A new voice interrupted him, "It sounds like the culmination of a brilliant run of gamesmanship."
Firenze snapped around to see where the voice had come from. A man stood framed in the door, short of stature, but long in shadow. The phantom leaned casually against the frame, his hands plunged into his coat-pockets and teeth gleaming in the projector-flash. He rose, slowly, deliberately, and stepped into the steam and shadow.
The stranger didn't so much walk as uncoil with every step, like a calamitous clockwork engine, his strides winding between barely-constrained shifts and tics. His gray eyes flashed in the darkness, and his Cheshire grin split the fog. He couldn't have been more than a few years beyond Firenze, but his eyes were older than any Firenze had ever seen.
The stranger stopped at the projector threshold, one hand balanced against the rising steam-plume, catching lasers in the beaded condensate. He turned his palm, watched the neon-beads flash like starlight in the shadow, then met Firenze's stare with his own. There was something about the way the stranger smirked, something terrible, as if he'd been the confidant for all Firenze's darkest secrets, here to remind him exactly when and where he'd transgressed.
Firenze fell back, felt his back press against the sticky-wet of the whiteboard. His hair stood on end. His stomach clenched. Somewhere deep in his lizard-brain, ancient memories commanded him to flee, for the man before him was death.
The stranger slid through the shadow as a demon, his perverse grin and shining eyes piercing the flashing clouds. Firenze's breath caught. He pressed against the wall, unable to run, unable to fight. The room was filled with soldiers and killers, professionals, but even the wolves recognized the dragon, the atavistic fear impressed into all the naked apes who'd escaped their ancient cradle. This was the snake, who lurked in the grass. This was the cat that prowled the night. This was was the eagle who descended from on high. Firenze's fingers closed on the aluminum marker-shelf, grease squelching through his whitened knuckles.
The stranger spoke, with a voice smooth as oil on water, and said, "It is a brilliant gambit. When confronted by an opponent who possesses overwhelming force, that force must be negated with a suitable shield. In this case, a shield of fire, ice, causality, and mass casualty. It is efficient. It is poetic."
Firenze tried to swallow, but his throat wouldn't close. The stranger's smile broadened.
Sergeant Clausen burst through the haze, interposed between Firenze and the stranger, and shattered the man's spell. "Who are you?" Clausen demanded.
"Antonius Berenson, special adviser." Berenson made a show of clutching his hand over his heart as if struck by the lack of recognition. "I trust that my reputation precedes me?"
"We were warned." Clausen said. The sergeant kicked the power cord from the holotable, caused the lasers to fade and the mist to settle. The lights flashed back up, and Clausen said, "We were told not to trust you." Firenze heard the tone in Clausen's voice, knew the sergeant was warning him, warning everyone, 'Stay on guard.'
"Wonderful." The man replied, "Advising is so rewarding when everyone disregards my counsel. You would imagine Cassandra a model for success?" Berenson surveyed the room. All around him, the soldiers had risen to their feet, fanned out to control the area. Improbably, his smile widened, as if the tension in the room was fueling him. He gave half a laugh, then admitted, "I will confess that not trusting me is reasonable. I would expand the maxim, however: 'do not trust'. If a speaker is human, then they are lying." He rolled his gaze towards Firenze and declared, "I claim to speak only truth, which means I can never be trusted."
Clausen interposed once more, and demanded, "What do you want?"
That got another chuckle. Berenson stared up at the larger man, unintimidated, and said, "I wish merely to continue listening and to provide the context in line with my role. Mister Firenze was delivering a decent justice the direness of our predicament, but I have additional information I thought I might contribute. After all, I am an advisor."
"What's that?" Clausen demanded.
Berenson smirked and paraphrased back, "'Speak now and begone?' How courteous."
Firenze had been wrong when he'd thought Berenson's voice smooth. It wasn't flat at all, but a sing-song nested in subtle, careful cadence, as if he spoke in poetry instead of prose. The realization made Firenze's skin crawl all the more.
Clausen, however, was having none of it. The sergeant laid out his demand, "You have something to add? Do it. Else, sit down, and stop showboating."
Bizarrely, Berenson's grin took on a note of respect, perhaps even affection. He bowed slightly and said, "Of course, sergeant. If you would listen, I could add perspective. I know our opponent, and he is not interested in this airship or its hostages, nor even the untrammeled power of the mighty ARC950. For all their flash and thunder, these are stagecraft - the sleighted hand and spun cloak. The key is hidden within the noise: our opponent is harvesting strand."
"How would- why?" Firenze heard himself ask. He'd already started to form the broad outlines of the engineering 'how', but the possible reasons seemed absurd on their face. He reformed his question, "Why would they want to do that?"
"An excellent question." Berenson replied. He turned to an angle, so he could speak to everyone at once and continued, "Strand is
