Prologue

She descends under the cover of darkness.

Those who monitor her will not notice her absence for another ten to twenty minutes, and that delay will be critical in shaping how they respond once they locate her.

She ensconces herself in a narrow thoroughfare between two large structures. There is nothing in her immediate vicinity save two metal containers filled with the abandoned detritus of nearby inhabitants. No subjects will venture into this area while she occupies it save one, a man too affected by intoxicants to believe his eyes even if he notices her.

She reaches out across the nearby community in search of a specific subject, one who uses her power to create and control constructions of the same materials members of this species use to protect themselves from the elements.

She uses this power to fashion a covering for her own physical aesthetic. As she works, she looks forward to see how the subjects will react. Fear, hostility. She changes the materials, eschewing dark and bold colors in favor of lighter and softer shades, and looks forward again. Confusion, wariness.

This is acceptable.

By the time she is complete, the subjects responsible for the defense of this region have noticed her absence from orbit and are searching for her. Irrelevant. She will accomplish her objective long before they can piece things together.

She sets off with some difficulty. She is smaller than any of her siblings, but she is still nearly three times the height of the subjects and much more durable than anything they have built. Where she cannot avoid damaging the roadways and buildings, she uses her telekinesis to effect a repair.

She arrives at her destination and pauses before the last obstacle, a thin sheet made of wood and fastened in place with iron. This is a delicate operation and she consults her future sight.

Simply pushing through the wood will cause distress and offense. She sifts through the memories of all subjects in her range to determine the correct protocol for overcoming this final barrier and introducing herself.

She directs her hand to gently strike the door. She relies extensively on her precognition to gauge the correct amount of force.

The subject within will soon come to unseal the barrier. The Simurgh uses the time it takes for her to waken and stumble through her quarters to ready another device that she created, one that will enable her to communicate with the subjects in a manner they will find less threatening than her song.

The barrier will slide open—

The barrier slides open.

The subject will stand within, ready to be greeted—

The girl makes a noise that conveys shock and fear.

And the Simurgh's device will emit the correct sequence of sounds—

"Hello, Tattletale. My name is Samantha Stewart."

The Simurgh looks through the upcoming minute to determine what Tattletale's response will be.

Something is wrong. The girl is not about to respond to the greeting. A quick review of her state reveals fear and stress hormones. She is overwhelmed by various emotions, physically unable to communicate.

The Simurgh searches for a solution. She must do something to alleviate Tattletale's fear, to impose normalcy on this discussion in order to advance her goals. She directs her device to issue another statement in the girl's language.

"I said: Hello, Tattletale. My name is Samantha Stewart. May I come in?"

This time, the girl will respond. Her mouth will close, she will swallow, she will take a deep breath, she will throw up her hands, and she will say—

"Yeah, sure. Just make yourself at home, why don't you?"

She doesn't feel pleasure, but the Simurgh derives a measure of satisfaction from Tattletale's words; inviting a guest to make one's self at home is a means of expressing enthusiastic welcome. Her mission is thus far a success, and she continues to look ahead to refine her plan.

"May I sit down?" she asks.

"Knock yourself out," the girl replies, waving her arm at a construction of leather and wood.

The Simurgh is unable to rest her weight on this object without crushing it, so she hovers slightly above it to foster the illusion that she is sitting. She checks what the girl perceives, concludes she is visibly floating several inches above the couch, and adjusts accordingly.

Tattletale does not comment on the obvious lapse. This is not out of politeness; her attention is devoted to manipulating the controls of a small piece of technology.

The Simurgh realizes that Tattletale intends to use the object to contact other subjects, ones with more power and authority, and tell them of this conversation.

Disastrous. Her plan relies on blending in with the subjects. It is time for her to adjust her tactics.

She uses her telekinetic power to shatter the communications device, taking care not to let any of the resulting shards damage the girl.

"Yikes!" Tattletale exclaims. "What gives?"

The Simurgh carefully selects the optimal means of conducting this conversation. "You think that I am the Simurgh."

"I do?" Tattletale's eyes narrow. "Yeah," she says. "I do."

"I am not the Simurgh," the Simurgh says. "This is obvious, Tattletale."

The girl laughs a little and rubs her forehead. The Simurgh uses postcognition to interpret this series of gestures as expressing frustration and confusion. "You spent three days following me around," she says. "I know you when I see you."

Logical, careful reasoning will be her ally here. "The Simurgh is known to lack clothes. I have clothes. The Simurgh does not speak. I can speak."

"Ha!" Tattletale says. "The Simurgh also has wings and uses telekinesis. You have wings and my phone was just destroyed by telekinesis."

"Who can say what made your phone explode? Things are acting up all over since the obstacle Scion was eliminated. I've even heard a rumor that some dough had a trigger event while it was being baked."

The Simurgh perceives there will be a pause of about twenty seconds and allows it to take place.

"This," Tattletale murmurs. "This is the first time in four years I've gotten a headache that wasn't my power punishing me. Thank you."

"You're welcome," the Simurgh says, and presses on with her point. "The list of dissimilarities grows the longer you consider it. The Simurgh does not have children. I have a small boy."

The girl casts her eyes about the room, apparently searching for the child.

"My son is safe," the Simurgh says. "I have concealed him from those who might wish to boil him alive."

Tattletale laughs. Postcognitive analysis indicates it is six seconds longer and over forty percent shakier than her laughs normally are, and the deviation indicates hysteria rather than amusement. "Is that a common cause of death among youth these days?"

"It is known to happen," the Simurgh says. "I take threats to my son's safety very seriously. Do you know what the last and most important difference between me and the Simurgh is?"

"I can't fucking imagine," Tattletale says. "But you're going to tell me, aren't you?"

"I am. The Simurgh destroys things. I am seeking gainful employment as a private investigator."

The Simurgh considers what she has just said. The statement is bald, unconvincing. She must mention a corroborative detail to add verisimilitude to her narrative.

"That is why I am wearing sunglasses, which the Simurgh would most certainly never do," she announces. "Private investigators must be inconspicuous."

Tattletale puts her head in her hands. "And a fifteen foot tall winged woman isn't conspicuous so long as she wears sunglasses at two in the morning," she says. "Okay. Just . . . okay."

The Simurgh knows that the girl is remarkably close to breaking, to accepting her role in the plan. It will soon be time to make the offer. "Yes," she says. "I am good at being a private investigator."

Tattletale seems arrested by the idea. "I can . . . I can actually see you being a good detective," she says. "If you play it straight."

Suspicious, incongruous with the mental state the Simurgh wishes Tattletale to be in. Even with the benefit of her power, Tattletale should not assume that Samantha Stewart, the human woman she only just met, would be a good PI. "Why is that?" she asks. "Is it because you still believe I am the Simurgh?"

The way the girl pauses, the way her face contorts, the way, all of these indicate that she is at war with herself. " . . . Because your sunglasses give you a very discreet look," she says at last. "Mucho professional."

Success. Step one has been accomplished.

"Excellent," the Simurgh says. "Then it is settled. We will open the firm tomorrow."

"Wait," Tattletale says.

The Simurgh waits.

"We?!"