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with small black eyes, a plump face and butch-cut blond hair.
    Little Guard. Happy to follow. He matched his wide stance with Big Guard but curved around to Fouad's left.
    "We don't know exactly where the problem is. Network's down, teacher." Big Guard tapped his spex. "Any clues what's going on?"
    Big Guard was a bigot. Fouad was being targeted based on skin color and appearance—in his experience, rare at Talos. Bad for discipline.
    The pair rushed him in parallel and shoved him against the wall. His back pressed painfully against the corner of a framed poster of one of the nations in which Talos had operations—Nigeria.
    Against his first instinct, Fouad let his muscles relax and said nothing. He did not frown, did not smile—did nothing to provoke. Perhaps he had tripped a silent alarm system inside the annex. Perhaps the network had shut down after sensing an unexpected intrusion.
    He had to buy time.
    "Are your spex working?" Big Guard asked, fingers pinching for Fouad's eyes. Another hand came up high and flat to slap him if he resisted.
    Little Guard stroked the black knob of his electric baton. The men were starting to grin. Their eyes took on a focused vacancy, getting ready for resistance.
    They had found the problem—the problem was a brown man.
    Wild, high-pitched shouts echoed from the end of the radius. Big Guard lifted his nose, and Little Guard did likewise—pack dogs scenting other, bigger prey.
    Fouad pushed them away—gently.
    "Down there, perhaps?" he suggested, eyebrows lifted.
    Big Guard and Little Guard smirked, cocked their heads, and again shoved him into the wall—their version of an apology, thanks for wasting our time. They backed off, reversed, and sprinted toward the shouting, louder and more frenetic.
    A growing number of men made unhappy.
    The pair reached the end of the radius, a hundred feet off, pulled out their electric batons—serious weapons, very painful—and swung left.
    Fouad nudged out from the wall. The poster rattled. It was hard to imagine what the difficulty might be. The personnel most likely to engage in fistfights were off at the mess hall—young foreign soldiers and fresh security in training. Perhaps Big Guard and Little Guard belonged to that group. Perhaps a general alarm had brought them over to Buckeye.
    He curled his lip in disgust, caught between two impulses.
    The only people in Buckeye who stuck around through the dinner hour were software engineers, whose work never seemed to end.
    Fouad shrugged to unruck the sleeves and shoulders of his coat. Then he fell back into a crouch at the sound of two rapid pops like champagne corks, followed by staccato slaps, softer echoes, explosive grunts from punches.
    More swearing—then sizzling snaps, puppy-like whimpers, sharp cries of pain.
    Everyone wore side arms in Talos—Price's mandate—but nobody would be letting off rounds on campus outside of the ranges and training village—nobody who was not in serious trouble. All the side arms were keyed to fingerprints or chips in the gun bearer's hands; shots fired were accounted for at the armory every two days.
    Another series of champagne pops. Dust and chips blew out from a wall. Fouad lined up behind the heavy frame of a security door.
    Odd that the doors were not closing . . .
    Discretion told him to allow the trouble to come to him, but that was not the Talos way. Like dedicated warrior ants, Talos employees were trained to move in fast, whatever the danger. Trouble was to be immediately reported and taken care of—not avoided. Clearing out of the building—even at the forceful suggestion of security—would arouse another set of suspicions.
    Good minions—excellent henchmen. All of us expendable.
    And of course, as a brown man with an accent, his behavior would be judged by even higher standards.
    He loped down the hall, past long windows looking into empty classrooms—flush to the wall, broken-jogging side to side, SIG-Sauer 380 presented at drop angle,