All pre-ordainedA prisoner in chainsA victim of venomous fateKicked in the faceYou can’t pray for a pceIn Heaven’s unearthly estate

  You can choose a ready guideIn some celestial voiceIf you choose not to decideYou still have made a choiceYou can choose from phantom fearsAnd kindness that can killI will choose a path that’s clearI will choose free will.

  -- Rush "Freewill" (1980)

  "I was wondering when you were pnning on checking in," said Luna. "You know, I had almost given up hope. I assumed you'd either absconded or been dismembered in some moderately tasteful way."

  "Had to set up the new computer," said Craig, lounging in a Hawaiian shirt and sungsses, sipping a pi?a coda.

  "Thought the drink might help soften the blow."

  "Was your mission successful? Have you gathered enough evidence on Ernstein to put him away?"

  Craig grinned. "Oh, Luna, honey, I didn't just succeed, I went for extra credit on this one."

  "Oh?"

  "You'll have your evidence. Guy like Ernstein deserves to rot in prison. But I got something even more valuable."

  Craig took a long, luxurious sip of his drink. Just to annoy Luna.

  "You know, you should visit Tortuga," he said. "It's beautiful here."

  "I'm sure it is. This thing that you think is more valuable?"

  "The good news. I got Ernstein's bckmail drive. Every client. Everyone who visited that isnd. Every victim’s name. What was done to them. Who fucked who—and how old they were when it happened."

  Craig shrugged and continued. "Bad news? It’s encrypted. And only Ernstein knows the password. I figure you’ll send someone to make him talk — either right before or right after someone else makes him stop breathing. Shame, really. I bet they'll make it look like suicide. Couldn't happen to a more deserving person. Still, you've got resources. You could brute force it. Might take months. Might take years. All depends on what kind of computing power you have access to."

  "Dr. Bishop, that is incredible. You've truly outdone yourself. When will you be ready for extraction?" said Luna, a glint in her eyes.

  "Extraction? Uh, no," said Craig. "The evidence you sent me to gather? The evidence to put Ernstein in prison. That's the freebie. The encrypted drive? That's going to cost you. Fifteen million USD worth of cryptocurrency. I'm sending the wallet details over now."

  "What?" said Luna, ftly.

  There was a small chime on the computer.

  "Oooh, hold on. I'm getting another call. I think it's from the other interested buyer. Hold please!" Craig muted Luna and tapped the screen. Smyth-Farrow's face repced hers, immacute as ever.

  "Mr. Smyth-Farrow. I've been expecting your call. How are things?"

  "They're not good. Someone killed one of my best men yesterday," said Alistair.

  "A shame. But, hey, that's spy-biz," said Craig. He was running low on pi?a coda to dramatically sip at tense moments in the conversation, so he motioned to the waiter for a second one. "We both know it was him or me, it happened to be him this time. So, do you still want the hard drive?"

  Smyth-Farrow raised an eyebrow. "I do. What's your price?"

  "First off, I lost someone too. You wouldn’t know him. Just background noise to you. But he mattered. And I don’t forget who matters."

  Craig slid off his sungsses. His eyes weren’t just angry. They were gleaming—cold, calcuting, and wrong.

  Psychopathy, framed like a smirk.

  But then he put his sungsses back on and grinned.

  "But hey, we could keep going back and forth, me and you, seeking revenge on each other, getting more and more innocent people caught in the crossfire, or... I could look at the board, see we're rather evenly matched at this point, and offer a gentleman's handshake and call the chess match we've started against each other a draw. We bury the hatchet, go our separate ways. And you even get the drive for the low, low price of fifteen million dolrs USD in crypto. Not a bad price. I should let you know, however, I have another interested buyer on the line."

  Alistair Smyth-Farrow ughed. "Dr. Bir, extremely well pyed. I accept the draw. Send me the details, you will have the money presently."

  It took only a few moments for Craig to confirm that 15M was indeed now in his crypto wallet.

  "The drive is in Beach Locker 328C near the 1748 Restaurant in Long Bay Road, Tortuga. Combination to the lock is 9-1-3-2. And yes. It's there, no tricks. As I said, game's over, it's a draw. We both end up getting what we want."

  Alistair Smyth-Farrow got a buzz on his phone. He checked it.

  "It's there. And the data is intact. Encrypted, as we suspected, but intact."

  "Enjoy it in good health," said the doctor.

  "You sure you wouldn't want a pce in my organization?"

  "Tempting. But let’s face it. We’d spend half the time trying to kill each other. And the other half succeeding."

  "Damn right," Smyth-Farrow said, grinning. "Pleasure doing business."

  Then, after Smyth-Farrow hung up, Craig waited just a few moments more. Just to rub it in a little. Then... he took Luna off hold.

  "I don't know what kind of game you're pying, Bishop..."

  "The name," he said, "is Bir."

  "You're not in any position to make demands," Luna said, holding up her cellphone, with the Doki Doki Deathtrap app on it.

  "No, that's precisely the position I find myself in," said Craig. "It doesn't take a genius to know that in whatever proxy war Lambert and Smyth-Farrow have with each other, Ernstein's drive is a prize that either side could use to ruin the other. Pity it's encrypted though. So it'll have to be brute forced. Could take months. Could take years."

  "Yes, so?"

  "And I just sold Smyth-Farrow the original drive. You, however, can still buy the copy I made. Limited time offer. If you have that copy, well, all of a sudden, it's a race, innit? And Smyth-Farrow already has a..." Craig looked at his watch. "...five minute head start."

  Luna's face turned read.

  "I should just kill you now."

  "You won’t. You can’t. Because I have something you want, and I’ve already proved I’m willing to sell to the highest bidder. You'll pay me the money I ask. I'll use it for a discreet surgeon. And only after I come out of surgery intact and healthy, will you get the location of the copy. It's an arms race, and I'm the arms dealer. So, what's it going to be?"

  Luna smiled. "I'm very gd that you decided to make this a video call. That way I get to see your face. I wish I could say it's been fun. Goodbye, Dr. Bishop"

  Luna pressed the button to trigger Craig's pacemaker bomb.

  Craig took a sharp intake of breath. He started to keel over a little bit, putting a hand over his chest, as if in immense pain... He wobbled.

  "No," he croaked out. "No... the name..."

  He coughed.

  "It's getting..." (cough cough) "...so dark."

  "I can see... a bright... light..."

  This hammy overacting went on for a good five minutes.

  "...the name..." (cough, wheeze) "...the name..."

  He sat up straight in his chair. Perfectly healthy. He raised his gss to Luna.

  "The name—is Dr. Bir."

  ***

  Two Weeks Earlier

  Craig was seated at the restaurant booth, waiting for the other two guests in his party to arrive. The first to show up was...

  "Doctor Kosier?"

  "Yes? Doctor Bishop—what is this, some kind of Cold War re-enactment?"

  Dr. Kosier took a seat.

  "Why couldn't you just call me, or send me an email or something? You slipped a handwritten note under my door. In Polish. You don't even speak Polish."

  "But the point," said Craig, "is that you can, and Director Luna can't."

  "Why the secrecy?"

  "Oh, because I'm a spy."

  "You're a what?"

  "Yeah. Real name’s Craig Bir. Still a real doctor, technically. Though after this? I might pick a different career." Craig looked over Dr. Kosier's shoulder. "Oh, hold on, Dr. Whittaker just arrived."

  "Nie wierz? w to. (I don't believe it.)" Dr. Kosier muttered.

  "Dr. Kosier, Dr. Whitaker, Dr. Whitaker, Dr. Kosier."

  Dr. Kosier stood up, shaking Casey's hand. "I think I know you. From the psychology department."

  Casey Whitaker nodded. "And you're mentoring Dr. Bishop. Dr. Kosier, what Craig and I are about to tell you sounds impusible. But it's true. We'll get into the details during dinner, but Caer Idris is being used as a front for a private intelligence agency. A deeply unethical one. And Craig here isn't just a spy. He's a prisoner. One I have... reluctantly... decided to assist in his escape."

  "Yeah, you would not believe the back and forth we've been having in therapy sessions. Ethics. Philosophy. Morality. Even a bit of—you know, I'm actually transgender? Been closeted since before you met me," said Craig. "Might explore transitioning... when it's my choice to do so. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Point is, I have a pacemaker attached to my heart. I don't need it. If I disobey my handlers, or try to escape, it gives me a heart attack."

  "Jesus," said Dr. Kosier, horrified.

  "In thirty six hours," said Casey, "Craig's going to be sent on a mission to the U.S. Virgin Isnds. What we're coming to you for is help. We need to find a discreet heart surgeon, willing to remove Craig's pacemaker, off the record, and then impnt it in an animal."

  "Sheep or pig would probably have the most human-like biorhythms. Probably a sheep," said Craig.

  "Why a sheep?" asked Casey.

  "There's a pun I'd like to set up," said Craig.

  "You're serious," said Dr. Kosier. "Why... why me?"

  Craig looked upset by the question.

  "Dr. Kosier. I'm a psychopath. Like you pointed out. You saw that in me, and you didn't run away. Neither did you, Dr. Whitaker."

  "I had my moments," admitted Casey. "But... yeah. What happened to you... you didn't deserve it. It's unjustifiable. And... I don't know if you can ever be a good man, Craig. Or a good woman, if you decide to pursue transition. But I do know that right now you're not being given a choice."

  "I don't know either," said Craig. "I don't know what I want anymore. All I know is, I want to choose. Good or evil. Man or woman. Doctor, spy… or just some idiot bum. Whatever I am — it should be mine."

  "If that's what this is about... then... yes. There might be a way," said Dr. Kosier. "I believe you. I believe in choosing free will."

  ***

  "Oh, Luna, Luna, Luna," said Craig. "You've just murdered a random Welsh sheep."

  Craig grinned. He had set this pun up weeks ago, and he was not about to let it go to waste.

  "And in so doing, you've revealed that you've been a baaaaad, baaaaad girl, now, haven't you?"

  Only a psychopath could set up a pun that bad, that far in advance, for that little a payoff.

  "So Luna—there’s been something bugging me," said Craig. "When Alistair Smyth-Farrow first made contact with me, he knew an awful lot of information about me. Information that—well, to put bluntly, I don't think he could have gotten just from spying outside of this organization. Maybe you have a mole or two in the Peckinville security service, but no, there was stuff in there going way back, all the way to Dorley Hall. Smyth-Farrow thinks he’s Moriarty. He’s more like Baron Greenback with a trust fund. He gave away a lot of information. Like a goddamn sieve."

  "What is it about aristocrats," pondered Craig, "that makes them think they're ten times as clever as they actually are?"

  “Ahem,” came a third voice. Crisp. Aristocratic. Feminine. And suddenly, very present.

  "Present company not excepted, Ms. Lambert," said Craig. "I'm still holding a grudge for what you did to me, but I'll get to you ter."

  Luna's face paled.

  "Oh yes, Ms. Luna, Ms. Lambert is also on this line. And you know, I wasn't sure how Smyth-Farrow was able to get that information — up until you tipped your hand. You tried to kill me. You're not stupid. You're not going to put petty vengeance over the mission."

  He smirked.

  "So. Why would you kill the only person who has the only other copy of Ernstein's drive, before your organization could get your hands on it?"

  Luna bolted from the desk, and ran.

  She didn't get very far.

  Mary Devon took the shot.

  And a flock of starlings scattered.

  In the meantime, Craig Bir wasn't done conducting business.

  "Ms. Lambert. Fifteen million for the drive. Another ten million for pain, suffering, and unwful imprisonment. And another five million in hazard pay. Thirty million total. You already have the wallet."

  Elle frowned. A moment ter, another thirty million dolrs hit Craig’s crypto wallet.

  "Beach locker 37, near Sebastian's On The Beach, Long Bay Road, on Tortuga. Combination 3-8-2-0"

  "You're a monster, Dr. Bir," Elle Lambert said.

  “Then for your health,” Craig said, coolly, “stay the fuck out of my way. You had Monica Rosamond kidnap me. You threw me in a hole. And you're still torturing people. Right now. So tell me, Elle—what exactly makes you think there's any difference between you and Smyth-Farrow?"

  He leaned into the camera.

  "You're both completely irredeemable."

  And then—he hung up.

  ***

  Four Weeks Later

  It was an overcast day in Almsworth. Perfectly miserable. Very English.

  And there, a very unhappy young man sat on a bench in the park. Weighted by thoughts he didn’t want to have, and sitting with that kind of sorrow you only get when you’ve run out of reasons to be angry and still don’t know who to bme.

  He was going to have to resit at least two, maybe three, of his exams. After he had worked so hard to get into Saints in the first pce. And why? For a... no, for the stupidest possible reason.

  He hated himself. Hated everything about himself. Even had some moments when he thought...

  ...well, forget what he thought.

  A man in his mid twenties — maybe a grad student? — walked up to the bench. Carrying... a garden trowel and a small bnket.

  "Hey, this is going to be a little weird, but I'm going to be digging up something around here," said the man with the trowel. "You don't need to move, I just wanted you to be aware that's what I'm doing.

  "Digging up something?" asked the young man on the bench.

  "Yeah. I buried a USB drive here about a year and a half ago while escaping from a secret prison located here in Almsworth. It's full of bckmail and evidence. See, I'm actually a rogue spy, and it's full of material I'm going to use to bring down two conspiracies. Only thing I'm waiting for is for one side to take out the other, first, then, I use what I buried here to take down the survivor... when they're at their most vulnerable."

  The young man on the bench blinked.

  "Kidding," said the digger, who id the bnket down and started putting the trowel to earth. "It's a geocaching thing."

  "Oh," said the man on the bench. He was a little disappointed. "Big fan of conspiracies?"

  "Sort of," said the digger. (Honestly, by this point, he was getting really fucking tired of conspiracies.)

  The man on the bench closed his eyes and let out a long, drawn out sigh.

  "They're stupid, right? Like, no way they could be true," the man on the bench said.

  "Depends on the conspiracy theory. Why, you have one?"

  "You'll think it's stupid."

  "Of the two of us, who is currently digging up a public park? Stupid is retive. Spill your guts, you'll feel better even if it is stupid. Trust me, I'm a doctor."

  "It's just that... about six years ago, my friend Mark went missing. They think it was suicide, but... they never found a body. And then... a couple years ter, I run into this woman at Tesco who looked exactly like Mark, if Mark was a girl. Her name was Melissa Haverford. And that could be a coincidence, but... I never told her my name. And she knew it anyway. And... I know this is going to sound crazy... but... what if Mark faked his death to transition? To become a woman?"

  "It's out there, but it's not unreasonable," the digging doctor replied.

  "It's why I actually went to Almsworth, which I'm thinking might have been a mistake. Cause she went here first. And maybe there's a secret gender clinic on campus. Somepce that helps trans women transition, fake their deaths, and build new lives."

  Now that, thought the digging doctor, sounded like Dorley.

  He looked at the kid. Red hair. Freckles. Sad look to his eyes. A little hunched.

  Hmm, he thought. Why not kick the hornet's nest? Just a little.

  "You know, it's actually quite pusible. The NHS doesn't really allow gender clinics like that to operate openly, I'm sure there's demand for an illegal secret gender clinic."

  Jackpot, thought the doctor, as he grabbed the waterproofed, duct-taped, cellophane-wrapped USB drive containing all his evidence against Dorley — the evidence he tried, and failed, to get to Prof. Katherine Frost.

  Of course, he could drop that off with Prof. Frost today, but if there's one thing the mistake back with the Daily Mail in London had taught him, patience and strategy were better than impulsiveness. He'd bide his time. Wait until the right moment to release it. Likely after one or both of the aristos finally cracked their Ernstein drives and lobbed the contents like nuclear weapons at each other. Then when they had mutually destroyed each other, he'd swoop in for the kill.

  "You really think it's possible?" asked the man on the bench.

  "Not just possible," said the doctor. "Pusible," he said.

  He wiped his hands on the bnket, pocketed the drive, and sat next to the young man on the bench.

  "You know where I'd concentrate my search?" the doctor said. "Probably somepce privately owned but would have a reason for lots of women and non-binary people to be around. Maybe a private girls' dormitory near campus? Ooh, a lot of those pces are old converted hospitals, they might still have some medical facilities."

  "What, you mean like Dorley Hall?" asked the young man.

  "Yeah, Dorley Hall could work. I think it used to be an old Edwardian hospital. Privately owned, but charitable mission. Girls' dorm. I mean, it fits the profile."

  "You don't think it's stupid?"

  "I honestly don't. That doesn't mean I necessarily think it's right. Maybe it's something else. Maybe you're mistaken. But uh, you know, ideas are tested with investigation and experiment. What's your name?"

  "Uh, Stefan Reilly. But, uh, I go by Stef to my friends."

  "Stef, hunh?"

  "And you?"

  "Oh, I'm Bir."

  "Is that your first name, or your st name?"

  "Just... Bir, I think."

  Bir smiled, stood up from the bench, and grabbed the towel.

  "It was nice talking to you, Stef. I hope you find what you're looking for. And if you do — be sure to tell everyone what you found."

  Stef Reilly thought about what Bir said, then opened up a page in his notebook. On it, he wrote: "Dorley Hall???"

  And circled it.

  ###