

Only Lord Tweezer might overcome him—maybe.

Legondel said the phrase while poking his black curly head out the door. “Rolith. The recruits are ready.”

“Are they eager, Legondel?”

“Very eager, Sir. We have all races and both genders in this class.”

Rolith got up. His frame, by mass and appearance, matched a librarian’s. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

The recruits sat in wooden chairs, fifteen wide and ten rows deep. Typically, varied-colored school desk chairs—yellow, blue, green, and red—shaped like a question mark held a tablet PC electronic notebook given to them by Legondel’s staff. Rolith moved behind the podium. He snapped his electronic laptop in place, syncing it with the full screen behind him.

“There.” He glanced up and smiled. He waited while his innocent face performed the magic of disarming the fresh recruits. They expected a man with scars, a cold-blooded killer like one sees on the news, headlining a crime film or in a rare prison news break. A man, hard, bitter, and determined. They might have imagined a man debonair like the mythical useless James Bond.

On the contrary, standing here before them was an aged schoolboy clerk. A light came on, and a tiny blob appeared on the screen. Rolith turned around to double-check the image. Agreeing with the image’s iconic size, he turned back to face the audience, a smug expression on his childlike face.

“Can anyone tell me what that is?”

The entire class squinted and rubbed their eyes, trying to see the figure. Many wild guesses flowed from the crowd. “Button, bullet, Rorschach blot, land, world, a symbol.”

“I like that. A symbol. Any more guesses?” Rolith answered.

One smart recruit turned over his electronic notepad and said, “A scorpion.”

Rolith pulled out a one-thousand-dollar bill and gave it to Legondel. “For the smartest recruit in the class.”

“Thank you, Sir,” replied the recruit.

The other students mentally kicked themselves when they flipped over their laptops. The answer lay within their grasp—a large black scorpion and, under it, the words in blood red: NSFPC Intelligence Agency.

Rolith blew the figure up. “A symbol: the Scorpion, the most vicious creature in the universe. Its determination is unmatched. It will kill itself rather than accept defeat. Scorpions hide under rocks, but they effectively get their prey. They have two claws for hanging on and pinning down their opponent. If necessary, the scorpion will sting itself and die, taking its prey with it—as in the story of the frog and the scorpion!

The new recruit pocketed the money and resumed listening.

“Each of you wants to be a scorpion. Each of you wants to walk in the mire of humanity, straightening the path for Galan’s future domination of this planet. Controlling the herd classes as revealed in The Abyss and Philosophy is no small task, though,” Rolith continued. “However, every resource known and unknown to the public lies at your disposal. The answer to the one-thousand-dollar question is within your reach. Should you find yourself without resources, you will create them by any means possible. Is that understood?”

All the raw recruits nodded yes.

“What we do at NSFPC is secret, but not entirely so.” What we do at NSFPC is, at times, amusing, harmless, sneaky, and trivial

—shooting tiny water tablets up a person’s nose to make their nose runny. Then, making them cough, we convince them they have a cold or flu. Sending them endless spam is another method. We send spam related to the target’s weight, injuries, pains (we caused), hair loss, or whatever else they love or enjoy. Yes, we do these things.

We send spam to the target, regardless of their actual interests, effectively creating a false reality for them. I’m emphasizing that I am not interested in deleting the enemy’s necessary cell phone password and email messages or blocking their email. I want to stress that I have no intention of deleting the enemy’s essential cell phone password and email messages or blocking their email delivery. We take every book in their home library, catalog it, and search every book in their home library for notes written, ideas held, opinions or fears, and their favorite topics. All harmless.

“What we do at NSFPC is confuse, baffle, distract, depress, anger, and irritate both our enemies and supporters. What we do at NSFPC is frustrate our enemies and make our friends support the government’s policies. Why would we confuse, baffle, anger, depress, or irritate our supporters? Our supporters belong to all four herd classes, which means they have diverse perspectives and motivations.

If our supporters were to become sentient, similar to artificial intelligence, the NSFPC would face significant challenges. People must not be allowed to think clearly about anything! If there is a clearly written article designated “Rolith suppressed a cough” designated for the major cyber pages, NSFPC will create a bigger,

fake, and harmless news story to force that clarifying story onto page two or three. The story won’t seem harmless to the news agencies. They will seem like true stories.

“News agencies are at our disposal and our most significant resource for baffling all the herds. The ends, ladies and gentlemen, do justify the means. Always have and always will. NSFPC stands alone between complete total anarchy from democracy’s herd weakness and prevents our capitulation under the Quoardian scientific boot or high heel.”

The recruits laughed.

“I don’t mean to be sexist. Just a fact,” Rolith went on with his disarming smile.

The same one-thousand-dollar winner recruit raised his hand. “You said, ‘We are harmless, sneaky, and trivial; we frustrate our enemies and make our friends support the government’s policies.’”

Rolith nodded.

“If we do things harmlessly, how are we effective, then?”

“For example, one of our tactics is to keep our enemies or disgruntled friends from getting sleep.” Rolith shrugged. This tactic is completely harmless. It makes them less effective in their daily duties. Wears them down. Perhaps they won’t be so eager to fight with us or disagree with our policies. No one ever died from a lack of sleep alone. For example, we might follow a person and observe various individuals whose appearances closely resemble those of their family members, close friends, confidants, or past lovers. “Rolith shrugged. “No harm in that. Although this

approach could slow down a person’s cognitive skills, it may also muddle their thinking with extraneous information and analysis.

“Let’s say the person doesn’t get any sleep,” the one-thousand-dollar recruit clarified. “They go outside, drive to work, and run headlong into a family of four beginning their day in the opposite lane.”

Rolith shrugged. He continued in his soft-spoken voice, “Can we help it if the person didn’t drive carefully?”

“Then it wasn’t so harmless.”

“From our perspective, it is harmless. People make mistakes all the time. Accidents happen. The tragedy can’t be traced back to NSFPC. It’s too unfortunate; really, it is. These random things happen. NSFPC’s primary purpose is the ability to cause destruction without leaving any cause to investigate—to bring about miraculous destruction through the everyday habits of our enemies. If our enemies would not get on our shortlist, they’d have nothing to fear.”

The recruit’s face turned suspicious.

A female recruit wearing her blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail said, “I heard we follow people around the clock.”

“Well, NSFPC does not walk between the raindrops, if that’s what you mean. Yes. We employ agents to follow others because electronic surveillance at times fails to capture the nuances of human behavior.”

“Nuances of human behavior?” she asked.

“One human walks to the corner store and talks to another. Harmless daily weather talks or underground scheming? Human agents best determine and distinguish these matters.”

“Tell me more about electronic surveillance,” the blonde with a ponytail asked.

“I’m glad you asked that.” Rolith pressed a button. The words “NANOTECHNOLOGY”werecentered on the big screen. “Yes. If you’ve heard of microscopic little cars, machines, and tanks smaller than the human eye can see, believe me, it exists.”

A recruit yelled, “Ouch!”

“Something bit me!” shouted another raw recruit.

“Nanotechnology dropped in any place provides us with the ability to see and listen to our enemies. This technology also shoots dust and laser blasts and sprays our enemies with liquids, making them itch and feel heat or cold.”

“Monitored by computer centers,” another recruit said.

“Yes,” Rolith replied. “Legondel, this may be our best recruitment class yet.”

Legondel nodded with a big smile.

The recruit who received the one thousand dollars said, “Let me see if I understand you. You will follow anyone the enemy talks to. You will use nanotechnology against anyone in their household.”

“You’re intelligent on the uptake,” Rolith said without a smile. However, in an attempt to distract from his line of questioning,

Rolith added, “I neglected to mention our enemies rarely associate with others who are not in some form, now or later, connected with dissent or disruption to Galan society.”

“So, everyone is guilty,” the same winning recruit said.

“Yes, everyone who talks to or associates with the enemy is guilty.”

“Even the newspaper boy; the old lady in the mall who just said hi; and the lonely man who is looking for a date on a Friday night and happens to find the woman you’re following attractive.”

“I cannot control the choices our enemies make,” Rolith laughed.

“I see. Well,” the recruit got up and walked to the front of the class. He turned in the electronic notebook. “I can’t do this. I don’t need your one thousand dollars either.” He placed the one-thousand-dollar bill on the laptop. “I quit.”

Rolith faced went blank. “Are you sure you want to quit?”

The guy kept walking past Legondel without turning back. “Yeah, I’m sure I want out.” He pushed the door wide and exited.

“He’s a smart student, very quick. We need more like him,” Legondel said.

“Too bad the really smart ones never stay,” Rolith said with a shrug. “NSFPC will attack anyone who quits, by the way. Too bad our friend there is now on our shortlist.”

The recruitment class froze in silent horror.

“NSFPC doesn’t believe in miracles or religion unless those organizations provide us with a means of cover for covert operations and personnel to help pursue our goals. Gods have rules, recruits. NSFPC has no rules! The two manners of being clash—continually.

“But let’s go on. Personal surveillance means following a person from sunrise to moonset to sunrise. We follow all the suspected person’s contacts.” Rolith chuckled and turned to Legondel. “I cannot tell you how many times this method has produced excellent intelligence information. If every NSFPC agent had the skill to know exactly who a collaborative enemy was and who was not, we wouldn’t have to follow every contact. Since NSFPC doesn’t believe in miracles, we cover all angles. Sure, we might pick up a few harmless people and have irritated those non-guilty individuals, but we’re saving far more lives than we’re hurting and hunting.” Legondel nodded.

“Legondel has been with NSFPC for thirty years. I’ve been with NSFPC for forty years. A long and healthy career awaits you, class of 6,666. You can’t always tell your family and friends exactly what you do. We’ll provide you with various cover jobs. One of the famous career paths is being a correspondent or journalist. You go anywhere in the world, and everyone will focus on your cover job, not your real job. You might be an oil executive or building contractor, fireman, or policeman—any municipal job provides excellent cover. The key is that you will be protecting your country in the sensitive area of security. No better job exists.

A different female student said, “Tell us more about how NSFPC uses nanotechnology.”

Rolith paused. “Demonstrations are best for nanotechnology.” Rolith stared mesmerized into his tablet PC, like he had “Findthe Snitch,”a popular video game, on his screen. He smiled. Students began in unison rubbing their right arms or wrists. “Feel that?”

Students nodded and answered yes.

“Nanotechnology can pinpoint any part of the human body, externally or internally. You all were spritzed on your right arm or wrist when you entered the door. The spritz is automated.

Then . . .”

All the students started rubbing or swatting or complaining about a bug crawling on them.

“When I press a button, the nanotechnology in the ceiling sends an invisible beam over the hairs on your wrist and arm.”

“I didn’t feel anything,” said one buff-shaped recruit. “Neither did I,” spoke several women.

To the male, Rolith said, “You’re a swimmer, right?” “How did you know that?”

To the women, Rolith said, “Here is an adjustment to prove my point to swimmers and women. Most women shave their arms, legs and other body parts—but,” Rolith pressed another button on his laptop. “Adjust the angle of the beams—There!”

“I feel the itchy, weird feeling,” One woman after another spoke up, in a herd version of ‘watch the dominoes fall.’

The male swimmer agreed. He rubbed his arm. “I feel it.”

Rolith shrugged. “The overhead beam doesn’t work well on shavers; the side or slanted beam work on shavers.” Rolith gazed into his tablet again. “We have additional counter if one tactic does not work so well.” His slimy grin held secret malice.

All the students started complaining about a buzzing or ringing in their ears.

Rolith continued, “Sounds are not all equal. Some sounds are too low for multiple people to hear. Or in other words, only those who have a sound beam directed at them will hear it. You’ll find this technique interesting.” Rolith pressed a boxed grid on his tablet.

“My legs feel heavy.” “I feel fatigued.”

“No. You’re all fine. You may have felt as if someone had magnetized you and was pulling you down. Health-wise, nothing is wrong with you, recruits.” Rolith pressed the box again. “See.”

All the students felt light in their legs again.

Psychological warfare through nanotechnology AI mechanics. The NSFPC will continue to amplify the symptoms and justifications for why our nanotechnology is associated with this disease or that disorder. There’s a grid under this floor. Think of it as a large magnet-sized grid. We slip the device under our enemy’s floor or desk at work—more importantly, at home under their bed or work chair. Presto. They feel tired. They find it challenging to get up in the morning.”

“Can this magnetic grid stop them from rising for work?”

“No. Not yet, anyway.” Rolith thought about something else. “The grid simply confuses and irritates the enemy into thinking they need more energy or don’t have the optimism to continue their day. They can rise and do rise, albeit with some struggle. Our purpose is to then place some kind of medical label on them. It would be wonderful if we could get them to go to the hospital for their fake conditions. Bipolar Disorder. Or any one of the one million syndromes and disorders in the DVSM 6601. Now, you will grab your desktop and pull it to your left.”

“What the fuck!”

“Look at all those tiny wires.”

“Medical wires,” said a young student doctor.

“Look at all those points that are directed towards us.” Rolith looked amused. He loved this part of the course best.

“Those wires,” Rolith commented, “are used to make you cough, sneeze (there is a difference), produce fake tears from the corners of your eyes, cause wrist pain, and induce a panic attack. “The body is one huge rubber band. Press on the right spot and ‘bong’—movement, pressure; you name it, a movement or ache happens in another part of the body.”

“I don’t believe the panic attack one.”

Rolith shrugged. He looked up. “There’s always one Doubting Thomas among the new bunch.” Rolith pressed a small circle. The entire class’s chests started to heave, clench, and contract.

“Cut it off,” the doubting Thomas said.

One girl said, “I can’t believe it.” She struggled to catch her breath.

One girl smiled. “I just wiped the magnetic dust off my blouse. “I’m fine now.”

Rolith turned to Legondel. “She’s good,” Legondel said.

Rolith continued, “Sure, you can wipe it off. But NSFPC will have wired the enemy’s house or office in so many places; it’ll be back on their blouse or shirt in minutes.”

Legondel interrupted, “Seconds, Sir.”

A guy said, “Tell us about how you track people.”

“What do you want to know? Financial tracking, health tracking, social networking tracking, optimism, orgasm tracking, or mood level tracking?” Rolith stared calmly at the person.

“I get it,” blurted out a girl who looked like a punk rocker. “You compartmentalize and attack the enemy.”

“What’s your degree in?” Rolith asked her. “Chemistry.”

The class laughed.

“I am not a meth lab head, though.”

Rolith considered her a valuable asset. “We’d love for you to use your chemistry skills against NSFPC enemies.”

A guy in a classic gray Galan business suit said, “I understand completely! You’d use my microeconomics skills to tear down a person, corporation, country, or planet.”

***

RaydGalil returned to NSFPC Headquarters in Calun, Galan. He rode up to the eleventh floor, Covert Operations—Poison Dove.

“RaydGalil! “How was your trip?” said a buoyant intelligence officer (IO) who looked more like a college student.

“The trip went fine,” RaydGalil said. “I know whatever I tell you might be used to manipulate me later on. I’ll be brief. I went to the Fountain of Romance, and I sailed the Lover’s River. I went to my hotel. I took in a play about Romeo and Juliet. I rested the next day. I took in the museum sights the third day . . . Shall I go on?”

“Take a seat. Don’t be so terse with us,” said the intelligence officer. “We’re friends here, remember. Did you meet anyone?”

“A few Gian girls. No one important,” RaydGalil shrugged his shoulders.

“Very well, RaydGalil. What do you think? You want to leave the Army rut and spread your wings and fly?”

“How high can I go?” “Sky is the limit?”

“I thought intelligence was overstocked?”

“Not in this war and not with the right people, RaydGalil.” He handed RaydGalil a manila folder. “Here is your new I.D.,

passport, and a fake biography to help you answer any security questions. Make sure to memorize it.” And— He reached back into the front desk he sat on and pulled out a paper-wrapped wad of cash. He handed it to RaydGalil.

“Some spending cash, RaydGalil. Ten thousand dollars to be exact.”

RaydGalil’s eyes went wide. He broke the paper seal. He flipped through the bills to make sure it wasn’t the old one-dollar bills underneath the ten-thousand-dollar bill trick. RaydGalil slapped the money in his open left hand.

“Nice, huh?” The NSFPC officer paused and looked over RaydGalil’s young face.

RaydGalil flipped the money and filed papers. “Why are you offering this to me?”

“Because you’re smart. Too smart to be doing grunt work fighting in the trenches.” The Recruiting Intelligence Officer (RIO) played with his pen, flipping it up in the air and then catching it for a second.

“I want to fight in the trenches,” said RaydGalil, “and prove myself.”

“You’re going to the front, RaydGalil, in a couple of weeks. I can change that order.”

RaydGalil smiled.

“This is your last chance to become one of us and travel the world, RaydGalil,” said the intelligence recruiting officer as he spread his arms wide.

“If I work hard and be loyal to my country, something positive will happen. I do believe that. But believing remains difficult in the face of one hundred and ten years of war. I need God’s help to escape this insanity.”

“RaydGalil, we know about your girlfriend. We cannot figure out the R&J passages yet, but we have a team of people working on them. That was a clever move. But cleverness has never stopped NSFPC before. We are more persistent than the sun rising every day.”

“Yeah, but the sun doesn’t rise on Old Earth!”

“And we caused that!” shouted the intelligence officer (IO). “Listen, why don’t you become a Quoardian? Meet this girl and live happily ever after. Just send us a report on the mood and thoughts of its citizens. We’ll place you near TelGara if you want.”

“So now,” RaydGalil laughed, “you are trying to make me choose between spying on my girlfriend, TelGara, and serving my country.” But I’ve already chosen love. I’m not going to spy on my girlfriend.”

The NSFPC IO said, “Be reasonable, RaydGalil. Love is a fickle thing. You saw how bad things turned out for Romeo and Juliet. Their situation is not comparable to yours. Forget about this love nonsense; join us and do something practical with your life.

RaydGalil responded with anger, “I happen to have a high respect for love. It’s worth something in my book of morals.”

“RaydGalil, you know it is foolish to fall in love. All enlightened men do. Long ago, on Old Earth, there was a movement called

MGTOW, which stands for Men Going Their Way. Men finally realized that love had failed to meet the standards of worthiness. Of course, hysterical women infiltrated the courts, prioritizing their safety security above all else. They lied, schemed, tricked, and denied their children the right to see their dads. It was a colossal mess. The Thirteen Families straightened it all out by going back to the patriarchy system. Women excelled in managing the home, while men excelled in the workforce. That’s how we survived and avoided societal collapse upon arriving at Tinnon! And falling in love and long-distance relationships top all foolishness, even feminism. I understand that you’re eighteen, and we arranged this vacation for you to unwind and regain your perspective. Being in intelligence is the easiest and funniest job around. Nobody will know what you do. Become anybody you want again and again. We wipe out your past. You have absolute freedom above the law in any country! What kind of choice did you think I was offering you? Are you implying a job that is less engaging, requiring significant effort for minimal compensation? You like adventure. Intelligence work is an adventure.”

“No, I—”

Two men came into the room and blocked the door.

“Simply hear me out. I’m sure you might be pleased. The Poison Dove is one of the easiest and most cherished positions in NSFPC, a time-honored tradition dating back thousands of years, even on Old Earth.”

“Since I have no choice,” RaydGalil shifted his head to the two men blocking his exit. “I must go ahead.” RaydGalil turned away from the two men who were blocking the door. “Tell me.”

“The Poison Dove program is a way to infiltrate the highest levels of society through the female. We do have female Poison Doves who date the men.”

“Hookers.”

“Unfortunately, hookers and women seemed to be one and the same throughout history. Hookers only work for money, though. Female Poison Doves, as do their male counterparts, work for love of their country.”

“I’m one-hundred-percent straight.”

The young-looking male I.O. held up his hands as if caught. “Just wondering. Now, I know for sure—no gay activities for you, RaydGalil. As I left off, the males seduce the females. RaydGalil, locate a target and get her to fall in love with you. You win her over by talking about her interests. It’s all about her, remember.

You even make love at the appropriate time, which could be right away or after the standard three weeks. Once the woman is in love, she will become very attached. This situation is where your options vary.

“If the target is someone we want distracted, you abruptly break it off once she is in love and showing all those signs.” You dash her hopes of matrimony and a long-term relationship. You contrive some excuse, any excuse. Your wife came back from the dead. You’re dying of cancer. Whatever! She will be so distraught she will forget her important duties to her organization—say, in banking or intelligence, in the military, or in engineering. Killing the enemy or locking them in a cell block is so old-fashioned.

NSFPC just renders the enemy ineffective; see RaydGalil. Annoy them in this way or that,” the NSFPC IO said in his smooth tone.

RaydGalil began to realize how closely his meeting with TelGara resembled the Poison Dove program. “The second method?”

“First, you meet the target. You date her, get her to love you, and then you stay in a relationship while getting to know her friends, contacts, and employers.” Use any of these people for information helpful to NSFPC. Of course, you’re searching for people who work in propaganda or intelligence or the highest economic brackets.”

“And how does one get out of the second situation?”

“Any number of ways,” the NSFPC IO said, smiling. “We fake your death. We have you arrested by our agents dressed like cops. Trust me, this is a timeless workable situation, RaydGalil. You’d be Poison Dove #488.”

“Not that many Poison Doves?”

“Well, not many males have the charm and the good-boy looks. You see how women more naturally fall into this line of work.”

“I see. Men tend to be rather indiscriminate, as they often prioritize a woman’s physical appearance, such as being pretty, having large breasts, and long legs.”

The NSFPC IO laughs. “Precisely.”

“You mentioned adventure. What if I have a conscience?”

The NSFPC IO scoffed. “I believe in my country, its cause, and this so-called Eternal War. We will win this war in just a little time.” The NSFPC IO used his forefinger and thumb to squeeze the tiniest amount of air. “A few more spies placed here and there inside the Quoardian infrastructure, and the war will be

ours. Besides, RaydGalil, even in peacetime, you always need spies. We’re a growth industry!”

“Lies. You feed on lies, manufacture lies, and refuse to believe anything that contradicts the lies you support. I’d love to see the war end, but how? If you believe the financial markets, I’m just one person, a single cog in the vast machinery of productive insanity or economic necessity of the military-industrial complex. If God allowed this war to go on for one hundred and ten years, He must have a purpose. Maybe it is to punish our countries by eliminating all the stupid people. Whatever it is, I’ll have to get myself out of this situation. I don’t believe this war is good for our country or any country apart from Gian. “I’ll take my chances on the front,” RaydGalil said as he stormed toward the door, but the two men remained motionless.

“What if we sent a Poison Dove to TelGara?” The calm NSFPC IO said, standing up from his desk as he walked about and stared out the seventh-floor window. “Oh, she’s smart. But this guy, Poison Dove #112—112 for short—is good. He’s in Quoardian. He’s attractive, has charm, and I believe an intelligent, attractive man is a high criterion for TelGara.”

“Sensitivity and intelligence—” Then RaydGalil stopped himself. He walked back to the table and picked up the folder.

“Oh, 112 adopts those qualities, too.” The blonde NSFPC IO turned back away from the window. “He loves seducing the attractive women of Quoardian. With their forced propagation laws, it is startlingly easy for 112 to operate.”

RaydGalil flung the file folder, and the money drifted downward. “If I find 112 has even been around TelGara, I’ll kill him!”

“Calm down,” the NSFPC IO said. “This is all off the record. None of this has to happen. You have a choice. That’s true democracy—giving a person a choice, right?” He stared coldly at RaydGalil.

RaydGalil pointed at the NSFPC symbol embossed on the floor. “Nothing has changed in one hundred and ten years. You I.O.s never learn. Perhaps it is our fate to be killing ourselves for one hundred and ten straight years. After all, the races here span from the wicked former intelligence agencies who engineered the destruction of Old Earth.”

“That’s hearsay!”

“Hearsay! You’re doing it again, now! Several Galan and Quoardian generals wanted to stop this war fifty years ago. Declare peace! But the intelligence groups on both sides won’t allow that. Oh! You gave me a vacation to entice me to become an I.O. ‘Travel all the countries of the world; meet all the young women you want. Fuck them! All we ask in return is for you to spy on them and bring us intelligence from their countries.’ I refused to be recruited as your Poison Dove #488. And I know you’ve engineered me being sent to the front! I’m not stupid, as you admitted yourself.”

The NSFPC IO waved his hand to the two men, who stepped aside. RaydGalil stormed out of the office.