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way or another what he’d done with the data cores. “You’ve spied on Sword Enterprises in violation of at least eight articles of the treaty. Arthur said Zircon intercepted a radio transmission from these cultists. That explains some, but not everything. How did they acquire information regarding Nancy?”
    “Information even ya didn’t have until a few hours ago when ya spied on them, ya dirty sneaks,” Dred said.
    “Presumption is a leading cause of death,” Labrador said. “Are you aware of NCY-93’s intended destination?”
    “Why do I suddenly have a premonition you’re going to tell me something other than ‘to photograph Pluto?’” Mac said.
    “On the contrary. That is precisely the mission the probe will embark upon in T-minus six days. Continuing with the thesis we are describing a hypothetical event . . . Unfortunately, NCY-93 never arrives. Her sub-light accelerator, based upon oscillation technology your grandfather shamelessly stole from Tesla, malfunctions. Cavitation causes a cascade failure in the onboard computer. The probe catapults beyond our solar system and, as far as we can recreate these circumstances, she careens into the event horizon of a black hole, and from there, plunges into the Great Dark.”
    “The Great Dark?” Mac said.
    “Eh, your parents haven’t . . . ? You don’t know . . . ?” Labrador frowned, then smiled the way adults do when patronizing children. “Extend my apologies. This is as bad as inadvertently disabusing a child’s faith in Santa. Suffice to say, the probe pierces the membrane between this particular universe and a larger, blacker cell of the multi-galactic honeycomb. She tumbles in freefall for centuries until a decidedly inhuman intelligence—the aforementioned Azathoth—snatches her from the ether as a spider nabs its prey. This intelligence returns NCY-93 to Earth orbit prior to launch and you are there for the rest.”
    “Heck of a tale, sir. Which leads me to ask, how did you arrive at this theory?”
    “Alas, that involves proprietary technology.”
    “Holy Toledo,” Dred said. “Zircon has an AI too!”
    “The mouths of babes,” Dr. Campbell said.
    “Fuck,” Labrador said.

CULT OF THE DEMON SULTAN
    Dr. Campbell blushed. “Excuse me sir, it’s not an incredible leap of logic for young Tooms to deduce—”
    “Hit the deck!” Labrador dove for the dirt in the shadow of the retaining wall.
    Mac and Dred heard a thin, monotone grumble of an approaching aircraft. A bi-wing fighter emerged from a cloud and drifted toward the henge. Metallic crackling harmonized with the engine as the forward-mounted machinegun began to churn. Bullets pinged into rocks and dirt. The brothers went flat and tried to make themselves as small as humanly possible behind a shrub.
    The fighter overflew the henge by a half mile, banked into a wide turn, and closed in for another strafing run. Whalen hopped atop a boulder and took aim with his rifle. He fired, worked the bolt to eject the shell, chambered a fresh bullet, drew a bead, and took another crack. The Model 70 made a racket.
    The fighter wobbled and screamed past without engaging the machinegun. It picked up speed as it disappeared into the trees. A few seconds later there arose a muffled thud and the clatter of shearing metal.
    “These usually come in squadrons,” Whalen said as everyone stood and shook the dirt from their clothes.
    “I guess that settles it,” Mac said. “They aren’t keen to interrogate us.”
    “No,” Labrador said. “The cultists will be perfectly satisfied to loot your corpses. My presence doubtless alarms them. Sword Enterprises and Zircon allied in common cause would be enough to unnerve any foe.”
    “Easy, Mr. Labrador. Carts before horses, etcetera. I’d like to know who these guys are. Awfully well-organized for a group I hadn’t heard of until today. Who funds them? Where do they headquarter? What do they want with Nancy’s data?”
    “Best we repair to a