In Germany, a top official had switched political parties overnight, changing his stances on nearly all major issues. He stood in their parliament, ranting and raving about a legislative overhaul. But the story was buried, appearing as a sidebar on a comedy site. Everyone thought he’d just lost his mind.

In Japan, a Buddhist monk known worldwide for his humanitarian efforts had murdered more than thirty of his followers in their sleep with a knife from the monastery kitchen, slipping from room to room in the night. Just the day before, the monk had met with dignitaries from several countries, showing no signs of mental trouble, advocating for peace. But the meeting had taken place in the VirtNet, the monk surely in a Coffin.

A woman in Canada known for her charitable contributions to the community had been awakened from her time in the Sleep by a daughter who’d begun to worry about her. The mother scrambled out of the Coffin, raging mad. She killed all of her children, then her husband when he got home. All she would tell the police was that she’d been told to do it.

There were too many stories. And over and over neighbors and friends said the same things: “He was the nicest guy” and “She didn’t have a bad bone in her body.”

What really convinced Michael, though, were the nonviolent stories. What purpose, after all, could Kaine have in sending Tangents into human bodies only to have them do something horrible and get thrown in jail? Maybe those were evidence of the transfers not working.

He and his friends also found several reports on people changing their normal behavior or making rash decisions. Corporate executives moving huge numbers of funds or instigating massive layoffs or selling off subsidiaries. Government officials suddenly changing their ideologies enough to bring it to the attention of the NewsBops—though most weren’t as animated as the man in Germany. Actors walking off movie sets, sports figures resigning from teams, people left and right stepping down from jobs they’d held for years. There were so many stories that Michael almost—almost—didn’t flinch when they came across a report about one missing Jackson Porter, wanted for cyber-terrorism.

But Michael was able to push that to the side for now, focusing on the possible Tangent invasion. It was all too much, too close together. Michael had been a news junkie his whole life, and he’d never seen anything like this.

“They have to be Tangents,” he said for at least the tenth time as they read yet another example of some government type turning against his constituents. “This is crazy. How can people not notice a connection?”

“Think about it,” Bryson replied. He turned off the ancient device and slid it away in disgust, as if it were the cause of all the reports. “They don’t know what we know. You really think someone is going to just stand up and say, ‘I got it!’ ”—he snapped his fingers—“ ‘By George, I’ve got it! Computer programs are taking over the minds of all these people!’ ”

Michael rolled his eyes. “I know, but it just seems so crazy. Weird things like this happening all over the world at the same time.”

“Some of this stuff might be copycat work,” Sarah said. “But a lot of it has to be Kaine. I’m guessing he had a test batch—Michael and a few other Tangents—made some tweaks after he saw what happened, then a week or two later sent a whole bunch out at once. I just don’t get what he’s trying to accomplish.”

Michael didn’t, either. “Yeah, some of it seems so random. Nothing’s consistent. I can kind of understand the government stuff, the corporation stuff—he might be planning to have others to come in and take over. But why all the violence, too?” He shrugged, as if it didn’t really matter, when it potentially mattered more than anything in history.

“Chaos,” Bryson said in a spooky whisper.

Michael just looked at him, waiting for him to expound on his dramatic pronouncement.

“Chaos,” he repeated. “Maybe Kaine wants nothing more right now except good old-fashioned chaos.”

“Why?” Sarah asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe he wants all the humans to start a big war and kill themselves.”

“That doesn’t make an ounce of sense,” Michael countered. “What’s the point of the Mortality Doctrine if he wants to wipe out humans? Doesn’t he want to be a human?” It was Bryson’s turn to shrug. “I guess that’s the question of the year. He said all that stuff about immortality—did he mean as a human or as a Tangent? Which is why we need to figure out this dude’s ultimate plan.”

Sarah stood up and stretched, pressing her hands into her back as she leaned away from the table. Michael heard something crack.

“We all need to chill and rest today,” she said. “Get some sleep tonight. Because tomorrow we have a very big day.”

“Oh yeah?” Bryson asked. “What exactly are we doing?”

Sarah stood up and turned to go, casually answering over her shoulder as she walked away.

“We’re going to see the VNS.”

Every major city—and most smaller ones—had a branch of the VNS located within its limits, though often it was unmarked. But by midafternoon the next day, Michael and his friends had located the local VNS office and were standing in front of it. It was a nondescript, run-down building in the seedier part of town, where it wasn’t unusual to see drug dealers and bandits roaming the streets. Which was why Michael asked the cabbie to wait for them while they went in.

“Are we sure this is it?” Bryson asked.

“Positive,” Sarah replied. “Anyway, what can it hurt to knock on the door?”

Bryson tapped his chin with a finger. “It could hurt if some hopped-up drug monkey was in the middle of a deal and decided to shoot whoever knocked on his door. That would hurt.”

“Yeah, that would definitely hurt,” Michael agreed. The argument was pointless, though. They all knew very well that they were going inside that building, no matter what.

Sarah headed for a grimy glass door under the awning that ran along the front wall. The metal handle hung askew from only one attached bolt. “Then I’ll do the knocking, you wimps.”

Michael and Bryson raced to be by her side when she did so.

There was an old doormat—not something you usually saw at an office building—lying crookedly in front of the entrance, one corner chewed off by a dog or rat, the frayed edge matching the exterior of the building perfectly. The mat itself said WIPE YOUR FEET, which Michael thought was perfect for an entity like the VNS, getting straight to business.