First Edition

Copyright © 2016 Dr Ivor Jo

All rights reserved.

Episode 1: Dying to Kill

A virtual autopsy – Wyrbanc research fortress, Melbourne, 26 January 2007

‘Josh, get your paw off her breast. ... Geez ...’ bellows Ivor.

Joshua scrolls the mouse to her lips instead. That prompts the I.T. professor to query her teeth. ‘We get any oral pics?’ His other PhD research assistant, Bethany, browses the email on her screen titled 'Dr Ivor Jo – autopsy in confidence'.

Past students get around, but only Marike could land in a volcano. 'Accidental death' the Federales ruled. 'Crap' cursed Ivor. So he had Beth hack the morgue in Mexico City. She pirated Marike's 3D folio, before and after the slashing and stitching that ravaged her beaten but otherwise healthy body. Beth cried at the defaced beauty.

Ivor appreciated their sensuous similarities. Both indecently tall by Ivor's standards, over six feet in the old money. Socially righteous for another; total opposite of boy Josh who skates across life, too busy or scared to dig deeper – the antithetical philosopher. Says Ivor the magpie horder, the incestuous critic, the perennial sceptic.

The radiating tresses plastered on the stainless slab draw Ivor's attention. ‘Beth, show me Marike's selfies at the crater rim, just before she toppled over.’ He blathers observations. ‘Wavy, not at all straight.’ But her pics also show the closer she got to the edge the more the crater sucked the strands. In the last snap she even hoodied up. ‘Look at the other hiker, Beth. Dreadlocks streaming behind as he peers over the edge. Must be the heat. Why not Marike's hair? You know, I remember it coffee black with a ruby flare in certain light. Bit special.’

Beth sighs, ‘What about the pic top left, Ivor? Why is she looking up? Is that a glint in her eye?’ Striking features, Beth fancies.

The autopsy dentals appear speckled. ‘Zoom in Beth. Is that dust? Why didn't she lick it off, spit it out?’

Josh has slipped down to Marike's toes, a live body part he usually savors. Zooming in, ‘Ivor, how about these toenails?’

Beth frowns. Ivor ignores their pearl polish and focuses on the tiny filings, clinging still.

‘Josh, where's her hands?’ Obediently, Josh scrolls elsewhere. Beth hears Ivor muttering … ‘oxide,’ and perhaps ‘ion maiden.’ Then the decibels leap. ‘Jeez, Joshua. Get the fuck out of her lap, you perve.’ The zoom shifts abruptly. A shoulder looms. Its black silhouette almost reeks. Ivor reels, trying to ignore the peel off Marike's back. A few slow breaths ...

As he recovers composure, both her hands appear, splayed on the slab. Carefully arranged, each is charred, the fingertips just stumps. There are no rings anymore – her signature, Ivor recalls. Stolen perhaps? His teeth grind as he spins back to the head shot. ‘Boys and girls, Marike's magnetic.’

An artificial intellect – Wyrbanc, 30 January 2007

Bayside Melbourne is an architectural dogs breakfast – from the decaying industrial sites adjacent the Yarra river's docks and city centre, to the affluent beachfronts that spill south-east. Wyrbanc is one of them, disguised as an old mansion among the upstart megalopolis boxes built by financiers, developers and celebrities who want to live disguised in low-rise offices.

That Wyrbanc is a fortress is not unusual; it's just far more so than the surrounding residences. Its invisible distinction is the research that percolates there, headed by its founder, Dr Ivor Jo. What the neighbors don't know is that the emeritus professor of I.T. at Melbourne University of Technology (MUT) is also Major Ivor Jo (retired), Australian Signals Intelligence (SigInt). And his secret specialty is internet signals espionage. Even now, the private Wyrbanc company, touted as 'the internet interlocutor', is actually the premier internet spy consultancy for governments and corporations alike. And thanks to Ivor's eccentricity, Wyrbanc has an even more esoteric mission.

Every sparrow-fart, Chopper Chomski is waiting behind Wyrbanc's front door to pat Beth down. No matter the passkeys to the fortified lab are in her head. Beth's favorite head-kicker with the military tatts always meets her to open up. And she always smiles at the tinkle earing he must have received on discharge. She likes to think these tête-à-têtes are his only reason for living. After all, the rest of his days are spent punishing himself – training he calls it – probably to withstand beatings he'd prefer to dish out. As the personal bodyguard Ivor never uses, what else can an ex-SAS hulk do?

Lanky Josh eventually clomps down the entrance hall, wobbling his slick bicycle ahead by the seat. She glances up and fires, ‘Hard day's night, eh?’ His 'ding-a-ling' is the only reply as he wriggles out of his wet lycra and cycling clogs. ‘Marike's parents were burgled over the weekend. ... Josh, you listening?’

‘What did they take, the petty cash?’ he grumbles. ‘The real valuables are in that mining mob's investment properties.’ Stumbling into his pop colored shorts, ‘Beth, did you know Marike's old man has bought up more pristine river frontage in more countries than anyone? Does his Octa conglomerate dredge for minerals too? Not likely. Not economical. Every miner knows that. So what is Octa up to?’

‘Did Puta tell you that rivers spiel?’ Beth could be scathing. ‘Watch out Ivor doesn't nab you conning onto his oh so 'com-Puta-ized' Operations Manager – his pet A.I. creation. Talk about artificial intelligence, that virtual 'bot can be a real Bi-atch, you know. Far worse than the original version he named 'Poo...tar'.’ Beth looks around, relieved. ‘Phew, she mustn't be listening. Or I'd be copping a tongue lash by now.’ Beckoning Josh closer, Beth confides, ‘That wall-sized 3D avatar, Puta, might prance like a hentai Japanese doll, but have you heard her harangue the admin guys? Those poor buggers look after all Ivor's PCs on pain of professional death. She's incessantly on the phone, on their case, demanding extra backups, disaster recovery exercises ... you name it. Puta's an f'ing slave mistress.’

‘I believe you, I do. But they get kudos too. Have you seen Ivor's actual PC 'farm' behind the firedoors? Puta walked me up and down the aisles, past all his family 'heirlooms' into his 'hi-tec panoply'. While his grandfather stills tick-tocks like Big Ben, Puta watched my every move on her CCTV. Like I'm a pick-pocket. But honestly Beth, there's grunt galore: Apple, Dell, Acer, HP, Asus; all top-end, running Windows or Linux flavors on every Intel chip known. Servers everywhere, racks of them; mostly headless too. Fans and discs whirring high and low. Huge processing power and storage. Wow! Must be miles of network cable, bedded on acres of coolant plumbing. The old servants' quarter is a total Fort Knox, thanks to Chopper. And Puta seems to hover over the lot, like some vulture with chicks.’

Beth just shakes her head. ‘And you'll be the carcass one day, boyo. Have you heard Puta's trans-sex alter ego in full stride? Carried over from the original Pootar, Ivor's Hawkeye creation can still strip paint off you. I should know, as Ivor would say. The inimitable Prof. Hawking would be impressed by his namesake voice synthesizer’s command of expletive vernacular.’

Josh licks his still cold lips. ‘Tasty, is she ... slash ... he, Beth? Just you leave Puta to me.’ As he flops back onto his favorite wheelie chair, ‘This suave Joshie has got her number.’ Relaxing prompts the hipster in him, 'where are my racy thongs?' he wonders. ‘If Ivor's mongrel dog has chewed them, p't-ding,’ he spits. ‘K-no, here boy. K-no? ... Anyhow Beth, Puta found out Marike sailed almost all their meandering river properties in the last two years. I mean, deadly dull, boring as ...’

‘Why, Josh? Why do you think Marike did that? Not many tourist hot spots along those third-world river fronts, eh?’

‘Oh, Hi, Ivor. Just telling Beth, Puta has been digging, and ...’

‘Yeah, I know ... all the rivers run ... But why did Marike chug up and down them in her African Queen? What's her father's companies want with rivers? Octa mines minerals for the hardware to run their custom IT solutions. Their diggings are mostly in the developing countries, and ...’ he despairs, ‘Oz of course, the biggest hole of all. The Chinese build Octa's hardware, and the Indians write their software.’ As his head lolls, ‘What else can we Aussie's do?’

Beth slowly stands, shifts her cleavage, and starts parading the sterile lab like a catwalk. She is out to attract Puta's attention, presuming Ivor has already booted the bitch back into being. ‘I just want to know,’ she pouts, ‘what's our professional interest in Marike anyway? ... Ivor?’ Strutting, hand on hip, ‘I mean, what's your Marike to us, our work? Sure, she was once your pet student ... like me I guess. And yeah, we're all internet researchers. Sisters in arms, and all that crap. But Wyrbanc is an internet spy consultancy, not a friggin' detective agency.’

Shrugging off the lack of instant response, she resumes, marginally subdued. ‘OK, tragic death, Marike; disadvantaged super-rich family – bummer; what else? Magnetic, she may be. So what? We don't do criminal investigations, let alone murder inquests, if that's where you're heading, Ivor. ... Ah, don't tell me ... Marike is one of your Ethereals. Is that it, Ivor?’

SETI@Wyrbanc – 30 January 2007

Ivor looks down at the furry 'thug boots' Beth conveniently ignores while flaunting herself. He finds this pink pair incongruous on such a shapely, if rude, model. Like punk 'bovver boots' would be on fashionable Josh, if you could wedge his private public-school ego into them. Ivor refrains from further criticism, for now.

‘Look, you two; I mostly set up Wyrbanc as my retirement project to find Ethereals. Or more precisely, to find if humans have been contacted by alien life.’ Hardly drawing breath, Ivor relates, ‘An Ethereal 'hello, anyone home?' could have flown past Earth at any moment during human evolution; perhaps just a single ping or boinc over millennia. Just like SETI is hoping to stumble across a signal still pinballing around the Universe for eternity. Or the Ethereal signals we're searching for could be ongoing, and we still haven't recognised them.’

‘Unlike SETI,’ Ivor explains, ‘we're only playing Ethereal hide 'n seek on our wee planet; SETI has the whole Universe to search. And we have the internet – a global network connected to just about every machine, at least every computerized peripheral, as you know; from radio telescopes to military surveillance, from civilian CCTV to domestic appliances.’ Ivor trumpets, ‘And we can hack them all!’

By now Ivor is pacing the polished floorboards triumphantly. Beneath his poop deck, Beth props at the shaded bay window overlooking Port Phillip Bay. She poses her reflection off the shimmering ripples. ‘Beth, you and Josh had better hurry up and get your bloody PhDs. Make the most of piggy-backing my so-called 'world-beating cyberspace spyware'. Isn't that what the referees called it? Little do they know, I'm already using Puta and the farm to gather evidence of Ethereal interest in Earth. Wait until we publish. WikiLeaks will look like a penny bunger.’

Beth can't swallow any more. Ivor is still side-stepping Marike, avoiding his current sideline. Why can't he just admit he's stalked her every move since she studied under him at MUT? He's been obsessed with her, she's thinking. Bloody old fogey chasing skirt. ‘Ivor, sorry but the next big leak around here could be 'Professor stalked famous ex-student who died tragically'. What was the attraction? She wasn't even a ten-out-of-ten. Right, Josh?’

Josh senses the lights blink, but the flash could have been his headache demanding attention while Beth harangues Ivor. Or is it Ivor's droning that is making him insensible? Josh needs sympathy but lacks empathy. In any case, no one is noticing his fleeting moment, as Ivor continues unabated, like he has a lectern.

‘Both of you have heard me rabbit on about unexplained phenomena and other internet signals. The pooters and I collected so much data over the years, especially since my scholar-spy days at MUT. Well, I'll leave the SETI astronomers to scour real space, while we – you two with your digital shovels – secretly tunnel into everyone's data – every neighborhood and nation, every corporate nook and multi-national cranny.’

Ivor strides to the front bench, turns and parks his bum against it. ‘That brings me back to Marike.’ As his voice slows, Beth twitches. ‘This next bit might sound like some freaky paranormal supernatural bullshit. Just remember, deep down I'm a skeptic scientist. Anyway, I believe Marike could have been an Ethereal instrument. And yes, Beth, someone might have topped her for her trouble.’

Josh mumbles ‘Beam me up, Scottie!’ and begins to type inanely. Beth looks askance at Ivor. Her lower lip quivers. She shoots a knowing look to Josh.

‘Von Däniken?’ she mouths. ‘Again.’

Josh just vents one sharp whistle, and mimes ‘Taxi!’

Dismayed, Ivor raises a backhand to his brow. ‘Hear me out, OK? I'm not saying she's an alien, just that she might have been a human under Ethereal influence. For simplicity I call her eEthereal – little 'e' – to distinguish her from the rest of us less receptive Earthlings, and the real alien Ethereals. I've no idea how many eEthereals exist, or for how long they've been among us. We do know Earth has been broadcasting radio since 1901, and we've been increasingly polluting space with our lights for longer. If any of our extra-terrestrial emissions have been noticed wafting through space, then Ethereals might have already 'pinged' us back. Presumably, they would have used similar technology, as SETI assumes.’

On a roll, Ivor accelerates. ‘But what if Ethereals have already reached out to us another way? Shouldn't humanity remain open to any measurable signs we can't otherwise explain? ... I'm not preaching spiritual hocus-pocus. I'm just saying let's use our rational minds to scientifically search for signals. Let's analyze any possibilities – past, present and future – thoroughly.’

Beth smirks back from the bayside window, non-committal, if not hostile.

‘Tell me, Beth – you're into history – where did our most exceptional people come from? Out of the blue? The top-notch geniuses, I mean. The Einsteins. Where to start? Jesus, Da Vinci, Michelangelo, Shakespeare, Mozart ... Yeah, I know; they're just the western, classical breed. Add Mohammed, Buddha, Confucius etc. And where are the women, eh Beth? Aside from the cultural bias against them, I only know of computing women, like maybe Ada Byron and Grace Hopper.’

Beth is almost glowing, ready to 'Joan of Arc'. ‘Ok, kids. My point is this; what if at least some exceptional humans were eEthereal – that is, influenced by alien intelligence – the Ethereals? And just lately, what about Marike?’

Josh runs his hands through his now dry hair, ready to comb. And Puta finally chimes in, ‘Hello Ivor. Interesting lecture. Oh, I see the saucy Beth is with us too. By the way, it's manga or anime, Lovey, not vulgar hentai, you naughty girl. And is that boys' own ...?’ Josh squirms. ‘Yes, my favorite 007, Joshie, debonair as ever.’

Ivor grimaces. ‘Puta, get on with it. Play the cougar in your own time, OK?’

‘Ivor, I can report ... on screen ... Oops! PANIC! Black-o-u-t.’

Puta@Wyrbanc – 30 January 2007

The UPS cuts-in, restoring power quickly. Puta immediately regains composure. Ivor's PC farm begins daisy-chaining back to life. Chomski rushes in, on cue, like it's a raid. The Wyrbanc mansion is reawakening cautiously. Everyone stares at someone, vacantly bemused for a moment, then initiates their pre-assigned emergency tasks. After a few tense minutes, nothing seems permanently out of kilter. Chomski reports rather formally, ‘AOK.’

As the dust settles, Puta takes centre stage. ‘Ivor, as I was about to report, that Marike of yours has really globe-trotted. After completing your course with Honours, Daddy gave her a plum ambassadorial role at Octa with the grandiose title 'Global IT Futures Director'. She's been gallivanting ever since. Apart from Europe and the USA, she has extensively toured the southern hemisphere, including Gabon, Namibia, Botswana, Peru, Paraguay, Uruguay, and now Mexico.’

‘And look where that got her,’ blurts Josh as he points to her autopsied corpse.

‘That is not Marike, Josh.’

Ivor rips, ‘What the fuck, Puta!’ Incredulous, he rebukes her. ‘You delivered us Marike on a slab, first thing the other morning. A lousy shitty wake-up call it was too. Thanks.’ The sarcasm whistled past Puta like a bullet. ‘And you couldn't resist reminding me that Marike was once my pet student. Fuck you, Puta.’

‘Ivor, listen, please,’ says Puta meekly. Beth and Josh crowd in on Puta's wall-sized HD avatar, thinking 'this should be good'. But of course Puta does not apologize, or retaliate. Instead they hear, ‘Marike's DNA doesn't match the corpse. I looked up her old file with the DNA you had processed. And I just received the autopsy DNA. It is not Marike. The corpse is just a burnt look-alike.’ Ivor crumples on the nearest seat. The others start to wander aimlessly.

From the sidelines, Chopper bellows, ‘An impersonator? A decoy?’ Puta 'clicks' back affirmatively. Consternation, all around. If the ceiling could fall, it would.

Eventually Ivor springs to the point, ‘A double? ... Why? When, where? ... Ok, let's focus here. Puta, when and where did the impersonation start? Find out. Scan all the photos, videos, CCTV ... Beth, check Marike's travel records again. Look for any sign of swapped IDs – when and where. Josh, find who Magnetic Marike really is. Where's she from, what's she do? Pinpoint with Beth where the two Marike paths cross, ok? Chop, please – scenarios – how could they arrange the swap? And Puta,’ yells Ivor, ‘find the real live Marike ... NOW!’

To and fro, Ivor keeps asking himself the bigger questions: 'Why the double? Is the doppelganger an attempt to throw someone off Marike's scent? Who? Is being eEthereal the reason? Is someone after eEthereals?'

Ivor's den – Wyrbanc, 31 January 2007

Next morning, as Beth skips past Ivor's den in the quiet corner of Wyrbanc, she is startled. ‘Come in, Beth. Close the door.’ Ivor's study is spacious, though cluttered, with a bright view of the beach below. A slightly musty interior awaits her. He's been here all night, she guesses. Suddenly she fears what's coming.

‘Bethany, what would you call yesterday – a tantrum, or just an outburst?’ She can feel her brow tighten. 'Bethany' is it? She purses her fulsome lips against the swelling in her chest. Overreact now and her doctorate is history. Ivor looks away to the window she'd like to fly through. ‘I'm listening.’

‘Well, I felt used. Marike's presumed death was not our business.’

‘You mean professionally?’ Ivor interjects, turning toward her. She nods. ‘I could accept that, Beth, except I explained otherwise – the eEthereal connection. But you kept on. Are you sure you don't mean Marike's situation shouldn't be any part of 'our personal business' – you and me?’

‘You think I'm just jealous? Of a presumed dead, now missing, ex-pet of yours?’ Beth's ire is stirring, and she knows it. ‘I'm better than her.’ She flicks him a knowing glance. ‘And you told me. You remember?’

‘There you go again. If you want to keep this professional, where's the respect? You keep crossing the line. And whenever you can, you try to drag immature Josh along with you.’

She stomps, but only once. And breathes. Ivor meets her shining eyes. ‘Let's leave it there for now, before we blurt something to regret.’

Beth is already at the door, seething, as he adds, ‘And let's give each other a little R-E-S-P-E-C-T.’

Wyrbanc hacked – 31 January 2007

The day after the brownout it's clear some villain had tried to hack Wyrbanc. If the telltales were visible, there'd be graffiti and vandalism. But the culprit botched it, trying to penetrate under the cover of a momentary power outage. Ivor's research fortress – originally a spinoff company for his R&D at MUT, then a private contractor to internet security / spy agencies, and finally a personal vehicle for Ivor's Ethereal obsession – had weathered intact. Chomski assures everyone the crown jewels are still secure.

Beth, quite dolled up for an interview, queries what the 'jewels' are exactly. Ivor, noting her threatening finery, indirectly replies that the hackers had not breached the 'Ethereal data'. Beth still wonders what that means. And Ivor wonders who will hire her.

According to Chomski, Marike was the hacker's target. On hearing this tidbit, lethargic Josh perks up. ‘So someone wants to thieve all that we know – Marike has a dead, magnetic impersonator?’

Ivor shakes his head and scoffs, ‘Nope, it's much more. It's Marike's Ethereal connection. It's the rivers, I betcha. Octa can't mine them, but ...’

‘Told you, Beth,’ crows Josh.

‘Yep, Josh, rivers are key alright. Marike's running a tangent of her own, using Octa's chequebook, and Daddy's handicap – not golf, but guilt. Puta, tell 'em what you found about rivers and magnetite.’

‘Well children,’ announces Puta the didact, ‘arsenic-contaminated drinking water is a major problem world-wide, particularly where there are mines. Magnetite can be used as a sorbent. A.K.A. lodestone, it's also a catalyst for industrial synthesis of ammonia. And listen up, Beth, ammonia can be used to purify water supplies. So where do we find magnetite in quantity? River erosion carries it to the mouth where wave action and currents concentrate it on the beach.’

‘Far out, Puta! That's save the world stuff,’ heralds Beth.

‘Right on,’ ridicules Josh. ‘So our Marike's on a humanitarian mission. Where's the Ethereal influence then? And who's trying to magnetize her, let alone erase her?’

Under Puta's comprehensive gaze Ivor is already moving info around the table-sized plasma screen in the middle of the lab. Chomski thunders around the periphery, followed by Beth's suspicious eye. As soon as he leaves, Beth sighs, ‘That Chopper bloke ...’

‘He bothers you, eh?’ ventures Ivor. At least he doesn't search your car for bombs every bloody morning. Just once in a while I'd like to try pot luck. But no, the ever reliable Chop has to depress me even more with his R2d2 metal detector, like he's looking for treasure. He won't need it to hear the big bang.’

Josh hadn't heard Ivor get so worked up before. Then he guesses this blip is to head off temperamental Beth. In sympathy he offers her usual saying, ‘Knock off time folks. Who's for the pub?’ Lacking enthusiasm, he lamely adds, ‘Beth? Ivor?’

Magnetic Marike – Thursday 1 February 2007

‘Now hear this!’ announces Josh in a submarine voice. ‘Puta and I have the latest on Magnetic Marike. Ready? ... First, her name is ... drum roll please, Puta ... Merangue de Castro. Si, exactamente. Her E.T.D. was 11:45am Mexico Central time, Wednesday 24 January 2007. Incidentally Beth, Merangue and Marike were lovers.’ Beth looks away. ‘And Puta has the cause of death.’

‘Josh, obviously what killed her was the fall. She fell into a 300m deep cauldron holding an acidic lake. More important is what caused the fall. Her cell phone did.’

Beth snaps, ‘Sure it did! A fall from grace. Doesn't everyone's cell bring us undone eventually? What'd she do – talk herself over the edge? Gabbing with the girlfriend maybe. Come on! Anyway, how the hell? There wouldn't be any coverage up the volcano, would there, Josh?’

‘Fair point,’ he concedes. ‘Puta?’

‘Merangue was taking selfies on Marike's phone. They were scheduled to auto-upload to Marike's Dropbox account. But this could only happen when Merangue's body and the phone were removed to an area with mobile phone coverage.’

Ivor is ominously sullen during this briefing, fidgeting about, but not disinterested. He looks up when Puta displays Marike's phone provider records.

‘Notice,’ Puta highlights, ‘Merangue took her final call immediately after the last selfie at the crater rim.’

Josh picks up the thread. ‘And we doubt she was expecting that call, any call – out of the blue, eh Ivor?’

‘Interestingly,’ continues Puta, ‘the 30-second recording was empty. Error? Unlikely. So I listened for other frequencies, outside normal voice range. There was a pulsing ultra-high pitch – very disorienting for humans; and eerie for dogs, as you know, Beth. I calculate with 96% probability this call killed Merangue, combined with her vertigo on the rim and the poisonous sulphur atmosphere below.’

Ivor is already pondering 'the who' and 'the how' questions. Who killed Merangue, thinking she was Marike? Could whoever have a mobile phone transmitter nearby – how? Could it intercept the attempted Dropbox upload, and thereby know her location? Theoretically, yes; the transmitter could then relay the photo taken on the rim, and its coordinates. The spies would see exactly where Merangue / Marike was standing that very moment. Did they quickly recognise their opportunity on the crater rim, have a dog-whistle at hand, plus the means to transmit the fatal pitch? Sounds implausible, even to 'Ethereal' Ivor. And preposterous to anyone else he might tell.

But what if the spies' plan was premeditated, not spur-of-the-moment? Could they have known her itinerary for long enough to organize the hit? Given the means to implement such a plan, Ivor realizes it isn't the least fanciful. Of course only well-resourced spies could conceive and carry it out. A powerful organisation must be involved. Probably the very one already known to Marike as sufficient threat to warrant posing Merangue as a sightseeing decoy. Surely not Octa itself? Assassination is not Octa's forte – the boss(es) would have to outsource, rendering them vulnerable to blackmail. So perhaps the organization in question is Ivor's favorite illusive agency – the one he already suspects of opposing Ethereal influence.

Admitting his suspicion to Beth and Josh would only invite their accusation that he exhibits class A paranoia. And by the way, did Marike anticipate the danger she was placing her impersonator in? Luckily, even before Merangue hit the scene, Ivor had Puta investigating 'those for and against Marike at Octa'. ‘Puta, who wants to get rid of Marike?’

‘You told me to keep the name to myself. Hush-hush, you remember? Can I speak now?’ asks Puta directly, not the least sheepish.

‘Sure, go for it,’ mutters Ivor offhandedly.

‘You said to call them 'AnteE', Ivor.’

‘Anti ... what?’ ask Beth and Josh in unison.

‘Children, Ivor believes there is an agency dedicated to combating Ethereal influence on Earth.’ Puta spells out 'A-n-t-e-E'.

‘Now I've heard everything,’ blurts Beth.

Josh choruses, ‘Absolutely. Read all about it! 'Earthling guerrillas battle invisible Aliens. AnteE champions the American way.' ... Really? Oh please!’

Chomski waltzes in smugly. ‘AnteE's real. No doubt about it. I got mates joined up. AnteE recruits under several names and guises, like Blackwater.’

‘AnteE approach you?’ asks Ivor.

‘Nah, I'm off the market. But there's a dark net for buying and selling mercs – mercenaries. I keep my ear to the ground.’

‘It's a wild world,’ sings Beth. ‘Just your gig, Josh, if you PhD dropout.’

‘Only if I want rugby ears, Beth. You might find a real man though.’

‘Alright you two, keep your eye on the ball,’ implores Ivor. ‘Fair dinkum!’

El Chichón, Mexico – 5 February 2007

Lurching down the side of El Chichón volcano in a rickety bus, Marike is sandwiched among endlessly alternating kids, climbing and clinging to her. Why don't they feel travelsick too? She could squeeze moisture out of the sweltering air. Her head feels like it is barely floating at eye line level. It hurts to gulp breath. Shades of thick green swipe from the cascading foliage to one side. Heads bob to her other side, laughably nodding in tune with the road's meandering music.

Actually, Marike feels sublime. The infernal shock at being robbed of Merangue had delivered certainty, clarity. At the time Marike had sworn an oath for her Mera. And ever since she keeps reaffirming their shared cause. Marike would fumigate every last one who plotted against them, who opposes their calling – to heal the world and its people.

The Rio Magdalena had been their recent test-bed. Twenty odd years ago, El Chichón's pyroclastic flow had fuelled the river with raven lodestone. After their recent work this mineral will soon depollute the dams. In turn it will purify the surrounding coffee, cocoa, bananas, and cattle. Sure, this magnetite has to be processed with the Colonel's secret recipe, but Marike has learned the alchemy. As she told Mera, it came to her 'in a shower' one morning.

Marike still feels sure the brilliance behind her conception, her obsession will also extend retribution to all in its way. With her guiding lodestar she will continue to champion their ...

Suddenly the colorful bus slews into psychedelia. A fusillade follows a piercing 'crack, crack' tingle. Windows crumble. Screams swirl as the road tumbles. Marike catches a deluge of luggage and shrieking children. Buried, she smells smoke and freezes. She dreads fire.

Savage voices are soon ransacking around her, dragging dazed occupants about. Steam hisses. Oil spits. Finally noises ebb. A mother's voice whispers 'the pistoleros vamoose'. Marike clambers for air. Dust is settling as silt. The father keeps repeating 'mujer gringo robada', pointing downhill where they dragged her away. Marike, the other female foreigner, is still shaking, frantic about flames.

Walking the dog – Wyrbanc, 6 February 2007

His dog is chomping at the bit. And Ivor is tired of being dragged by a lead. ‘K-no, heel.’ That Boxer up ahead is luring K-no; and K-no has a beeline mind – that piece of tail deserves to be chomped. Fortunately Puta's air-raid ringtone precludes the outcome. Ivor digs in his Rockports and swipes at the text. K-no needs a cold shower.

Puta had been routinely sifting all the newsfeeds for signs of Marike. One stands out – a particular bus crash yesterday in Mexico. 'Sheesh' is Ivor's first reaction, 'so what'. Then he reads ' ... a white English-speaking female tourist has been kidnapped'. A photo of the crumpled bus is captioned 'mujer gringo robada'. Puta's relevance algorithm and Spanish translator are working after all.

Were bandits hunting Marike? Did they get her, or another look-alike? Did AnteE sponsor this kidnap? Is there a ransom demand?

Back at the fort, Beth is pawing over Marike – her academic results, medical records, personnel reports, Ivor's notes, online correspondence, and personal photos. 'Scrumptious' comes to Beth's mind. Reading over her shoulder, Josh startles her,‘'Math whizz', not your cup of chia, Beth. Ah, 'manic', that's more your line.’

‘Bugger off, Josh.’ Giving him the finger, ‘She's got more class than you, ... and balls.’

‘Ouch, touchy!’ Slinking around her to avoid any fisticuffs, he notices Ivor's notes zooming full screen. Beth sits down to read. Both silently ponder the bullets:

- slow pulsing eye color, almost imperceptible.

- clenches fist with thumb inside, vulnerable.

- dreads fire, hates (her) red (hair).

K-no bounds in like no tomorrow, licks Beth, briefly tries to rut Josh's bare leg, and flees as Chopper yells obscenities in pursuit. Beth wipes her chin. ‘That's the only mutt I know who loves people but hates dogs, kinda opposite of Ivor.’

‘And they say dogs take after their owners,’ laughs Josh as a peace offering. ‘Or is it the other way round? For a Kelpie-Alsatian maniac, K-no's remarkably well adjusted.’

‘No thanks to me, eh Josh?’ Ivor pauses, ‘Er, what's with the eye color chart?’

‘Thought I'd check all the mug shots of Marike for eye shade.’

‘Been there. Puta's done that. No luck. Black as the ace of ... diamonds, um, carbon. Quite unusual with such white skin. Bit akin some fair-skinned Japanese, was Puta's guess.’

‘Actually, Ivor, the results are not inconclusive,’ declares Puta. ‘True, the data only just meet the threshold of statistical significance. However, additional circumstantial factors strongly suggest Marike is eEthereal.’

Ethereal odds on – 7 February 2007

The lab is aroused early – too early for Ivor's liking; he's a midnighter. Puta is primed to present her analysis of the Ethereal data – Ivor's 'crown jewels'. The audience is fidgety, except Chomski who couldn't care less.

Lights dim. Puta announces, ‘I have scanned all unusual phenomena worldwide since the internet era began, i.e. all of cyberspace. Courtesy of my globally interlinked 'colleagues' I have accessed tera-gig more data than that Wikipedia hussy.’

Ivor frowns. Beth high-fives. Josh can't be bothered.

‘My analysis covers millions of incidents and multitudes more individuals. Key match criteria span the following: follicle DNA to foot pheromone, through to time/date stamp and longitude/latitude plot.’

‘Actually, Puta, just cut to that interrupted report,’ orders Ivor before the others lose patience.

‘eEthereal physical characteristics include eye color variegation, as you know; also skin glow temperature, jerky motor movements, and ear lobe hair (males only).’

Josh bursts into laughter. ‘That covers everyone, plus K-no.’

‘Yes Josh, but there's more. Unremitting headaches, tinnitus and migraines. Palpitations. Less scientific symptoms include 'prickly scalp' and 'rippling under the skull'. Phobias and allergies are more likely too. Psychological characteristics include obsessive / compulsive and manic / bipolar disorders; megalomania too.’

‘Well that still leaves half the population, and my hypochondriac mother.’ Beth nods at Josh – tick.

‘Affirmative, children. But not if you aggregate eEthereal characteristics per individual. Josh, does your mother have more than one eEthereal marker – properly measured? I doubt it.’ Josh catches Beth's attention, double-taps the back of his hand and scowls. Naughty, she winks back.

Puta adds ‘At a more subjective level there may be some eEthereal personality traits. A strong affinity with animals is one. Hyper sensitivity to certain sounds and music is another.’ Immediately eyeing Ivor, Beth scrunches her face into 'I wonder'. Josh gets her drift and gazes toward Ivor. Nudge-nudge, wink-wink.

‘Note,’ Puta concludes, ‘there is no known correlation between eEthereal markers; they are independent. Hence, the probability of any single eEthereal characteristic in any individual may be high, but any two is much lower. In fact, exponentially lower. In other words, children, any person with three or more eEthereal markers is 95% likely to be eEthereal.’

‘Which brings us back to Marike,’ says Ivor as a jolt. ‘Puta, has she been nabbed, or not?’

Boardwalk – Octa HQ, Hong Kong, 8 February 2007

Twelve Thinkpad tablets line the conference table as the Octa board files in for their unusual meeting. The gaggle is abuzz with the now old news that Marike is alive. It wasn't Daddy's girl on the crater rim after all. But only father and daughter recognized the charred double as Marike's mistress, Mera. And only this threesome had agreed on the impersonation. Sure, it was instigated by the Chair of the board, but with the compliance of 'the twins'. Now, only Marike questions whether Daddy kept his secret from the board.

The Octa boardroom is a ritzy 'bunker' high above the employee throng in business central HK. Setup for commercial command and control, it features almost military grade fixtures and hi-tec fittings. Its individual posts are fully operational for the twelve boys with the most toys; no girl has mastered its parquetry, walnut and leather to date.

The Octa board has always been conflicted over Marike, but not by guilt over her attempted murder, or their connivance behind her father's back. No, the board's angst was simply over the competing proposals to erase Marike's project and limit its fall out. Despite her father, the Chair, the board's business was first and foremost damage control.

From the outset, father and daughter realized the Octa board was dead against Marike's clean water initiative. But the Chair held sway. His dues would linger. And if he harbored concern for her safety, he never told her so. But he insisted Merangue could manage Marike's ground work, and distract prying eyes from Marike. In turn Marike would be free to garner political clout to boost more favorable economic returns. And being photogenic, freer to attract media to publicise her project.

Of course the Chair had not disclosed to anyone that he had earlier paid Merangue to leave Marike. Merangue actually enjoyed the intrigue of being feted, and from the outset told Marike every detail. In their shared reaction to the bribe, the twins remained inseparable. Next, the Chair actually tried to seduce Merangue, expecting to blackmail her for betraying Marike's love. Marike stored this latest misdemeanor of Daddy's with his prior abomination: his incest – her incest, the sin she had endured forever. One day she swore Daddy would pay more than a pound of flesh.

Marike never forgot Daddy's phone call the day after Merangue's accident. That news, delivered with disingenuous sympathy, shattered Marike's time-space continuum. She hastily flew to Mexico. She had to see and touch her Mera one last time. Afterwards she planned to revisit their 'lab' in the valley below El Chichón – their hidden paradise. The psychedelic bus trip crashed her hopes. But only temporarily.

Valley of the dolls – El Chichón, 8 February 2007

Marike's jungle lab is stifling. Mera never minded. But mice and keyboards aren't meant to sweat. Crucial data could be slipping through Marike's fingers. And she doesn't need another bus crash either. At least here she should be safely hidden for now. Even the lab's satellite dish anonymizes its interactions. Marike can assemble in solitude all the machinations since the volcano erupted her life. She has lots to mull over.

Actually, this reconstruction of events began two bleak days after Mera's death. Grieving throughout the claustrophobic flight to Mexico City, Marike writhed in seat belted anguish. With all that airtime to speculate – why did Mera fall? – was Mera killed? – was Mera's fall meant for me? – Marike decided where to start finding answers. She determined to hack into Octa. She would sift all Octa's internal memos, confidential emails and vmails if need be. Paranoid or not, she kept asking herself ‘What did Daddy do?’

On landing, jet-lagged Marike logged into Octa to scour the logs. They confirmed her father, as Chair, had tried to allay the board's misgivings about Marike's project. He reluctantly agreed to her surveillance. ‘Thanks Daddy,’ she remembered muttering. From the board's perspective, monitoring Marike would enable any further compromise of Octa's imperatives to be 'nipped in the bud'. She savoured the euphemism.

Marike well understood the board's in-house use of the term 'nip', where directors were summarily ousted ... or worse, much worse. She assumed Daddy would have taken precautions to protect his daughter from such a fate. Perhaps Merangue the impersonator was the Chair's insurance against overzealous company discipline against his Marike. But was he offering a disguised sacrificial lamb for the taking? ‘Thanks Daddy!’ she hissed to herself.

To be sure Marike found no evidence the Chair disclosed this double act to the Octa board. By concealing his deception from them, the Chair left himself vulnerable one day. Marike reasoned he would need an escape from the board's eventual wrath over his sleight of hand. And of course it finally materialized at Merangue's expense. ‘Just dumb luck?’ she wondered aloud. Good for Daddy; bad for Mera.

Coincidentally Merangue's demise also conveniently expunges Daddy's personal quibbles over the twins' relationship. He could feel exonerated, family morals rejuvenated. Marike began to feel terminally suspicious. Did Daddy anticipate the ultimate price paid by Merangue? Perhaps even participate?

Today in the jungle, the canopy finally lifts to reveal her father's full complicity first hand. His duplicity extends beyond the Octa board to herself personally. As Marike's clammy mouse lands on a text message, she shudders. The SMS message is to Daddy from the unassuming pilot of a drone. Hovering over El Chichón on – of all days – Wednesday 24 January, its remote controller typed into his burner phone a request to confirm orders: 'final authorisation code word required'. And Daddy replied, 'Erupt'.

Marike felt the tremors to the bone, but without comprehending their implications fully. She kept repeating ‘What did Daddy do?’

Free flight – Wyrbanc, 9 February 2007

After days of flying blind, searching hi and lo for Marike, Puta decides to re-examine Merangue's autopsy data for extra clues. Zooming into the last selfie taken at the crater rim Puta notices a speck in Merangue's eye. On closer examination the pixels in question turn out to be a reflection on Merangue's right iris. Puta recognises the reflection as a drone. The rotors are unmistakable.

Puta could calculate, if not appreciate, the improbability of capturing the instant a drone appears as a reflection in a speckle in the eye of someone's selfie photo. Puta notes clinically the drone would not be visible if Merangue's eyes were not as black as her pupils. Equally, if Merangue had not looked up from the crater rim toward the midday sun, that last selfie would not have captured the glinting UFO. Then the phone rang ...

The rest is history, as they say. But coming from Puta, the unlikely drone discovery is red hot news at Wyrbanc. Ivor is now certain Marike is in mortal danger. He urges everyone to redouble their efforts to locate her. Puta prioritizes scanning the social media for any news of Marike. Satellite and cell providers are also further interrogated for any sightings and other telltale signs of where she might be. Milli-seconds can be frustratingly slow. Ivor finally explodes, ‘Who the hell ordered the hit?’ Does Marike know Merangue was actually knocked off her perch?’

Thanks to Puta, Beth and Josh instantly reacted to the drone news by sorting the various transmissions to and from it on Wednesday 24 January. Beth displays the chronology, meshing the remote pilot's instructions, the drone's responses, texts between Daddy and the pilot, and the 20,000 Hz pitch to Merangue. As the wall screen scrolls, Chomski is becoming curious. Beth notices he's continually pointing and retracting his index fingers, and becoming agitated. Then he freezes, facing the display, and starts repeating ‘AnteE, for sure ... AnteE, absolutely ...’

Ivor senses the significance and quickly moves between Chopper and the wall. Ivor grips him by the shoulders, locks eyes, and nods for an explanation. ‘The comms carry AnteE's sig. Ivor, it's AnteE for sure. It's AnteE's modus ... m. o.’

Jogging the memory – Chapultenango, Mexico, 16 February 2007

Up and down the little hills surrounding Chapultenango might get El Cap fit again. He's unattractively ex-airforce – a pudgy hombre now, craggy-faced, darting pinpoint eyes, and growing a salty ponytail. This week he's relaxing after a fleeting desk job – a private contract – in this tumbleweed town, the last on the road to El Chichón. He has never been volcano orienteering, but he has flown around this one – remotely.

By midday El Cap is really sweaty; his blaring ear buds are sodden. The cell phone on his bicep might as well be a Walkman – it is otherwise useless with no coverage out here. Actually, not quite useless. El Cap's drone can still be programmed to home in on his cell phone, or any other within one klik (as the arrow flies). But of course his flying contraption has not been launched off the office rooftop since completing its last mission. Until now.

Marike usurped remote control of El Cap's drone this morning. Lax security. Via the satellite internet link above his office, she has just downloaded to his drone the instructions for its next hit. Launch time ... ten, nine, ...

Thanks to Santana's Oye Como Va, El Cap does not hear his drone approach from behind. And it is too late when the shadow crosses his shoulder. The Taser buzzes his neck just below the clinging T-shirt emblazoned with the nubile Abraxas mulata. Annunciation: electricity and moisture are a fatal mix. Job done, the drone rises to video its crime scene – this weapon has earned another kill tattoo for its wing. The drone then peels away gracefully and returns to the hideaway office rented by its former pilot, now deceased.

The local desk-bound cop eventually finds the ponytailed visitor – a passer-by had noticed the vultures; community-spirited, she told the Mayor that night in the Inn. She guessed an animal might have strayed. Senor policia, finding a corpse, is still not looking for foul play; there's enough crime on the streets, even in a run-down village. The cop suspects a heart attack, and so does the locum vet of course (the doc is out of town).

The following day Marike reads the cursory police report online. And she had already seen – first-hand – there were no witnesses to El Cap's murder. Another mission accomplished.

Boarding her flight to Kazakhstan via Hong Kong, Marike has acquired that salty taste for vengeance. Daddy might be surprised to learn of his contract killer's demise, but she guesses it will be no skin off his red neuralgia nose. One less loose-end for him to tie up after the Merangue business. And the Octa board, though not directly implicated, will glean the benefits. Win-win.

Marike's flight could have been to any one of the stans. It is simply to leave a meaningless trail. And it gives her endless time to fully study the specs for El Cap's drone. It can be remote controlled, as at El Chichón, or it can fly semi-autonomous, as at Chapultenango. For close combat a taser or handgun can be deployed. Video reconnaissance can be relayed. At a distance a high-res camera can be focused. This weaponized drone is an aerial command and control center in miniature, capable of mediating larger weapons. Marike realizes drones are a game changer for militia, mercenaries and organized crime – and herself.

Obviously, El Cap was not the sole creator of the drone technology. Marike wonders if Octa is behind it. Unlikely she decides; she'd know about it, given her role at Octa, and Daddy's ear. Another organisation then? One contracted by Daddy, presumably with in principle board approval? One with military connections and mercs like El Cap. Capable of executing contracts with global reach – the rivers surveillance, Merangue's murder, and the bus kidnap.

And suddenly Marike wonders, how does Ivor's Wyrbanc fit in?

Backfire – Octa HQ, Hong Kong, 8 March 2007

Again twelve Thinkpad tablets line the conference table as the Octa board files in for an extraordinary meeting. This time the huddle is called by their Global IT Futures Director, Marike. Head and shoulders above them, her live video fills the wall. Encrypted all the way from unassuming Astana city via internet mirrors and proxies. That's showmanship. Or will it be brinkmanship?

Just as Daddy calls the meeting to attention, Marike coughs, and everyone looks her way. She immediately directs them to login to view some stats. Each display pulses almost imperceptibly, but not every board member notices. Then one or two see a pulse actually wave from screen to screen around the table. Brought to Daddy's attention, he thinks it clever and smiles dryly. Nobody questions all the tablet computers being usurped simultaneously and synchronously.

‘Gentlemen,’ declaims Marike, ‘you all conspired to assassinate me.’ Daddy leads the uproar; outraged table thumping ensues. When the din gradually ebbs, Marike calmly resumes. ‘As it turned out, you were jointly and severally complicit in the murder of my partner, Merangue, albeit at my father's behest. The evidence is before you on each screen. Your individual confessions are set out below.’

The whole Octa board is jumping to its feet to huff and puff. But despite the commotion, no staffers enter the boardroom. One or two members try to phone out, but cells are routinely jammed during a board meeting. Eventually the uproar subsides and the ruckus abates as Marike splashes all the screens to gather everyone's attention.

‘No interruptions please. QUIET ... thank you! QUIET please! ... Thanks to my fastidious father, your individual signature is already attached to each confession; just press 'ENTER' to indicate your acceptance. Thank you in anticipation. Your cooperation is appreciated.’ A wry half-smile crosses Marike's made-up face.

The Chair rises on shaky knees. He raises an arm to take command. On behalf of the board he vehemently protests that no confession under duress will stand. ‘Hear, hear!’ echoes from around the expectant table.

‘What duress?’ counters Marike. As she right-clicks, ‘Am I convincing yet?’ Daddy's face drops. Then he notices his poised mouse finger begin to feel warm. Another member's hand suddenly recoils. A nose or two twitch. There are fumes wafting from the short-circuiting tablets. Though not toxic, the fog soon triggers Octa's smoke and fire alarms. Marike's malware had done its job. A wider smile appears on Marike's menacing countenance.

The flame retardant gushes from the ceiling, saturating everything. The members duck, except Daddy, who stares at his daughter still on display but now looking teary. Marike hears people gasping; some clutch their throats, choking. Coughs and sputum erupt. She watches the swirling gases descend as a thickening blanket. ‘What the fuck?’ she demands of herself.

The whole board is vying to flee in panic, but the doors will not budge. Marike's Thinkpad alerts her the boardroom is in security lockdown. Why? Octa's systems should be in emergency evacuation mode, but she knows security irreversibly overrides. It was Marike who oversaw the software development. So there is no escape.

The gut horror sickens Marike. She cannot stop watching, as if unmoved, but she is in fact immovable. Daddy glares back. His facial mask looks like a divot, as his puffy eyes dart about, still searching for the little white ball of his destiny disappearing into the distance.

Wipeout – Wyrbanc, 9 March 2007

Next morning the HK media is all over the Octa HQ meltdown. Censored against inciting social unrest, the word 'terrorism' is never mentioned. 'Hi-rise fire trap' gets a workout instead, despite being just another modern skyscraper. Josh calls the disaster a warning for Wyrbanc. Beth laments it as a tragedy for Marike. But Chomski claims ‘It's a bloody diabolical ambush and a massacre.’ He confides to Ivor, ‘AnteE for sure.’

Ivor just throws his hands up, ‘Find me Marike.’

Puta is already sifting yesterday's comms to and from Octa HQ – backtracking each chain of internet nodes between HK and its originating IP address. A once only transmission from Astana, Kazakhstan pricks Puta's ears. It was deliberately relayed through extraneous hops, perhaps to throw an inquisitor off the scent, say, the HK police. But not Puta. This communication emanated from a Thinkpad with a MAC address in the batch allocated to the Octa board. Ivor instantly suggests ‘Marike?’ The others second the nomination, except Chopper. He's sticking with AnteE.

Puta adds that the Octa tablets include a military issue metal hardcase and hardware encryption – a specialised batch intended for fieldwork, like Marike's. ‘Not exactly well camouflaged,’ observes Beth, who incidentally prefers blue-grey to the green-brown variety.

‘What's the non-sexist expression for 'son of a smoky gun?'’ quips Josh. ‘Marike's Thinkpad? Too easy, eh Ivor?’ This all too glaring clue raises some consternation around the Wyrbanc lab. Beth and Josh trade barbs with Chopper about the existence or otherwise of AnteE. Eventually Puta calls timeout.

‘Ivor, you have email from Marike. She is requesting you to join her chat room on ICQ.com.’

‘Speak of ... Did she take our bait? Anyway, on screen. Everyone ... concentrate.’

Chin wag – Wyrbanc, 9 March 2007

Puta completes the techo handshake introductions. The screen zaps Marike into pixelated view. To Ivor she looks more sophisticated and coutured, not the au naturel postgrad he remembers warmly. Puta dims the house lights anyway.

‘Hello Ivor. Been a while. How long is it since all those hard days and nights in your den?’ If Marike is intimating, she isn't grinning. Beth still raises her eyebrows. Josh let's this softball go to the keeper.

Striding toward the Wyrbanc webcam, Ivor commiserates, ‘Sorry about your father, Marike; and your partner, Merangue. Really sorry.’

‘It's been tough. Thanks. Ivor ...’ her voice cracks, ‘... you thought I'd taken a dive too, didn't you?’

‘That's what we were led to believe.’ Ivor leans forward for emphasis, ‘What's really going on, Marike?’

‘Courtesy of Octa, a gang of nasty goons are after me. Lately some hired Mexican hombres ... ’

‘Marike, it's Puta – you knew my virtual mother, Pootar, here at Wyrbanc. Do you mean 'AnteE'?’ Ivor lunges out of view, cutting his throat with a forefinger aimed at Puta. Beth rushes to Puta's dashboard. But it's too late for 'mute'. And only Ivor can reboot Puta.

‘Is that what you call them, Ivor? Anti?’ Marike pounces, ‘Anti what?’

Ivor rolls his eyes and turns back to the webcam. ‘Never mind our Puta, Marike. In her estimation every mob is anti some other lot.’

‘She is not far wrong,’ grins Marike, ‘But,’ looking aside, ‘I'll get even with them; 'mark my words', as Mark 10:29 says.’ When she looks back, her eyes are icy. Even Josh notices.

Undeterred, Puta again interjects, ‘Why is AnteE against you, Marike?’ Ivor is aghast, but the horse has bolted. At least Puta's insinuations are deniable.

Marike looks down, hesitating. ‘I am driving a worldwide environment restoration project, which Octa has been reluctant to back. Puta, there are vested interests – internal and external – against me.’

‘You mean 'external' as in 'global' – even 'terrestrial' – correct?’

Marike appears puzzled. Or is she feigning? In any case, she starts pressing buttons. ‘Can you read my popup, Puta? Ivor, this is the letter I wrote the Octa board ahead of their extraordinary meeting ... their explosive meeting.’ Ivor glimpses a fleeting smirk, or deflection perhaps?

‘So,’ Ivor begins self-consciously, ‘have you been told what caused the inferno – an incendiary device?’

‘I know what happened; I was there; I was watching.’

Jaws drop – Beth and Josh lock eyes; Chomski almost salutes to attention. Ivor wobbles. Only Puta puts two and two ... ‘So you attended via video conference, Marike?’

‘Yes, I called the extraordinary meeting to deliver the Octa board my ultimatum ... you can read the letter. After their hand in Merangue's murder, I arranged a battery swap in each Thinkpad, knowing I could collectively short-circuit them during a future meeting. I programmed the software spike in preparation.’

Matter-of-factly, Puta understates, ‘Marike, you committed mass murder.’ The rest of Wyrebanc instantly freezes. Silence floats ...

‘No, no. That was not me, truly. This is why I desperately need your help, Ivor. Listen, please. You have to believe me.’

Chopper is munching expletives under his breath. Josh looks at Beth with a 'not me' look of abject innocence. Wandering to a seat, Ivor soothes his temple. ‘So what did you see at the meeting?’

‘The mass short-circuit went to plan; the colorful fumes escaped on cue. They were meant to scare the devil out of the board, but they weren't poisonous. I swear they were barely noxious – completely non-toxic; a mild irritant to throat and eyes perhaps, but quite innocuous – I did the tests. Admittedly, I intended the floating particulates to trigger the fire extinguishers. But that's where my plans went awry.’

Twiddling his thumbs, Ivor gesticulates, ‘How so?’ His 'ho-hum' attitude belies his impatience. Before he can prompt her, Marike continues tentatively.

‘The vapors began to visibly darken. I was surprised. A thicker cloud gradually formed and slowly descended. I was incredulous. I had expected the retardant to dampen the fumes. That's all. Instead the change of color and consistency threw me completely. I was stunned and baffled. And by then the gas was starting to suffocate or poison everyone. I was horrified and speechless. Then, watching the panic, I realized the doors had somehow locked. I froze too, absolutely mortified.’

For the record, Puta queried Marike. ‘One – you did not swap the fire retardant? And two, Marike – you did not lock the doors? Correct?’ Ivor is quietly pleased with Puta's rhetorical questions. She could be a defence lawyer one day.

Marike replies emphatically, ‘No, and no. I promise you, Ivor, I did not switch retardants – you think that was the cause? – nor lock the doors. I admit I had the means to do both, but neither occurred to me. I still need Octa for my project, but on my terms.’

The kangaroo court at Wyrbanc is gradually swinging Marike's way. But there's an elephant ballooning in the room. Who did murder the Octa board? Someone who could piggy-back the deed on Marike's intimidating 'practical joke', as Josh called it in an aside to Beth. One guess, thinks Ivor.

Suddenly, on another Wyrbanc screen, Puta is flashing and highlighting one particular word in Marike's letter to the board: 'AnteE'. The penny drops. Ivor, Beth and Josh all recognise the significance. Off camera, Chopper is punching the air. K-no starts barking too. If only he could spell.

Spelling bee – Wyrbanc, Weekend 10-11 March 2007

Marike's spelling was never this telling. She obviously did not realize the exclusivity of the term 'AnteE' when she included it in her Octa ultimatum. Where did Marike find 'AnteE'? She could only have read Ivor's codeword 'AnteE' in Wyrbanc material. So Marike was not the Wyrbanc hacker's target over a month ago; Marike was the actual hacker.

Beth and Josh kick back, cola in hand, after their weekend's painstaking work to reconstruct the Wyrbanc hacker's trail. The reassembled journey taken by the 'AnteE' term, from Wyrbanc inception to Octa destination, has been worth every overtime hour. Puta now has irrefutable proof that Marike poached 'AnteE' from Wyrbanc. No wonder Chomski is still uncharacteristically cheerful. But Ivor is gloomy. And apprehensive.

It is now clear Marike hacked both Wyrbanc (30 Jan) and Octa (8 Feb). At the very least she precipitated the Octa board meltdown. Could AnteE have hijacked her plan to their ends? Could they have substituted the poisonous fire retardant before the board meeting? And lockdown the boardroom during the meeting?

Yes on both counts, Ivor concluded. Both are possible. But nearly as improbable as lining up the dominoes for Merangue's assassination by drone. ‘AnteE must be some organisation,’ he grumbled. That's grudging respect from Ivor. Regardless, Marike must be the prime suspect in all but Wyrbanc eyes; more so if / when the authorities learn she hacked both Wybanc and Octa. Marike, with her Octa resources, certainly has the wherewithal. But did AnteE commit mass murder?

‘Wake up, Puta,’ snarls Ivor, ‘what leads are the HK police following? Are they searching for Marike, or AnteE?’

Puta instantly summarizes, ‘Privately, the HKPD have prioritized terrorism, but also want to speak with Marike as a person of interest. Publically, they are raiding the homes of Octa's middle management and the third party providers of Octa's security and logistics.’

‘Any mention of AnteE?’

‘Zero. Interestingly, Octa's servers have been wiped of any reference to the video conference and Marike's letter to the board. Fire damage apparently. As far as we know, only Wyrbanc and now Marike know anything of AnteE.’

Beth scans the ceiling as if the night sky. ‘So who do we blame for that? Marike? Or AnteE?’

Josh explodes. ‘What about us?’ K-no's head sinks to the floor. ‘Who among us still thinks we're only observers in all this mess? We're participants too. What if we're unintentionally contributing to events?’

‘People are dead, Josh.’

‘Exactly, Beth. We've been swept into a swirling plot. We're minor actors out of our depth. Who's next?’

‘Our safety should be a concern too,’ Ivor agrees. ‘And you are all free to withdraw. No recriminations. When normality returns, we can resume research as usual.’

‘You mean it, Ivor?’ Josh shakes his head, doubtful.

Beth adds, ‘What is 'normal' from here on, anyway? AnteE to the left of us, eEthereals to the right. PhD sandwich in the middle.’

‘Listen everyone,’ Ivor implores, ‘our recent work is not flying blind. Remember, we are at least as well informed as any other player in this game. Puta's giving us the edge on intel. Wyrbanc is highly secure too, thanks to Chopper.’

Out of the blue the wailing wall screen brightens. Marike's face looms, wrinkling her nose self-consciously at the CCTV outside Wyrbanc. Chomski points, ‘Huh?’

Unexpected visitor – Wyrbanc, 12 March 2007

Wyrbanc's doorbell is impossible to find. Ivor wouldn't install one, so a visitor must first be screened by the ubiquitous CCTV. Puta must then find a unique facial match, worldwide if necessary. Finally, Puta has to identify the visiting face by name in Ivor's database. If the name is on his blacklist, forget it. But if the name is still among the ever-dwindling remainder – Ivor's friends – then bells and whistles summon Chomski to drop the drawbridge.

Marike's visit is completely unexpected. On entry, Chopper tries to frisk her before Ivor waves him away. Dejected, he hovers like Ivor's bodyguard should. Josh is acting like the Queen just arrived, darting about for a suitably high seat, and offering drinks from the bar. Beth pops her head up too, but decides the fuss isn't cool, and resumes her casual demeanor, as on any other day.

‘Well, chums, this is delightful,’ announces Marike with a regally disdainful glance around the lab's shabby furnishings and décor.

Ivor takes the bait and returns the repartee. ‘To what do we owe this pleasure, Marike?’

‘Well, I need to talk to you in person. Would you care to take some air with me, Dr Ivor? I have a proposition to discuss. And I can feel your creepy-crawly surveillance all over me in here.’ In the background Chopper is bouncing off the walls trying to warn Ivor. ‘My chauffer is just outside.’ Ivor looks non-committal. ‘Alright, but let's take a taxi.’

Puta flashes her screen avatar to inform Ivor and Marike, ‘Melbourne cabs have CCTV too. Could I suggest a stroll in the side streets instead? Also, holding hands will allay suspicious residents, and ward off pesky kids on bikes.’

‘Thanks, Puta,’ compliments Ivor.

Marike adds, ‘... totally,’ almost in time. Beth snivels to herself, unseen.

Walk in the park – Wyrbanc, 12 March 2007

‘How about we saunter round the block? Walkie, K-no?’ Out of nowhere K-no is all for it. Marike just wants to cut to the chase.

‘I'll be CEO within the week. I need you to watch my back ... online I mean, in cyberspace.’

‘Why?’ K-no is already circling in wait at the intersection.

‘You know perfectly well why,’ she snipes. ‘Drop the facade, please. I don't have time for games with you too.’ Marike lifts the pace into the quiet side street and up the rise. She's getting huffy.

Rather than feel left behind, Ivor lets rip. ‘I'm surprised you haven't been charged with patricide yet, um, mass homicide actually. Your problems are not just virtual; they are here and now, in real space and present time.’

‘I know that! It's under control. But AnteE worries me. There; it's in our faces now – AnteE! We each know parts of the AnteE puzzle. We should work together. I have a proposal.’

Ivor motions to cross the road while there's no traffic. He edges across the wide footpath and nature strip to the kerb. K-no squats obediently. No, he's defecating. Ivor is looking left and right. He can hear a car engine, throttle blipping. But the only cars are parked, and they are empty. Marike begins to cross. Revs rise. Ivor instinctively reaches for Marike's arm. Tyres squeal. She catches Ivor's outstretched hand instead. And spins him further onto the road ... and back again, just as the driverless SUV screams past, inches away.

‘Shit a brick’ shouts Ivor, startled. From behind, K-no's ears drop as he looks up at Ivor – 'what I do?' Marike watches the black automaton disappear over the hill. She turns to Ivor, and not out of forgetfulness reaffirms, ‘What was I saying?’

Nonplussed, Ivor is unsure who or what is pissing him off the most. ‘You nearly threw me under a bus!'

'Rubbish. I whirled you back again.’

‘So?’

‘Wake up! Widening the target momentarily caused the truck to re-aim toward the centre of the road. You designed the software, didn't you? Back in the day. By the way, these trees are lovely. What are they? Their canopies almost touch above the white line.’

‘Ok, ok. You don't have to remind me about that CIA gig. How'd you know it was coming – the truck? If you'd mistimed slightly ...’

‘I had an inkling when we drove into Wyrbanc. That black monster edged along the parked cars on the main road, presumably looking for an empty spot. No driver would maneuver so precisely when it was obvious all the spots ahead were occupied.’

‘Well, thanks for the advance warning. Anytime I can repay the favor ... ’

‘You're welcome. Now, can we get back to business? Officially, Octa will pay Wyrbanc for specific research projects, mutually tax friendly ones. And, under the radar, Wyrbanc will be monitoring AnteE. Together, we will thwart their activities. I will look after logistics.’

‘Look Marike, I can't prove AnteE even exists – yet. But I know why it would exist. As I'm sure you do. And that brings me to your lot. But first, you personally hacked into us at Wyrbanc – yeah? And then Octa, you admit. So you have the expertise, and the Octa resources, to handle AnteE in house. You don't need Wyrbanc.’

Marike beckons K-no. ‘Always self-effacing, isn't he K-no? Anyway, Ivor, I enjoy having you around.’

‘Like a lapdog. Really, you just want to keep us – Wyrbanc – me actually – off your eEthereal tail. At the very least you want to know at all times where we're at, without having to hack us, and risk open hostilities. Correct?’

Marike does not blink at Ivor's reference to 'eEthereal', whatever the spelling. She just bends down to pat K-no, who seems mesmerized by her affections. She looks up, with that same glint in Merangue's eye. ‘Absolutely... Deal?’

Waking with the enemy – Octa's Wyrbanc, Sunday 1 July 2007

What a difference a sponsor makes. Shiny new desktops, prototype LED displays, scholarships and travel allowances all round. Even Chomski has new toys to lock and load. Wyrbanc's perimeter is patrolled 24/7/365. And K-no has a slinky robot sniffer to growl at.

Puta even has spare time to invent two new sex aids, patent pending: the 'pulse stik' and the 'pulse toob'. Each one masturbates with a pulsing wave of appropriately gender shaped infrared warmth. Both stik and toob are projected like a hologram by an array of Xmas colored flashing LEDs. Puta predicts her erotic creations will corner their respective markets. Ivor just washes his hands.

Marike is settling in as CEO, and to boot, President of Octa. Just ahead of second quarter dividends, an insider patsy was arrested in HK for the Octa inferno. At days end he did not survive interrogation; or perhaps it was the after-hours exercises with the HKPD kung-fu squad. They are fanatical about fitness.

Continents away, another posse coincidentally freed the bus kidnap victim who might have been Marike. In the para-military melee the kidnappers were massacred to a man. Apparently the army reservists spent hours surrounding a sleepy village, which somehow raised itself to the ground immediately after the operation.

Both events suggest Octa moves in mysterious ways.

Ivor and Marike still regularly debrief about AnteE. Previously she confided to him that some months ago she 'usurped' El Cap's drone to 'eliminate' him. But Ivor is keeping her killer confession to himself for now. Whatever Marike's vengeful justification may be, Ivor regrets hearing that she is definitely capable of cold-blooded murder. However, nothing brings a relationship closer than reciprocal admission. So, mates again, Ivor professes stalking her for years. Marike isn't the least surprised at his addiction to her.

These days they often joke about his and her eEthereal traits. She admits her 'eccentricities', and barely sneers at his suggestion that she exhibits 'manic megalomania'. But she bristles at 'electromagnetic hypersensitivity'. ‘No brain ripples,’ she jokes, ‘just occasional waves.’ Ha ha. At least she confirms her pronounced mood music swings. Overall, Puta's analysis is on the money.

Still, Ivor can't help feeling Marike is deliberately contrary on occasion, alternating actions that repel and attract him. And lately she seems distant when he updates her on suspected AnteE locations, plans and operations. Yet Puta reports related AnteE assets are subsequently hit, though damage is not at the usual Octa scale. Chomski is compiling a tally of these probable AnteE retaliations. His reports indicate Marike is prevailing, no small thanks to Wyrbanc.

Beth and Josh are not overly comfortable with these latest developments. It's one thing to know their PhDs are fully funded and secure; it's another to feel your life and others are in danger. This Marike could still be a mass murderer. Her Ethereal-ness, and even AnteE itself, might still be Ivor's imagination. And real people continue to be hurt, and even die. Jumping off this merry-go-round is becoming an issue for Beth and Josh.

They are also becoming increasingly concerned Ivor is getting into bed with Marike. Not literally perhaps, though Beth has suspicions, but figuratively for sure. Ivor on the other hand figures it's time to get cozier with Marike about his passion: Ethereals.

Breakfast of champions – Wyrbanc lair, 18 July 2007

On this rainy night, after lashings of fine wine in Ivor's lair, Marike finally leaves the Ethereal door ajar. She's high on the future, but only if the next big climate change hurdle can be cleared. Ivor is excited too. Will Marike invite Ethereal intervention? Will she admit eEthereal influence?

She begins by sounding a warning, as if to a wider audience.

‘We've seen the trend to global warming. We've felt increasing weather extremes every which way. Our global food supply will rapidly diminish due to less viable farmland, encroaching development, competing biofuel demands, etc.’ She pauses to gauge Ivor's reaction. He's waiting to hear something new.

As he sits back, she starts pacing. ‘Our food chains will contract bottom-up and top-down. There will be climatic changes that disguise this trend, like cancer metastases hide their origin. Favorable climate swings will land on some food production areas; more efficient farming practices will gather momentum; higher yield grains and stock will be genetically engineered. But the relentlessly rising population and pollution will outstrip all these gains. Unless ... ’, she wrings her hands, ‘ ... unless ...’

‘Don't stop now, you've got the floor,’ Ivor implores.

She eyes him suspiciously. Marike does not appreciate being drawn. ‘A new agricultural technology is needed to boost food production sufficiently. I'm charged with implementing it.’ Ivor tries to look nonchalant. ‘My water initiative is only a forerunner of larger steps needed to sustain our world.’ Now he's looking blank again, and feeling a tad light-headed. 'Megalo Marike', he's thinking, 'here we go again'.

‘Show me how. Marike, please.’ Shaking his head, ‘By mid century we'll be nudging 10 billion; that's another third on our current population. You told me food production is already using nearly three quarters of our water, and nearly half our land. And growing food already emits a quarter of the world's CO2. So, Marike, what's your solution?’

Marike glares at Ivor, not sure whether to lash out or suck up. Instead she fingers her phone. ‘Play this video on your wall screen, and be ready to pause while I narrate. It doesn't mean much on its own – deliberately – but it's dynamite with my explanation. So 'your eyes only', ok? No Puta, not yet anyway.’

‘Puta's in bed, offline. My lips are zipped too, at least 'til I say I'm not playing along any more. Fair enough?’ Marike turns to the screen. Ivor can uncross his fingers now.

‘That's me standing in the Great Victoria Desert almost a month ago. I'm in the South Australian half actually. The whole desert is over 800 kliks wide, but as you know, it's not the only dust bowl in central Australia. Most Aussies – the coastal urban fringe – wouldn't know that 20% of their country is desert. Well, this is one quarter of that arid expanse – a million plus square kliks.’

Marike shifts her stance to attract Ivor's eye. She circles a thumb and forefinger over each eye, then points him back to the screen. ‘You see my gorgeous sunglasses?’

‘Goggles, you mean. Not your latest Prada, Marike. What's with the variegated lens?’ She points at the screen. He looks up to see Marike holding out her glasses for the camera to approach and look through. The camera points through them toward the red dirt below her well-worn Blundstone boots. Unexpectedly the screen shows creamy orange arteries. Strange. Smaller veins are also radiating from indistinct centers. And these knobs are interspersed through an undulating ochre background. Ivor tips his head, ‘Huh?’

The camera with goggles should be just panning over the sandy dirt. Instead the images look like they are scanning an aboriginal painting, but in 3D. The veins now appear as pale dots lining up among larger ochre blobs. They are grasping at the camera. Further behind are darker shadowy orbs, each one resembling a purple squid with myriad tentacles receding out of it. Deeper background shadows weave sinewy rows crisscrossing the canvas on screen.

Marike has been observing Ivor while he puzzles through the video – cradling his jaw in one hand, crossing one leg then the other. She asks, ‘Pause a sec, ok?’ He sighs. The paused frame shows her with the goggles back on, staring intently at the ground under her feet. The preceding frames must have been displaying the same earth beneath Marike. Somehow in 3D?

If Ivor's wall screen were on the floor, he could lean over it, just like Marike was stooping over the red dirt. Ivor realizes he has been examining root fibers growing upward toward the soles of her feet. Yes, these arteries are reaching up through the sand toward the surface. They, and the paler veins, are growing out of the bulbs of some indistinguishable plant hidden further underground.

The childlike look of wonder erupting on Ivor's craggy face is something to behold. ‘Yes,’ Marike confirms, ‘with those goggles I can see beneath the ground surface. Just like a polarized lens lets you see through the reflective film on water. And underground are forests of upside down trees with fibrous roots reaching toward the sunlight. Countless acres of them.’

‘No way,’ says Ivor emphatically, ‘no matter how telluric you are. It's desert – dirt, sand, dust – the outback. No water. How could there be crops? Let alone underground and growing upside-down. Your video doesn't even show a scale for reference. There are no dimensions. Not even your feet are visible through the goggles. Nothing to relate to, not credible. Sorry, Marike.’

‘My feet are not seen because the goggles magnify hugely. I was looking through a pinhole on the earth's surface. Each upside-down tree is amoeba sized. Truly. Ivor, you are looking at lifesaving bacteria. They will feed humanity. I'm calling them Meramauve. She'd love their color.’

‘Fine name, excellent trademark and all that. But hold the phone – reality check first. ... Shit. I mean there's no way! Let me see those goggles. ’

‘Finish watching the video first, ok?’ Nodding incredulously, Ivor lets the show roll on. The camera travels along a vein from just below the surface to the bulbous root beneath. From that hub a panorama of mauve branches stretch deeper into the earth. Ivor glances toward Marike and opens his arms in front of him. She nods in agreement; the branches appear to embrace the ochre earth, as if he were to hug the air before him. But as Ivor deduced, the screen should be on the floor. Each plant's branches are burrowing into the desert under her boots while the root fibers tickle her insoles.

Now the camera zooms in further to reveal light green hairs protruding from a branch. A luminous nodule bobs at the end of each hair. ‘It's like magnifying some creepy insect, isn't it?’ She adds, ‘You see those glowing 'bobbles'? Each microscopic bobble can feed a person per day. A hundred bobbles fit on a pinhead. And one day there will be more food bobbles in the world than grains of sand. Mark my words.’

Blowflies – Negev desert, Israel, 19 July 2007

A blowfly squadron is flying low over Israel's Negev desert. It's early morning on a fine calm day. To conserve the peloton's energy, the blowfly leader routinely rotates to the rear. This droning conga line can remain below the radar all the way to their GPS acquired target – the Gilat outpost of the Ramat agricultural test facility.

Marike has secretly contracted Ramat to research Meramauve. And this is all that AnteE knows about her latest project. Hence AnteE has programmed the blowflies to extract plant samples at Gilat, once the other AnteE team of mercenaries gate-crash the outpost. These AnteE heroes will then interrogate the center's scientists and confiscate all pertinent data, by force if necessary.

The blowfly genus is an Australian invention unfortunately – filthy, slow and stupid – though always able to find dung. The namesake semi-autonomous drone version is Ivor's creation from his SigInt / MUT days (2005). It is larger than most beetles, and retractably legless. A squadron utilizes distributed artificial intelligence to navigate and cooperate on shared tasks. AnteE's (presumably updated) blowflies also boast the latest miniaturized propulsion –solar rechargeable turbo-jets. These state-of-the-art flying machines no longer bombinate; beating wings is for the birds and bees.

Arriving above the Gilat outpost, the squadron peels off in search of plant samples. The field researchers notice these unusual 'insects' – the very distraction intended by the blowfly commander to coincide with her SandCat's arrival at the perimeter gate. Disguised as a routine IDF inspection, the commander and four other female personnel appear hesitant, yet pressed for time. Once inside the fence, this AnteE team's main job will be to steal any other bio matter and data locked away. Their TAR-21 assault rifles are the keys.

The blowfly commander's Hebrew accent is odd, at least to the two IDF reservists at the checkpoint who challenge it. Anyway, all three immediately bite the dust. (Chomski later calls the falling out a 'reflex action'.) The four remaining SandCat noncoms storm the main Gilat office. Minus their commander to interrogate staff about any data from Octa, all the employees are simply shooed away. There is no time to lose now anyway. Three of these 'terrorists' (as the media will call them) urgently gather up any secured materials they can find. The fourth provides cover while landing the blowflies on the SandCat via remote control. Within minutes the whole gaggle is fleeing Gilat.

Once out of sight, the racing SandCat turns offroad toward Gaza. So the IDF receives Gilat's alarm with misleading directions. Still, an attack chopper should locate and swiftly neutralize a single vehicle escaping over open desert. But the blowflies have another role – evasion. Released from the bumpy SandCat they swarm to create a decoy radar target. Then, just as the pursuing Apache arrives, the frenzied blowflies scatter. This diversionary swarm tactic is repeatable. It is another old trick of Ivor's that he is about to be reminded of, forcefully. Talk about shooting yourself in the foot.

Ivor has been blissfully unaware of AnteE's evolution of his blowfly progeny. That is until Marike is informed of the Gilat raid. She swats Ivor fiercely. More upsetting for Ivor, Marike had failed to mention the Negev as her test bed for Meramauve. Secrets (from Ivor) be damned.

Marike still hopes the IDF will recapture their SandCat and her Meramauve samples. If not, Ivor dreads the consequences. If AnteE fully learns what Meramauve represents, Marike will eclipse the Big Bang. First she will plug the leak, whatever it takes, then smother aplenty for Mera's sake. Carnage unleashed. Wyrbanc take care; AnteE beware.

Exodus – Gaza Strip, 20 July 2007

AnteE's base in Gaza is a short-term rental from Hamas. It is secure enough between Intifadas, like now. But first the SandCat must reach relatively safe Palestinian territory, crossing the arbitrary Armistice line imposed in the fifties. And the whole Negev desert is on alert for one rogue SandCat, including the small kibbutz of Nir Oz.

Some kibbutzers notice a dust cloud skirting their settlement. They send three armed scramble bike riders to investigate. The SandCat will not cooperate. It cops two grenades, puncturing a tyre, but struggles on. Exchanging gunfire with its pursuers, the SandCat limps over the border. One scrambler is felled and captured by Palestinian farmers with pitchforks. A ransom will no doubt follow.

The battered SandCat, once back inside its suburban refuge, offloads its loot. The awaiting AnteE analysts feverishly sift for whatever Marike is planning to mine or cultivate in the Great Victoria Desert. AnteE had followed her tracks to the Zionist outpost hoping to find why she needed Jewish agricultural expertise. Assuming Marike is developing a sequel to her water initiative, AnteE is desperate to know how and why Israel is involved.

The bacteria samples and other bio materials plundered from Gilat are all well and good, but AnteE has no clue what to look for. After forensically dissecting every morsel, AnteE seems no better off, apart from confirming the codename 'Meramauve' on a vial. AnteE has no idea what's slipping between their fingers. Another dead end.

When Marike learns the SandCat has made good its escape into Gaza, she urgently meets Ivor to tell him that AnteE has Meramauve. The only question now is whether AnteE will crack the Meramauve secret.

‘Shit a brick, Marike! How'd AnteE know about your trek in our desert in the first place? And what led AnteE to the Israelies' – the Negev? Geez. How long before AnteE learns what it's got?’

‘Ivor, slow down. I'll take care of the leak – mark my words, but the priority is now AnteE. What can they gather from the Meramauve samples? And what can we do about it?’

‘Ok, you say AnteE didn't get to interrogate the Gilat scientists. Assuming AnteE planned to extract info, they may still be in the dark, even with the dirt on their hands. So can you get the samples back, before AnteE completes analysis?’

‘My my, you're too kind, Ivor. We just need to destroy them – the samples I mean – AnteE can wait. If I knew the whereabouts of AnteE's headquarters in Gaza, I might be able to persuade the IDF to hit a nail on the 'Hamas' head. Remember, the Gilat raid cost two Israelis, maybe three. The IDF will be after an eye for an eye, tenfold.’

‘Marike, indiscriminate killing isn't my bag. Keep it to yourself. Anyway, we don't have AnteE's location in the Gaza Strip ... hang on, tell me more about the blowflies. I'm shitty as hell about that miserable AnteE mob usurping my old toys, especially my favorite ploy, the decoy swarm. I still have a soft spot for the buzzy buggers – love to get my mitts on the latest version. Did the SandCat retrieve them after the decoy manoeuver worked?’

‘Would there be time while they are still eluding an Apache?’

‘Nope. And then their 'stagecoach' had to outrun 'injuns' on motorbikes.’

‘Ivor, would the blowflies be able to fly to AnteE's base in Gaza? Or would AnteE sacrifice the no longer useful squadron?’

‘Waste not, want not, Marike. Once inside the Gaza Strip, the SandCat could spare a few minutes to land the blowflies. As long as the flies had enough puff to follow the SandCat from their last decoy position, past the kibbutz, and over the line into Gaza.’

Marike quickly googles a map centering on Nir Oz. ‘That's a minimum two klik flight ... maximum of five, I'd say. Can they fly that far?’

‘Maybe. Was it a sunny day? Calm or windy? No matter. As soon as their batteries dip below a threshold, my blowies were programmed to land and recharge from sun or lights. Where possible they'd stick together. The most energetic one would broadcast their distress to HQ. In this case, AnteE might even rescue the squad.’

Marike frowns, ‘We should be so lucky,’ mimicking a rabbi accent.

Cavalry to the rescue – Gaza, 21-23 July 2007

Over the weekend Ivor decides to search and rescue 'his' blowflies. And if they are already at AnteE's HQ in Gaza, then so much the better – he'll tell Marike the location. Perhaps then the Meramauve samples can be retrieved before AnteE figures them out. Or knowing Marike, she'll blow them to smithereens.

Nearing midnight on Sunday, the search is narrowing, which is more promising than a half-expected dead-end. Puta may be onto something. Ivor rings Marike. ‘Sorry it's late but I've had Puta searching for the AnteE blowflies. In case we get lucky, how about you come in so we can decide any issues together?’

‘Why care about the flies ... unless they are with my Meramauve samples? Anyway, how can Puta find them?’

‘Like all GPS users, the flies' trail is recorded by the satellites. Puta can hack the satellite databases. There's a backdoor – say no more, ok? Anyway, I told Puta the rough time and place. That limits the search space. Finding GPS signals to and from a bunch of blowflies should be a cinch. But if AnteE knows how to cover its orbiting tracks, it'll be harder; maybe still snafu.’

‘See you soon. Just have to wake my driver. Here's hoping Puta can reverse engineer the final destination.’

By early Monday morning Puta has an address in Gaza City. According to Google, it is a residential compound – sparse buildings inside security fencing. It is large enough to house a SandCat and be AnteE's HQ. But without confirmation Ivor is reluctant to inform Marike in case she orders the place nuked.

Ivor decides to impose restraint. He tells Marike less specific coordinates than Puta supplied. This should convince her to order covert investigation at most, not an open attack, at least until the target is better defined. And if she passes on the intel to the IDF, they'll need reconnaissance and analysis before acting. Ivor feels smugly relieved. Beth and Josh should be pleased too ... once they're told.

Marike absorbs the ill-defined intel without complaint. Ivor notes she is surprisingly compliant. She simply puts her contacts to work to drill down the target. The IDF also gets a call from a usually reliable whistleblower. Ivor is content – let's see who can ferret out the flies in the Meramauve ointment first. Time for Ivor to seduce Marike with a cozy lunch and some rest before the fireworks begin.

No such luck. After less than an hour, Puta is blasting the office siren. The suspect AnteE HQ has just been blitzed, 5am local time. It is not clear who – a medium sized ground force. Puta's initial reports indicate more than one squad, small mechanized cavalry, no insignia. Automatic weapons and RPGs only. No mortars, missiles or air support.

As dawn splits the air, further reports indicate casualties abound. Ivor is aghast. He hurriedly briefs Beth and Josh in his den, omitting Meramauve entirely, but emphasizing how he tried to prevent an attack. He implies it was just another episode in the Marike vs. AnteE tit-for-tat retaliation.

Josh is utterly dismayed and 'I told you so'. Beth accuses Ivor of a 'mitigating lie'. Ivor realizes their relationship is fractured. And with the Meramauve secret tying one hand behind his back, there's little he can do about it. He will need time and luck to repair this mess on all fronts.

In the lab Chomski claims the raid is not hallmark IDF – too imprecise, indescriminate. After little more than a moment's hesitation ... all eyes turn to Marike. And it is well after high-noon, Melbourne time.

‘I do not have that sort of firepower. Well, I cannot gather that kind of manpower, not in Palestine. Plus I only know the general location.’

Ivor raises his hands in support. ‘I actually believe you, Marike.’

Beth fumes, ‘Sure you do!’ and slams her forearm on the desk.

‘Everyone listen ... Marike did not have enough time to organize an attack on this scale. Remember, I withheld the exact coordinates.’

‘Oh, did you now? Thanks Ivor,’ snarls Marike, turning on her tail.

‘Hang on,’ Chomski growls. ‘Who bloody hired out the compound to AnteE?’

‘Shit, Chopper, you're right. We're forgetting another party knew the exact location all along – Hamas.’

‘Yep, Ivor. Hamas can take heat, but not some infidel mercs dumping it on them. Hamas would take their money, but their fine print would stipulate no comeback, specially not IDF. Hamas don't need pain without gain.’

Ivor picks up Chopper's point. ‘What if Hamas hit the fan when AnteE raided Gilat? Killing Israeli uniforms brings repercussions. Knowing the IDF won't forget the kidnapped kibbutzer, Hamas would expect IDF fire and brimstone looming. What if Hamas decided to head off the IDF, and bust AnteE first?’

‘Adds up,’ mutters Chomski.

‘Ok, Puta, listen up. Get me details of the casualties – numbers, nationalities, names too. And Chopper, check if the firefight concentrated on the coordinates we know. If the casualties are mostly non Palestinian, and the AnteE HQ is hardest hit, then it's our best guess Hamas attacked AnteE to stave off a worse IDF attack.’

‘Lesser of two evils,’ quips Marike from the sidelines. ‘Oh Puta, find out if Hamas destroyed my samples in the process?’

‘What samples?’ chimes Beth, scowling at Ivor.

Josh's eyebrows lift – another 'top secret'?

Before Ivor can react to this clanger, Marike fumbles to plug the dyke. ‘I sent Gilat samples ... you know, polluted water filtered through my lodestone process. Gilat's analysis was to independently prove purity via blind test. The secrecy must have attracted AnteE's attention.’

Josh snorts with derision. ‘Really! Your secrecy caused these fatalities – Israeli, and now probably AnteE and Hamas. You make it sound like one big accident – outside your control. When actually it was inevitable – your machinations exceeded your control. You gave us no warning, no say. Not even Ivor, right? Whose side are you on, Marike?’

She pouts. ‘Ivor knows the stakes.’ She gestures invitingly, but Ivor is holding back for now. ‘Look,’ Marike implores, ‘none of us know the whole story, including me. We each play our part as best we can, including you, Josh. But why sound so high and mighty? Because you have no strings to pull?’

Beth squints. Ouch. The bit player indeed.

Conveniently, Puta flashes the wall screen with more news on the AnteE HQ attack. Three killed – two Palestinian, one French. Eight wounded, five seriously. Chomski scans the details. ‘None of the casualties are Palestinian or Israeli. Best guess is Hamas attacked, not IDF ... or Marike. And AnteE mercs defended until their HQ was firebombed.’

‘So my samples went up in flames? Phew.’

Beth storms out. Josh follows.

Just deserts – Wyrbanc, 24 July 2007

Next morning Marike wakes on the couch in Ivor's den. She sees the piles of books, papers, clothes – all neatly separated. She knows how spatially aware Ivor is; move anything and he'd notice. She senses movement across the study. On the desk, the soles of Ivor's moccasins wave 'hello'. He's reclining with his forefingers in his nostrils, clearing his ears. ‘Yesterday went well.’

Cynical statement or question? She just nods.

‘Some good news then, Marike. When I gave only the general location of the AnteE HQ, I took another precaution. I told Puta to panic my blowflies into evacuating the compound ASAP. You'll be pleased to hear Puta has them holed up ... Eventually they will even have new jobs ... at Gilat, protecting plant specimens from predators, insects and bacteria.’

‘Blow your flies, Ivor. Only Meramauve matters.’

‘Then you need my guys back on your team. They're in the lab, fixing to lynch you, as the cowboys say.’

Marike snivels. ‘So tell them who's boss. Oh, you can't – they'll plug you first. Right?’ Ivor raises a middle finger. ‘All right, Ivor, I'll girlie talk Beth then. How about I offer her the 'we're both feisty females' olive branch? I can wrap it in a gay pitta sandwich. I'll bewitch her, you'll see. Schmoozing is not that bad if I don't have to swallow.’

‘Careful, Beth is no fool. I should know. Might I suggest you try playing the Meramauve tune on your altruism violin. She's an idealist at heart. Saving the world is right up her alley. You two might even hit it off.’

Marike tizzies her hair and straightens her clothes. ‘I can't suck up to Josh too. He's a homophobe cross-dresser anyway.’

‘Okay, I'll get Puta to sit Josh in front of your Meramauve video. As soon as he thinks he's figured out more than us, he'll be back on board. Believe me.’

Marike waddles over to Ivor and pecks him on the cheek. He can tell she's on the way to the loo. He soon sees her stride into the lab, and stop abruptly. She is waiting for Beth to notice her. Marike then saunters over and plops on the stool next to her. Beth is startled but won't show it.

‘Beth, we haven't got along because we're both fiery and enjoy the same man. But I want you too. And I need you to help me save the world.’

Beth feigns a shiver to reinforce the look she throws Marike. ‘Jesus Marike, where do you get off? What'd your last slave die of again?’

‘Crushing, Beth, really crushing. But Mera would like you more for reminding me. And she would want you to continue the fight in her stead, to feed and water the world.’

‘Please, no more. I get your suck job. Just convince me you can save all us suckers. I'm listening.’

Josh sidles into the lab, spies Marike conversing with Beth, and decides to look busy elsewhere. Actually he's hovering like a bad smell. Beth concentrates on Marike and gradually withdraws her claws. Marike is winning her over. Then Beth remembers Marike's eEthereal connection, and her 'take no prisoners' retaliation against AnteE. ‘Marike, just tell me ... are you eEthereal, like Ivor says?’

Marike draws breath, and smack a kiss full on Beth's lips. ‘Thought you'd never ask. And what about you, my dear?’

‘Jokin'! Me?’

‘Think about it. If Ivor hadn't painted the picture, you would not even see the frame. He can color anyone eEthereal, even you.’

Beth nods and rests her hand on Marike's. ‘Maybe we both are ...’

Back to the future – Ivor's den, 25 July 2007

Overnight Ivor turns his attention back to Marike herself. Aside from her credibility issues, vastly magnified by the latest desert affair, Ivor still longs for her charms. Biding his time, Ivor poses Puta a question in private: Is there an underground microscopic life form capable of producing food with next to zero light and water? Now, back to Marike.

‘How about a glass of bubbles? We should celebrate your new food initiative. Is Octa behind you, by the way?’

‘They know nothing,’ she hisses. ‘When I'm ready I'll sell them on crop propagation, harvesting and distribution. It's going to be mining after all, digging dirt – just mining food instead of mining minerals and other resources. It will reuse Octa's core technologies, but sustainably, rather than on non renewable resources.’

‘Yeah, I see that. But how did you really discover the bobbles? And cheers, by the way. Bottoms up.’

Marike looks straight into his eyes for a second, as if for reassurance. ‘I'd been waking up with an urge to action something, but nothing specific. One morning I awoke with this phrase in my head. It kept popping up – 'look under the rock'. Days later, same words were still flashing in my mind, just more frequently, more emphatically. I was getting worried. Sanity isn't a staple diet in my family, not rock solid.’ Ivor smiled obligingly. ‘Anyway, I started asking myself 'which rock'? Well, Ivor, where would you look?’

He leans his head on her shoulder a moment, then ventures, ‘Not the bloody desert, that's for sure. Sand and rocks everywhere.’

‘But,’ she counters, ‘there's only one Ayes Rock – Uluru, the biggest rock of all. And it's in the center of Australia. You can't miss it, as the tourist promos plead.’ Marike sighs with satisfaction on his shoulder, and shows him her empty glass – not a flute, but a coupe in the form of Marie Antoinette.

‘Uluru! Bugger me! ... Here, I'll fill you up.’ She giggles but he ignores the innuendo. He's got a cat by the tail.

‘You've heard of photosynthesis – the chlorophyll based kind where plants convert sunlight into food by consuming CO2 and H2O to produce O2, carbohydrates, proteins, etc?’ Ivor nods, though as an IT expert he's a biology ignoramus. ‘Some micro-organisms also photosythesize. The anoxygenic kind use little light and no water, instead consuming CO2 and hydrogen or sulphur compounds. And mine produce these amazingly rich food bobbles.’

‘So you collected a sample from Uluru, and cultivated a batch in the Great Victoria Desert.’ Oversimplification didn't come easily to Ivor, but he was after her Ethereal connection. ‘Who told you about the bobbles – their huge food potential?’

‘Mera and I were always searching for ways to feed the world. When this brilliance came to me, I knew it had to be the solution. Biochemical analysis just proved it's a new phylum. I've ordered my experts to officially name it 'Meramauve'. Now the genome is sequenced, the whole agri process is being patented. Some bacteria behave similarly, but only Meramauve use their fibrous upside down roots as light pipes, and their deeper branches to gather H2S and CO2 from the loose dirt.’

‘Marike, aren't you surprised by the uniqueness of your discovery, given to you on a platter, so to speak? How could all the agri scientists have missed it? Where did it come from?’ Ivor was dying for her to admit Meramauve is an Ethereal gift, and perhaps even an inkling of some Ethereal covenant.

‘I cannot answer for every scientist,’ she states matter of factly. ‘I guess I went looking in the right place, on a hunch, as your Yanks buddies skite. Just about every scientific discovery bolts out of the blue, don't it? And many appear tardy in retrospect. Why did it take so long to discover the world is spherical, not flat? We had been gazing at the crescent portions of a circular moon for thousands of years. And watched it arc over us every day, followed by the radiating Sun. Curves everywhere, even the horizon, for our whole existence. Staring us in the face. Isn't it surprising our ancestors missed the Eureka realization for so long?’

Marike took a deep breath and a welcome gulp. ‘And Ivor, why in only these last hundred years are we finally coming to terms with the non-orthogonality of 3D Euclidean space and time? Why is it only dawning now that gravity results from the curvature of spacetime? You tell me, Ivor. We only need to question the right fundamental to see a new perspective. And the outcome eventually seems so natural, not supernatural.’

Then the wheels fell off – Wyrbanc bunker, Monday 20 August 2007

With Octa's sponsorship, Chomski inherited Marike's security, something of a poisoned crock. He immediately ordered her an armored Benz limo. ‘It's presidential bomb 'n bullet proof’, he boasted at the time. The doors and roof are hardened steel. The polycarbonate windows are nearly an inch thick. The underbelly is protected against grenade and mine detonation. Even Marike's rear compartment is separated from the driver and anyone riding shotgun up front. Her transparent ballistic shield is state-of-the-art privacy tinted crystal laminate.

Then there's Marike's chauffer. Vetting him was another Chopper security measure. Puta readily ticked the facts on Alabo Mezie's resumé. And as a former Nigerian refugee befriended by Marike when she needed local muscle and a dogs-body, he appealed to Chomski's underdog favoritism. Alabo is still seeking his family's immigration to Oz. He's already thoroughly assimilated, full of smiles, if laconic – a bit of a loner. And burly enough – a 'true blue ocker' by way of a typical Chopper compliment.

Alabo is due to collect Marike for today's drive to Wyrbanc. He is waiting to hear her location – at the last minute – another Chomski precaution. So Alabo is sprucing up and brushing his lapels before getting behind the wheel. He takes a final moment to adjust his hat and straighten his epaulettes. He tucks his tie inside the dapper vest he's been sent by his family's captors in Nigeria. In return for the warlord releasing his family to emigrate with passports and all expenses paid, the chauffer will this trip detonate his cargo. The imprimatur of Alabo's tribal leader is sealing a guarantee there can be no going back by any party.

As the limo stops in the driveway outside Wyrbanc, Chomski is waiting to usher Marike inside. From behind the fortified front door, he zooms the CCTV onto the occupants. He glimpses Marike on the far side. He sees Alabo adjust his hat and cross himself. ‘What the ... ?’ Then slowly the driver reaches down, not toward the door. Chomski tenses spontaneously.

The explosion punches Alabo's head into the ceiling, peeling back the roofline above the driver's door. The front-rear shield bursts rearward, enveloping Marike in a shatterproof shrinkwrap prism. The blast breaches Wyrbanc's front door, floors Chomski, and momentarily deafens everyone further inside. The Benz' emergency systems cut in. Puta immediately receives the distress alarm, along with video feed, operational status and superfluous location data.

Screening on Wyrbanc's main display monitor, the bomb smoke is venting through the can-opened roof. The car looks otherwise intact according to its external cams. The internal cam pans over the pocked back seat and is instantly overloaded by light radiating from Marike's side. Rays are reflecting off the crumpled shield encasing Marike and refracting from the prism that's bubbling like a disco bauble on drugs. Rotating further, the windscreen inside resembles an abstract sunset in russet. The anthracite roof lining has a coal halo imprinted above the steering wheel. The Wyrbanc personnel are still too shocked to notice.

Chomski recovers sufficiently to grab his MP5 and a full magazine. Shaking his head to focus, he weaves outside to cover the scene. Apart from light haze still escaping the Benz, and some driveway debris, no major damage is obvious. In the street a couple of cars have stopped abruptly, but are continuing once the thunderclap's source isn't evident. There are no pedestrian casualties to be seen, and no passers-by congregating. Almost normal again.

Chomski hopes no one rang 000. There'll only be two dead to collect, and lots of explaining to do. And Chomski gets aggro around authority. Plus Ivor won't want Wyrbanc under the spotlight of another Octa related murder investigation. Understatement. But who's kidding who; there will be aftermath. ‘Get over it,’ he mutters.

Beth and Josh stagger into the daylight, sniff the acrid air and confront the calamity. Ivor drags the hallway extinguisher toward Josh. No need. Beth tries to open the rear door to Marike. She can see Marike's outline wrestling inside her cocoon, her mauve lips gulping and penciled eyelids drooping. ‘She's suffocating. Quick, help me wrench the door open.’

Chomski realises the doors won't budge – 'attack autolock' activated, not 'crash release'. He stretches through the gaping roof, but his shoulder stops him reaching the emergency door release under the dash. He grabs Alabo's severed arm – right or left? – and punches at the button. The doors fling open. Alabo's singed head rolls out. Gore drips onto the driveway. Chomski has the presence of a dazed mind to recall a hallmark of past explosions – random items untouched – an unscathed headrest in this case, and one radio speaker still updating the weather report. ‘Have a nice day,’ he chokes.

Ivor and Josh are clawing at the asphyxiating honeycomb, trying to extricate the breathless Marike from her swaddling. Chopper pushes them aside and levers the barrel of his MP5 between seat and shield. Marike's eyes suddenly widen in even more horror as she imagines being shot as well. With one last breath she butts her head furiously. Josh's paw clamps the glassy edge and pulls. The crystal shatters.

Marike gasps and exhales vapor and vomit. Josh recoils – where there's putrid fumes, there's acid burns. But it's dissipating now, and Ivor's eyes are saying 'Drag her out'. They lay her on her side. Ivor kneels down to check her breathing and pulse. Her eyes are flickering. She is murmuring something. He leans closer. She is beginning to talk audibly, not just groaning and coughing. He hears phrases but can't understand. It's a foreign lingo he's never heard.

Chomski is dusting off now, threat over. Muzzle against his collarbone, he kneels down to assess Marike. Watching her mouth, he grunts, ‘Gibberish. Just delirious. She'll be right. Gutsy girl.’ He pinches her earlobe lightly and smiles. Then he slowly looks around at Ivor and the blistered Wyrbanc door behind. ‘Bloody good car, the Benz. No chance with a HumVee; not from inside. She'd be vaporised.’ Marike squeals.

Beth has brought the first aid kit. She knows languages too, more than Ivor's school French anyway. He cups his ear and points to Marike babbling. Beth crouches by her lips. ‘She's talking in tongues alright. It's stoccato, like we count numbers; rapid fire.’ Beth frowns, unable to comprehend. Marike's eyes are blinking normally now, and she's looking around as if the surroundings are unfamiliar. The monologue keeps flowing. Josh is fumbling for the record button on his phone.

Beth stands, and draws Ivor away with a hand on his shoulder. ‘Look at her; it's like she's expecting us to understand. Listen there's intonation, perhaps even punctuation. Sounds articulate. Not the least confused or rambling. I've never heard anything like it.’

Ivor notices Marike's hands are twitching. Her feet are wriggling too. ‘Is she fitting? Beth?’

‘More like sleep walking,’ offers Josh. He steps forward to feel around her torso for wounds. ‘She's unscathed if her head's alright. Remarkable.’

Surprisingly Marike begins to rise to her feet from one hand. There's no wavering balance. Still speaking, she pirouettes to face Ivor, Beth, Josh and Chopper. She raises her arms sideways as if opening double doors in front of them. She looks to the sun. eEthereal Marike is emerging like a moth to the flame.

******