The city of Reston had undergone drastic changes. Once a city proper in itself, the corridor of I-267 along the old Dulles Toll Road now fed directly into a gaping tunnel, disappearing under an imposing range of glass and steel towers crowned with huge parabolic dish antennas. Reston, hyphenated Oz after Secretary Frank Oz, a former Viceroy of TexPax who had first proposed its assumption under Eminent Domain, had taken on a central role in the business of Continental Security. Oz-Reston was headquarters to the Black Praetorians.

Ever since its ascendancy, Balkan's Special Security Service had been given a fortress city as its home, where relay stations and Cray supercomputers could pore tirelessly over gibberish data without concern. National Security often meant PIP Security. Cracking the communications codes of foreign governments and those of competing paramountcies were different only by degrees. Both mandates funneled intercepted signals to the substations and disseminated them in bulk from the same stream. No wonder then that Oz-Reston became a gravity well, pulling in friends and foes alike.

Within the high-security core that was inaccessible to the public, a black-mirrored building sat over where its town center once had. The trapezoidal structure resembled a monolithic ziggurat, a place of power for the cult of secrecy . . . and pain. It was also the new supermax Federal Detention Center.

A row of gleaming dragon's teeth, vehicular barriers, blocked the main electronic gate. A courtyard lay between the perimeter and the dominating building of One Justice Way. Though it was late, the structure beyond was lit up, every office and floor bright and active.

There was a doorway behind the post for personnel entry, so you didn't need to activate the entire barricade. Late at night, a woman dressed in a frumpy housecoat walked up to the guardhouse.

As she approached, a sentry stepped out of the box, one hand on his side holster.

"Ma'am, can I help you?"

"I'm the new RN," the woman said, looking timid. "I'm to report to the infirmary for the night shift. It's my first day." She handed him her clear badge.

"You're at the wrong entrance."

"I am?"

"Would you give me your arm, please."

She did as he'd asked. The security guard ran a DHS scanner down her forearm. He didn't notice a fresh scar under skin paint.

He radioed inside. "Control, Checkpoint Alpha -- I got a walk-in, her name is Maria Dominguez -- "

"Senora Dominguez," the woman corrected him though she didn't look a matron.

"Mrs. Dominguez . . . Yeah, she's been cleared by Homeland. Green-certified. No arrest warrant of any kind . . . Okay." He nodded at Maria. "Wait here, ma'am, someone will come to get you."

A few minutes later, a guard emerged from inside to escort the new nurse past the security perimeter.

The seal of the Special Security Service, etched in marble on the lobby floor, greeted everyone who entered the main atrium through the two rotating circular doors. Written in a dead language to awe the easily impressed, the designers had chosen a famous Spartan motto to represent the spirit of its charter: Aut cum scuto aut in scuto -- either with shield or on shield. The phrase exalted duty above self-interest.

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Security cameras zoomed in on Mrs. Dominguez as she walked through the lobby. She set aside her phone and personals and went through detector arches. Other than the Atlas chip, it found no sizable metal or explosives on or in her.

A female guard led her downstairs to the infirmary. Before that, Mrs. Dominguez made several detours of her own, wandering onto the open floor to face the wall of pictures before the escort set her back on course.

"Stay with me, ma'am."

"Very important people," she said to the escort by her side. "They are your boss?"

"They're photos of past officials who once held office. It's late, ma'am."

"You don't go home? You don't have boyfriend?"

"This is our home," the guard replied sadly.

They reached a long hallway with blue doors set every ten yards, each with a light above. If lit up, it meant the room was occupied, and not to be interrupted.

The escort led Mrs. Dominguez through a door stenciled with a gold C.

"Please wait here, a screener will be with you in a minute."

"Gracias."

The door shut. She heard a click, locked from the outside.

Mrs. Dominguez looked around the room. Small, no mirror. But there was a camera at the corner of the ceiling on the opposite wall. A red light on the housing told her it was live; she was being watched and the scanner was done through more than just white light. It painted a heat map of her face and measured stress in her voice. It could tell if her perspiration came from being nervous or if she were lying.

She didn't have to wait long.

The door opened as a male guard entered.

"I'm Officer Myers. I will be conducting your interview. Please sit."

Mrs. Dominguez chose a seat adjacent to him. Between them was a small rectangular table that had seen a good amount of use from the dents and scratches on its metallic surface.

"Are you comfortable, ma'am?"

Dominguez nodded, anxious to get it over with, stealing glances of the camera.

The interviewer brought out his PAD to log his observations and notes.

"You put me in record?"

"It's standard procedure," Myers said.

Mrs. Dominguez accepted.

The screener read from scanned data, "For the record, interview Charlie-780-Foxtrot is in session with Maria Dominguez, age 46, residing at 1951 Los Lobos Avenue, Zone 23, Maryland, hereby known as Personnel 5329-S. Case Officer, Drew Myers, that's me. The subject has no local criminal record, no military record -- obviously." Myers twitched his neck at the absurd question. "And is not connected to any subversive organizations to our current knowledge." The information he read was taken from a prior swipe of Dominguez's Atlas chip upon her admission through the front gate. "Date and Place of Birth, Juarez, Mexico, 2026. Naturalized North American, non-Affiliate status."

"Why all that?"

Myers looked up from the PAD. "This is just preliminary to give you clearance of the facility."

"Tests? Everything was done with Homeland."

"Well, they have their ways, we have ours. We canvass on reliability, patriotism, reputation, you understand. This is a full-time placement in Oz?"

Mrs. Dominguez grinned in a sheepish manner. "Nightshift."

"Then we have to do this, Mrs. Dominguez."

"You can trust me."

A few questions later, Officer Myers said, "See, all over," as if he had administered a painful injection. "No red flags, you're A-Okay. If you'd follow me, I will take you to your station."

He closed the PAD and escorted the nurse out.

Along the way to the elevator that would take them to the infirmary, Myers changed his tone, the professionalism replaced by a worried knowing.  "You're late. I expected you two hours ago. People are wondering why I'm still hanging around here and not be home."

"It is what it is," Porsche said, looking at the descending numbers overhead. "There are moving parts I can't change."

"Alright, your class B clearance is in the system. Your pass can get you into most places. My job is done. Good luck."

"No," Porsche said abruptly. "You're going to take me to where they are."

"I didn't agree to this."

"Not until then." She glared at him.

"You're going to get me cooked, dammit," Myers hissed, wiping the sweat from his forehead.