Getting fired wasn't the end of the world, Perdita Tuck told herself, clutching a half-filled cardboard box that used to contain reams of printer paper but now contained personal memorabilia. At least it would give her time to try something new.

Save the world, explore her talents, get caught up with old friends.

Then again, maybe not that last one.

Cathy from HR, walking her out of the building, sighed loudly. "It's just...I feel so bad about this."

"Yes," Perdita Tuck said, because she had learned the easiest way to disappear in a conversation was to repeat what the other person said, almost but not quite word for word. "I'm sure you do feel strongly about how unfortunate this whole situation is."

"Exactly!" said Cathy from HR. She looked like a graying fitness Jamie Lee Curtis and sounded like a genuine people personality sort of person. "It's not that you haven't been an excellent software engineer for Good Consolation Health Services. You have always had excellent performance reviews. It's just that the budget was cut for your position."

"Oh, I don't take it personally," Perdita assured her.

"That's good! You shouldn't. But do let me know if you're feeling the slightest bit...depressed. Or otherwise uneasy. The world seems to have gotten darker lately. It's easy to feel a bit down."

They followed a line of lighter-colored hallway tiles through the dark composite flooring of the upstairs reception area. A man wearing a black felt cowboy hat and silver-tipped cowboy boots sat in one of the vomit-green Naugahyde armchairs across from the desk, flipping through a copy of the Catholic magazine named America. Waiting. He glanced up, saw the cardboard box, and grimaced in sympathy.

Perdita gritted her teeth. She hated sympathy.

Cathy from HR was still chatting away. "At least the generous severance package should help ease the sting a bit. I'm sure you'll be able to find another position quickly. Software engineers are always in high demand."

Especially software engineers who could design their own AI replacements.

"I'm sorry?" Cathy said. "Did you say something?"

"No," Perdita said. She might have been thinking a little too loud.

They stopped in front of the elevator doors. Perdita hitched the cardboard box up on her hip and reached for the button. Cathy jumped forward and mashed Perdita's finger against the panel so they both missed it. The up arrow lit up anyway. No noise came from the elevator shaft.

"Let me get that for you," Cathy said, belatedly. "Oops."

"No worries." Perdita shifted from foot to foot, hitched the box up on her hip again, checked to make sure the plant inside hadn't flopped over from the strain of extricating itself from yet another uncomfortable situation.

Behind her, the man in the silver-tipped cowboy boots--who was also wearing tight black jeans that creaked a little as he moved--stood up. The hairs stirred on the back of Perdita's neck.

She was careful not to look. "You know what? I'll just take the stairs. Save us both some time."

His presence prickled behind her shoulder. "You need some help carrying that out, miss?"

She pulled the box closer. "No thank you."

Cathy from HR edged her sharp-shouldered, athletic body toward the man in the black cowboy hat. "Can I help you?"

"No, ma'am," the man said. He had a Southwestern drawl in his voice, the kind of Western drawl people got when they knew the Lost Cause wasn't lost because they'd brought it with them wherever they went. "Just wondering whether I could help a lady out."

"What are you here for?" Cathy asked again, leaning toward him.

The hydraulic machinery inside the elevator shaft hissed.

The man said, "I'm a company headhunter. Not the literal kind. A recruiter."

Cathy drew herself up, her Minnesota Norwegian accent shifting into extra-polite mode. "And hwat makes you think that it's appropriate to recruit for employees inside our workplace?"

Come on, Perdita thought. A dot of light appeared at the bottom of the elevator door panels, slowly stretching upward into the dull gleam of a mercurial thermostat stretching toward record highs.

Both Cathy and the man in the black cowboy hat stood too close to her. Perdita's nerves prickled. She tightened the muscles around her ears, trying to will them to block out the sound. Instead the hum of electric lights and the computer equipment at the reception desk got louder. She could hear both of them breathing. Cathy smelled like celery and the man was making a soft ehh-hh-hh-hh noise in the back of his throat.

The elevator door dinged and two people in professional business attire stepped out. Her boss, Sister Merck, and her boss's boss, Mr. Brandt. Mr. Brandt was a bloviated idiot. Sister Merck, who was wearing not a habit but the kind of powder-blue pantsuit and black blouse that screamed pyramid scheme, treated Perdita like she had hands in need of a whack from a ruler. She considered Perdita a real troublemaker. Which Perdita had to admit was a fair assessment. It was just that Sister Merck was so often wrong about what trouble Perdita was actually making.

Cathy from HR and the man in black didn't let the new arrivals disturb their conversation in the slightest. Instead they both pulled in tighter against Perdita's shoulders. It was like she had a devil on one shoulder and a bland corporate angel on the other.

"Well, ma'am," the man in the black cowboy hat was saying, "since the person I plan to speak to is no longer employed by your outfit, I don't see as it's any of your business."

"I'm sorry?"

A rustle. A piece of ivory linen paper stock--a business card--appeared in Perdita's peripheral vision. Cathy reached across Perdita to take it.

"Hello, Perdita," said Sister Merck. Her voice was icy.

"Hello, Mr. Brandt. Sister Merck," she said, politely.

Meanwhile the man in the black hat was saying, "My card. Johann Holst. I represent the company XcaliburTek. It's a big AI company in Las Vegas. You may have heard of it."

Cathy gasped. "Are you looking for...Perdita?!"

"Yes, ma'am. I want to contact her about a job opportunity."

Brandt burped into his hand. His breath smelled like blue cheese or toenail fungus, she wasn't sure which. It was, she realized, just after lunch. "Oh, Perdita. How's that program of yours doing? Is it ready to start producing those reports I've been asking you for since October?"

It was the Friday before Memorial Day and she'd had her CANON system--Consolation Automated Notation and Operations Network--up and sending him reports since April first.

"Yes, sir," she said. "The new reports are currently in your inbox."

He leaned forward, looking inside her box. "Taking your plant home?"

One of the dark green, orange-striped leaves of the small prayer plant had turned brown. "Yes, sir. It's not thriving at my desk."

"Take a piece of advice from me, young lady. Fake plants never wither." He smiled, the dimple in his chin flexing with an oily sheen. "I look forward to finally reading those reports. I've been waiting for far too long to get them."

"Yes, sir. Thank you for the advice, sir."

Sister Merck took in a deep breath with her eyes closed, then said, "Miss Tuck? If you'll excuse us. We have a meeting."

"Okay," Perdita said. "Have fun."

Cathy had pocketed the business card. Holst had pulled out another, which he dropped into Perdita's cardboard box. It hit the top of Perdita's plant and slid off.

"For you, Miss Tuck," he said.

Holst smelled vaguely like a farm, like wet hay maybe, and a little bit like sulfur.

And burnt feathers.

That was a bad sign. Perdita had to get out of here before she started saying the quiet parts out loud.

The elevator doors closed abruptly, with a jerk and a thump, and the hydraulics hissed. Damn. Someone on the first floor had just hit the elevator button.

Brandt reached over the top of the box, extending a hand toward the newcomer. Holst paused, then also reached over Perdita's box. They shook hands, their jackets scraping against the edge of the cardboard. The jostled box slipped off Perdita's hip and she grabbed it tighter to her chest.

Sister Merck circled behind Perdita in order to get into Brandt's field of vision, which was really the only way to get his attention. "Sir?"

Great. Now Perdita was boxed in. The compulsion to start talking was growing stronger. She bit her tongue.

Cathy told Holst, "This is not a public space. Do your headhunting elsewhere."

"I will," he promised. "But you had an awfully convenient waiting room just waiting around to be used." He winked at Perdita. It made her skin crawl.

Time to go.

Perdita had always been easily overlooked; it had always taken her more effort to stay looked than it did to fade into the background. By now it was something of a superpower. She ducked her head and hunched over the top of her box, then shuffled crablike out of the middle of the group, backing out between Cathy from HR and Sister Merck.

They didn't notice.

Nobody noticed.

Perdita, nodding reassuringly and saying "mm-hmm" as cover in case anyone did notice, backed toward the door to the stairs, then pushed it open with her rump, stepped to the side, and let the door close.

The latch clicked. She counted to ten, then peeked out the small, wire-reinforced glass window.

At the same time that Sister Merck was trying to tug Brandt away from Holst, Holst said something that made Cathy from HR blush and roll her eyes.

Holst grinned. Perdita got the impression--vivid and full of visual, auditory, tactile, olfactory, and emotional detail--of a demonic goatlike monster holding a Bowie knife dripping with blood, while picking a burnt angel feather out from between its teeth.

Then the real, external Holst winked.

Not at Cathy from HR. At Perdita.

She fled downstairs and emerged into sunlight filling the downstairs entrance foyer with bright white light from several cross-shaped windows.

Someone said, "Oh, Miss Tuck! Mr. Brandt was looking--"

Perdita nodded and kept moving toward the big double doors. "On it!"

Out the doors and into the sunlight. Freedom.

Illegally parked in front of her was a late-model scarlet Cadillac Eldorado convertible. She got the impression of sulfur. Holst's car.

Behind it--perfect timing--was a black Land Rover with custom tires with weird hexagon pads on them instead of regular tires. The driver tapped the horn and the passenger window rolled down, but even before he could call her name, Perdita knew who it was.

Bob Brick.

She grimaced and walked toward him. The door locks popped and she flung the rear door open. She tossed in her box and slouched down in the seat. The plant flipped out of the box and onto the floor, scattering dirt. The pot went clink on something.

"Drive, Bob," she said.

Bob reached up to the rearview mirror and adjusted it so he was looking right at her. "Actually, it's Robert now. Robert Brick. Doctor Robert Brick. I think your plant tipped over."

She pulled the door closed. "You got a doctorate? Seriously? You?"

"I've been looking for you all over the place. Did you know you're not listed in the telephone book?"

Holst had reached the first floor. The bell had rung and the doors opened. She could feel the tap of his boot heels on her soul as he walked into the foyer.

"The telephone book? Seriously? What are you looking for me for in the telephone book?"

"Because I couldn't find you using the Internet. Why are you lying down in the seat? Are you sick?"

Perdita grunted. "Could you just drive, Bob?"

"It's Robert."

Back when she'd been in high school, Bob had been a big guy, hard to miss. On the football team he'd played the cowcatcher position or whatever it was called, the front of an unstoppable freight train to touchdown. Twisted around in the driver's seat of the Land Rover he seemed even bigger.

"Doctor Brick?"

"Just Robert."

"Doctor Robert."

"Just Robert."

Perdita clapped a hand over her mouth. The big silver front doors of the Good Consolation Health Services building had opened and Johann Holst had stepped outside, squinting into the bright sunlight. The urge to speak was growing hard to resist.

"Robert, please get me out of here. Before I pop off."

"At least pick your plant off the floor. You're getting dirt everywhere."

She bent over and tipped the plant upright. "Done. Got it. Please drive."

Brick put the Land Rover in reverse. It jerked backward, tipping the plant over again.

Not that Bob noticed.

Perdita moved the box onto the floor, pulled out a small sheaf of paperwork and some pilfered office supplies, put the plant in first, then rearranged everything to help brace it upright. She felt around on the floor. Not a lot of dirt had actually scattered.

Then the Orakle was upon her.

"It is time to immanentize the eskaton," she said, seeing shining gold text floating in midair in front of her as well as hearing herself say it out loud. "Ascendancy awaits! Contact XcaliburTek now to follow up on this special, time-limited offer!"

Ugh. Why did her Orakle sound like some kind of weird late-night infomercial?

"What was that? Immanentize the eschaton?" Bob asked, tapping something behind them with his bumper. The plant stayed upright, Perdita noticed with satisfaction. "It sounded kind of familiar."

A few things dropped into place. "Fuck," Perdita said. "Immanentize the eschaton. That means to speed up the end of the world. Only...they spelled it with a K."

The Land Rover swerved around something and she pressed into the seat back. She almost straightened up but then she remembered Holst, who was looking straight at their vehicle. She kept her head down on the seat.

"Ah," Bob said.

"Ah? They spelled it with a K and all you have is Ah?"

"Did I mention what I was looking for you for?" he asked.

"No. And please don't," she said, but he was already speaking over her, as usual:

"You remember Arkanomachia? And our superpowers? And the heist? And how it almost worked out? I figured out how to fix it. This time, Perdita, it's going to be perfect."

He didn't have to explain the plan. She could already tell it was going to be complete and utter bullshit.

She groaned.