As Tasìa observed the soldiers, she thought the mesh of flesh and armored material was some bizarre result of the occurrence in the copter cabin she had witnessed.

Then she recalled a word Annebél had used. Gearheads.

As the soldiers moved in formation, they tended to fade like chameleons, semi- camouflaged to the background of tall thistle, weeds, and trees.

It was the nature of her eyes, however, that she never truly lost sight of them. Especially, as they moved.

Tasìa resisted the urge to flee. She needed to know if it was mere coincidence that the helicopter crashed so near where she hid. If the soldiers maneuvered to surround her, she would have to assume that her neoPalm had been compromised.

The last thing she wanted to do was toss it away.

Touching the screen, Tasìa flipped her contact designation from León to Felicité.

She began to type.

I need a diagnostic run on this neoPalm. Some weird bitches may be homing in on me.

Now she pulled out the .9mm Browning HP. semi-auto she had taken from Sal. Judging from the military-grade vests the soldiers wore, it was the caliber she needed if it came down to a firefight unless she relied solely on near to unrealistic precision shots with the .32 using her own hand loaded ammo.

Her ammo was customized for recoil control and piercing damage; a single shot was still quite effective from two hundred-thirty yards out if the round made contact with flesh.

She studied their formation and she relaxed.

Now that she dismissed the idea they had actually spotted her, Tasìa hoped a firefight would prove unnecessary. The gearhead soldiers were merely establishing a parameter as they were obviously more concerned with their crash than their search for her.

The neoPalm buzzed against her thigh. It was Felicité, responding to her message.

You're secure. However. Something very odd has happened. I discovered a communication relay from seven minutes ago that scanned your general area (it never picked up on you). I traced it to an EU military satellite that let out a burst of energy targeted at a helicopter belonging to the TLFU.

Well, that is intriguing. Given the Salvage contracts its own military operations through the TLFU, and the EU is the Salvage's number one international backer, we have the makings of an internecine squabble.

Tasìa texted back. Damn fine work.

Felicité typed in turn. Nothing less will get you to Asuncion in one piece.

Tasìa felt oddly chafed by the reply. Was Felicité fucking with her again?

Keeping it all on a professional level now, I see?

Tasìa, when do you ever have anytime for small talk?

Tasìa eyed the soldiers. They stood their ground as the pilot and co-pilot retrieved equipment from the remains of the helicopter.

Looking back down at Felicité's text, she made a mental list of all the various things she had dealt with within the last twenty-eight hours.

Manifest Transfiguration, creepy ex-cop, ascospores, weird beast, a faerie queen (where has she been lately? Kind of expected that she kept a palace in the El Hoyo back valley and I would run into her there), snakes, a vampire poseur, a sexy boxer, a spiderbot, more ascospores!, rat plagues, hell hounds, Egilona, a punk-ass mobster kid, a cop, another aberrant creature, the ghosts of Maoist guerillas, a little sexcapade with a lovely man, a warbird, and now, cybernetic soldiers.

When do I have the time!

Tasìa shook her head. That is the wrong attitude, old girl. You make time for the dumb shit if you want the girl to keep helping you.

She texted back.

- :) Guess what?

- Yeah?

- You have to guess first.

- Okay, I'll bite. You are getting your clit pierced?

Tasìa's jaw dropped. Tasìa read Felicité's answer a second time. How could her guess be so close? Don't let her see you sweat.

- Wrong guess! My labia. That other choice you mentioned hurts me just thinking about it.

- It's not so bad. I had mine done. Wanna see?

- Wut?

- Oh God, Tasìa. I'm laughing so hard now people are staring. Just fucking with you to see you sweat! I know you are pinned down with soldiers nearby. I can hear their radio chatter back and forth.

Tasìa touched the slab of rock beside her with a gentle banging motion of her head.

She wrote back. Felicité, you just might be the craziest butthole buddy I have in my index.

Felicité answered in turn. No might to it. They don't let you go to spook school unless you fail a psych evaluation for normative tendencies. Enough of that, though. Would you like to get out of your current situation? I hope you didn't think I was spending all this time on a personal chat to talk out some feel-feels, did you? Don't answer that, just rhetorical.

Tasìa shook her head. From a funny-ass shit to an A-type exec-suite-set professional woman, all in a snap. In both instances, though, Felicité was only doing her best to help.

Forgive our friends of their quirks when they mean so well.

Tasìa texted the Argentinian back and she asked, what did you have in mind?

- First, I need to ask. What is your mode of transportation? If I had to guess, a motorcycle. It would have to be something small enough to fit in that copse of trees I now have on the satellite feed.

- You are most correct. It is a 750 Virago.

- Do you have any problems starting it? Can you start it, and get it on the road within ten seconds after I say go?

- Yes. The bike is in perfect condition.

- Good. Take yourself several deep breaths and be prepared for my command.

Tasìa raised up to her knees and she did as she was instructed. The time seemed to drag as she calmed herself.

Go!, came Felicité's command.

Tasìa got up on her feet and she pulled her bike out of the brush and leaves that covered it.

As she worked at her task, Tasìa heard a high pitched noise rise in a disharmonious unison. All the soldiers writhed on the ground, trying to tear off their helmets.

Their screams sounded like desperate, cavernous echoes.

Tasìa turned her bike around to face the road. She hopped on and foot cranked the ignition.

Less than ten seconds, more like seven. She thought, as she sped out onto the road.