The incessant drizzle continued, adding a damp chill to a funeral. The dead man had no final instructions, so it was left for his fief to arrange his resting place. A large group had gathered in a cemetery that overlooked the Potomac River under a November sky of tarnished silver.

Just seventy-two hours ago, the news had burned up the Ethernet of a massive tower fire. Hundreds had to be evacuated, and there was one fatality. Metro PD had found charred remains inside the smoldering apartment. It didn't take long for investigators to uncover that the dead man was a tech jockey with heavy connections, a prominent science director with TexPax affiliation; this demanded discretion. The authorities omitted to the press that the man's head was missing; they did say the investigation was wrapping up, the cause of the blaze believed to be a faulty gas valve.

Ian Moreau rested in a closed casket. Sealed, the coffin hung in a motorized sling over a marble crypt, surrounded by powerful dignitaries of commerce and government. With seven years immersed in a classified enterprise, Moreau had engaged a mix of high-level technocrats and bureaucrats. Most of them were present for his final sendoff: Governor Regents, Viceroys, military brass, and senior Fedniks, three layers deep ringing the hole in the ground. Standing in the front row by himself was Secretary Balkan, gray and grim in his demeanor, Lisbeth Hunt a noted distance away wearing dark shades over her eyes.

A priest in a white smock stood at the head of the flag-draped casket as he performed the requisite rites that would usher the departed on his journey. His Excellency Dominic Lazard, TexPax Governor Regent of Oklahoma, gave the eulogy, evidence of Moreau's lofty fief standing. It was the usual spiel about dedication and service to the PIP -- and country -- a great humanitarian, and how his untimely demise was a loss to society.

They held their heads low, hands clasped, under a rain-proof EM field, generated from four portable wave emitters. The funeral party needed no tent as the charged air over them frizzled hot and crackled like a bug zapper, atomizing the rain. Those outside the artificial awning observed the service under suspended drone umbrellas as droplets drummed on their taut surfaces.

Though the shock of his sudden death was real to the gathering, besides a smattering of far-flung relatives, there were few true mourners. Whatever somber empathy given toward Moreau was at best ersatz. The viewers were obligated to be there -- to win, place and show for the cameras.

The folded flag passed to Moreau's sister.

A three-volley salute followed, jolting Lisbeth. She looked away, shades covering her tears, secrets wrenching at her. As people filed out, they queued to give Moreau's sister their final sympathies.

Lisbeth lingered behind, then walked up and offered, "Please accept my condolences."

"Thank you -- miss?" Moreau's sibling said.

"It's Beth. I was a close colleague of Ian."

"Ian was very smart, too smart for his good, always busy doing this or that. Most the time I never knew where in the world he was," the sister replied in a guarded manner. "So I never knew he had friends, though I'm glad he had you. Oh, I didn't mean it that way."

Lisbeth could feel her cheeks warming. "I'd hoped we'd meet under better circumstances. If there's anything I could do, please don't hesitate."

Moreau's sister nodded and shook her hand.

Lisbeth turned on her heel, hooded her head and stepped into the rain. At once, a drone umbrella paired with her and settled noiselessly over her head, keeping the rain away.

From the side, a male voice called out suddenly, "Undersecretary Hunt."

She stopped to find a reporter quick-stepping up to her. He had a mini-telescopic microphone earpiece aimed at her. "Would you care to comment on rumors you plan to leave Defense to be a Midland Affiliate?"

Lisbeth stopped and glared at the pack of news-hounds waiting to waylay VIPs. A camera orb spiraled in and hovered too closely; she swatted as if it were a gnat. "Scat!" At once, she realized her rashness. It made her look cantankerous and crabby going after that pesky thing. There was always somebody who saw them as pets. People adopted rocks and highways, why not AI orbs?

The spherical drone disengaged.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

"Gentlemen," Lisbeth said changing tack and smiling. "There is no such decision on my part or anyone else I know of."

"There are also rumors Caracas-gate has shaken up Defense and your departure is one of its aftershocks. Is this true?"

Lisbeth managed a labored smile. "No further comment. If you'd excuse me."

The reporters understood to fall back and snoop elsewhere.

When Lisbeth thought she was out of the media gauntlet, a different voice caught her attention.

"Are the lights too bright, Beth?"

Lisbeth pivoted, digging her heels into the wet grass, almost toppling over. A black suit approached under a floating umbrella. She recognized Balkan as she would a rash -- the more you scratch, the uglier it gets. "I'd like to get out of the rain if that's all right with you, Victor."

"You're not taking my calls."

"Is there a point to this conversation?"

"Last I checked you're my subordinate. I placed you."

"What do you want, Victor?"

"Talk?"

"Talk is cheap," Lisbeth said, turning away.

"Then it wouldn't cost you anything to listen," Balkan said, sidling up to her. "I see you've been crying. Shame about the accident."

"Don't try it."

"Try what?"

"It was no accident." She scoffed.

"Be very careful. What are you saying?"

"You have some nerve to show up at his funeral," she hissed with a cold chuckle. "The killer at the victim's wake."

"I didn't kill anyone," he said, acting surprised from her vehemence.

"And the lies keep on rolling."

"Keep your voice down."

"What's the matter, are the lights too bright?" She threw it back in his face.

He grabbed her arm and gave it a hard jerk.

"Get off," she growled, ripping it back.

"Don't be stupid," he warned, his eyes reflecting off her shades. Balkan nodded for his bodyguards to walk ahead, leaving him his own trailing rain canopy. "Not wise in front of the networks -- I see CNN, FOX, ADP, BBC . . ."

"Let's not forget FBI, DOJ, plenty of three-letters to choose from." She turned her head, then snapped back. "How could you?"

"What is it you think I did?"

"Stop the lying!"

The secretary sighed.

"You practically threw the plan at me and Oliver," Lisbeth cried. "Then you hired that maniac to do the job. So don't stand there like an altar boy. You may not have pulled the trigger, but you murdered him."

"And what does that make you?" Balkan snapped, which surprised her.

"I'm leaving, Victor," she said and felt relieved of the sopping shame. "You'll have my resignation tomorrow morning."

"You knew beforehand, didn't you?" Balkan said, standing his ground. "You knew he was going to defect with the stolen data, and yet you kept it from us."

Her tongue flattened, pinned by the truth. There was no convincing rebuttal.

"I could charge you with conspiracy and treason."

"I dare you to. We can both go down together."

"Don't cross that line, Beth darling. You won't like it. I have the backing of PIP and Fed. What do you have?"

"Justice would be very interested in my testimony, I'd say."

"I doubt you'd make it that far," Balkan said, lowering his voice just above the patter of rain. "But I'll make you a deal."

"I don't deal with murderers!" she spat.

"So says the traitor."

"Patriotism and treason are twin sisters, only time can tell them apart." Her face hardened.

"It doesn't have to be," Balkan offered.

"You're offering to buy my silence?" she laughed in pain.

"Whatever you wish. Promotion? An agency top position, fief affiliation, just name it."

"And I'm so easy to buy? You insult me."

"This is the carrot." He eyed her dangerously. "You won't like the stick, Beth. Take the carrot."

"Son of a bitch, spare me your damn threat," she said with affront. "I'm a public official. My visibility is my shield. I am not afraid of you."

The Secretary bristled, his eyebrows plunging, overhanging sharp bright eyes.

"What gets me is that you'll be POTUS soon, a soul with your dark disposition shouldn't have such power."

"It was Dallas' prerogative. Not mine."

She paused and choked. "No, not Dallas . . . by God." She lifted her dark glasses to her forehead. Her mouth twisted in grotesque scorn, pupils dilating with realization. "This was all your doing -- Caracas-gate, the video leak, POTUS losing face, all to get Dallas to switch the incumbent candidate. Am I right? You engineered it all."

"Calm down, Beth."

"Already you're head of the military and with your Praetorians, you control an independent force outside any checks and balances. You could wage a private war and no one could stop you."

"I have no such ambition."

"You're power-mad." She recoiled from him, her eyes wetting again, not from guilt as before but from a horrible truth that she was complicit in all this. He had used her. "That's why you had them all killed. Liabilities had to be eliminated."

"We're in the business of balance sheets, you forget, Beth."

"And to think I slept with you . . . God, I hate myself." She agonized with burning pain in her chest. "I'm going to be sick."

She bent over and heaved, the drone umbrella dropping likewise to block out the rain.

"This is how it's going to be," Balkan went on. "You sign an affidavit stating you knew of Moreau's intention and treason -- it's my insurance since the fairer sex tends to be capricious. In return, there's a position opening up in Anacostia needing a conscientious administrator. Lots of visibility and perks. Perfect for you."

He offered her his hand.

"Get away from me," Lisbeth said with disgust, pushing past him.

Balkan turned and resumed his path toward a black Cadillac stretch-hover parked a few yards away; his bodyguards fell in around him. But before he was out of earshot, he gave her a piece of parting advice. "Be smart and take the carrot, Beth."

The aerodyne he entered had an embossed logo on its fuselage, two letters, a capital T superimposed over a smaller X, both laser-etched in silver. Inside, a Governor Regent from Dallas was waiting for him.