At any moment inside of Kitchakana's lush orbital office suite, a dozen voices or more speak at once.

Many of them are impossible for the human ear to perceive, while others are tuned to frequencies

meant specifically to injure the hominid ears of any two curious eavesdroppers.

And then there is the skidding percussive voice of the chief expeditionary of Adman's technological arm in the mirage,

Ketchakana himself, who speaks from behind an antique reclaimed desk from

God who can even remember which system now? He leans forward in his chair, his back locked

at a straight diagonal angle, as if ready to launch. It was a position of strength, one that the Talonite had earned, not least of all, through

his ability to do what he is doing at this very moment, untangling threads of information and capitalizing where no one else

sees the possibility.

It served him when he escaped the labor world he was born on.

It served him as he maneuvered his way through the

underworld of crime bosses and malefactor algorithms. It served him as he did what all

good entrepreneurs do and learned how to make his cruel business legal and acceptable.

And it served him now as he planned his next ascent to the very peak of Advent itself.

On this day, in addition to the normal reports from his

Field Scouts and his undercover agents, Kana is busy politicking. His limited

self-projectors, the devices he uses to send workman-like copies of himself to various ambassadors and

negotiators had returned.

And now they played back the proceedings.

Each bit of audio tuned automatically to a different frequency.

As a Talonite, Kana's ears and brains worked in conjunction

to untangle the knotted sounds and receive all of the information all at once.

...