“Level 99,” Nerea mused, tapping the smartwatch display. The captured scan of Idoia Valcasta’s thumbprint glowed faint amber across the screen. “So she’s got the golden ticket to the master terminal. And probably a retinal scan to match.” Bixente stepped past three zip-tied mercenaries and leaned over her shoulder. General Pecks, perched regally on his shoulder, let out a soft *cluck* of agreement. “We just take her eyes and thumbs, then, Nerea?” he asked, already eyeing a discarded power cable with tactical interest. ““No, Bixente, that’s… untidy,” Nerea said, grinning. “And messy. We need a delicate touch. “Besides, the bequest legally requires my input. Idoia’s biometrics are just the key to the door, not the final lock.” She flicked through data pulled from the door hub. “Ah, perfect. The annual Shareholders’ Gala. Tonight. Pavillion floor, Level 70. Black tie, armed escorts, and plenty of opportunities to lift Idoia’s credentials.” Minutes later, Nerea emerged from a service elevator, dressed in what she considered ‘gala chic.’ Her gown, a vibrant emerald green silk, was a chaotic masterpiece of ruffles, lacework, and strategically placed pockets. It looked like a mountain meadow had exploded onto a runway, complete with embroidered wildflowers climbing the bodice. Beneath the frivolous layers, however, Bixente had meticulously sewn in flexible Kevlar panels, transforming a fashion faux pas into mobile riot gear. Her hair, usually a wild cascade, was pulled into an elaborate braid adorned with tiny, glittering cyber-orchids that subtly housed micro-cameras. Bixente, looking profoundly uncomfortable, wore a borrowed, ill-fitting tuxedo, his prize-winning titanium pitchfork discreetly dismantled and hidden within a custom-made violin case slung over his back. General Pecks was nowhere in sight, assigned to scan the buffet lines, which Bixente translated as keeping the bird off the canapé trays until midnight. The Spire’s Grand Atrium was a terraced vault of polished onyx and quartz. Holographic projections of blooming cygnus lilies danced across the vaulted ceilings. The air hung thick with expensive perfume and thinly veiled contempt. Nerea, clutching a glass of something bubbly she suspected was just carbonated regret, plunged into the crowd. Her first target: a portly man with a perpetually sneering face and a platinum Valcasta Directorate fob clipped to his cummerbund. Director Borja Sarratea, according to her watch’s facial recognition, a staunch Idoia loyalist. “Oh, this champagne is just *delightful*,” Nerea chirped, deliberately bumping into him as he reached for a canapé. “So sorry! I’m Nerea. Grandfather’s… surprise.” She extended a hand, her smile blinding. As Sarratea grunted a perfunctory greeting, his attention drawn to a passing waiter with a tray of spiced shrimp, Nerea’s fingers brushed his jacket. With two fingers, she slipped the platinum token off his waistband and shoved it straight into an inner ruffle. Her smartwatch gave a tiny, almost imperceptible *ping* of data acquisition. She moved on, a whirlwind of emerald silk and disarming cheer. She complimented Director Amaia Arruabarrena’s gaudy gemstone necklace while her sleeve slid a micro-scanner over the woman’s wrist-mounted access card. She spun a tall tale about prize-winning cyber-sheep to Board Member Koldo Ezquerra, sliding a thumb into his jacket pocket to clone his entry chip. The snobs saw only a clumsy country girl, smirking behind flutes while she harvested half a dozen encrypted badges. Idoia, clad in tailored black silk, watched from twenty paces out. “The lamb is making friends,” she murmured to the pale man beside her, Urriaga. “Let her enjoy her last dance. Soon, she’ll understand the true nature of this family.” Idoia’s own ornate Valcasta Spire master key, a unique, multi-layered biometric device, hung prominently from a delicate silver chain around her neck, gleaming under the chandelier light. Nerea, catching Idoia’s gaze, offered a wide, innocent wave, then took another oversized *pintxo* from a passing tray, narrowly avoiding a collision with a waiter. Nerea retreated to a quieter corner, pretending to admire a rather questionable modern art installation. Her smartwatch, a discreet pulse of blue light, began to process the collected data. The raw scans held standard clearances, but under the entry timestamps, her custom script flagged repeated write commands aimed at the wipeout subroutines. Neither the late founder nor Idoia had initiated them. They originated from a secure, internal network tied directly to a private consortium of board members. [ANOMALY DETECTED: DSM_PROTOCOL_ACCELERATION_ATTEMPT_V.3.1.2] [INITIATOR: VALCASTA_BOARD_CONSORTIUM_’SOLSTICE’] [TARGET: DEAD_MAN’S_SWITCH_TIMER] [STATUS: PARTIALLY_SUCCESSFUL - TIMER ACCELERATED BY APPROX. 18 HOURS] Nerea’s cheerful smile evaporated. Eighteen hours. The timer was already at fourteen days. This wasn’t just about Idoia trying to block her. This was a deliberate, malicious act to wipe the entire corporate entity *faster*. The wipeout routine would destabilize the entire Alta-Vento telecom exchange, letting a syndicate sweep up physical hubs, fiber routes, and towers for pennies. The Solstice faction was staging an internal purge, using both heirs as smoke. Nerea checked the exits. Urriaga stood huddled with Sarratea and Arruabarrena beneath a bronze chandelier, their jaws set tight. Nerea edged closer, pretending a fascination with a nearby ice sculpture of a digital phoenix. The Kevlar lining suddenly felt less like a quirky accessory and more like an essential second skin. “The girl found something,” Urriaga hissed, his voice barely audible over the din. “Her watch pinged. She’s too smart for a farm animal.” Sarratea muttered, “Doesn’t matter. The core servers fry tonight. The infrastructure falls to us.” “And Idoia?” Arruabarrena asked, her voice a cruel whisper. “She's served her purpose. A useful distraction. But she knows too much about the acceleration protocols. And the new heir…” Urriaga peered across the floor, his stare landing on Nerea’s back. “Seal the double doors. Deploy the attack units. Terminate both of them.” Nerea’s fingers tightened on her champagne glass, the expensive crystal groaning in her grip. The bubbly liquid sloshed. Ozone and cut crystal hung in the air as overhead mag-locks sealed the exits with heavy mechanical thuds.

The Gala of Goons