Most people do at some point. The formal term for this condition is interpersonal communicative disassociation, and it exists in many variations. Some feel it socially, others culturally, others still politically, romantically, intellectually, and so on. The physical limitations of time and space dictate that at some point we all have to pick and choose what information to absorb and what to let fall by the wayside. When the synapses of the brain detect a gap in the flow of protons and electrons, there's a sense of displacement.

Agent had yet to feel it even once. His brain continually filled the void between synapses with new particles of information. He was the go-to guy when you needed to find out who, what, where, when, why and how much. Agent wasn't just in the loop; more often than not he was the loop.

His connections were quite extraordinary by any standards. He had acquaintances across the nebulae, some at arm's length and others a starshot away. Sometimes it even boggled him the fact that he'd gotten to know so many different creatures, each representing a different facet of the universal diamond. He knew people in boardrooms and people in mailrooms. He could walk into the most remote corner of Universe City and strike up a conversation with the bathroom attendant, remembering birthdays and anniversaries. Or he could talk to an alien bartender at Kreez's about the bad vibes brought on by a Skrullarian absinthe hangover.

Agent knew where the bodies were buried. And given enough time he could probably locate where the digger had bought the shovel. It was no wonder Ven had contacted him to help put some names with some faces. But this was going to be tricky.

A phone call preceded the arrival of fscked at his doorstep (friendly as always, but tensed with purpose), who brought him staggeringly detailed photographs of several Perdendosi dignitaries. The Lords themselves needed to know who these people were, where they fit into the grand scheme of the occupants' designs and what information they might have. And they needed to find out as soon as possible - it was a tall request, but he accepted it. There wasn't much of an option.

In another room, an oversized cat slept on the bed in the spot vacated by agent's wife before she'd left for work. The cat's companion rested at agent's side, and he stroked her coat with one hand and his own clean-shaven head with the other while he stared at the photos. The Perdendosi isolated themselves from human interaction as much as possible, and he counted none amongst his exhaustive list of contacts. He preferred it that way; no good ever came from seeing one of them.

The common knowledge was that if the Perdendosi came looking for you, you were soon to disappear. While the foot-soldiers were simply feared, the occupants themselves represented a whole different kind of danger. It was said that during the war, the aliens killed relatively few humans, but the foot soldiers did thorough work in dispatching of those they did. Since then, millions of humans globally had simply vanished, plucked from their everyday lives by the Perdendosi, at will.

The official explanation was that special humans were selected for appointed state-run duties, and would eventually be returned. On occasion, some families were provided with recordings of their loved ones shown working at indecipherable tasks. But these were few and far between, and to date no human had actually returned from their "appointed duties". They were assumed dead or worse, and no one probed too far into the matter for fear they too would end up missing.

But somewhere out there, an explanation existed. Agent however didn't need to find out the answer. He would simply do his part and hope that would suffice.

He considered his list of contacts and first thought of the people he knew who worked at Perdendosi-run installations, including a few locally in Universe City. The trick to getting the information you wanted was approaching a query from different angles. He knew one of these people might not know any Perdendosi directly, but maybe they had heard something through the grapevine, or floated a memo to someone who knew something. It was worth exploring.

Then there were other species he could contact who might have off-world information on the Perdendosi. This had happened before, and was a lot less likely to get back to the occupants. Occupant sympathizers were rare, although few dared raise their voices too loudly in opposition. Most races were given neutrality when in the vicinity of Earth unless they stirred-up dissent. Agent knew he'd have to be cautious here too

He also thought of an alternate route, but decided to follow that up as a last resort since it involved more direct dealings with those closer to the Perdendosi. There was no point in calling attention to himself if he could find out what he needed through other channels, even if that did take slightly longer. His network was vast but fragile, and some things couldn't be rushed.

He first made arrangements to meet for lunch the following day with one of the installation workers, and then spent a considerable amount of time online trying to track down an acquaintance from the Halo system who he remembered had ties to L.E.T.H.A.L. (the stories of their protest-parties were legendary). Late that afternoon he received a phone-call from his friend ElBandito, who was calling in a favor.

As it turned out, the big man had also been tapped by Ven and fscked to probe the Perdendosi for information and he already had a plan for doing so. But it would require he somehow, someway get his hands on the templates and models for SupraDyne Technologies' name-badges and in-house literature. He figured Agent might already have that available, since he knew better than most how extensive his friend's resources were.

The two often ran the same sting: Agent would use his influence to secure a position for ElBandito doing whatever for whomever, then the latter would quickly figure out what was of worth he could "appropriate". They liked to especially target blowhards and businesses that had gotten by too long without any form of karmic come-uppance. A month or two later, ElBandito would for various reasons "just not work out" in the position and either ask or be asked to step down, usually with severance pay - and whatever he'd managed to pocket. Agent would be cut in for his time and trouble, and this had actually led to the downfall of several private companies, most of which were involved in questionable practices and had skirted the law for years.

They weren't angels, but they liked to do their part to keep things on an even keel.

The other reason ElBandito figured Agent might have the SupraDyne identity branding info was very practical: Agent's day job - when he actually was there - was as a graphic designer. He'd been responsible in that capacity for handling the advertising and marketing of numerous corporations, some instantly recognizable like SupraDyne.

The irony of ElBandito's request struck Agent immediately. He had already considered contacting someone he knew there for information, but that had been his third choice, the last resort. Now, with both of their goals at stake, he would have to focus his attentions on the corporation. He told his friend to expect a progress call later that evening, then immediately went through his rolodexes and digital address books looking for the number of the executive at SupraDyne.

The guy was a shark in Agent's loop and he knew it. He took a deep breath before dialing, preparing to swim without being eaten alive.

It worked like a charm in a curiously logical manner:

The optics of the eye contain nerves that have the most direct physical route to the brain. The merchant's input enhancer took the form of eyedrops that sent chemical stimulants on a path along the nerve endings, primarily toward Broca's and Wernicke's areas of the brain, where the language communication centers were housed. If an adult human used the drops as instructed and then was constantly fed a foreign language, he or she would pick it up in an average of three days. One could use the drops nightly, play an audio CD-book on French or T'rnatian while they slept and wake up speaking the language fluently.

(The eyedrops couldn't accommodate every species' verbiage, however. For instance, the Lybullps communicated most directly through a series of rapid light-flashes from a translucent shell near their mouths. The merchant instead compensated for this with a pair of special sunglasses that processed the light to a speed the human brain could comprehend. The merchant also stressed the other features of the eyewear, but the high cost kept him from selling many pairs.)

The Child was impressed with the eyedrops, and after having amassed a wealth of knowledge himself, gave a vial to Agent figuring he of all people could use it. Which he did.

Agent now stood leaning against a high-backed chair upholstered in leather more expensive than his car, listening to Quincy Phiffman rattle off a litany of reasons why SupraDyne's own upcoming communication device would sweep the planet and make their stockholders even richer. It didn't strike Agent as being all that spectacular a product, since he already had the eyedrops which were cheaper and more effective, but for the moment Phiffman seemed happy to have an audience.

He had eagerly agreed to see Agent that evening at his office, even though they had only met twice before at gatherings they attended with mutual friends during the past month. Phiffman was struck by Agent's fluid networking skills, apparent even in the most relaxed, informal social settings. He also had several attractive female devotees, at least one of whom Phiffman hoped to pilfer a phone number for before the night was over.

Agent, by contrast, mostly remembered Phiffman's position with SupraDyne and the battalion of polished teeth that he bared while speaking. Nothing in his corner office sparkled as brightly or menacingly. He was in the midst of describing the potential military applications for the communications technology (a slight breach of policy, but not his first) when Agent decided to bring up the matter of the company's identity models.

The story he wove was choice: his ad agency was being tapped to do some work for one of Supradyne's subsidiaries - or at least that's what he'd heard from those in the know. He was angling for a promotion to group director and would be a cinch to get one if he had the fastest turnaround times on the spec design work. Of course, no one at his agency could know about his inside track (which would hopefully keep Phiffman from calling to verify the story), but it would help immeasurably if he had something to work from.

He said it all with complete earnestness. Phiffman didn't question the story for a second, and immediately started poking around his desk for samples. If he played his cards right, he might get that phone number after all. As he recalled it, Agent's friend was an exotic dancer...Phiffman could imagine the impression he'd make at a company function with her on his arm. The boys down the hall would grind their teeth to nubs with jealousy, he was sure.

Ten minutes later, Agent was holding an old ID badge of Phiffman's - which he knew ElBandito could work with - and an assortment of public policy memos printed on embossed company letterhead. He asked that the badge be returned within a few days and the papers be destroyed, and was assured that wouldn't be a problem. Now Agent was left with the task of obtaining his own information. He broached the topic lightly but directly.

"Q, you've met some of the Perdendosi, haven't you?"

"Yeah, we've had some of their intermediaries come in every now and again, just to oversee our operations." He shrugged. "They're never impressed, but they mostly leave us alone."

"You ever had any problems with them?"

Phiffman actually smiled. "Not me. I have more problems with the board members than with the Perdendosi." He leaned in closer and took a tone suggesting he was givng sage advice. "Trust me, you want to get along with them, just stay low and stay base."

"Base?"

"Yeah, base. Stick with the vices. They hate that. As far as they're concerned, humans are all about the vices. Smoking, drinking, sex, drugs, rock and roll. They think that's all we think about."

"You mean it's not?" asked Agent with a smile of his own. He understood what Phiffman meant though. In fact, he understood several other species had the same general perception of Terrans, even the ones that glommed onto the native culture. The worst were the Terran-wanna-be's who usually overcompensated in their appreciation. Agent could think of several he'd encountered on the CoA site alone.

"Me, I like money. I don't care if they know it. That actually protects me, since they figure 'Well, this guy's going to stay loyal as long as he's compensated. And as long as his company works for us, they'll be profitable.' So they know where I stand. No surprises. Just me being base. I'm just another money-grubbing human, barely worth their time."

"So you don't have to worry about going missing. You're not important enough, for whatever reason."

"Exactly."

There was a twisted logic to what Phiffman said that seemed to make sense, and the conversation had looped just where Agent needed it to. He buffered his next line of questioning with, "Well, then I guess we need to go drinking!" to which the executive laughed.

"There is a reason why I asked about the Perdendosi," said Agent. "And it actually has something to do with the missing 'state workers'."

Phiffman's smile temporarily vanished, but he was still attentive. "Do tell."

"There's a kid I know, friend of the family, who disappeared a few weeks ago. Good kid, in his second year of college. Quiet, kept to himself. Never in any trouble."

"Any vices?" asked Phiffman.

"None that I'm aware of," responded Agent.

"See what I mean? That kid should have been hitting the bong every night. He'd be home right now."

"Maybe," said Agent. His story was well within the rubber-band of truth. The kid in question was the son of an acquaintance from work, a lady who'd had her first child while she was still in her teens. She bragged about him endlessly, and was devastated when he was corralled by the occupants. She stopped working for the agency not long after, unable to get her thoughts off of her son long enough to rest. No one had talked to her in months though; there wasn't anything they could do for her. And the fear of being next was now too close for comfort.

Using this as the shell for his covert mission would hopefully allow him just enough leverage to find something out. He continued.

"Well, the family was contacted by L.E.T.H.A.L. not long after. They keep track of this stuff. And some of the members anonymously sent them some information about the occupants. The family just wants to know if their son is alright. Every day they're hoping to get one of those videos that shows him working for them."

"Gotta be rough," said Phiffman. "What's this got to do with me though? I'm just an overpaid office-jockey."

"Who works for SupraDyne. And SupraDyne works for the Perdendosi."

Phiffman stiffened slightly. "You know, I feel bad for the kid and his family. Seriously. That's a rough deal they got, but -"

"No, no, no, I don't want you to put yourself in the crosshairs or anything like that. I'm just hoping you can point me in the right direction. I mean, I'll talk to someone else here if I really have to...I'm just trying to keep this low key, y'know? The family wants to try and talk to someone."

He was playing the sympathy card, and was growing less sure of the results. Phiffman wasn't the sentimental type. But after a momentary pause he asked, "What did you want to know?"

Agent reached into his pocket and produced a trio of photographs, each of a different Perdendosi. He had others, but focused on who he was told were the most important. The first was a tall male, with light gray hair streaked with darker patches, wearing the cape and insignias of a high ranking official. The other two were guardsmen, one male and one female, also of fairly high stature.

Phiffman studied the photos for a few seconds, eyes narrowed. Then he said, quite seriously, "I know this one." He pointed at the male guardsman. "His name's Brittlesmith. He's like a general or something, in charge of all the foot-soldiers. He's about as high up on their food chain as they can be and still be planetside."

"Have you met him?" asked Agent.

"No, but I've seen him. Our military contracts have put this office in touch with him several times. We actually just developed some tech for their soldiers about a month ago." He stopped here, just short of obliterating his company's confidentiality policies and his career. The tech he spoke of was personal camouflage and disguise units, made for low-level troops. Cheap to manufacture, easy to replace. There were still some minor bugs in the units that would need to be worked out, but only field tests would reveal them now.

"I don't know the other two," said Phiffman. "But the female is probably in charge of another branch of their militia, judging by the emblems on her uniform."

"Cool," said Agent. He wasn't pressing the topic any farther, and was ready to make a hasty retreat. "That helps Q. Thanks"

"The smart thing to do would be to let it go," said Phiffman. "If the family gets a video, they get a video. If they don't, it's better than getting dead. Catch my drift?"

Agent nodded. "Tell you what, next time you make it down to Sammy's, your drinks are on me. The more base the better, right?"

"When's the next time you'll be there?" asked Phiffman.

"Usually the gang from work gets together on Fridays. You should stop by," said Agent. This was outside of the rubber-band, since they rarely met at Sammy's anymore. But he wanted to duck Phiffman as much as possible without making him suspicious; he was giving him the creeps.
They shook hands and agreed to meet for a drink sometime soon. Agent even said he'd try to hook Phiffman up with his dancer-friend, which he had no real intention of doing. Then he left, slipped out of the building, and checked to make sure he wasn't being followed. Later that evening he'd set a time to meet with ElBandito to pass along his requested materials, then do the same with Ven. He might have further luck with his other contacts regarding the other still-unnamed Perdendosi.

For the moment, he was simply glad to be away from the teeth of the shark. Things were still on an even keel.

Everyone loved humans, more than the humans even realized.

The fascination with their culture spread exponentially, and with each day the global immigration services processed an increasing number of requests for passports and visas to the planet. Per capita, Earth now had more off-world visitors on any given day than any other planet in the Milky Way. And that was taking into account that they were still under Perdendosi rule, which normally would have deterred visitors. It made the figures all the more unbelievable.

And the wanna-be's. They were the worst. They adopted Earth slang and modes of dress and mannerisms. It was disgusting. Most often they tried to mimic the Americans, but there seemed to be no culture off-limits to pilfering. Maldoosifites walked around wearing baggy pants that sagged below their waists (or the equivalent thereof) and bopping their heads to hip-hop and gangsta rap. Calxinnians wore eyeliner and black nail polish (again, modified for their own species' anatomy) and effected a sad, mopey disposition in an attempt to be considered goth. Hailgrimms loved our sports and could be spotted ringside or courtside or on the sidelines of any televised event - which were now beamed into space and watched on vid-screens at bars and diners throughout the farthest reaches of the galaxy. It didn't matter that Terrans were only now adopting holographic projection technology; they had innate appeal.

And the Perdendosi found this most detestable. But they tolerated it.

Overguard Brittlesmith tolerated it even now, as he opened the channel on his workstation on Level Six within the Securities and Defense Building. He'd been alerted that an executive from SupraDyne needed to speak to him, which was beyond odd. The general policy for most corporation personnel was "speak when spoken to", and there were specific persons designated with the task of contacting the occupants. This executive wasn't one of them.

But Brittlesmith remembered him just the same. He was a wanna-be who'd actually gone to the trouble of cloaking himself to look like a human. And in his human guise, he still had an unusually brilliant array of teeth, something not even a cloaker could hide.

"Mr. Phiffman," said Brittlesmith, as the executive's image appeared on the screen in front of him.

"Overguard Brittlesmith. Thanks for taking my call. I know you're extremely busy..."

"I am. And there's no need to stand on ceremony; I can see through your skin anyway." He was effectively telling the executive to drop the pretense of being human. The main thing that made dealing with the board members of SupraDyne acceptable was that they were capitalists, generally Republicans, and they cared about money to an obsessive degree. So one always knew how to keep them in line - threaten to yank the money away. (The Democrats were more liberal and flighty, and harder to scrutinize, so they were usually treated more like children.)

Phiffman disengaged his cloaker, a higher-end model of what had just been shipped to the Perdendosi. It was designed to lacquer protoplasm over the host's normal form and make him or her appear whatever way specified, limited only by anatomy. Now this second skin dissolved to reveal a Blustershark from the planet rahndEE. They were rather frightening to the unacquainted, but closer inspection revealed there wasn't much bite behind their teeth.

"Exactly what did you need to speak with me about, Mr. Phiffman?" said Brittlesmith, impatiently.

The Blustershark fished for the correct words. He had given Agent the overguard's name because he figured that was common enough knowledge he'd come across eventually somewhere else. And he genuinely didn't know who the female overguard was. But the man in the waistcape was obviously an official of high status, and he knew that was valuable information worth hiding.

And now he was going to barter with Brittlesmith for a promotion of his own. The human vice Phiffman had latched onto wasn't just money - it was greed. He knew the occupants might not like it, but they understood it. And he was going to use his connections, as feeble as they were, to outdo the humans at their own game.

"You might want to send some of your people to a bar called Sammy's this Friday night," said Phiffman, causing the overguard to raise an eyebrow slightly.

It paid to be in the loop.