Tasìa rode the 750 Virago through El Hoyo. She was forced to take a roundabout route along the ugly sheets of gravel still dominant on the east end to reach an abandoned bridge that circled above the southern side of the complex.

The vines wrapped like beastly tendons around the bridge supports, fiercely pushing apart at the foundation. Sinkholes ran jagged along both lanes. Tasìa braked and revved up the engine after she handled each obstacle she encountered to consider how to approach the next one with due efficiency.

Though ever practical in these considerations, she could just pee herself with the thrill it gave her with each jump and side swerve Tasia took to avoid breaking her neck or falling thirty feet down.

Finally, this place is fun again.

Tasìa wasn't just thrill-seeking. The paths below were too badly strewn with abandoned equipment to make it through to the isolated back end valley in her scheduled time.

Up ahead, the roadway platform support had fallen entirely through, opening it up for a good dozen feet. Tasìa sped the bike up.

She bought the ultra-lightweight Virago for the kind of tricky maneuver she needed to make just now in case she ever got entangled in a car chase.

Tasìa hit the brakes at the same time she countered-levered with a thrust up using her thighs and wee haunches. The motion sent the bike flying up and to her right.

She realized she over calculated by several inches. No panic. Tasìa leaned her shoulders left to compensate. It was a most delicate maneuver. If she leaned her entire body, the bike would be tilted off-center.

The trick worked with the bike lining up just above the still intact guide rail. Tasìa hit the acceleration just before she landed, otherwise, if she kept the brakes held clutched down, it would have jerked her out of position.

Smoothly lined up now and going forward in full thrust, she made the jump across to the other side of the bridge.

Tasìa spotted beneath her in the gap between the opposite sides a rusted and much-damaged jeep with a pair of skeletons sprawled out on the hood.

Thrill-seekers gambled and failed, only to become food for the buzzards.

Tasìa laughed and she yelled out, fully throttled.

"¡Los saludo mis hermanos perdidos!"

-I salute you my lost brothers.

A mile further onward, the road leading from the bridge ramped down to the terrain below until it disappeared into chunks of asphalt broken apart by vine and weed.

Tasìa had to walk her bike another sixty feet until she reached the salted gravel path that led into the back valley.

Tasha hopped back on to the bike. In less than another mile, she was at the mouth of the valley.

A complex of office buildings stood on a short but squat twelve-foot high ridgeline to the East, on her left. A set of steps and access ramps led down to the remains of a former parking lot. The concrete now broken up by evasive brown shrubbery.

Further to the West, beneath a massive ridgeline, lay a twin set of slate pits.

The one furthest away from her was lit up in a glow of bright azure. In spite of this, it did not seem to add to the heat inside the El Hoyo microclimate.

What did she recall from her textbooks?

Energy without heat. Theoretical zero point.

She looked down at a set of pink-colored rocks that lay nearby the salted gravel path. Studying the pitted surfaces, Tasìa realized they were broken up fragments from a meteorite. Small weedy vines pulsated with movement along their surfaces. The plants clutched the rocks and pulled them to where they dug down with the ground engraved in ugly wedged burrows, all leading to the last pit.

Above the last pit stood a mesa that sprung up two hundred feet. On the top of which was a helipad with a radio tower and an accompanying service building.

A hanging bridge led off the mesa onto a stepped path beneath the ridgeline to the South where a set of steps routed back around to the office complex.

Abandoned equipment lay haphazard about the valley grounds. This included a crane leaning against the mesa.

Tasìa left her bike by the salted gravel. She took a duffle bag full of her effects with her. The TAC-50 long rifle, she slung over her shoulder.

Tasìa climbed up the crane. For the last several feet up, she had to scurry up the rocky surface to reach the platform on top.

Lunar shadow obscured the mesa on the previous evening's scout. Before she left home, Tasìa checked with a satellite map to determine if she needed to bring electric shears with her. Fortunately, the heliport appeared untouched by the ascospore invasion.

Her first objective was to locate the generator behind the service building. A small shed beside the generator contained several five-gallon buckets full of fuel stacked on top of one another. They were well sealed.

She took one down. She brought a titanium stiletto just for the occasion. With a quick punch of the blade into the enclosed mouth intake, she twisted and pulled up on it until it formed a funnel.

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She drained the generator of what remained of old fuel whose esters were long spent into an empty jug before replacing it.

After she got the generator running, Tasìa unzipped the duffel bag and brought out one of the toys she acquired from her Vida Esconda raids. She plugged it into a set socket.

This baby she held in her hands was the one toy that would do the most to equalize the upcoming battlefield to her better advantage. An infrared scrambler.

She brought out a pair of IR goggles to study the ground below her.

Along with several birds that nested in the crannies, there were a few small mammals that inhabited the ridgelines above the office complex to the East.

A pair of fat-tailed mouse opossums jiggled in rapid motion as they grabbed on to a ledge. They held on as if for dear life. While the little marsupials did so, they screwed.

The wonders of nature.

Then Tasìa chuckled.

She looks like her eyes are about to pop out.

By a picnic table near the office suite, Tasìa also caught sight of a family of peccaries grazing in grass so high she would most likely never have spotted them without the goggles.

Tasìa flipped on the infrared scrambler. Now the terrain below was an equalized blanket of hot white noise. She flipped a second button and thousands of decoys that appeared as lengthy snakes slithered up the walls of every vertical surface.

The effect was very effective as a psychological deterrent. Even if you knew it was an illusion through familiarity, it still tended to creep the fuck out of you.

Many a sniper's spotter had been rendered temporarily useless by the countermeasure.

Tasìa entered the service building and she placed a homing beacon on top of a desk.

She fiddled with the controls until the beacon was set for thirty minutes.

Before leaving the service building, Tasìa placed a burner phone beside the beacon.

Skipping down the bridge, Tasìa thought it odd that she was skipping. Perhaps the thylamys opossums put her in a good mood. Maybe she will find herself hanging off the edge of a ledge and having a good time of it, one day soon.

As pleasant as that sounded, she knew that wasn't the reason for her good mood. Tasìa enjoyed creating a good plan that went against the odds, and then executing it. There were many ways this could go wrong, however.

That did not cause her anxiety, she felt excited by the prospect of facing off with Lieutenant Colonel Álvaro Sol's men as they tried to capture her.

Tasìa opened the door to the main office building. She peeked inside. Commander Rojo sat in his chair reading out loud.

As she approached, he glanced up. He muttered what could have been advice for her.

"When your enemy advances, you withdraw from the battle; when he halts his march, you harass him while hidden; when he grows tired and weakened, and you are fresh and agile, you strike; when he flees in retreat, you advance and pursue him. Only thus, will the vicious cycle of battle ever be in your favor."

Tasìa was familiar with the book. It was a contemporary rewrite of a guide written over a hundred years ago. The rewrite was done by a legendary South American guerilla who possessed a legitimate claim to being a poet.

The original, however practical it may have been, was sparse in its language usage.

That simply wasn't the way of Tasìa's people.

Commander Rojo flipped his page. His brows tightened as he read from it.

A thin sheepish grin formed beneath his light beard.

"This one even you are not ready for, Little One."

Was he addressing her?

As a nanospore entity, he was part of the same system as Bajamutté. So, why not?

"Perhaps, I need that advice now," she answered to see if he would address her.

Commander Rojo shook his head and he let out a hearty laugh. He turned to the next page.

The neoPalm began to buzz against her thigh. Tasìa hoped it was Felicité offering her assistance. She did not want to make a call unless in real need.

She owed the Argentinian so many favors already, but if Felicité was volunteering to help . . . that was on her.

It wasn't Felicité. The name on the caller screen said D. H. The neoPalm Personal Assistant began to feel hot to the touch.

Tasìa flipped the okay tab down to receive the call; she answered.

"Hello, who is this?"

An aristocratic and highly feminine voice came through the speaker. She had heard that voice before.

No. It can't be.

"Tasìa del Alma-Gris, darling, I intended to meet you in the flesh, but I suppose now, that is not possible. However, there is an alternative route to our juncture. Could you put my Assistant down on the desk in front of you?"

Tasìa hesitated as she tried to process what was occurring.

"Like, right now, Tasìa. I am aware of the time constraints beset upon you, so if you could be a luv."

The neoPalm was now so hot it made her palms sweat. Tasìa did as instructed. The neoPalm began to shift colors from its natural tan red that mimicked leather to a bright scarlet neon. It whistled in a high pitch for a moment, before it settled back down.

It shifted back to the tan appearance of its mundane self.

In front of Tasia stood Demona Heloïste with her pretty heart shaped Arab face smiling down on her.

"The last I saw you, you were not looking so good," Tasìa stated.

"How do I look now," Demona asked.

"Fantastic. But that begs the question I was implying. How is it that you are here given the last time . . ."

"You saw me, I had an exit wound planted on the side of my face. Yes? Tasìa, I always knew the probability that I would see the grande mission (a quest really, in the classic knight-errant sense) to the end was so low as to be near to inconceivable. So, I made contingency plans to make sure the grande mission did not falter in the event of my death."

Tasìa chortled, feeling half a madwoman herself like the woman who stood before her. Commander Rojo also paused in his reading of the book ensconced in the red leather jacket. He studied Demona in utter fascination.

After catching sight of Tasìa's distraction, Heloïste turned around to follow Tasìa's gaze.

"Rojo," Demona asked, weakly.

He answered her.

"This. This. Cannot be."

Commander Rojo bowed his head down and read from his book once more.

Demona frowned when she turned back towards Tasìa.

"The change in the reality template that occurred with the Cull Spore Invasion broke him and his soldiers utterly. To a man, I have found they are entirely unable to process the change. As you likely guessed, I exploited the change so I could appear here before you."

Tasìa stood up.

"Are you an AI?"

Demona shrugged.

"Something like that, but not quite. I don't want to be rude and avoid answering your question, but I need to ask a favor of you, Tasìa. We have such little time, after all."

Tasìa leaned forward on the desk.

"Ask away."

"You are here to meet with the man who murdered me. I need you to deliver to him a message."