Bob was running out of ideas. He had approached Xenophon and asked him, very subtly, whether he wouldn't mind, for a most reasonable fee, to act as Bob's private bodyguard. Xenophon had politely declined. He had pointing out that both his ability and companion object were research-focused and that he was practically helpless himself. In fact, he had been wondering whether Bob might not be willing to assign someone to protect him, Xenophon. So much for scary, alien invaders.

  Then Bob had approached Sophie about setting up some kind of sentient-repelling perfume barricade. She had narrowed her eyes and looked at him like he was a slow-witted infant, before proceeding to point out that there were in an air-tight "secret base" (yes she used the air quotes) and that therefore the scent from her perfume would never reach the diggers.

  Well when she said it like that, Bob felt obliged to respond. He did so, most courteously mind, speculating whether she oughtn't maybe to have set up a repel on the outside of their base before their hunting expedition. She had not taken that observation in the spirit it had been intended. Or wait, yes, yes, she had.

  That all left Bob sitting on the couch, tapping his fingers on the table and staring into the green, amorphous face of a cactus, as he did his level best to think up a new plan. Sophie had made her position very clear. Offense, offense and offense. As everybody knows, if you kill enough of them, they stop fighting. She advocated a lightning attack, no quarter given, slaughter as many as we can and drive the rest off. And she loudly promised them all a sticky end if they let themselves fall into the hands of the invaders.

  Bob got it. You only have to be captured and slung up on a tree once, before you start to question the basic humanity of humanity. But Bob was conflicted. Were they really bandits? Maybe, but bandits don't usually choose sunny hilltops with sweeping vistas for their secret bases. Didn't it seem more probable that these were ordinary people trying to protect themselves from the bandits? Ordinary people who'd banded together to help each other. Survivors, refugees, families. He'd just buried one murdered family. He didn't want to be standing on the other side of that picture.

  Fine, let's suppose they were not bandits. That sure didn't make them friends of Bob. Bob was public enemy number one. The system had plastered his name across every screen on every sentient the planet over. One million credits and a noble title to boot. Sure, somehow Sophie had miraculously failed to piece together his identity (she could be astonishingly dense when she wanted to be). But these people would see straight through him. It was pretty obvious.

  Look, do you think they arrived on this hilltop by accident? Naturally, they just happened to pick this particular hill out of the countless, available hilltops? You're dreaming. Bob didn't know how but they'd obviously found out about the system pylon. And the system had drawn a pretty big equal sign between the first pylon owner and Bob, Lord of Earth. What's going to happen when a mysterious stranger emerges from a secret, underground base, calling himself "Robert"?

  Ok fine. Maybe they'd be afraid of him. The fearsome Lord of Earth, The Forerunner, Governor Bob. Yes, they'd be terrified of him: the twenty-four year-old, wounded, bald (stupid George), QA developer, whose grand power was "mud-splash". It only takes one knife to the heart to kill you forever. How could he trust them? The simple answer was he couldn't. He couldn't trust anyone. Except George of course, good old George. And well Sophie, probably. Xenophon too seemed pretty harmless. But nobody else. Nobody.

  So where did that leave him? Was he supposed to massacre the whole company? Hell could he? Practically speaking, could Bob even take the lot of them? He played out combat simulations in his mind. Maybe he could pull it off. He still had mudfall after all. He'd have to hit them one by one, quietly, without the others noticing. It would be delicate and risky. And there could be no holding back. Everybody had unknown abilities and objects. Swift, brutal violence. In the end it was just like Sophie said.

  No Bob. There has to be another way. Why not wait for George to come back? George'll know what to do. He wanted to, but there just wasn't time. They'd find Bob before then. Not they, Bob, she. The digger. Yes, Bob only had to take out the digger. If he could somehow capture her and... make it look like an accident... Now we are talking Bob. That's plan-speak Bob. A quick mudfall, a sharp knock on the head and one happy captive.

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  Holds your horses. Let's all remember that your plans always go sideways. I won't have you going all flower-brain on us. Accept it. We might have to fight her. We might even to kill her.

  "I really didn't want to do this."

  Bob tapped through the system shop. He found it. He hit purchase. An object materialized in front of him.

  He'd never held one before. He didn't want to hold one. He reached out and picked it up. It had a mean weight to it. An aura of wrongness and danger. The 5th Generation Glock 17. It was a sleek black color with a textured grip. The magazine held seventeen rounds. It looked modern and strangely utilitarian like it was only a tool and not a weapon.

  "Sophie, come here."

  "Robert," she gasped, "how in the world did you get that?"

  "Sophie I want you to take this." He held out the gun for her. "But," he stopped, "please don't use it unless you have to."

  Sophie's eyes lit up; she hesitated for the briefest moment and then snatched it from him. She stared longingly down at the weapon in her hand and then her expression darkened and she threw it onto the ground.

  "It's not fair. I can't use it. Rank Restricted. Why must I always be so... powerless?"

  Bob nodded. He picked up the weapon.

  "I'm sorry Sophie. Don't worry. I'll protect you."

  "I want to protect myself."

  "Yes, yes I suppose you do. I know the feeling Sophie."

  "Are you going to do it then Robert?"

  "No Sophie. I'm not going to murder them all. But I'm going to try to stop that digger."

  "How will you do it?"

  "I don't know."

  "What a terrible plan."

  "Yeah well, let me know when you think of something better."

  Sophie didn't say anything.

  "That's what I thought."

  Bob was in the mud. He was slithering around like an earthworm. Night after night of rain had basically waterlogged the whole area. It was mud all the way down. Or at least the water content was high enough that the system acknowledged his authority. He stopped. He was in position. He could feel her tunneling above him. Ready Bob? He checked his gun (he had it). He checked his magazine (seventeen metal slugs). He check the safety (off). He made sure he didn't need to go to the bathroom. All set Bob. Nice Bob.

  It would be smooth and sweet. Dead simple. Step One: drop her straight down onto his position. Step Two: press the barrel of his gun against the back of her head. And Step Three: hiss, "don't you try nothing." Okay, he'd improvise the catchphrase later, but high-level it was: drop, barrel, hiss. Drop, barrel, hiss. Got it? Showtime.

  "Mudfall" (yes he said it aloud. He liked saying it). The mud funneled, suddenly creating a pit under her feet. Bullseye, he'd got her. She'd been taking completely by surprise. She was falling. The mud was falling on top of her. She was disoriented. She couldn't see what she was doing. Bob was ready. Bob was on-point. Bob knew the plan. Bob lived the plan. Drop, barrel, hiss. Drop, barrel, hiss. Bob had the gun out. Bob could see her through the mud. Bob was steering her into position. Easy now. Easy now. Snap. Everything went wrong immediately.

  Suddenly a sphere of mud was hurtled upwards at impossible speeds. Evening sunlight flooded down into the deep, dark shaft. Her ability was simply terrifying, but she landed poorly. She stumbled, tripped, groaned. She was the facing the other way. Now's your chance Bob. Barrel her, barrel that mother-fucker. And then someone's voice called down from above.

  "Anastasia, are you okay? We're coming for you."

  Abort, abort. Bob dropped to the ground, barrel-rolled away and was just about to hiss down into the mud when: "is someone there?"

  Bob froze, gulped nervously, hid his pistol and turned around. He was wearing his trademark, well-meaning smile. Miraculously, the teenager girl, AKA "The Digger," seemed practically uninjured. The chances... Thank heavens for a soft, muddy landing.

  Bob reached, Bob reached: "I... I heard a cave-in. Yes! And I was... I was coming to investigate. And, I, I.... are you, are you injured?"

  Bob scanned the girl's expression. Had she bought it? Bob's acting was legendary. Come on, Bob. What are you saying? There's no way she bought it. It was practically inconceivable. You arrived on the scene before she'd even gotten to her feet.

  "I know you."

  Crap. The gig was up. She was a fricking genius. How had she already figured out who he was? Would she attack? Would she call for backup? Bob's good hand reached around his back. He was scratching his bottom or something. He was certainly not fingering the deadly pistol. This is it Bob, this is fricking it.

  "You're the Muddy Gambler!"