41

You stop about a half hour outside of Phoenix to sweep your Mitsubishi for bugs. You don't find anything unusual—it looks like no one really paid attention to your car—but your thoughts turn to everything you learned about the Roadrunner guards and their opioid smuggling. You could certainly put what you've learned to use.

You're not going to waste time with this smuggling ring. You don't have access to all of their accounts, but there's one unsecured petty cash fund that you immediately drain for $1000. Then you change its password and leave them to wonder what happened.

You're back in Tucson by 3:00 a.m. Another job done.

Early the next night, you roll past the Viper. One of Prince Lettow's people recognizes you and hands you your payment.

You take a moment to make sure the money adds up.

You return to your parking garage and park the Mitsubishi. You secure your haven, rechecking the security systems you established upon moving in, and go to sleep.

Next

That day you dream of flying. But this isn't a regular flying dream. No…this isn't even a dream.

A memory. Or is it real? You're in an old single-engine prop plane high above the desert at night. You can almost reach out and touch the moon.

You spot the Italian fighter plane too late, and a moment later its twin Vickers are ripping into the wings of your Albatros D.III.

You twist through the air, but it's getting late and the rising currents of hot air you rely on are almost depleted. Bullets shred your engine; the black smoke would choke you if you breathed.

For the past three weeks it had seemed as if all of the Sahara held only two planes. In seconds, you realize, it will hold only one.

Flames spread across your cockpit, but you know this is a memory. You tell yourself that you already survived this. But you're struggling to remember how as smoke swirls around you.

The mortal pilots in your squadron all carried pistols, and you knew why: so they could shoot themselves instead of burning to death. It's a long way to the ground, after all. But you always had another option, however disagreeable it might be. Now you exercise it: you climb out onto the shredded wing of your Albatros and, just before it wings over, leap into the dunes.

The impact, even from such a low altitude, is bone-shattering; the sand feels like concrete. Your only consolation is that you didn't try to dive face-first. And you've escaped the flames.

And as you drag yourself away from the wreckage, you contemplate what you've learned these past few weeks.

Next

January 1918.

Right now revolutions are breaking out all over the mortal world because people want something better. Existence cannot go on like this. Something new must arise in the world of the Cainites. But what? Whatever it is, you know that it will involve dreadful sacrifices, as well as a clear vision of the future. What awaits you in this new century? And more importantly, can you shape it to your will? Through toil and cunning, can you create a better world for all Cainites?