Netwalker Uprising: Netwalk Sequence, #3

CHAPTER 1

Forget.

Melanie Fielding crouched low over her old racing skis, barely in control of her speed as she flew down the High Reach, highest run on the Mountain, trying to fly ahead of her whirling thoughts.

Forget, forget, forget.

Maybe if she thought the word enough times it would come true at least temporarily, stupid magical thinking that it was.

But she couldn’t forget everything.

Not the long-delayed-thanks-to-politics swearing ceremony at the Corporate Courts Executive Council meeting in three weeks, which would place her on the Executive Council. Not her presentation to earn Corporate Courts approval of the Dialogue chip. Not the details of the damnably complex bid proposal that her company, Do It Right, was submitting to the High Space syndicate for the New Federation’s space station—put together in a scramble over the last year, because the old North American Confederation wasn’t supportive.

There were too many important things to remember.

Once she was part of the Exec, she would learn about the important secrets. Like Gizmo. The Gadget.

Corporate Courts access would give Melanie more information about Gizmo and how it tied into High Space. There was a significant connection between Gizmo and High Space and the Courts.

Melanie hadn’t known about Gizmo until her mother Diana became the New Federation President fourteen months ago. She learned about High Space only nine months ago. How they tied together—hopefully, in three weeks.

That said, what Melanie already knew about those linkages was scary enough that she didn’t want to think about it right now, especially after today’s disclosures about how her dead ex-fiancé Liam tied into too much involving the Courts, the Gizmo, and—politics.

Three weeks and I’ll get my answers.

However, personal life kept enmeshing itself with her progress toward that all-important goal of finding those answers. Like now. This close to her miscarriage. Maybe she could blame her emotions on that—but why was she so reactive?

Forget it. Forget everything but whiteness and the whisper of speed.

Just dance with gravity, up high on the Mountain with no trees to remind her how fast she was going.

But her body worked against forgetting.

Thighs ached as she fought the clatter and scratch of her skis on water-slick ice. A burn built slowly in her lower back and gut. The need to think about tightening her stomach muscles to hold her hips steady.

Out of shape, damn it!

It was a good thing only a handful of ski bums and racers in training were on Mt. Hood’s glaciers this overcast, windblown early April day with wisps of clouds boiling around them. Fewer people to avoid. Less need to check her speed.

Her Security team followed high on the glacier above her, prudence overcoming protectiveness. Except for Nik Morley, the head of the team, who was probably cussing her out by now.

On cue, a blue circle blinked furiously in the lower left-hand corner of her left eye. When they were on the slopes, that single visual was the closest Nik would come to texting via Dialogue visual overlays for fear of distracting Melanie.

Sorry, Nik.

Skiing hard and fast was the only way she knew to outrun the demons that stalked her.

But it’s not working today! Not skiing fast enough.

Her demons always came back worse on the lift ride. That was one thing that had beaten her in ski racing—she overthought her runs. And these demons⁠—

Like this future role in the Courts. Courts management was hereditary. Both her mother and grandmother had held positions on the Exec. Gizmo factored into this process somehow. At some point Melanie’s child—biological by explicit Courts preference—would step up to a management role in the Courts.

That is, if I ever have a bio heir.

She blinked back tears and gulped.

Normally she would be linked to her husband, Marty. But sharing mindspeech and emotions with him via the Dialogue wireless computer chip interface brought him into her head. Much as Melanie loved Marty, she couldn’t bear that close a contact with him at the moment.

Thanks to the miscarriage. And to the fury that swept through her this morning when it was confirmed that Liam had uploaded after his death; that her ex-fiancé was not just a Netwalker but a powerful one.

Damn bastard Liam. No. Forget. Damn it, I’m not skiing fast enough!

Forget the alternating cold rage and sorrow sweeping through her. Forget that extra clutch of fear—what is he capable of now?

One of her tips caught on a chunk of ice. It popped off the snow. Melanie slammed that ski down hard. The ski sharply skewed sideways, almost dumping her down the steep slope as an inside edge grabbed unexpectedly. It took too long to regain control, her reflexes slower than they had been. Nearly too slow for these skis, this speed, and the wet, icy conditions. And a sharp, stabbing pain twitched through her lower back. A strain. She wasn’t in shape because of the pregnancy.

Gone now. Melanie’s throat tightened again. Then another edge caught. Her reaction triggered more back muscle pain and her bad knee throbbed.

She should call it a day after this run. That would be the smart thing to do.

And yet—and yet—something pulled at her, demanded that she do yet another run. In spite of common sense.

Melanie stopped at the bottom of the High Reach to catch her breath, winded from speed and the altitude.

She headed for the High Reach chair.

Swish! The snow was too wet to go flying as Nik cut sharply in front of Melanie, blocking her way. Melanie dug her edges sharply into the snow to stop.

Damn it, Nik⁠—

You’re tired. He towered over her, six-foot-four to her five-foot-two. We should quit.

Melanie shook her head. Not ready yet.

Mel, damn it, you’re not in shape! Nik snapped. I saw you almost lose it. Twice.

I recovered, Melanie said.

Yeah. Nik slowly took a deep breath, blowing it out hard, steam clouds wrapping around his face. You did. And you were lucky. His voice softened. Look. We’re not race kids any more. The slope’s getting slicker. The racers are calling it a day. Let’s do it too. Marty’s been texting me. He’s worried.

Melanie frowned. Skiing today was selfish.

But after this morning’s news in the weekly conference with the Courts’ High Space Committee, Melanie had to ski. She needed the ski time to banish her anger. Her fear. Clear her mind to focus.

That damned Henri Montcrief. So casually mentioning that Liam’s upload has been spotted around the gadget—and being so dismissive of it. That smirk on his face when he realized I didn’t know. Damn it. Damn him. Damn Liam. Is he a rogue Netwalker or does he have a host? Who is his host?

As a Netwalk Enforcer—so far, the only Netwalk Enforcer—she should already know that Liam was a Netwalker. She should have some idea who his host was. Hell, she should feel his presence, as a result of the last fourteen months spent honing her Enforcer skills under the tutelage of her paranoid, dead, Netwalker father and practicing with Marty. With all the lab work they had done. Melanie had developed enough skill to sense every Netwalker who was uploaded and online.

That they knew about.

And that was the problem. Melanie had become more aware of anomalous Netwalk presences, that couldn’t be explained by what they already knew about the tech. Foremost amongst that was the faint sensation of Liam as a vague, malign, presence.

That was wrong. That was a problem. An anomaly.

The uncertainty fueled Melanie’s anger and fear, more than anything else, and she didn’t know how to manage it—yet.

Another Netwalk version. That makes—what? Four now, at least? Who made it? How?

She could almost hear Liam cackle.

Thought you’d get rid of me that easy, eh bitch? That I wouldn’t upload?

Melanie shook her head to clear it. Just her imagination.

Not Liam’s voice in her head.

Mel? Nik’s voice softened. Let’s go down. This is enough of a conditioning run. Let’s call it a day.

Marty knows I’ll be okay, she told Nik, unable to keep a bitter edge from creeping into her voice, wincing even as she heard the tone.

Damn it, what’s wrong with me? I sound like a whiny brat! This isn’t me!

And yet—she felt alien in her own body.

He’s worried, Nik said flatly. "Mel, come on."

Melanie shook her head one final time, swallowed the lump in her throat that made her unable to speak, and pushed off, blinking tears back furiously. She ducked around Nik and headed for the High Reach lift.

Nik got on the chair with her. He studied the western edge of the Mountain above them as wind blew tendrils of snow into swirling twists before letting it fall. Doing his job. Looking for problems.

He wouldn’t argue with her now that they were on the lift. She counted on that. It had been their pattern for years, ever since she had been a World Cup racer and Nik her on-slope Security.

Normally Nik’s wife Angela, the official head of Melanie’s Mountain Security, would be here. But Angela had an urgent meeting at Do It Right’s Mountain headquarters in Hoodland. Nik was in charge of Melanie’s Security detail today, and Nik was not the arguing type.

Angela was. Angela would fight with Melanie about this last run until they headed down the slope.

Maybe Angela’s arguments could have shut down the insidious little voice in Melanie’s head that occasionally bore traces of Liam’s lilt.

But Ange wasn’t here, and Melanie rode the lift with Nik and her ghosts instead. Tiny ghosts that rode the tendrils of wind-driven snow.

Another baby lost.

She’d been so careful. No skiing this winter after discovering her pregnancy. Felt this baby move. Shared the movement with Marty.

Melanie blinked back still more tears, fogging up her goggles, remembering that evening when they curled together, marveling at the faint motion within her body.

Then cramps. Pain. Blood.

And last night, the surrogate who’d been a bit further along with an IVF pregnancy also miscarried.

The surrogate wasn’t her idea. Her mother Diana had suggested it, in case there were unforeseen problems with Melanie carrying a child. God only knew what Netwalker toxin could do to a pregnancy, and Melanie had plenty of exposure to that⁠—

So. A surrogate, a safe alternative, that barely fit within the Courts parameters for heirs of her own body.

Then she managed to get pregnant.

Melanie bit back a bitter laugh.

What do you do when the broodmare’s compromised?

Sometimes she hated her mother’s pragmatic attitude about reproduction, shaped by her years breeding championship performance stock horses as a hobby. Worse, ever since Diana took on the responsibility of being her mother Sarah’s Netwalk host, the interactions between her and Melanie bore an edge that hadn’t existed before. More like the relationship between Melanie and Sarah when she was alive. It was as if Sarah Stephens’s cynical, calculating attitude infected Diana through the Netwalk chip.

The drive for a bio heir wasn’t just the Courts and the weird Gizmo interface. Other reasons included family and inheritance, given how her estranged brother Andrew opposed nearly everything Melanie and her mother stood for.

Except High Space. They all agreed on the urgency of that. And control of Gizmo.

Gizmo. The wild card factor.

God, I don’t want to think about Gizmo any more than I have to!

It was a relief to enter the tunnel that marked the head of the High Reach. As they went inside, Melanie slid off of the chair. Instead of looking around, she immediately headed down the slope, ignoring Nik’s call.

Make this run the fastest of all. Blow it all out. Then I can think about the Courts and bid proposals, not Liam, not lost babies.

Edges caught on the water-slick ice. Right ski popped up. Pain shot through her back as she tried to correct. Melanie swayed. Her body twisted quickly. White slammed hard at her. Something gave way in her knee. Rolling and skidding, bouncing on the ice. Agony lancing through jaw and face.

Which way is up?

Everything went white around her.

Liam laughed.

Melanie saw his lean pale face against the sky, dark hair blowing in the wind, narrow lips twisted in a tight grimace.

Netwalker! her Enforcer instincts screamed. A copper-colored sphere with spiky protrusions glimmered behind him, glowing with a pale green light. Gizmo!

Then everything went from white to black.

Marty Fielding frowned at the chip grow readings. If this fix worked, then he could finally approve production. The New Fed space station contract was huge, even though Do It Right was a subcontractor to Johnson Space. Didn’t help that Johnson bogged DIR down in endless spec and cost reduction meetings without doing much actual work.

We should be the primary contractor, not Johnson.

But Corporate Courts politics interfered with what should be. It was one reason why Melanie was only now being sworn to the Courts—that and Melanie’s pregnancy….

Marty stuck one hand in the hologlobe circling over his desk.

Ness, what do you think of these figures?

He subvocaled to his Netwalker, a former colleague whose digitally uploaded memories and personality construct he hosted in his Netwalk chip.

Ness popped into the hologlobe, first as a falcon, then transforming to a modified version of herself in life, a gaunt, lanky woman with mouse-brown hair. One side of her face was fuzzed, a legacy of how she had died. This chip was one of her new creations, the brains of a vacuum-tolerant builder bot which allowed a user to direct remote construction processes in space.

The builder bot chip was a direct descendant of the original technology that had made DIR famous. That technology, based on externally controlled bioremediation nanobots, had revolutionized environmental recovery work, allowing remediation of chemical and radiological sites humans couldn’t safely access. The first Dialogues had been headsets rather than implants, originally only a means to control biobots, but now much more than that.

Looks good to me, Marty. Everything fits the specs this time.

Something’s not right. I feel it. Can’t explain why. I just feel it.

Ness raised a virtual eyebrow.

If there is something wrong, I don’t see what it could be. You sure it’s not just you worrying about Melanie?

Marty frowned at Ness’s all-too-perceptive question. Netwalker Ness noticed more about personal interactions after death than she had in life.

Mel has too damned much on her plate between the Courts, High Space, and this push for a bio heir. Why is all of this space stuff suddenly becoming as important as it is?

He didn’t like the noncommittal tone of Nik’s responses to his worried texts. Nik didn’t like what Melanie was doing today, that much was clear. But when Melanie was in a mood like this, better to let her blow off her frustration and rage by skiing.

Didn’t mean he didn’t worry. Still, she’d come back from skiing in a calmer, more settled mood, excess energy discharged and ready to focus, and that made the worry worth it. Some of her best insights popped up as a result of a frenetic morning on the ski slopes, madcap hiking, or a hard trail ride on her horse.

Still, it was taking him too long to answer.

Of course, I’m worried about Melanie. I just don’t like the jumped-up deadlines. Too easy to make mistakes.

There’s a strange feeling online. It’s picked up since the High Space treaty signing.

Any idea what it is?

No. Could be new Netwalkers we don’t know about, but it doesn’t quite feel like that, either.

That’s not good. Mel should be aware of them if that were the case.

Marty, it’s like there’s something looking over my shoulder all the time. Melanie doesn’t see it. I’ve asked her to scan and she can’t find anything. It doesn’t feel like a Netwalker.

At least that’s something.

A high-security message icon flashed on Marty’s Dialogue overlays.

Let me take this call.

I’ll look through the stats again. Leave a line open.

Will do.

Marty snapped his fingers to bring up the caller in his hologlobe.

Diana Landreth, his mother-in-law and the President of the New Federated United States of America, grinned at him.

How’s things going, Marty? I tried to call Melanie, but she’s not answering. A backdrop reflecting the actual view of Vancouver’s current skyline framed her lanky figure.

She’s skiing, Marty said. The only contact she’s allowing is through Nik.

Diana’s smile faded. "This time of year? It’s April. And she’s skiing this soon after the miscarriage?"

Yeah.

Diana shook her head. To be skiing in her condition, this time of year.

We went yesterday. First time since the miscarriage. It was scary even then, and she had her slow fat skis.

Damn. Diana’s face twisted in disappointment, and was that sorrow? Marty wasn’t sure. His mother-in-law had become more of an enigma over the past few months. How’s the surrogate doing?

The surrogate miscarried late last night. No one knows why.

"Both Melanie and the surrogate miscarried? That doesn’t make sense."

Mel took off with her race skis this morning because we learned that Liam Jeffreys managed to upload himself as a Netwalker. Both that and the surrogate news really set Mel off. He glanced down at his hands, remembering Melanie’s explosive reaction. She usually kept a tight rein on her temper these days.

Damn, Diana repeated. What does Ness say about Jeffreys?

Nothing to justify refocusing on it instead of the new builder bot chip grow.

Diana nodded. Before she could say anything else, another call icon appeared. Nik’s ID code. Bright priority red.

Not good news.

Priority incoming from Nik, Marty said.

I’ll wait, Diana said.

Marty snapped his fingers to bring Nik’s link up, dread tightening his gut.

Red means real trouble.

Nik’s blurry face stared at Marty, goggles popped up on his ski helmet, a field of white around him, sound crackling and popping from the wind on the ski slope.

How bad? he asked, his gut tightening because Nik was calling instead of texting.

She’s hurt. Significantly.

Bad, Nik said. Too damned tired and upset to make that last run. Shouldn’t have done it. Ski Patrol’s on the way. She’s out cold. Won’t ski those planks again, he added grimly. Both bindings and her right ski are broken. May have blown out that right knee. Scratched up her face. But she’s moved her legs and arms a little, even though she’s out. Breathing fine.

I’ll be right up.

No. Transporting her to Portland. Nik grimaced. She plowed a pretty good furrow in the ice when she landed.

Sure I shouldn’t meet you up there?

Don’t waste the time. Meet us at UniHospital. We’ll be gone before you can get here. I’ll give Ange the details for the Medical Security team.

Marty swallowed. Keep me posted, he said, not knowing what else to say. Tell her I love her and I’ll see her at Uni.

I will. Nik blinked out.

Marty brought Diana back up. Gotta go. Mel’s crashed.

Should I be there?

I’ll call you when I know more.

Diana nodded. I need to talk to Melanie as soon as she’s able. Security issues with Netwalk. Courts as well as High Space.

What’s going on?

It can wait until I talk to Melanie. Sorry. I’m—not at liberty to say more.

So now what the hell is going on?

But if it’s a Netwalk issue, Ness can work on it.

Diana shook her head. I can’t disclose it. Sorry, she repeated. Let me know what the timeline looks like for me to talk to Melanie. It really has to be her. An internal Courts matter. She switched off the link before Marty could respond.

And that is not normal. Crap.

No time to worry about it now. He checked in with Ness, who was absorbed by the chip grow stats, then grabbed what he needed before meeting Angela and the Medical Security team.

Awareness returned. Melanie looked at a patch of blue sky, framed by angry gray and white clouds. She hurt all over. Head, legs, body, face.

What the hell?

Dialogue visual overlays skittered across her sight lines in jumbled order. She blinked quickly to reboot the wireless computer communication interface. The overlays stuttered several times, switched off, then switched back on. The startup settings ran smoothly, then settled into normal settings.

At least Dialogue’s still working.

Nik appeared, blurry. Melanie tightened her muscles to sit up.

Ow. Damn. That hurts.

He placed one hand on her left shoulder.

No. His voice deepened into a firmness she knew meant business. You’re not moving until the Ski Patrol gets here.

Don’t need. Her voice sounded tinny and thin. And, God, it hurt to move her jaw, much less talk.

No arguing about it. Nik’s voice wasn’t just firm, it was angry. You crashed hard. Your face is a mess. You plowed along on it for several feet. I don’t like the angle of your right lower leg and you’ve been out cold. At least you’re moving your arms and legs so I know your spine’s not badly compromised. What the hell were you trying to do, kill yourself? Jesus! He took a deep breath. Marty says to tell you he loves you, and he’ll meet you at UniHospital with the Medical Security team.

Thank you.

Oh God, Marty. I screwed up bad. I got hurt.

At least this new pain drove out the dull ache that had been haunting her.

Maybe that was what I really wanted. Some physical pain to get rid of the emotional pain.

Tears blurred her vision even more.

The thunder of the Patrol skimmer interrupted her thoughts. The Ski Patrol moved in with their diagnostic tools. A few quick checks and she was strapped to a backboard, then loaded into the craft. Nik joined her.

The warm fuzziness of painkillers began running through her system. As they kicked in, suddenly the entire picture came together with crystal clarity as she thought through the sequence of events during the past few months.

First, politics delaying her induction into the Corporate Courts, before her pregnancy.

Her pregnancy.

Her mother Diana becoming sufficiently stable in her position as New Federation President that Melanie could step back, focus on research, and promote Do It Right as a contractor for the New Federation’s contribution to the space stations that were part of the High Space Consortium.

And then her equilibrium thrown into disarray this morning by Henri Montcrief’s sly aside about Liam being spotted near the gadget.

Liam’s a Netwalker now.

Her ex-fiancé Liam had vowed, once upon a time, that she would never have a child without his consent. His, or anyone else’s child, it didn’t matter.

That son of a bitch is dead. But he’s still found a way to haunt me. And now, with this Courts business, it matters more than ever.

But how could he interfere? How could this happen?

And what the fuck did that last vision mean? Gizmo? Why the hell did I see Gizmo?

We don’t know enough about Netwalk yet. This is a danger, not just to me but to any other Dialogue or Netwalk host who’s undefended.

Just what does it mean that I saw Liam and Gizmo together?

That suggested that the Courts were involved, even more than they would normally be concerning a biological heir.

Liam, Gizmo and the Courts. What the hell is going on?

All right then. Four things I need to do.

Gather enough information to decide if Liam somehow caused this miscarriage through the use of Netwalker toxin—somehow.

Capture and kill his upload or uploads.

Then neutralize his host—or hosts. Montcrief isn’t supposed to have a Netwalk chip, but I’m going to find out for sure.

Finally, figure out how to prevent future attacks like this.

There’s a deeper plan. A deeper problem.

And Gizmo is the key. Gizmo and whatever connection Liam has to it.

Angela Garcia stood next to Marty at the skimmer intake area of the UniHospital in Portland, waiting with the Medical Security team for Melanie’s skimmer to arrive. She dutifully relayed medical data to Marty as Nik texted it to her.

Torn ACL in that right knee. Internal injuries. Broken jaw; they’re running her directly to Surgery.

The white Life Flight skimmer slid into the landing space. Angela waved her Medical team forward to join the UniHospital crew waiting for Melanie. Medical Security supervision was standard for upper-level DIR staff during off-site medical procedures; especially for someone like Melanie with too damned many corporate secrets locked into her brain.

The skimmer door opened. Medics swarmed around the stretcher, transferring control smoothly from Ski Patrol and Life Flight staff to DIR Medical Security and UniHospital. Nik climbed out next. He caught Angela’s eye and nodded.

See if you can talk to her before she goes into surgery, she murmured to Marty.

Marty strode away from Angela, crossing the small space in a few long steps, gently taking Melanie’s hand. Melanie’s head moved in response.

Not too bad, then.

Angela joined Nik. He slid an arm around Angela’s shoulder.

It’s not as bad as we first thought, he murmured as they watched Marty and Melanie. At least the crash seems to have slammed some sense into her brain. Damn. I wish it hadn’t taken something that extreme. Once the painkillers kicked in, she settled down. She put some things together on the way down.

What about? The miscarriage? Angela whispered.

Nik switched to the Mixteco she taught him years ago, when they wanted to talk privately in public settings. Yeah. Her Enforcer instincts are whispering to her about how it happened.

Marty thinks there might be a Netwalk connection, Angela said.

They’re thinking alike. Just wish it hadn’t taken the crash to knock some sense into her. Nik shook his head. "Let’s hope she’s ready for that Courts meeting in three weeks. She has to be there."

If she can’t be there, she can’t be there.

Nik frowned, but said no more. Angela looked away from him as his lips tightened. When it came to the Courts, his Security rating superseded hers. She hadn’t passed the initial aptitude screening for Courts access. Nik had.

Marty kissed Melanie’s hand, and softly stroked her brow. Then he stepped back, and the team whisked her away. Marty stared after her, then sighed. He turned to Nik and Angela.

We used Dialogue, Marty said. Not talk. Hurts too much.

Angela nodded. Let’s go into the waiting room. Nik got the pre-surgery briefing.

She told me that. Nik, text it to me. I need to call Diana and let her know what’s happening, Marty said, fatigue settling into his voice.

There’s privacy areas inside, Angela said. Come on. Let’s clear out for the next group.

Marty nodded, moving stiffly. Angela guided him toward the waiting area.

All in a day’s work, when your boss was Melanie Fielding.

CHAPTER 2

Marty sat watch by the hospital bed while Melanie slept, ignoring the pings from his messages. He snapped his fingers to shut down this latest alert about the chip grow entering a new stage. It couldn’t be too urgent. Ness would use her access to alert him if things got too bad.

Melanie stirred and moaned softly. Marty rested his hand on hers, waiting to see if she woke. She shifted her weight slightly, opened her eyes, blinked in a non-command sequence pattern, gave him a flicker of a smile, then closed her eyes again.

A pattern he recognized.

Not ready to wake up yet.

His thoughts spun back to putting the pieces together, especially after what Mel had told him before she went into surgery.

How the hell could this happen? And why does she think there’s a connection between Liam and the Gizmo?

Oh, he had heard Montcrief’s insinuation about Liam, but Montcrief was snarky like that.

Or did he know something?

Part of Marty wanted to retreat to his lab and find an answer. Hell, he’d been doing just that this past week after the miscarriage, using the urgency of the High Space contract as an excuse. He knew better. He should have kept trying to get Melanie to talk. He shouldn’t have run away to the lab. But every time he wanted to talk to Melanie, something inhibited him. Something that briefly blanked out Ness—but she didn’t notice.

Is it at all possible that Liam’s found a way to influence us?

He didn’t like that thought, but Melanie’s conclusion that Liam had something to do with the miscarriages—both hers and the surrogate’s—was hard to avoid.

Ness grumbled inside his chip.

You’re thinking too hard.

We have to trust Mel’s Enforcer intuition. It’s usually right. Liam had something to do with the miscarriages.

I heard her. It doesn’t come together logically. Why didn’t *I* sense anything out of the ordinary? Why didn’t Mel before her accident?

It *is* one possibility. This could be a new Netwalk model. Mel admits she doesn’t know it all.

Are you sure you’re not just making excuses? I’m pretty sure I could feel Liam influencing you, at least. You’re making excuses for Melanie, Marty. She was in serious hormonal flux.

Marty didn’t answer Ness, because he had that question himself.

And yet—he had to trust Mel. They’d spent the past