“Because plans are already in motion to bring that small detail back in line with optimum management conditions.” How could the aging obstacle know that? Was it possible that his own communications were less secure than he had believed? It bore investigation.

“I also note that hazard loss of human colonists is highly selective in its action.” There had been a slight emphasis on the word “selective.” Impossible to tell if it was faint praise or criticism.

“Yes. It allows us to optimize our profits from the remaining colonists.” He had to resist the urge to preen, or the closest Darhel equivalent, which was not a social display, but was instead more a personal expression of satisfaction with one’s own accomplishment. His superior was doing his usual exemplary job of appearing unimpressed.

“It is good to know you continue in your usual exceptional standards of job performance, Tir.” The flash of rows of razor-sharp pointed teeth, in a very brief display of that copied human expression, the grin, almost caused a slight shudder. But, really, the old fool was just trying to put a brave face on the hunt breathing down his neck. Age was beginning to rob his vigor, would soon take his wit, and ultimately his life.

This time, the Tir could not quite resist the urge to preen.

Chapter One

Chicago, Friday, May 10, 2047

His favorite sports bar in Chicago had taken an old prewar rectangular middle-of-the-room bar and replaced the central island of glassware, bartender, and drinks with a large holotank. Unusually for a bar, smoking was absolutely forbidden, as the wafting smoke tended to interfere with the image display. The surround sound was practically perfect, and the waiters and waitresses who delivered the drinks from a traditional bar retrofitted next to the kitchen took extra care to take patrons’ orders discreetly so as not to interfere with the game.