Rogue-ARC by Michael Z. Williamson

though. All eyes were on him, and all kinds of notes and murmurs ran through the crowd. They stayed quiet, but never stopped. Whatever he had to say kept their attention. So I watched the curtained wings, the arching, scaffolded overhead, the gallery above and behind where more recorders and the lesser media loitered. It was a sleekly modern facility when seen from this side, though the working bowels were somewhat less impressive.
    I was almost busted when the man next to me asked, “What do you think about that notion on logarithmic easing at inverse interest?”
    “I’m just trying to get it all down at the moment, so I can follow up later,” I said.
    He was bursting with excitement and wanted to talk further, but I shushed him with a gesture, made a quizzical face, scrawled a note, and checked my gear. He took the hint.
    It was a tiring task, pretending to be fascinated by something I couldn’t parse, while trying to be a spy not looking like a spy.
    Was that a faint shimmer on the stage? It might be. It might also just be airflow across the curtain. It was hard to tell at this distance. Nor did the video tanks show anything. They were zoomed in on Rothman.
    I could get a little closer. I’d have to judge the time on this, because I’d have to go through his own guards to pull it off. There really wasn’t any way of keeping discreet after this. Direct intervention meant the masks were off.
    I considered again waiting until the exfiltration phase, but that meant the bait would be dead, and his own security milling about. If I pursued at that point, I’d lose lead, still risk public visibility. No advantage.
    But I didn’t know if Randall definitely intended to do this. Once I committed, I’d lose the lead.
    This was the problem with aging. I knew the odds and didn’t like them. At fifteen they’d been a challenge. At twenty-eight, they were chains.
    That shimmer was definitely closer, definitely not airflow, and this was a good time. I hit the button and nothing happened.
    Of course he would have a damping field set up. I couldn’t trigger it from here. Or hell, it could be a security protocol in the Hall.
    All I could do was try to slip in and wrestle with a ghost.
    Silver was very good. She realized I was moving, deduced why, and she keyed something manually into her pad.
    The air turned hazy with powder, and there was most definitely an outline there. Definite to me. Everyone else looked up at the vents. Every one of Rothman’s security detail. They were unreactive for over a second and I took marks off.
    The shift turned into an outline swishing through the dust. He was slowed because he had to carefully maneuver around gawking people who couldn’t see him.
    The security detail did react at last, closing in on the minister and shuffling quickly offstage, as masks came out. This clearly hadn’t been in Randall’s plan, and he hesitated. By then I was near the stage.
    The press were in a mob to get photos of the spewing dust and the choreographed movement. I bounced on a chair, onto a cop’s shoulder and then to the stage. Lacking time for pleasantries, I jumped again and tried to hit Randall with a flying kick.
    Tried to. By then he was paying attention, and dodged. As I passed by, he struck me in the calf, a blow that paralyzed the muscle but not the nerves. Jagged jolts of pain ripped through it. Between that and the swirling white dust, I was at a huge disadvantage.
    The security detail turned to me, still not seeing him, and the press shouted and pointed because their cameras could see the distortion. There was obvious hesitation and trepidation about the crazy man fighting the ghost, but momentarily, the guards figured out what was going on. Half rushed the minister out. The other half came at me and Randall. Having no idea who was on the dance card, I was sure they meant to take us both.
    But in the meantime, I was busy trying to stay alive and get the upper hand.
    I had him right where he wanted