We were the first genetic design agency on Mars. Imagine the responsibility. And the smallish client pool. General Ping clomped in, all gritted teeth and lightning in his eye. Ping towed a floating piglet behind him. “There’s a situation with the mascot you gave us,” he said.
The black Lincoln roared past the gate, four miscreated mugs staring red-eyed through the windows, baring their teeth. David squeezed Kalia’s arm. “Your husband?” He asked. “There’s something wrong with the engines,” the pilot shouted from the cockpit.
The hornets roared and cleaved the sky, with fat bombs in their iron bellies. Yellow-jackets scouted ahead. Twice as fast as their large cousins, ten times as small. One-gun midges flew circles around the red bombers. Winged shadows swam across the floodplain. The Termite radars were down.
When he donned the brown leather mask, he was no longer a CFO. He was a naked puppy in chains begging for discipline. If his wife learned of his lunchtime escapades, she would have him killed. But if her father found out—