The muffled sound of the burning substance reached their ears; the pool of liquid mineral had stirred again, releasing its foul odor of overheated tar.

Fearful of getting caught up in another attack of the goo, both of them forgot the pain caused by the blows they received, and careful not to slip on the oily film that had remained on the ground, they sought protection behind the trees.

The purple blood of the Ita-Hu got up once again in the form of a liquid column and started to spin around its axis, shifting into a whirlwind that threw jets of hot steam just like a chimney.

Adam was more stunned than terrified, perhaps because he had survived the first onslaught. “Do you know of any strange radiation or something that might explain this?” he asked.

Malin shook her head and covered her nose. The stench emitted by the liquid tornado was strong.

But behind that extraordinary phenomenon, a new attack was lurking, and it was better to miss the show than to be devoured by it. They no longer had the protection of the suits which, even when they could be damaged, could have helped if that scorching violet tar attacked them again. What a bad idea had been to take them off! There was no time to pick them up and put them on. To be honest, though, if the amethyst tornado gave them another romp, no one was sure they would run with the same fate as before.

“Let’s go,” Malin said.

But some movements in the brushwood alerted them. Footsteps, many footsteps. A group of agents were coming through the path that crossed the thicket.

The newcomers, carrying large rifles on their shoulders, stopped beside them.

Adam knew they were not ordinary Satellites, even though they wore the inevitable dark glasses and the same lapidary expression that the rest of the agents he had met seemed to have by law. These were five men who looked like they all were made from the same mold: all tall and strong, with rough, clean-shaven faces, prominent jaws, and military-style haircuts; none with over three decades of life. Five tough young men, armed with towering weapons that rose almost to touch the trees’ leaves; five men who would have looked like a small battalion of soldiers were it not for their clothes: all five wore morning coats.

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Adam stopped his attention on his garments: long knee-length frock coats, black and flawless, as if they had been pulled from the dry cleaner before the agents had put them on; white shirts with shiny cufflinks; gray ties, gray gloves, gray pants, and black leather shoes. And the remarkable detail next to their chest: each one wore a brooch shaped like a nomenclature, from one to five.

Adam, who had known quite a bit of clothing from his modeling days, figured that such elegance must cost at least as much money as the insulating suits he and Malin had ripped.

“Splendid,” he praised them. He looked at the kind of place they were and reconsidered; “Ridiculous.”

And, although the way the agents were dressed produced the same feeling in Malin, her attention was focused on the enormous assault rifles that each of them carried. She knew its design; it was an S747, a rifle with two barrels of different calibers; the upper barrel was a thin six-millimeter barrel, while the lower barrel was a fifty-millimeter grenade launcher, a muzzle wide enough to fit a tennis ball.

Having gone through the jungle keeping such an unreal elegance, carrying those weapons that could make anyone lose their balance, was so surprising that led Adam to look at them from top to bottom with little subtlety.

Without taking their eyes off the tar tornado, the five dressed in morning coats got close to them.

“I’m Number One of the Satellite Force Team,” the one who was perhaps the tallest of the five—if there was a difference in height between them—introduced himself. He was one head and a half taller than Malin. He had brown skin and wide lips; his eyebrows were two thick lines of black hair, which stood out above his glasses. Like the other four, the brooch on his chest showed the nomenclature that identified him.

Malin had heard of the Satellite Force Team while serving in the Imperialist ranks and knew the reputation that preceded them, the good and the bad. The F-Team, as it was known, was all muscle and no brain. According to her father and other veteran officers, the F-Team was a group of fickle and undisciplined teenagers who only cared about putting a bullet in the target and highlighting that halo of rock stars that surrounded them. Well, it seemed she would have the pleasure of forming her own opinion about them quite soon.

None of the agents had gas masks or other chemical protection items in sight, which meant there were no direct threats to them in the environment. It was unlikely that Halstein, having already witnessed the Ita-Hu phenomenon, would dispatch his best men without the necessary precaution had that been the case. Well, one less thing to worry about.

“By order of the District Chief you must return to the camp,” Number One said. “We’ll take care of the situation.”

Malin crossed her arms and nodded toward the purple whirlwind. “Okay, Number One, what makes you think you guys could handle this? It doesn’t matter if your rifles are S747s; that thing won’t go down with bullets.”

The big guy nailed his eyes on Malin, didn’t even bother to see what she was pointing at. He stood motionless, waiting for them to obey him; he had already spoken.