Jim Baen's Universe-Vol 1 Num 4
Novel
1932-0930-04
978-1932-0930-01
10.1125/Baen.1932093004
Baen Books
Eric Flint

Science Fiction
2006 by Eric Flint
2006-12-01
US English (en-us)

Jim Baen's Universe-Vol 1 Num 4

by
Eric Flint

Table of Contents

Jim Baen's Universe
Vol 1 Num 4: Dec 2006

Credits, Issue 4

Written by Jim Baen's Universe! Staff

Jim Baen's Universe, Volume 1 Number 4

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this magazine are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2006 by Jim Baen's Universe

A Baen Publishing Enterprises Publication
Jim Baen's Universe
P. O. Box 7488
Moore, OK 73153-1488

ISSN: 1932-0930

"Incident on a Small Colony" Copyright © 2006 by Kristine Smith
"Tesseract" Copyright © 2006 by Tom Brennan
"Alone" Copyright © 2006 by Joe R. Lansdale and Melissa Mia Hall
"Olaf and the Merchandisers" Copyright © 2006 by Barry N. Malzberg and Bill Pronizini
"Murphy's Law" Copyright © 2006 by Doug Smith
"The Big Ice" Copyright © 2006 by Jay Lake and Ruth Nestvold
"The Nature of Things" Copyright © 2006 by Maya Kaathryn Bohnoff
"Singing Them Back" Copyright © 2006 by Marissa Lingen
"Servants to the Dead" Copyright © 2006 by Stephen Piziks
"Caught Forever Between" Copyright © 2006 by Adrian Nikolas Phoenix
"The Ancient Ones, Part 3" Copyright © 2006 by David Brin
"Slan Hunter, Part 1" Copyright © 2006 by Kevin Anderson and Lydia van Vogt
"Fish Story, Episode 4" Copyright © 2006 by Dave Freer, Eric Flint and Andrew Dennis
"The Girl With the Killer Eyes" Copyright © 2006 by B. B. Kristopher
"Pastry Run" Copyright © 2006 by Nancy Fulda
"Fishing" Copyright © 2006 by Thea Hutcheson
"A Pocket History of Macro-Engineering" Copyright © 2006 by Gregory Benford
"Home is the Hunter" by C. L. Moore and Henry Kuttner was first published in Galaxy Science Fiction in July 1953

First electronic publication: December 2006

STORIES
Incident on a Small Colony

Written by Kristine Smith
Illustrated by Lee Kuruganti

The receiving dock stank of berries.

Raspberries, I think. Jani Kilian stared at the bright pink mess that spilled across the floor in front of her. With a hint of . . . what? Battery hyperacid, judging from the bitter tang. Add to that the melted plastic odor of evaporating sealant, backed by the ever-present undercurrent of stale station air.

Dammit. Above her, the dock alarms whirled like dervishes, sending wave after wave of red light breaking across the walls and ceiling.

Red.

Jani struggled to concentrate as, around her, the very air seemed to throb with color. Six hours for the paperwork. Another day and a half to get it all signed off. All that work for one shattered fifty-kilo drum of flavor concentrate. But it's Family-licensed, and all the containers are tagged. Once you acquired a reputation for losing Family shipments, you could pretty much kiss your business good-bye.

"As if this place had any business to kiss." Pearl Way Lading of Victoria Colony—We Cover the Commonwealth. A bit of an overstatement. Judging from their records, they covered only the six worlds that made up the Pearl Way, and thanks to competition from other companies, both human and Haárin, along with general incompetence, their share of that market had been dropping steadily for years.

It's going to drop even more after word of this gets out. Trashing Family shipments—not the way to build business. Jani paused to wipe away tears with her coverall sleeve, then switched to breathing through her mouth. The muddled stench had made her eyes water, seared the inside of her nose.

"Timas?"

Red. Everywhere she looked, all red—

"Timas?"

Jani bent at the waist and stared at her black boots, their surfaces too scuffed and worn to reflect the pulsing color.

"Timas! You deaf or what!"

Shit—! The shout slammed Jani like a blow—she straightened as though someone had jammed a knee in her back. Timas was a new name—she hadn't gotten used to it yet. Andree Timas. Documents technician. She pushed a hand through her cropped hair, felt the slick sweat that coated her scalp. Sing yourself to sleep with it, moron. "Just trying to figure out the best way to clean this up."

The stevedore stepped in front of her. Royson, his name was, a baby-faced redhead of the sort who turned up at other people's accidents. "Va-cu-um. In-cin-er-ate." He waved a hand in front of her face and enunciated in a slow singsong as though speaking to a child, the cadence accentuated by his New Indies lilt. "Even a paper-pusher should be able to figure that out."

Jani ignored the insult. It was standard dock abuse, and Royson had been lobbing it at her since her arrival three days before. Given some of the things she'd heard on other docks over the past five years, it almost qualified as a compliment. "The stuff's already stained the topcoat." She pushed at the edge of the gelatinous muck with the toe of her boot, revealing the telltale darkening of the floor beneath. "And the crate was a controlled shipment, which means triple the paperwork." She pressed a hand to the back of her neck as the alarm continued to flash, felt the muscles knot. She couldn't turn off the beacon—she hadn't been coded into all of the company systems yet, so she didn't have clearance. And I can't ask Royson to do it. He'd just insult her again, and given her ramping anger, she might not be able to hold back. I hit him, I'm gone. And she'd only just settled in. I can't screw up this job. She needed the money. A place to hide.

A little peace.

"Boy, Maintenance is going to love you." Royson maneuvered between her and the spill, veering in close enough to force her to step back. "The bosses got to get informed and you get to walk upstairs and collect their signatures." He clapped his hands. "Well, better go get those fancy forms out of the drawer and start filling them out." He grinned, his teeth colored pink by the alarm light. "Most action you'll see for the whole week. You might even break a sweat ridin' up and down the lift."

Jani sighed. Three days—guess the honeymoon's over. Time to challenge the new tech, get in her face. See if and when she flinched, how much she could be pushed around. And Royson's the chosen attack dog. She wondered if he'd lost a bet or won it, glanced over her shoulder toward the office compartment in time to see three heads vanish around the corner. We even have an audience. The dispatcher and Royson's two partners on the firstshift floor team.

Turn me loose. A little voice in the back of Jani's head, sensed rather than heard. No one will ever bother you again. The berry stench seemed almost pleasant now. Softer. Less pungent.

"Let's go! Come on!" Royson clapped again, right under her nose, the sound sharp as a shooter crack. Then came the echoes, as though they stood in a cave.

Hit him. The voice whispered, softly as a lover. Make him bleed.

Jani looked into her designated tormentor's eyes. She didn't have to look up to do it—she and Royson appeared matched at about one-eight. As happened with some men, Royson's lack of height advantage seemed to bother him. She watched as he tilted up his chin, furrowed his brow. That first murmur of doubt, rearing its ugly little head. Time to push back.

"Why bother?" Jani shrugged. "I'll let it slide. What's one less accident report? One less ride up and down the lift? Maintenance will ask for their copy when they come to recoat the floor, but hey, I'll lie. Tell 'em it's stuck in sign-off." She took a step forward, then another, forcing Royson back until a wet smack announced the fact that he had stepped into the spill.

"Fuck." Royson edged sideways, dragging the edge of his boot along the floor in an effort to scrape off the pungent mess.

"That's what Maintenance will say when they realize that I lied to them about the report." Jani kept moving forward, jostling against Royson with a knee or a shoulder when he tried to hold his ground or veer to one side or the other. "After a few comport calls, which I'll ignore, and a few visits, which I'll dodge, they'll say 'hell with it' and bump it upstairs to the Transportation annex, which will send an investigator to check and see what happened. That's when they'll discover that not only didn't we file—it becomes the company's fault by that time, not just mine—not only didn't we file the accident report, but we didn't investigate the spilled drum."

"You have to investigate cargo damage." Royson spouted automatically, a point from his training module disgorged on command. "It's the law."

"Screw it." Jani moved to one side, blocking Royson as he again tried to dodge around her. "Failure to investigate is just a Class 4 violation. So what if they send out an auditor from the ministry annex on Padishah? That makes it party time—it'll take a whole station-week for them to get here."

"Wait a minute." Royson stopped in his tracks. A flush as pink as the flavor concentrate crept up his neck. "If we're under investigation—"

"—you don't get paid. Because as a documented employee of Pearl Way Lading, whose reputation would have to rebound into the stratosphere to qualify as crappy, you're part of the 'we,' and we would be under a ministry-ordered shutdown until the auditor completed their investigation." Jani glanced past Royson's shoulder, caught sight of the dock wall a bare stride away, and took one last step forward. "Hope you have another job lined up."

Royson's head jerked as he hit the wall. The flush had claimed his face now, making his cheeks as shiny and pink as candy. "Just because it needs to be done doesn't mean it isn't bullshit." He pressed against the coated concrete as though he wanted to push through the slab to the other side.

Must be my charm. Jani backed off half a step, just enough to give the man a little room to breathe. "Bullshit it may be. But it's bullshit that guarantees you a paychit, so why don't you just keep your opinion of my job to yourself and leave me to get on with it?" She turned and started to walk across the dock toward the office, then stopped as the red walls continued to spin. "And while you're at it, make yourself useful and kill that goddamned alarm."

"All you paper-pushers think you're so hot." Royson slipped past her to the control panel, palmed it open, and smacked one of the pads with his fist. "Two-bit tech, never gets her hands dirty, acts like she's a friggin' examiner." The alarm light stopped.

The red . . . ceased.

"Bitch and moan, bitch and moan." Jani resumed walking, eyes fixed on the floor at her feet. The light might have stopped, but her head—Why is everything still moving so slowly? "Is someone going to own up to this spill, or do I blame it on the redhead?" Her voice reverberated inside her skull. She glanced over at Royson, who glared back at her, his fist still pressed to the alarm pad. "I'll be going to my cube in case anyone wants to talk. Confession time starts in-"—she checked her timepiece—"fifteen minutes." She veered away from the office, heading instead for the dock exit that led to the station innards. "I'll be there with my beads and my holy water and whatever else you think might help you to unburden yourself." She needed a few minutes alone in the dark. Just had to find someplace empty. Quiet.

"Timas?"

Jani spun toward the voice. "What?" She closed her eyes when she saw who had spoken. No, you don't want to give him a reason to wonder about you. "I'll write up the incident report as soon as I get back."

"No rush." Delmen, the dock lead, started to back away from her, then stopped. "You OK?" He cocked his head, voice soft with concern.

Jani hesitated, then nodded. "Just working out some ground rules with the gang." She forced a smile, her facial muscles fighting every twitch.

Delmen grinned. He was young for a lead, no more than thirty, his face unlined, brown skin ashy from the months spent working at the station, four hundred kilometers above the Victorian surface. "Yeah, I heard." His voice was gravelly, but quiet. How he got the stevedores to listen to him was anyone's guess. "So." He looked around Jani toward the spill. "Insurance?"

Jani tried to nod, stopping when the walls started to pulse. "Filed the updated applications yesterday."

"Then we're covered?"

"Maybe." Just breathe. Jani focused on the skin on the backs of her hands. Dark brown, darker than Delmen's, the darkest thing on the dock. Except for Delmen's eyes. They were brown unto black, his pupils almost invisible. But I can't stare at him. He'd think she was after him, and Royson would sniff that out like the dog he was. He'd spread the word that I was after my lead. That always did wonders for one's reputation. "You were two quarters behind with your premiums. I let the company know that it was a case of simple oversight—your last tech had ignored the cancellation notices. You've had no incidents up to this point. The company should accept my explanation, but I have the appeal forms lined up in case they don't. I just need to run up to Transportation and grab some supplemental—" She glanced up to find Delmen staring at her, his hand pressed to his forehead as though his head ached. "What?"

"How do you know all this stuff?" The man let his hand drop and shook his head. "Just wrangle it any way you have to—I'll sign off." He started to walk toward the office compartment, then stopped and turned back to her. "You've been here three station-days. I can see the tops of the desks again. The stacks of paper are disappearing. The comports aren't bleating every ten minutes with an angry somebody or other on the other end." He smiled. "I don't know how we managed without you."

"I don't—" Jani swallowed, felt the blush creep up her neck despite her disorientation. Thank Lord Ganesh for dark skin and bad lighting. "It's my job."

"Maybe." Delmen shrugged, then turned and resumed walking toward the office. "Thanks for doing your job."

Jani watched him walk. Trim build, almost wiry. Nice shoulders. He's shorter than I am. By half a head, at least. He likes my work—I can't mess that up. She felt attracted to him—she could admit that as long as it stopped there. As long as it went no further. Dark hair. She could imagine lacing her fingers through it while Delmen worked that gentle voice, telling her whatever he thought she needed to hear.

She shook herself aware. Delmen had joined Royson by the control box—he did all the talking while Royson stared past him in her direction. Their eyes met. His brow furrowed.

Dammit. Jani strode across the dock, smacked the exit doorpad with the flat of her hand, then shouldered the panel aside when it failed to open quickly enough. The door array bleated in protest. Heads emerged from doorways up and down the corridor. A voice blared from an office at the far end. "What the hell's going on!"

Jani pushed the door closed, then hurried down the hall, past the general mail drop into the women's locker room. That door opened quickly, closed quietly.

Thanks for doing your job. Jani leaned against the wall just inside the door and pressed the heels of her hands to her temples. Anyone seeing her would think she fought a headache, which was as good an excuse as any.

Get a grip. Her eyes stung. How many things had she heard over the years that should have grabbed her heart and twisted, yet hadn't?

I love you.

We're going to die here, Captain.

You're alive, Jani.

This won't hurt for long.

"Thanks." Jani opened her eyes slowly, then blinked. Despite the welling tears, they felt dry, as they often did. Gritty, as though someone had blown dust into them. I should check them, just in case. She walked to the bathroom entry and scanned the room, then checked the stalls. Empty. Not unusual. Few women worked at dock level.

Jani walked to the nearest sink and activated the tap. Savored the spill of warm water over her hands. Activated the soap, lathered, and rinsed. Counted to three, then looked in the mirror.

Her eyes stared back. Green nearly as dark as Delmen's brown, green unto black, the color of the bottom of a well.

She bent closer and examined the shiny white sclera. Still white. No gaps. No splits. Not much of anything, really. No blood vessels. No shadows. Fake white, to match the fake green. Eyes from a bottle. She reached into her pocket, held her breath as she felt for the vial of filmformer, exhaled slowly as her hand closed over it. Her shield. Her security. The one thing that allowed her to maintain a pretense of humanity.

"Hello."

Jani flinched. Straightened slowly, then turned.

The girl stood in the entry. Ten years old. Maybe twelve. Short and delicate, pale blond hair and blue eyes heightening the impression of extreme youth, as did her baggy black trousers and blue pullover.

Like she just emerged from her mother's closet. But something wasn't right. Eyes. There's something wrong with her eyes. A little too bright and opened a little too wide.

Jani could see that the girl watched her. But what does she see? Nothing in this world, if previous experience held. "Are you looking for someone?" A parent, she hoped. A guardian. Somebody responsible. "Are you lost?" She pitched her voice low, and spoke slowly.

"What's your name?" The girl cocked her head as through distracted by a distant sound. "Everyone has one."

"Ja—" Jani stopped the sound just before it emerged. "Andree Timas." She edged away from the sink, taking care to keep both hands open and visible. "I work here."

"Andy." The girl bounded forward and grabbed Jani's left hand. "Andy, are you handy?"

Jani fought the urge to pull back, and managed to remain still as the girl squeezed her hand, then shook it, two hard pumps that rattled up her arm. Is she trying to hurt me? Jani couldn't tell. She could detect pressure with her left arm and hand, but not pain. Same with her left leg. My old war wounds. They complicated her life at the damnedest times.

"I'm Annalise Couvier." The girl smiled, teeth dead white in the harsh lighting. Then she dropped Jani's hand as though it burned, wheeled, and darted out of the bathroom, through the locker area and out the door.

"Shit." Jani bolted after her, pushing through the gaps in sliding panels and triggering safety alarms. More bleating, cut off in midyap as she freed herself and broke through into the hallway.

The empty hallway.

"Where the hell—?" Jani stilled. Listened for the pound of shoes against hard flooring, a cry or a shout.

"If you don't stop playing around, I'm going to report you."

Jani spun toward the voice. It belonged to an older woman, a clerk for one of the other shippers. Sour face and a tatty coverall in clashing shades of brown. "Did you see a girl run out of the locker room a few seconds before I came out?"

"All I've seen is you making an ass of yourself." The woman looked Jani up and down and sniffed. "It's all I've heard, too." She pulled herself up straight, the top of her clipped hairdo barely reaching Jani's shoulder. "Some of us have work to do." With that, she brushed past Jani and keyed into the locker room.

Jani waited a few moments more, until a door at the far end of the corridor opened, and a pair of men emerged. She turned her back so they wouldn't see her face, walked to the dock entry, then stopped. She couldn't handle Royson yet. Her heart still beat slow and steady. Sounds still seemed to echo inside her head. And now . . .

Augmentation has its benefits, Lieutenant Kilian. You'll find that under conditions of panic, you will remain calm. Any wounds you suffer will heal more quickly. You will be able, under certain conditions, to exhibit controlled bursts of greater than average strength.

That had been the good news.

However, augments exhibiting your particular brain chemistry might hallucinate under certain conditions.

The Service doctor had made it sound so innocuous.

—extended episodes of extreme stress, for example—

What would he have considered extreme? The near occasion of death? Years spent hiding, lying, stealing?

—sensitivity to the color red—

Less said about that, the better.

—at those times, the implanted gland itself may require resetting in order to maintain proper function. I'm sure you've heard the word 'takedown' around the place. These need to be performed periodically, otherwise—

Otherwise . . .

Bless me, Doctor, for I have sinned. It's been—Jani counted on her fingers—five years since my last takedown. She walked back down the hall and reentered the locker room. Into the bathroom, and the stall two doors removed from the one currently occupied by the scolding clerk. Assuming she's in there. Assuming she wasn't another artifact of a neurochemical cascade gone haywire.

—augmentation psychosis—

Jani dragged the cubicle door closed, then slumped against the cold metal wall. Did I just hallucinate? The girl, the woman, the men at the end of the corridor? Fellow augments had always told her that if you thought you were hallucinating, you weren't hallucinating, but she had always chalked that up to wishful thinking. If you think you might be crazy, you're not crazy. No. If you thought you might be crazy, you needed to see a medico. Except that I can't. Because if she ever walked into a hospital, they'd never let her out. Except to transfer me to the nearest Service brig. Because the Service had been looking for her for a long time.

Five years. That long since she'd worn a uniform. Snapped a salute. Five years since she'd answered to the name she'd been born with. Jani Moragh Kilian. Born in the city of Ville Acadie, Acadia Colony, twenty-nine Common years before she had taken to seeing girls who weren't there and hiding in station bathrooms to assess her sanity.

From two stalls down, the stopped drain sounds of a flushing toilet. Coughing, followed by muttering about the workload.

Would I hallucinate the sound without any visuals? Jani knew augments who had, but they were rarities according to the Service doctors. Of course, it had occurred to her more than once since that time that the Service doctors had lied through their collective teeth.

The sounds of the stall door opening. The workings of the sink. Footsteps, followed by the opening and closing of the bathroom door.

Jani counted to ten, then pushed open the door to her stall. Walked to the sink, washed and dried her hands. Ignored the mirror, catching only the barest flashes of her short, black hair, her brown skin. Then one more time, out of the bathroom to the locker room, the locker room to the corridor. Sounds seemed duller now, colors less sharp. Her heart tripped, then sped into its more usual rhythm. She'd feel tired as hell in an hour or so. As soon as she got to the office, she'd make coffee strong enough to etch metal, then wait for someone to confess to the spill. After that, she'd file, clean, run errands. Anything to keep moving, keep from falling asleep. The last thing she needed was for Royson to catch her snoring at her desk. Royson, her new best friend. There always seemed to be one at every dock, an inevitability she could have happily done without.

She checked the company's slot in the mail drop, collected the thin bundle of paper missives resting within. Palmed through the dock entry, and walked out onto the floor to find Delmen supervising the spill cleanup. He'd commandeered Salay and Boudamire, the Rodent Twins, Royson's partners in crime. Royson himself was nowhere to be seen, which meant only one thing.

"Oh, hell." Jani drew alongside Delmen and watched the two stevedores shovel berry muck into a rolling trash bin. "He's in my cube, isn't he?"

Delmen grinned. "He confessed right after you left." He edged closer and lowered his voice. "I don't know if he really did it or if he drew the short straw, him being the new guy and all. I don't really care, either." He looked at her, the grin wavering. "You feeling OK?"

Jani shrugged, tried not to look him in the eye. "I just needed to get away from the stink."

Delmen sniffed. "I think my nose has gone numb." He pointed to the shoveling stevedores. "I'll take care of this. Go take confession."

"Yeah." Jani started toward the office compartment, a prefab rectangle that ran along the dock's far wall. A coffin with windows, Delmen had called it during her interview, which had proved the most perfunctory she had ever experienced. Take a good, hard look around. If you can control your laughter, your cube's in the back.

Jani walked past the leaky watercooler and pushed through the old hinged door, which had put up a valiant fight against the olfactory onslaught from without but came up short. Even so, I've worked in worse places. She walked past the shelves crammed with smashed cartons, rolled-up clothing, cups, and baseball caps.

That yellow pullover's still here. The broken receiver. The hand ratchet with the faulty stop. Lost lambs all, liberated from lockers with expired leases, breakrooms, and broken packing cases. Given that all but the most beat-up items found takers before they even made it to the shelves, the pickings were slim unto skeletal.

The yawning jag hit just as Jani passed the coffee table. She laid claim to the cold dregs from the brewer, adding a scoop of sugar to counter the bitterness. Walked to her cube, and entered just in time to see Royson close her desk drawer and start riffling through a stack of manifests. "Looking for something in particular?"

Royson barely glanced at her. "A stylus. Del gave me this form to fill out." He held up a form inscribed on old version Transportation Ministry parchment, tan with a dark green border.

"You can fill it out directly in Systems." The urge to yawn struck again, and Jani covered it by taking a swig of coffee. "It means you have to deal with questions from upstairs that much sooner, but it's what they prefer. Especially when the paper form you have is out-of-date." She swallowed more sugar-saturated swill. Her brain felt wrapped in fog, her eyelids, heavy.

Shovels.

The word dropped into Jani's head as she edged past Royson to her desk and sat down. Once there, it rattled around. Stamped its feet. Shovels—they're shoveling the muck into a bin. She tried to recall if she'd heard the low hum of the vacuum when she stopped to talk to Delmen. No, I didn't hear a damned thing. She glanced at the penitent to find him slumped in the visitor's chair, arms folded, sullen glare fixed on an image of a vase of flowers that had been clipped from a magazine and tacked to the partition by some previous occupant. "Low man acts as lookout."

Royson blinked lizard-slow. His brow creased. "What?"

"They're not vacuuming the spill, they're scooping the stuff into a bin. When they're finished, they'll hand off the bin to someone who'll portion it out and sell it downstairs." Jani pointed to the floor, which at that time of the station-day faced Victoria. "I guess the only question is, was the accident really an accident, or did a fence place an order that needed filling right away?"

If Royson felt any discomfort at having been sussed out, he buried it beneath a fair imitation of boredom. "The lift stalled just as I began to hoist the drum. When I started it up again, the whole thing went nuts"—he held up his hands, curved toward one another as though ready to close around the nearest neck, and shook them hard—"and the drum slipped out of the brace. Hit the floor. Splat." He tucked in his arms again and remained slumped. He had yet to look her in the eye.

Jani nodded. "How high was the drop?"

"Two, three meters."

"Those drums are rated at ten."

"Well, this one flunked, didn't it?" Royson brushed at dirt that smudged the knee of his coverall, then tucked in again, the very image of the sulky scapegoat.

Jani powered up her workstation and accessed the incident report template. "Tell Delmen that someone needs to fill out the vacuum log to account for the time it would have taken to suck up the junk. Incinerator time needs to be logged as well." She started inputting, at the same time watching Royson out of the corner of her eye. "It would be better if they sacrificed part of the spill. Verifiers have been known to check vac function and incinerator scans to see whether something was actually sucked up and burned during the time in question."

Royson turned slowly toward her, like a tortoise roused from slumber. "Is that what you used to do?"

Jani shook her head. "I was never a verifier." Not officially, anyway.

"Boudy thinks you are. He says you watch too much."

"Like Boudy does anything worth watching." Jani transferred data from Royson's personnel file to the incident report form. First name's James. Middle name's . . . Newark? Just the sort of tidbit one could file away for use at a later date. "You could tell him and Sal to be more careful when they sneak their girlfriends into the storage room during breaks." She tapped on the wall beside her. "Stuff's not as soundproof as they might wish." She added Royson's description of the spill, affixed her systems signature, then pushed back her chair. "It's better if I know what's going on so that I can cover with the right paper. Otherwise, loose ends start to fray during routine audits. Next thing you know, you're up to your ass in auditors general."

Royson took his cue, stretching across Jani's desk and keying in his own sig. When he sat back, he put his hands in his pockets, his shoulders sagging as the tension seeped away. "I don't know how you do that stuff all day." He leaned back and stared at the ceiling. "Where are you from? You sound Felician sometimes, but it comes and goes."

"That because I've been gone a long time." Jani inserted a sheet of current Transportation parchment into her imprinter and transcribed the report, then tapped her touchboard and sent off the Systems copy to its new home in the gaping ministry maw. "Accent starts to fall by the wayside after a while." She spoke enough Felician Spanish to get by, and made the effort now to trill her r's and lisp just a little to reinforce Royson's guess.

"I passed through Felix Station once, on my way to somewhere else." Royson cocked his head. "Nice shops along the concourse."

Jani concentrated on labeling a documents slipcase with Royson's name and the incident number. He's trying to trap me. Fortunately, she'd once passed through the station on the way to somewhere else, too. "They're like anything else, nice if you can afford them." She pushed the transcribed document across her desk. "Initial this, and I'll file it." She bit out the words, a busy woman with too much to do to spend time talking about another colony's station.

Royson leaned over and scrawled his initials on the bottom of the document. Then he braced his elbows on the edge of the desk and watched Jani tuck it into its slipcase. "Guy I used to work with told me it was the idomeni's revenge. We went to their home world, got stuck in the middle of one of their stupid wars, and that's how those marble eyes paid us back. Showed us how to bury ourselves in paper." He clucked his tongue. "I'd go nuts if all I did all day was shove that stuff around."

"Then you're lucky you don't have to." Jani twisted her chair so that she faced her workstation, leaving Royson with a view of her back.

"Just tryin' to make conversation." Chair ergoworks squeaked as Royson pushed to his feet. "Bitch."

Jani waited until she heard the office door open and close. Then she eased back, cold coffee in hand, and pondered the day so far.

Pearl Way Shipping sells off damaged shipments. And if nothing turned up damaged over the course of the station-day, they did the deed themselves. Oh well. The only ones inconvenienced were whichever Family members owned the shipment. Nothing wrong with that. Every one of the eight Families could be inconvenienced as much as possible, as far as she was concerned.

And I caught Royson searching my desk. Could've just been meanness on his part. She'd embarrassed him in front of his teammates. As junior member, he'd be a long time shaking that off. Maybe stealing was his flavor of retaliation.

But he gave me a geography quiz, too. Because he and the others thought she was a verifier, a Commonwealth spy. Here we go again. One of these days, she'd have to stop giving a damn about her job and give incompetence a try. In the meantime, I better watch where I walk. Accidents happened all the time on the docks.

* * *

"Del wants to see you."

Jani looked up from her report to find Royson standing in her cube entry. "Something happen?"

"He just sent me to get you. I don't ask questions." Royson started back down the narrow corridor. "Not like some people."

Jani walked out on the dock floor to find Delmen waiting.

"I can give you a cashcard at the end of the week." He jerked his thumb in the direction of the warehouse. "Or you can pick out something you like." A bare hint of a smile. "Within reason. Don't go trying to walk out with a sports skimmer or anything."

Which degree felony do I have to cover up to get one of those? Jani bit back the question. She would have meant it as a joke, but certain brands of funny didn't play well at times like this. I'm being gauged. Watched for any slipup, any hint that she wasn't what she claimed to be. "Thanks."

Delmen started toward the warehouse entry, then beckoned for Jani to follow. "Thanks for the tip about the incinerator." He glanced at her over his shoulder. "Not that it mattered much—we had to burn almost three-quarters of the spill. It had already skinned over and started powdering around the edges. You can't use it once it dries out."

"If it happens again, throw a tarp over it. It'll keep the moisture from evaporating, and help contain the smell." Jani stifled a cough and wondered how long it would take the ancient ventilation system to clear the air. "You could spray a little clear oil on the contact side of the tarp, too. That'll keep any skin from forming."

Delmen wrinkled his nose. "Clear oil's a machine lubricant."

"It's no worse than the stuff they used to make that flavoring. " Jani gauged the warehouse, as she did every time she entered the place. It was smaller than most. A soccer field in size, maybe, and only two floors high. No vast depths that one could be led into, never to return. Only wide rows of half-filled shelves, with plenty of gaps to allow for good visibility and clear lines of sight.

And, built against the far wall, a cage.

Jani's heart tripped, as it did every time she caught sight of the metal-link walls. She breathed deeply, concentrated on relaxing her tightened throat, on sounding interested, but not too eager. "Anything good in the cage today?"

Delmen grinned. "So, she's human after all." He cast a skeptical look at Jani's coverall. "Sure you wouldn't want some clothes?"

"I'd rather have a receiver." Jani stepped aside just in time to avoid a collision courtesy of a dour warehouseman with a hand truck. "The com system in my flat isn't very good, and the owner won't upgrade unless I kick in half the cost."

"A receiver?" Delmen shrugged. "That's easy." He led her to the cage door, pressed his palm to the pad, then stilled so the lock mech could scan his eyes and ears.

As that went on, Jani looked through the links to the cage shelves. She could see a variety of receivers, as well as a Transportation Ministry imprinter, seals still intact. Oh, the fun Pearl Way Lading could have with one of those. A few busy weeks, and they'd all have enough money to retire before the ministry realized what was happening. But then the price on our heads would prove damned attractive to somebody, and we'd be rolled up within a week. Which was as good a reason as any to stay small-time. Never steal enough to be interesting. Words to avoid getting shot by.

"We have all the latest models." Delmen dragged open the door while Dour and another warehouseman watched. "Some come with subscriptions to PearlNet special programs . . ."

While Delmen continued his spiel, Jani checked out the cluttered shelves that stretched from the floor to a gridwork ceiling an arm's length above her head. She wondered how many of the cage security systems had fallen into disrepair, if they had even been installed at all. Shelf sensors that sounded when someone removed an item from its niche. Continuous inventory. Imaging monitors. I'm sure. The last thing anyone in this place wanted was a functioning security system. She wondered what the repair logs stated, if they were kept at all.

"This might be what you're looking for." Delmen patted a palm-sized receiver that was barely visible amid the junk. "It even comes with its own stand—"

As he rattled on, Jani checked out the contents of the closest shelf, ever mindful of the warehousemen who still watched them. The box of foil packets didn't attract her at first. The box bore no markings of any kind, and the packets' labeling had been stripped. But then the format of the engraved coding along the top seam of the foil gained her attention.

She edged closer. Let her gaze flick over the packets, like a poker player gauging her cards under her opponents' eyes.

Her heart skipped.

Update 7.5.3. Not the latest scanpack update, but newer than what she had. A complete kit, with tools and everything.She saw the warehousemen turn their attention to the workings of the hand truck. Delmen began a description of another receiver.

Jani leaned on the shelf, eyes fixed on Delmen's back. Don't look at the box—don't look—Working by feel, she reached into the box, grabbed a packet, and with a light push of her fingers, tucked it up inside her sleeve. Then she bent over and tugged at her pant leg, making as though the cuff had caught on her boot. As she did, she let the packet slide into a pocket she'd long ago sewn into the seam. Brushed her hand over the opening, sealing it closed. Stood up just as Delmen turned back to her. Four seconds, tops. Possibly even three. She'd had a lot of practice.

Delmen held out his hands toward the shelf of receivers, Father Beneficent at the end of his pitch. "Well, which do you want?"

"I'll take that one." Jani pointed to the small receiver she'd seen first. "I don't have room in my flat for anything bigger."

Delmen frowned. "It doesn't come with any subscriptions," he said as he plucked it from its niche and handed it to Jani.

"Can't afford those anyway." Jani made a show of hunting down an empty carton and placing the receiver into it. Nothing in my pockets. Nothing up my sleeves. "Thanks." She walked across the warehouse to the dock to the office, sensing stares all along the way. Only after she sat down at her desk did she breathe normally. Her hands shook. A thin line of sweat trickled down her back. Her augmentation, so lately expended, had abandoned her utterly.

Coffee. She stood, braced against her desk until her legs steadied, then trudged to the coffee table. As she passed the lost lambs' shelves, she checked them for anything new. The yellow pullover had finally vanished, probably into the trash. She had tried it on herself her first day on the job—the sleeves had hit her midforearm, while the hem barely reached her waist. No go, not even for someone who didn't care about clothes.

As usual, no one had seen to the brewer since the morning, so Jani rolled up her sleeves and commenced cleaning up. She was halfway through the first purge cycle when she heard the door open and sensed someone move in behind her—she turned to find Delmen perched on the edge of a nearby desk, empty coffee cup in hand.

"Don't mind me." He smiled more brightly than usual, a flash of teeth and glint of eye that shaved years. "You know, I can't recall that last time that thing was purged."

"A fact reflected in the quality of the coffee." Jani concentrated on buttons and switches and the fine art of backflushing an ancient brewer, mindful all the while that Delmen watched her every move. Maybe he likes me. She barely caught her smile in time. Maybe he's the one who told Royson to search my desk.

"You ever have real coffee?" Delmen switched his gaze to the empty recesses of his cup, a bright blue thing adorned with a Victoria & United football sticker.

"A few times." Jani unwrapped a fresh brick of coffee infusion, broke off a larger than usual wedge, and tossed it into the basket. "You?"

Delmen sighed as softly as he spoke. "Right after I graduated prep, I worked for a landscaping company on Padishah. We spent weeks on this Family estate—one of the al-Muhammed daughters—planting a forest's worth of trees and shrubs and putting down lawn by the square kilometer." His shoulders sagged as though the mere memory of the labor drained him. "On the last day of the job, she threw us a luncheon. Little sandwiches and pastel cakes and coffee in those miniature cups." He rested his head against the wall and stared at nothing. "It was the real thing, all bitter and foamy. You could've shoveled sugar into it until you wore out your arm, and you'd still know you were drinking the real thing." His gaze slowly sharpened as he eased back to the present. "When did you have it?"

Jani dawdled over the brewer, repositioning the chunk of infusion in the basket, then tweaking the water flow and temperature. "Someone I . . . worked with once used to make it." She glanced at Delmen to find him eyeing her expectantly. He'd opened up a little. Now it's my turn. She activated the brewer and the contraption gurgled to life, expelling the first whiffs of synthetic coffee to do battle with the stubborn remains of synthetic berries. "He used to make a ceremony out of it. He had a special pot with gold-coated fittings. A special grinder. First he'd grind the beans to a particular particle size, spread them out just so. Then he'd heat the water to just the right temperature and pour it over the grounds at a carefully calculated rate." Jani mimed a careful decantation. "Cream, he'd allow grudgingly, but if you tried to add sugar, you'd get an earful." She closed her eyes for a moment as sense memories surfaced. A deep voice murmuring in her ear. Long-fingered hands moving over every part of her. "He was a scientist. Very precise. Everything had to be just so."

"You liked him. I can tell." Delmen patted his cheek. "Your face is all mushy, all . . ." He feigned examination of the ceiling, shit-eating grin firmly in place. "Never mind."

Jani flexed her left hand, watched the fake joints work beneath the fake skin. "He meant well."

"That's a strange thing to say."

"He was a strange man." Jani let her hand fall. "But he knew how to brew coffee." She grabbed a cup from the shaky pyramid someone had constructed to pass a few dull minutes and filled it to the brim. "So how did the cleanup shake out?"

"Nice way to change the subject." Delmen pushed off the desk and stepped up to the brewer. "It wasn't a bad haul. Payroll's covered for the next two weeks." He plucked a couple of sugar packets from a bowl and waved them in front of Jani's nose before decapitating them and dumping the contents into his cup. "Would've been nice if we could've sold the whole spill, though. That would've carried us for three, maybe four months." He sloshed a few fingers of coffee atop the sugar, swirled his cup, sniffed the steam, and frowned. "Oh well. Better than nothing."

"Thanks a lot." Jani took a sip and reached for the sugar as well. "Have you talked to the owner about working it so this shipping company could meet the payroll by actually, you know, shipping cargo?"

"Our dutiful owner?" Delmen laughed, a harsh, low bark that didn't match his voice. "Some woman on Padishah. Met her once. I stopped bugging her about finances long ago. I think she's letting the place go to hell so she can write off the loss."

Or she's using it as a means to ship personal properties as commercial goods and avoid higher cartage taxes. Jani swallowed that item along with her coffee. No sense letting anyone in on the fact she knew her Commonwealth tax laws as well as she knew insurance forms.

"Not sure if this place is worth the fight anymore, to tell you the truth." Delmen dug through the community cooler and liberated a couple of mummified doughnuts. "Rumor has it that Haárin are expanding their presence in Padishah Station. Instead of two docks, they're going to ten. Marble-eyed bastards are taking over. They'll be here before you know it." He tore a chunk off a glazed ring and dunked it into his coffee.

Jani blinked. Her films felt tight, as usual. Grainy. She'd freshen them in the evening, just to make sure. "I'm surprised Shèrá is letting them work outside the worldskein."

"Worldskeins. Idomeni. Born-sects. Haárin. Who can keep all that shit straight? I thought the reason Haárin were Haárin was because they didn't listen to their born-sects? Outcasts, aren't they? Criminals and apostates? The bad seeds?" Delmen walked to the door and stared out the window toward the dock, where Royson and his buddies raced forklifts across the length of the floor. "Yeah, they'll be building a whole separate wing with shiny new docks and altar rooms and special kitchens and all that other crap they need. And Chicago will stand aside and let 'em do it because they can't be bothered to give a damn about their own colonists. Well, let 'em have the last dregs of the business around here. See how far it takes them." He dunked, bit, chewed. "Don't mind me. Bad day." He jerked his chin in the direction of his three stevedores. "Slow afternoon."

Jani looped her finger through the other doughnut, biting back a comment about clear oil and the composition of cheap sugar glaze. "It'll give me a chance to work on the backlog."

"Better make it last. May be all you see for a while." Delmen set down his cup with a bang. Stuffed the last piece of pastry into his mouth, then keyed open the door and headed toward his gang of forklift racers, clapping his hands along the way. "Knock it off—unless you want to pay the goddamned charge station rental—!"

Jani topped off her coffee, then walked back to her cube. Set her coffee on the desk, set the doughnut atop the cup to soften in the steam, then headed to the locker room to divest herself of her new hardware.

The women's locker area proved empty. No angry clerks. No hallucinated blondes. Jani maneuvered around trash receptacles, uniform hampers, and benches to her locker, a corner unit chosen because it allowed her a clear view of the door. She opened the finger lock and removed the sole contents, a small, battered duffel that contained all she owned. She tried to keep it close as possible at all times, either on her person or in the locker. If spooked, she could bolt and not worry whether she had left anything important behind.

She set the bag atop the bench in front of the locker, popped the fasteners, then removed just enough clothing to expose the semirigid bottom panel. Working one finger between the edge of the panel and the side of the bag, she pushed down, then pulled upward. The false bottom, scanproof and damage-resistant, gave way with a soft ripping sound, revealing an array of objects wrapped in a thinner, more flexible version of the shielding material. Her old Service shooter, its case the dull blue of an uncut gem. Her scanpack. Finger-sized scanners and sniffers.

Jani hitched the bag over her shoulder. Adjourned to the bathroom, and closed herself into a stall.

Always look a gift horse in the mouth. She dug into her bag and pulled out one of the sniffers. Ran the device over the receiver in a sweeping motion. Front first, then back, then sides, top, and bottom, in search of tracer elements. Then she checked the accessory carton. Pulled the update packet from her hidden pocket and scanned that. Finally, she checked her hair, the soles of her boots. Satisfied that Delmen hadn't stuck her with anything intrusive, she tucked everything back into their appropriate compartments.

I don't think these guys are hard-core. Suspicious as hell, maybe, but not organized professionals. Professionals would have known how to handle spilled flavor concentrate. They'd have had someone in place in Utilities to jazz the vacuum and incinerator settings and readouts. Hell, they wouldn't have even bothered staging a spill. They'd have simply diverted the sealed drum as soon as they unloaded it. Only problem at that level was that they'd need a crooked document examiner in place to alter the bill of lading and other documents.

I haven't had to stoop to that yet. Her hands were still clean with regard to her former profession, however grimy they'd become in every other. She still had some standards left.

Jani shouldered her bag and slipped out of the stall. Washed her hands, then turned to leave—

—and collided with an hallucination.

"I'm sorry I'm sorry!" Annalise backpedaled until she struck the wall. She clutched a candy wrapper in one hand.

"It's OK." Jani massaged her right shin, which had suffered a head-on assault by an adolescent kneecap. So I wasn't seeing things after all. Which the nasty bruise she could feel developing would no doubt confirm within a minute or two.

"Wasn't watching where I was going." Annalise edged away from the wall. "I need to stop that." She straightened out the wrapper as she sidled up to the trash receptacle, giving the inside a quick lick before tossing it. "I'm Annalise."

"I know." Jani gave her shin one last rub. "We met here a few hours ago."

"No, we didn't, did—?" Annalise's eyes widened. Then came a smile, forced and fleeting. "So many people around here. I can't remember them all."

Jani watched her walk along the wall, one hand pressed to the tile as though she feared losing contact. "What are you doing here?"

"My mom works here. A company down that way." Annalise waved in the direction of the hallway. "I come in with her sometimes and help her out." She reversed direction, backing along the wall until she came to the opening to the locker room. "I have to go." She wheeled, then slipped through the door. "I think she's looking for me."

"Wait a minute—" Jani passed through to the locker room in time to see the door to the hallway close. She stared at the door for a time, then stashed her duffel back in her locker, all the while fighting a growing disquiet. She didn't remember me. Did that matter? I'm on the run, right? Not being remembered is a good thing.

Jani reentered the dock office to find it still empty, her coworkers nowhere to be seen. She sat at her desk, activated her workstation, and reached for her cof—

"What the hell?" She stared at the place where her cup had rested. Pressed her hand to the polywood surface, and felt the residual warmth. "Some son of a—" She stood and held her breath, listening for muffled laughter. "Is anyone in here?"

The office door swung open, and Royson walked in, his face reddened and slick with sweat. "Who you talkin' to?"

"Did you see anyone come in here in the last few minutes?"

"Yeah, the Transportation Minister. She resigned and asked you to take over."

"Go to hell." Jani edged up the walkway, checked the interior of each cube. Then she stood in front of the lost lambs' shelf, and studied the spot where the yellow pullover had lain. Too small for me. It would fit a young girl just fine, though. As long as they weren't too fussy.

My mom . . .a company down that way . . .

Or if they were in trouble, and didn't have a choice.

Andy, are you handy?

Yes, I am. Jani touched the place where the sweater had rested. And I'm apparently not the only one here who can make that claim.

* * *

Jani expected to be followed home that evening, and she wasn't disappointed.

The tail proved to be the dour warehouseman, whom she'd christened Mopey. He didn't bother to hide. Jani saw his reflection in every shop window as he tracked her along the pedestrian walkway, never straying more than ten or fifteen meters behind. When she boarded the tram, he did as well, standing in the rear of the car and watching her with the sullen dullness of a beaten animal. By the time she reached her flat block, she still hadn't decided whether he had revealed himself on purpose in order to intimidate her, or if he really was that inept.

Probably a little of both. Jani keyed into her flat just as he appeared at the end of the hallway. She could sense his dead eyes on her as she closed the door.

"So now they know where I live." Which meant that she would need to move after payday, even if it meant forfeiting half a week's rent.

"Do they welcome all newcomers like this, or am I special?" Jani set her new receiver atop the wall-mounted polywood board that served as both desk and dining room table in the one-room flat. Next to it sat the unit that came with the room, a battered cube from which a Mozart sonata emerged in a weedy stream of sound that reminded Jani of chattering rats.

Yes, it still doesn't work. And yes, the building owner had told her that she'd have to pay half the cost of an upgrade or repair. I bet that Mopey is in the building office now, following up on just that issue. On Delmen's orders, of course. Jani doubted that he had the smarts to think of doing so himself. "I don't lie if I don't have to." She spoke aloud, as she sometimes did, a ploy to fill the solitary silence. "Especially about anything that can be checked. Makes it easier to keep my story straight." One of life's lessons, learned the hard way, as most of her lessons had been.

Jani activated the new receiver. Within moments a high, thin trumpet filled the room. She fiddled with the volume until she felt sure the strains of the Vivaldi concerto wouldn't disturb her neighbors and lead to any visits by the manager. She had work to do. She needed to avoid the near occasion of interruption.

First, she lowered the room lighting. Then she flipped up the climate control panel next to the table and reset the temperature to the lowest setting. Ten degrees—not great, but the best she could manage. She jacked up the circulator to move the air more quickly, then dragged her duffel over to the table and sat down. Once again dug through clothes and other gear and cracked the scanproof barrier, this time removing a rolled length of antistatic fabric, the stolen update packet, and, finally, her scanpack.

She unrolled the antistat first, revealing an array of instruments nestled in separate slots. Her initials, JMK, had once been etched in metallic scrollwork in the lower right corner of the cloth, but she had burned them away years before, a faint crosshatch of scorch marks the only reminder of their existence.

Your toolkit, their first idomeni instructor had told them, her attempts at English garbled by her Laumrau accent and her agitation at having to address humanish in one of their own languages. It is your connection to your reader and should be treated as such. Reader. The idomeni term for scanpack. As was usual, the idomeni called the device what it was. Humans, again as usual, dressed up the name and snuck in the manufacturer's appellation to boot. SCAN, the acronym for four of the Commonwealth's eight ruling Families, which combined with NUVA to make the complete set. Neumann, Ulanova, Van Reuter, Abascal, Scriabin, Cao, al-Muhammed, Nawar. Every citizen knew those names as they knew their own. But unlike other citizens, the Families know my name as well. Which was why she currently lived in a weekly rental under an assumed name.

Jani plucked an antiseptic pen from its slot and activated it. The beam shone purple in the dim light, reflected strange pale blue off the surfaces of dust motes. Someday I'll do surgery in a clean room again, and my 'pack will go into shock. She stuck the other end of the pen in her mouth to free her hands, then removed a small bottle of nerve solder from its slot, opened it, and poured a few drops into a heat cup she'd freed from another recess. The solder looked like molasses and smelled like nothing until it hit the surface of the cup. It thinned immediately, its characteristic meaty aroma tickling her nose and making her mouth water. I should've eaten something first. Unfortunately, nothing she had in her cooler smelled as good as the solder.

Heart thumping, Jani removed her timepiece and set it down on the table so that she could see the face. As the nerve solder warmed, Jani cracked the fasteners of the scuffed black case and removed her scanpack. The surface of the oval document-reading device had once shone like a black mirror, but hard use and age had rendered it as tired-looking as its owner.

Jani set the scanpack on the table in front of the timepiece and pressed her hands against the sides. The cover ID'd her prints and sprang open to reveal a fist-sized mass, its grey color discernible beneath the pink membrane that sheathed it. The brain of her scanpack, grown from her own farmed brain tissue, wrapped in a protective layer of fibrous dura mater.

Jani shone the antiseptic light on the brain as soon as she removed the cover. The tissue shuddered as the room air brushed over it, a gelatin ripple that slowed as she reached beneath the device for the master touchswitch and set it to "chill." With that, the battery that pumped nutrient through the brain shut down. The pink color of the dura mater remained, but the brain's trembling slowed, almost stopped.

Jani tore open the update packet and shook out the contents onto a corner of the antistat. One . . . two . . . three . . . four chips is all, standard updates for your average documents examiner with midlevel security clearances, each encased in a stiff poly envelope on which its insertion instructions had been printed. She sorted through the envelopes, lining them up according to placement and difficulty of insertion. In a real clean room, she could have taken her time and installed them individually, but here, with the antiseptic pen the only defense against the unseen impurities and infective agents that filled the air, speed was her only recourse. Hack, slash, and sew. Battlefield surgery on the microlevel.

In a saner world, Jani would have clamped only the oxy feed line to whichever octant region of the brain she chose to work on first. Now, however, she shut down the feed system at the source, cutting off oxygenated infusion to the entire brain. She then disabled the nutrient web and watched as the brain's movement slowed to irregular spasming, then ceased completely.

Four minutes. Like a human brain, that of the scanpack could survive without oxygen for four minutes. After that time, the cell death began. Within eight minutes, the device would be damaged beyond hope of salvage.

Jani took a scalpel and set of microforceps from the toolkit. Heart still tripping, she slit the dura mater from top to bottom. Peeled back one side, then the other, and anchored them to the sides of the scanpack with butterfly clamps.

She glanced at her timepiece. Seven seconds. A new Jani Kilian pack-hacking record. Three minutes fifty-three to go.

Before her, the surface of the scanpack brain glistened pearl grey, eight raised frecklings of nerve bundles and old chips marking the octant sites.

Two-eighths, seven to two—three-eighths, six to three—six-eighths, five to one, and six-eighths, two to four. One chip to insert in the second and third octants respectively, and two in the sixth, each linked up to a series of nerves that would provide power to the chips and relay the information contained to the brain for processing.

Three minutes forty seconds.

Jani pulled the laser knife from the toolkit and activated it. With a series of wrist flicks, she excised the four old chips, then plucked them out with the tweezers.

Three minutes twenty seconds.

She drew nerve solder into a syringelike threader, then focused on the second octant region. Working the threader like a fine paintbrush, she ejected a filament of solder, attached the end to the seventh nerve bundle, then drew up to the second nerve bundle and closed the circuit that would power the chip. Using the knife, she etched a square pattern of microholes in the tissue near the second nerve bundle, sending minuscule streams of smoke emanating from each new hole. She held her breath to avoid inhaling the grilled-meat smell of the solder as she picked up the chip and tweezered it into place, slipping the hair-thin anchors that radiated from the underside into the etched holes. She then drew another solder line, melding one end to the line that connected the nerves and the other to the chip, baking them into place with touches of the knife.

Two minutes thirty seconds.

She then moved on to the second chip. Thread. Loop. Etch. Drop and connect.

One minute forty-five seconds.

The third chip.

One minute five seconds.

The fourth.

Thirty-seven seconds.

Jani reactivated the nutrient lines. The grey color of the tissue took on a faint pinkish cast as life-giving carrier spread through the circulatory system. She then touched the laser knife to each chip in turn, breaking their seals—they flashed green as they activated, then faded into the tissue surrounding them.

Twenty-five seconds.

Jani removed the clamps and sealed the incision in the dura mater with a thin line of solder. Eased open the oxy lines, then reached beneath the scanpack and reset the touchswitch to "normal."

Ten seconds.

Jani held her breath until a shiver rippled through the brain. In her mind's ear, she heard her old surgical dominant screaming mixed English and Laumrau at her as she worked. Too fast—damned humanish—too fast—the solder has not set!

So many memories.

Fastest hands in the Academy, Jan. The Laumrau don't like it that you're showing up the home team.

Where's the fire, Lieutenant?

How long will you be, Captain? The Consul General needs you in there now.

Jani reseated the cover and snapped it into place. Took the antiseptic pen from her mouth and clicked it off. Pressed a hand to the back of her neck and dug in with her fingertips, working away the knots that always formed whenever she performed surgery.

After allowing a few minutes for her scanpack to stabilize, she once more reached beneath it and activated it. The indicator light shimmered green, then flickered as the unit ran through its self-check sequence.

As the scanpack ran through its paces, Jani stashed her tools. Dumped the leftover solder down the sink, then ran lots of cold water to prevent the stuff from coagulating in the drains. Grabbed a juice dispo from the cooler and savored the cold sweetness.

A Tilani piece played now. A newer composer, his music too jangly and atonal. Jani switched to a news program, then sat down on the daybed, the only other piece of furniture in the room. Listened for any noise in the hallway outside her door, and pondered whether Delmen distrusted her enough to kill her. Wondered which out-of-the-way hole her young doughnut-swiping scavenger had found to hunker down. Drank juice and wished for bourbon, and waited for post-augie fatigue to lull her into some semblance of sleep.

* * *

The next afternoon, Jani ran into Annalise again.

Jani was just entering the locker room when she saw the small figure dart out of one of the offices and across the hall into the vend alcove. She crept along the wall and peeked around the alcove entry to find the girl crouched in front of the sandwich machine. She wore the yellow pullover. The same black trousers, rolled up at the ankles.

Jani watched her insert a vend token into the machine's reader slot. The token must have been empty or corrupted—the girl ran it through the slot over and over, slapped at all the buttons in turn, then checked the delivery chute. Her strikes grew more agitated with each failed attempt until finally she kicked the machine, which squealed in protest.

"Your token's empty," Jani said.

Annalise wheeled. "I found it on the floor." Yesterday's calm had shattered, leaving narrow-eyed edge and the stench of desperation. "Out there, on the floor." She pointed toward the corridor. "It was just lying there."

You stole it from the office you just ran out of, but ask me if I care. Jani took a step closer, hands raised and open so Annalise could see them. "May I try?" She remained still, letting the girl make the decision to walk over and hand her the plastic card, which she eventually did.

"See?" Jani pointed to the grooved region along one edge. "It's so scratched up that the reader can't scan it." She slipped it through the slot quickly, slowly, backward and forward. "It's shot."

Annalise crossed her arms over her stomach. "I'm really hungry."

Jani took in the girl's dull skin, the dark circles under her eyes, then reached into her duffel and dug around before she remembered that she was just as broke. "Don't go anywhere. Stay right here." She walked out into the corridor just in time to spot Royson emerge from the men's locker room. Oh well. Beggars and choosers. "Mister Royson? Do you have a spare token?"

Royson stopped, mouthed "Mister," then rolled his eyes. "Yeah." He made no move toward his pockets. "Why?"

Jani held out her hand. "You'll get it back on payday."

"Like I can say no." Royson glared at her as she drew close. "Like you wouldn't accidentally erase my file from the system or redirect my pay to the Outer Circle or something." He pulled a token from his pocket with the grudging slowness that inspired nicknames like "Fishhooks." "Payday—that's the day after tomorrow."

"You are kindness itself." Jani plucked the token from his fingers and headed back to the alcove.

"Day after tomorrow." Royson fell in behind her. "Maybe you should fill out a form or something. Add a note about how eager I am to help my wonderful doc tech."

Oh, spare me. "I won't forget." Jani tossed over her shoulder. "Newark."

Royson slid to a stop, the flush moving up his neck like the tide. "You stink, you know that?" He shot her one last look of disgust, then turned with a grumble and trudged back to the dock.

Jani watched him, waiting until he palmed through the dock entry and the door closed after him before reentering the alcove. "Here." She handed Annalise the token. "There's enough left on it for a decent lunch."

"Thanks." The girl squeezed the plastic card as though she feared she might drop it. "Be nice when payday finally gets here, won't it?"

"Always is." Jani followed Annalise to the sandwich machine, then watched over her shoulder to make sure she bought something decent. Fake tuna fish. At least it was better than the fake chicken salad. "Where does your mom work?"

"Across the hall."

"Doing what?"

"You want her name? Don't you trust me?" Annalise stiffened. "I said I'll pay you back."

"With what?" Jani leaned against a nearby table, setting herself so that she could block Annalise if she tried to bolt.

The girl's small hand hovered above the drink selector. "I told you. My mom—" She flexed her fingers, then slapped the selector pad.

"Does anyone know you're here?"

Annalise shivered. "I hope not."

* * *

The utilities chase that ran between the commercial and passenger concourses had the same pieced-together look as the rest of Victoria Station. Conduits in mismatched colors snaked along both sides of the narrow corridor like patchwork veins. Storage cages cropped up every ten meters or so, some empty and gaping, others filled and alarmed. The ceiling was low, the lighting emergency-level, thin and purplish and as cheering as a funeral.

Jani closed the gate to an empty cage. The lock snapped into place with a sound like a blade being pulled from a sheath. "How long have you been here?"

"I've lost track." Annalise sat on the floor between the cage and a utilities-switching terminal. The place was her base camp, such as it was. A rumpled blanket, with yesterday's pullover folded into pillow. A plastic sack that contained whatever else she owned. "A few weeks Common. A month." Her voice emerged soft, lost amid the darkness and the metal. "Ricky got money out of one of their desks, and we split it up."

OK. Like most stories, this one would emerge piecemeal and scattered. My job is to fit it all together. Jani let her duffel slide to the floor, then lowered next to it. Sniffed the air, and winced. All chases seemed to stink of poor ventilation and slowly aging junk. "Who's Ricky?"

"He was my foster . . ." Annalise leaned to the side and rested her head against the terminal. "My foster fellow. Fellow foster. Refugee from hell house." The cave light greyed her skin, added a strange, dark gleam to her eyes. "My best friend." She sat up and set out the sandwich packet, a juice dispo, a packet of chocolate crackers. Took a bite of the sandwich, and stopped in midchew. "This is really bad."

"That's the best thing they sell, too." Jani's mouth watered. Even crappy food would have tasted good just then. "Eat it. At least it's calories." She waited until Annalise finished most of the sandwich and started on the juice. "So why were you in foster?"

Thin shoulders jerked. "My mom disappeared again. Usually she'd come back after a few days, but not this time. The flat manager figured something happened when the rent fell behind. I'm eleven, so he called Colonial Services, and they picked me up. Tried to contact relatives, but I guess I don't have any."

Jani watched as Annalise examined the juice dispo, pulled out the straw, and reinserted it over and over. Complete focus on the task at hand because it gave the brain something else to do. Because it kept you from thinking too much. "I'm sorry about your mom." She waited for a response, even though she knew she wouldn't get one. "So. They made you a Ward of the Colony and fostered you to hell house?"

"They said we were expensive and had to start paying back." Annalise flinched as her voice echoed down the corridor. "Ricky yelled at them one day," she continued, more quietly. "He said that he had read the law, and Padishah paid them to provide us room and board and the money we earned was ours and we were supposed to go to school." Another shrug. "Two days later, they took us to the place. They said it was a hospital, but it was too small. Like a clinic, but it wasn't busy." She tore open the cracker packet and removed one, but instead of eating it she broke it into pieces. "Medical checkups, they said." Another cracker. More breaking. "I never saw them again."

"How long were you at the clinic?"

Annalise shook her head. "He told me we'd be happier. The doctor. He said that we'd never want to argue, and we wouldn't worry so much. Ricky told him that we weren't worried, we just wanted to keep the money we earned and go back to school." She brushed crumbs from her fingers, then picked up one of the cracker pieces, dunked it into the juice, and ate it. "They separated us after that." She looked across the narrow space at Jani. "We weren't there as long as I've been here. Two weeks Common, maybe." She pressed a hand to the back of her neck. "They did something to my head. They locked it in a cage."

"It's called a stereotaxic restraint." The hissing click of the cage mech sounded in Jani's memory, and she balled her hand into a fist. "You have to remain immobile during the injection process, or there's a risk of brain injury."

"My head hurt."

"Yeah." Jani worked a finger through her hair at the base of her skull. Felt her own tiny scar, the place where the cannula had penetrated into her ventricular system and pumped in the components that migrated to the area near her amygdala, took root, and grew. They told me later that I shouldn't have been augmented. A borderline case at best, who would require frequent monitoring.

"I knew something had gone wrong. A couple of days after, I knew." Annalise shook her head. The juice had been set aside, the crackers forgotten. "I'd be in my room, in bed. Then I'd wake up, and I'd be someplace else—the bathroom, an examining room, wandering the hallway. Once—" She looked down at her hands. "One time, I didn't have any clothes on." She remained still for a time, then wiped a sleeve across her eyes. "A week or so after that, I snuck out of my room and down a hallway they told me to stay away from. Found Ricky in one of the rooms." Her voice flattened. "They'd tied him down. He didn't know who I was. He'd done things. To his face."

Jani leaned her head against the wall and banged it lightly. Oh, you bastards—you never learn, do you? "He didn't recognize himself in the mirror?"

"He said that it wasn't his face, and he didn't know why it should be stuck to his skull. So, he'd tried to cut it—" Annalise sniffed, wiped her nose. "I went back to my room and pretended to be a good girl for a few days so they wouldn't watch me as close. When I went back to Ricky's room, he was better. He knew who I was. He said we had to get out of there. I untied him because even though he stopped trying to hurt himself, they still had him tied. He said he knew where there was money, and he told me to stay put while he went to get it." She pushed up her sleeves, then fussed with the rolled pant cuffs. "He came back with the money. Said he got it out of a desk, like I told you before." Her head came up, and she glared at Jani, as though daring her to question, to disapprove. "And we left."

Jani met her eyes. "They just let you walk out?"

"We didn't see anybody. Usually there was someone at the nurses' station, and a guard at the entry, but we didn't see anybody." Annalise stopped worrying her clothing and hugged her knees up to her chin. "We still ran—as soon as we were out the door, we ran all the way to the tram stop."

"No one noticed Ricky's face?"

"It was all scabby by then." Annalise mimed picking at her cheek. "We told people he fell off a skimcycle." A shadowed smile, that faded quickly. "We took the tram to the shuttleport. Ricky said we should split up, so at least one of us would get away. I bought a billet for the farthest place I could afford." She looked around. "I should have studied the schedule a little harder."

"No one's tracked you here. You did all right." Jani laid her head back and studied the ceiling, unpainted concrete the color of dirty ice. "Now we need to find you—"

"Andy! Hi!"

Jani's heart skipped. She slowly raised her head, tried to keep her expression calm.

"Andy, are you handy?" The brittle brightness had returned to Annalise's face, her eyes glistening as though from fever. "Hello. We met . . . somewhere." She pushed to her feet and walked to Jani. "I remember you. I scared you at the mirror."

Jani held out her right hand, and this time felt the squeeze, the light grind of bone. "Yes, you did." Looked at the fingers, and saw the bitten nails, cuticles reddened from picking.

Annalise's smile ebbed. "Where am I now?" She dropped Jani's hand as though it burned. "I was in a hallway with lots of lights, and now I'm here. The mirror's gone. It's gone. The mirror's gone. It's—" She let loose the scream with her next breath, a high-pitched shriek that seemed to ramp in intensity as it ricocheted off every hard surface.

Shit. Jani scrambled to her feet, dodged around the panicked girl, and grabbed the blanket from the floor. Shaking it open, she cast it like a net so that it enveloped Annalise. Then she closed in from behind, securing the blanket around the girl's shoulders and pulling her close, talking gently all the while even as the screams continued and she wondered how long it would be before station security found them. "Paix. Paix." Hush. Hush. Acadian French unspoken for so long emerged as she worked her way atop the switching box and pulled Annalise onto her lap. Brought her legs up and crossed them over the girl's so that she kept her still. "Paix. Paix. Paix." She rocked back and forth, keeping her voice low and soft as the screaming lowered, then stopped, and the small body sagged against her and shook with something that might have been crying but could just have been fear.

Jani waited. The rough blanket made the exposed skin of her right arm itch, but she didn't dare release Annalise so she could scratch. Instead, she continued to sit, and rock, and listen for the echoing of footsteps that would signal the approach of trouble.

After a few quiet minutes, Annalise stirred.

"My mom used to sing me songs." She sighed. "She said they were Hortensian songs. German. I didn't understand any of the words.

Jani shook her head. "You don't want to hear me sing."

Annalise sat still for a time, then started to squirm. "I feel like an idiot sitting in your lap like this." Her voice lowered. "Did something happen?"

"Yes."

A pause. "What?"

Jani hesitated. So many tiny changes, each one nothing in and of itself. Put them all together, and you have a different person. "Your eyes brighten. Your voice pitches higher, and you act twitchy. You call me Andy, and you shake my hand."

"That's all?" Hesitation. "I didn't try to take my clothes off?"

"You didn't touch your clothes." Jani listened for any remnant of the manic edge in Annalise's voice. When she didn't hear it, she loosened her grip and let her slide off her lap. "They come and go that quickly? The episodes?"

"Yeah." Annalise slipped off the blanket and started to fold it. "The doctor told me they'd ease up after a few days. He lied."

Jani counted to three, to four, to ten, then asked the question she didn't want to ask. "The doctor. What was his name?"

"I don't know."

"Did he wear a medcoat with a name tag?"

"No."

Are you sure he was a doctor? Oh, that it were as simple as fraud. "Did he have white hair?"

Annalise rolled the folded blanket against the wall and sat on it. "He wasn't old."

Jani held up her hands side by side and spread her fingers. They looked identical in the dim light. Length of fingers. Color of skin. "He would have been younger. My age. Late twenties."

"His hair was dark." Annalise dragged her bag onto her lap and started picking through it.

"Did you hear anyone say the name 'John Shroud'?" Jani paused. It had been years since she'd said that name aloud. "Did you read it anywhere?"

Annalise nodded. "I heard it." She looked up from her explorations of the bag. "I heard my doctor talking to one of the nurses, and he said that if Shroud found out what they were doing, he'd kill them."

Jani managed a smile. Well, well, John. She flexed her hands one last time, then let them fall. Maybe I taught you something after all.

"So." Annalise tied the top of the bag into a knot but kept it on her lap. "Now what?"

Jani stood and paced the corridor. I knew the other shoe would drop. Only this time, it turned out to be a hip boot. "The implant you have. It needs to be removed."

"Can you do it?"

Jani shook her head. "No. You need to go to a certain type of doctor."

"No. I'm not going back—"

"Not to Padishah. You don't have to go back there." Jani waited, watching Annalise until she felt sure the bright eyes wouldn't return. "You need to see someone who knows what they're doing." Unfortunately, I know just who that someone is.

"I don't see why I just can't stay here." Annalise tossed her sack aside and boosted to her feet. "You can bring me food, or"—she stared down at her shoes—"or I could stay with you."

Oh shit. "No, you can't."

"Why not?"

"Because you can't." Jani checked her timepiece. Had Delmen noticed her absence yet? Or, God forbid, Royson? "I need to get back to work." She held up her hand as the girl started after her. "Don't try to follow me, because—" Because someone's already doing that. "—because I don't work in a very safe area." She tried not to look around the chase, which offered all the coziness of a tomb. "I'll bring you some food later."

"Why can't I go with you?" Annalise's voice was sharp with panic. Only the lower pitch indicated that her other self hadn't emerged again. "I can work—"

"Right now, you need to stay put. Get some sleep—you probably could use some." Jani looked at her boots, the walls, anything but the girl's face. "Stay away from the offices. Someone could see you."

"No one has yet."

"It's called pushing your luck." Jani picked up her duffel and shouldered it. "Look, I'm sorry, but you can't stay with me." She started up the corridor toward the entry, walking softly to dampen the sound of her boots.

"Andy?"

Jani slid to a stop and turned. "What?"

Annalise held up her hands. "It's still me. I think." She just stood, silent and small, and watched her.

Even she realizes that she's getting worse—what if she goes wandering while I'm gone? Jani scrubbed a hand through her hair. Damn and damn and damn again. "Look, you can't stay with me for too—" Before she could finish the sentence, Annalise snatched up her belongings and ran up to her.

"I don't need much room." She bounded sideways, like a two-legged crab. "And I don't eat much, and I'm real quiet."

Except when you scream. Jani followed after her and tried not to think about all the things that could go wrong.

* * *

Jani kept an eye on faces as she and Annalise rode the tram to the residential sector. I don't see Mopey. The few faces she did recognize, she had seen since her first day at the station. She knew where they lived and worked, which passengers they flirted with and which they avoided. If any of them had been trailing her, they'd have closed the net by now. In her experience, Service Intelligence didn't waste time.

She glanced at her new roommate to find her fixed on the shop storefronts, tiny parks, and other scenery, clutching her makeshift luggage to her chest like a stuffed toy. Crap. Station medical services couldn't help Annalise worth a damn now—they'd prove less than worthless as she continued to worsen, as the man-made gland in her brain misfired with greater and greater frequency, carved new connections and obliterated the old. At some point, the damage will be irreparable. Her personality would be altered beyond recovery.

"There's a carnival!" Annalise grabbed Jani's sleeve as they passed a crew assembling a merry-go-round. "We can go, can't we?" She didn't wait for an answer before turning back to the window and pressing her nose to the glass. "They've got bands on the weekends. The sign says so."

Jani turned away just as her eyes started to sting. Don't blink. Don't tear a film. Breathe. "Maybe." She scanned the faces of the other passengers once more. "We'll see how things go."

There were still a few hours to go before official end of shift, which meant that the tram station was emptier than usual. Easier to spot the too-curious watcher, but also easier to be watched. Jani herded Annalise into her flat block as casually as she could and wondered if anyone had yet noticed her absence from the dock and sent out the first panicked feelers. I'm going to have some explaining to do when I get back. As for whether anyone would believe her . . .

Annalise looked around the excuse for a lobby, eyes goggling as she took in the sitting area complete with semifunctional holoVee and the communications bank outfitted with actual working comports. She had calmed since she'd left the chase, so much so that Jani wondered whether the dim, purple lighting had aggravated whatever condition her augmentation had brought about. By the time they reached Jani's flat, she even yawned.

"I can sleep here." Annalise pushed through the door as soon as Jani keyed it open, beelined for the far corner of the room, and shook out her blanket. "And I can clean while you're gone, and cook dinner."

"There's not that much to clean." Jani opened the cooler and eyed the half-empty shelves. "And not much to cook until I get paid." She shut the cooler and leaned against the sink-counter arrangement that comprised her kitchen. "OK. Ground rules—"

The door buzzer sounded. Before Jani could tell her to hide, Annalise grabbed her blanket and bag and scooted beneath the daybed.

"Stay there until I call you out." Jani lowered her duffel to the counter, opened it, extracted her shooter. Activated the weapon and felt the warming hum. Walked to the monitor inset by the doorpad, checked the face of her visitor, and swore.

The buzzer blatted once more.

"Open the damned door." The door mike transmitted Royson's sullen growl as though he spoke in her ear. "I know you're in there."

Jani's hand stalled above the doorpad. I'll have to drop him as soon as he comes in. And Annalise would get to watch him fall. And I'd have to explain why I hit him.

"Timas?" The buzzer again. "If you don't open in five seconds, I get the manager to let me in. I'll tell him you stole my receiver." The buzzer again. "Five—"

The shooter grew warm in Jani's hand, like a living thing. Use me. I'm ready—

"—four—"

—and your young friend can watch you kill—

"—three—"

—the thing you do best—

"—two—"

"No, it's not." Jani pressed flat against the wall and punched the doorpad.

"—whu—" Royson fell silent as the panel swept open. "OK." He stepped through the door, hands raised, silhouetted against the far wall. A perfect target. He glanced sideways, eyes widening when he spotted Jani, widening even more when he saw the shooter. "You can put that away. Please." He lowered his voice. "I just want to talk."

"Go to he—" Jani stopped. Somewhere between "I" and "talk," Royson's New Indiesian singsong had vanished. His English emerged flat now, marking him as Earthbound, or a colonial too well schooled to let his origins show.

"It's about the girl. The one from the vend alcove." Royson turned to Jani, making sure she could see that his hands were empty. "Yeah, I spied on you. Please—it's important." His stare moved from her face to her weapon. "Dammit."

Jani struggled to gauge him, comparing the dense, cocky pain in the ass she'd dealt with over the past week with the wary, determined man who stood before her now. "You're quite the actor." She held up the shooter so that he could see her set it on standby.

"Yeah, everyone tells me I missed my calling." Royson walked to the middle of the room, hands still raised where she could see them. "I'd feel better if you set that shooter down where I could see it."

"I'm not concerned about your feelings." Jani waited until the door closed completely, then secured the lock. "And everyone thinks that I'm the verifier."

Royson shook his head. "I'm not—" He looked overhead, as though he expected something to drop on him. "Del doesn't trust you—he wants to know where you are at all times. When you slipped off the dock, everyone went a little nuts. I volunteered to look for you." He blew out a long breath. "Better me than any of those other guys. They're all crazy."

"I'll take your word for it." Jani boosted atop her desk. She set her shooter beside her but still within easy reach, making a point of turning the barrel away from Royson. "Start talking."

Royson eyed the shooter. "The girl. Her name is Annalise." He walked over to the daybed and sat. "I've been looking for her."

Jani watched as the heel of Royson's boot grazed the corner of a blanket, then exhaled as Annalise tugged the cover farther under the bed. "Are you family?"

"No." Royson tugged at his ear. "How do I put this?"

"You work for the bastards who augmented her."

"No." Royson held out one hand in a "wait a minute" gesture while reaching into his pocket with the other. "I work for these folks." He reached out and handed Jani a small plastic rectangle.

Jani slid off the desk just far enough to grip the edge of the business card and pluck it from his grasp. Studied the engraving of a caduceus entwined with a double helix, the printing along the top. "Who's Neoclona?"

"It's not a who, it's a what." Royson sat back in a sprawl. "It's a small start-up. Medical R&D. Run by some guys who are smarter than any three people I've ever known." He shook his head. "I don't know the whole story about the girl. All I know is that Neoclona had been working with this other lab. At some point, they found out this lab performed illegal experiments, trying to alter brain chemistry. Behavior. Like Service augmentation, but more complex. They tried to work a deal to take charge of the subjects, to try to treat them, but in the meantime a couple of them escaped. We recovered a boy on Padishah. We had Annalise spotted for a time, but lost her. She didn't have any family along the Pearl Way, not much money, so we figured she couldn't get far. We planted people at every station, and waited." He shot an irritated look at Jani. "But you found her first." He sat up slowly. "I need to get to her. Her condition's—"

"—deteriorating." Jani watched the edge of a shadow under the daybed advance, then retreat, as Annalise moved around. I hope she's not claustrophobic. Or that the darkness under the bed wouldn't trigger an attack.

"You know something about what was done to her?" Royson hesitated. "Well, you would, wouldn't you?" He wiped his hands along his thighs. All of a sudden, he seemed unable to look Jani in the face. "I don't care about you, all right?"

Jani shrugged, even as her heart stuttered. "I'm devastated."

"You know what I'm talking about." Royson seemed fascinated by the chipped rock pattern of the lyno flooring. "You're a deserter. I don't care. Help me corral the girl, and I'll forget I ever saw you."

Jani braced her hand on the desktop. Felt the heat from her shooter, mere centimeters from her grasp. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"That's a Service-issue shooter. And don't try to tell me that you bought it in a pawnshop." Royson watched the weapon like a snake he feared might strike. "You've got a Service augment. I figured that out yesterday, after the spill. The alarm set you off. The red color. I thought you were going to explode."

"And yet you kept pushing."

"You were new. I had to feel you out. Make sure you weren't a verifier, someone who'd make my job harder." He tilted his head to one side, his voice softening. He did earnest well. "Will you help me? You know what's going to happen to her if she doesn't get treatment—you saw it with Spacers who were augmented when they shouldn't have been. That thing in her head is going to fry her brain—"

Jani watched as the underbed shadows stilled. "Be quiet."

"I'm trying to tell you—"

"Shut up."

Royson stared at her, brow furrowed, mouth agape. Then his eyes widened. "She—?" His gaze flicked around the room. "She's here. She—" He slid off the daybed onto his knees, then sprawled flat and looked underneath. "I'll be damned." He reached into the dark recess. "Could you come out here—come out here, please? Miss? My name is—you can call me James Royson, and I'm trying to help—come on—don't—ow—flying—!" He jerked out his arm and tumbled over onto his back, his hand a blur as he shook it like a match he sought to extinguish. "She bit me!"

"What the hell did you expect, trapping her like that?" Jani slid off the desk, shooter in hand. "You may as well come out." She walked to the daybed, giving Royson a wide berth in case he should attempt to go after the shooter, injury or no.

A bag and blanket emerged. "I should've hid in the bathroom," Annalise muttered as she slid out after them.

"I'm here to help you." Royson worked into a sitting position and cradled his hand. "Dammit—she broke the skin."

Jani caught a glimpse of the beading gash in the meaty part of Royson's hand, between the thumb and index finger. "You drew blood." She nodded at Annalise, who beamed. "Good job."

"Thanks. A lot." Royson flexed his damaged hand, wincing with every twitch. "Look, Shroud told me what might happen to her. He gave me some meds. They'll keep her stable until he can treat her."

Jani flinched at the sound of John's name, then prayed Royson didn't see. "Shroud?"

"John Shroud. One of the chiefs at Neoclona." Royson shook his head, face alight with wonder despite the pain. "That is one weird bucky boy, but if my life was on the line, I'd want him as my medico."

That's what you think. Jani held out her hand. "Do you have the meds with you?"

"I'll give them to her myself."

"Not until I see them." When Royson scowled, Jani smiled. "Newark. I do more than bite."

"That's not my real name, fer chrissake." Royson twisted so that he could reach into his right side trouser pocket with his uninjured left hand. "Think I'd be stupid enough to use—" He swore under his breath as he contorted and probed before finally freeing a small vial. "There's only a few pills in here. Enough to see her through a day or two." He held out the container. "I need to contact Shroud and let him know I have her."

Jani took the vial. Shook it, and heard the pills clatter. "Where is he waiting for you?"

Royson pointed toward the floor. "Downstairs. On Victoria."

Crap. "What's he doing there?" Jani blurted the question, then gave herself a mental kick when she saw Royson's brow arch. Waited for him to ask her why she cared about the good doctor's whereabouts, and waited some more. Maybe he'll forget I asked. He had enough on his mind, after all. If I had John holding my leash, I'd be edgy, too. She imagined a white-haired figure seated by a comport, long fingers drumming atop the table, waiting for his agent's call. You've been so close, John. All this time. No wonder she felt so jumpy.

She looked down at the vial. It bore a handmade label cut from scrap parchment, the edges straight and even. Two lines of spindly handwriting, like antique script, as distinctive as the man who inscribed them. For Annalise—one tablet every six hours.

Jani beckoned to the girl. "You need to take one of these now." She twisted off the cap and shook out a tablet, a small white oval devoid of markings.

Annalise took it from Jani's hand and examined it skeptically. "Will it work?"

"Probably." Jani looked over at Royson, who had discovered the tiny kitchen sink and now occupied himself by rinsing his injured hand under the tap. "Should they be taken with food, or not?"

"Shroud didn't say anything about food." Royson adjusted the water until it flowed so cold that the faucet frosted over.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." Royson leaned against the counter and glared at them. "You know, you two are looking at me with the exact same go-to-hell expression." He closed the tap, slamming it hard enough to rattle the plumbing. "I'm here to help, dammit."

"Yeah, I've heard that before." Annalise tossed the tablet into her mouth and bit down. "Tastes like chocolate."

"The man knows his patient." Royson grabbed a dispo towel from the sink-side dispenser and dabbed at the wound. "Give him a few years and some money, he'll work it so we all live forever. If you have any spare cash lying about, throw it his way. In five years, you'll be able to buy your own planet."

That sounds depressingly familiar. Jani looked down at the floor so that Royson couldn't see her face. "Did Shroud tell you how he was going to work that out?"

"He interned at the Consulate hospital on Shèrá back when we were still getting along with the idomeni, before their last civil war." Royson's voice lightened as he waxed expressive. He was a John Shroud fan and didn't care who knew it. "He and a couple of other doctors, Val Parini and Eamon DeVries, figured out how to tweak human genes using idomeni genetic material."

Make that almost figured out. And oh, the gulf between the two was as wide as wide could be. Jani put a hand in her pocket and fingered her bottle of filmformer. "Wasn't that illegal?"

Royson laughed. "Who the hell cares? How many laws would you break for a chance to live forever?" He crumpled his damp and bloody dispo and tossed it into the trash. "Shroud's been perfecting his techniques for the past five years. Still a few problems, but he should have those worked out anytime now."

You have yourself a True Believer, John. Must be a relief to impart to someone who doesn't argue with you. Jani hid a grim smile. "What kind of problems?"

"You've seen idomeni, right? You know the way they look, yellowy skin and eyes like marbles? He hasn't been able to figure out a way to keep that from happening. Whichever systems model he uses, those characteristics always seem to carry over."

"Systems modeling? He's not experimenting on people?"

"What are you, crazy? He can't do that until he has the science nailed down." Royson grabbed a clean dispo from the stack and wrapped it around his hand. "He'd be shooting in the dark, working on live bodies now. Who knows what he'd wind up with?"

"Yeah." Jani caught a glimpse of her reflection in the polished surface of the receiver. "Who knows?" She squared her shoulders and looked Royson in the eye, hoping her face appeared the mask she needed it to be. "When do we move?"

"Tonight, after shift ends." Royson nodded toward Annalise, who had curled up on the daybed and watched them with half-closed eyes. "Shuttles for Wodonga leave on the hour. By the time we get billets and some chow and such, we should be able to make the one at eighteen-up. I have a skimmer waiting in the garage, charged and ready to go. I'm taking her to a place Shroud owns, about a half hour or so away—"

"Why?" Jani glanced at Annalise, and lowered her voice. "Hand her over up here—it's cleaner. From here, they can take her anywhere. They can get lost in the crowd, and no one will be able to follow. It's one less ball that can be dropped."

"We're covered, all right?" Royson pulled a small documents folio from his pocket and held it up for Jani to see. "She's a Family runaway. Her folks sent me to find her and escort her home. Dad's in the diplomatic." He pointed to the Commonwealth seal affixed to the front of the folio. "No questions." He studied Jani for a moment, and his eyes softened. "It's not that I don't appreciate you finding her, but she's not your problem anymore." He hesitated, then edged closer. "Mind if I ask you something? When was the last time you had a takedown?"

Jani shook her head. "I'm fine."

"You're in worse shape than Little Miss Bitemark." Royson tucked the folio back in his trouser pocket. "Look—you're a deserter, fine, but you tried to help her, and I think you're all right. I could add you to the paperwork, no problem. Just say the word." He glanced at his timepiece, and exhaled with a whoosh. "We need to get going." He walked to the daybed, wrapped a sleeping Annalise in her blanket, and carried her into the hall while Jani collected her things.

As Jani shut the door and activated the lock, she sensed what little connection she felt with the flat crumble. She would have to leave as soon as Royson and Annalise departed. Delmen's distrust, and the questions that would follow Royson's disappearance, would dog her otherwise, and she had no desire to find out just how crazy her soon-to-be-former coworkers really were.

She followed Royson and his limp passenger down the hall toward the lift. One of her neighbors opened his door just as they walked past, and smiled.

He thinks we're a family. Jani smiled back. Families always made people feel comfortable. Best cover of all.

* * *

The return trip to the docks proved uneventful. Jani and Royson both watched fellow tram passengers while Annalise slept between them, using first Jani's shoulder as a pillow, then Royson's.

"She can stay here until we move." Royson keyed into an empty office two hallways removed from the docks. "I scouted it for a week. No one entered or left during that time." He laid Annalise on the floor and tucked the blanket around her, then slowly straightened. "You better get back." He took a handcom from his pocket. "I need to call Shroud."

"I'm going to stay. Someone should be here when she wakes up." Jani lowered to the floor beside Annalise's huddled form. "I don't want her to panic, or go wandering."

"I'll lock her in."

"She shouldn't be left alone."

"Del is going to ask questions."

"Does he know about this place?" Jani waited for Royson's slow headshake. "Then he won't know where to look for me, will he?"

"No. That's not the way I plan—"

"I'm staying. Is that clear?"

Royson threw Jani a half-assed salute. "Yes, ma'am." He glared at his handcom. "I'm going to have to go over to the passenger concourse. Too much interference on this side." He started for the door, then stopped. "So what's the story? How do we explain your disappearance?"

Jani bumped the back of her head against the wall, as if that could knock loose some imagination. "Oh hell." She looked down at her clothes, battered boots and yesterday's coverall. "Somehow, I don't think they'll believe that I did a bunk to go shopping." She blinked, then pressed her fingertips lightly against her eyelids—her films felt grainier than usual, which meant they were starting to break down and needed to be replaced. Dammit—not now. "Tell them that I went upstairs to talk to the suits. They think I'm a suck-up anyway, so that should work."

"Nope. That was the first place Del checked." Royson frowned. "Then there's the fact that I went to look for you and didn't come back right away." He drew up straight and looked everywhere but at her. "I think we both know what the best excuse is for our extended absence."

Jani scanned his face for some sign that he joked. Unfortunately, she couldn't find any. "You're kidding?"

"Trust me, that's one thing this crowd will accept without question." Royson nodded. "I'll tell them that I left you to sleep it off. It'll give me a chance to describe the event in question to the assembled." He finally looked at her, his gaze steady, his expression as grave as a judgment. "I found you in the corridor. Our eyes met, and we realized that our mutual dislike had given way to a deeper feeling."

"Yeah, complete disgust." Jani started laughing, then found she couldn't stop. "You're sick!" She dabbed away tears and prayed her eyefilms remained intact.

Royson smiled sheepishly. "Well, we've found out you can smile, at least." The grin wavered. "Although I confess that I don't quite see the humor." He looked down at his handcom and headed for the door. "Sit tight. I'll be back in about two hours."

Jani tracked the sound of Royson's receding footsteps, grappling with vague uneasiness as they faded to silence. Now we wait. Always the worst part of any job. Too much time for one's imagination to run rampant. Too much time for things to go wrong.

"I'm scared."

Jani looked over at Annalise to find her peering out through a gap in the blanket. "I wondered if you were really asleep, or just faking."

"The pill made me tired. I did sleep a little." Annalise disentangled from Royson's careful wrapping. "Is John Shroud going to fix me so I live forever?"

Jani shook her head. "I don't think so."

"But you know who he is, don't you?" Annalise worked into a sitting position, the blanket still tight around her shoulders. "You asked if he was the one who worked on me, and I saw the way you acted when Royson talked about him. I'm not stupid."

"I never said you were." Jani felt the words bubble to the base of her throat, like acid. That was the worst part of the life she led now, more weighing than the loneliness, the hardship. The need to talk, a desire that at times overwhelmed her like physical pain. She won't tell. And if she did, would anyone believe a child? John would. He'd believe anything where I was concerned. But hours would pass between the time Royson left the station with Annalise and they hooked up with John on the Victorian surface. With a little luck and some fast footwork, the Created would be long gone before the Creator learned of her existence.

"I just don't like doctors." Jani paused to clear her throat. Talking to someone else was always harder than talking to herself. The filters kicked in whether she wanted them to or not. "I was in an accident a few years ago. Technically, I died, but a doctor brought me back." She looked down at her right hand and shivered, recalling the shiny redness of tank-grown skin that pulled and itched each time she moved. John Shroud saved my life. She inhaled through a regrown nose, shaped so differently than the one she'd been born with, felt her resurfaced lungs fill. But I'm not like everybody else anymore.

Annalise yawned. She still looked tired, but the tension had left her, driven away by the drug and the fatigue it induced. "What kind of accident was it?"

Jani hesitated. Well, this was the tricky part, wasn't it? A transport crash. All aboard killed, except that one came back from the dead. "Skimmer crash. Stabilizers failed, and I went into a wall."

"Were you by yourself?"

No. My troops were with me. The fourteen remaining members of the Twelfth Rover Corps. And the pilot. And the officers sent to arrest me. All gone to ashes in the hot desert wind, near an ancient idomeni shrine called Knevçet Shèràa. "Yes." Jani nodded. "I was alone."

"My mom got into an accident once, on the way home from a party. She broke her arm." Annalise's head bobbed to one side. "I don't like doctors, either. They try to make you into what they want you to be instead of letting you be what you are. Why do they do that?"

Because sometimes they fall in love with you, and they want you to live forever. "I don't know." Jani pushed to her feet and paced. "Are you hungry? Do you want some food, or something to drink?"

"No, thanks." Annalise sat up straight. "Should I have another pill?"

Jani checked her timepiece. One and a half hours to go. "Not yet."

"You're coming with us, aren't you?" Annalise picked at a corner of the blanket, then pulled off a length of weave and began to braid it. "Royson said that you needed to see Shroud."

"I don't think so."

"Why not?"

Because I fell in love with him, too. And because people in love sometimes did things that they didn't normally do. Even when, technically speaking, they weren't really people anymore. "Because I'm fine."

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, Jani heard a soft footfall outside the door. The patpat of fingers on the touch pad, entering code. She pulled out her shooter and activated it. Glanced at Annalise. "Stay down."

Annalise nodded. Stretched out flat on the floor and watched, wide-eyed.

Jani lowered the roomlights, then pressed against the wall next to the door, shooter raised and ready.

The door slid open. No sound at first. Then a familiar grumble. "Flying fuck—"

"Get in here." Jani guarded the entrance until Royson had stepped inside. Then she closed the door, brought up the lights. Lowered her shooter last of all. "You could have been a little louder. People don't hear loud, but their ears perk up when they hear quiet and careful."

"I'm home, dear." Royson rolled his eyes. "How many times do I have to tell you?" He held out a candy bar to Annalise, tossing it to her when she nodded eagerly. "No one knows about her, all right. No one cares."

"It's nice to be loved," Annalise said as she bit into a mess of nut-studded chocolate.

Royson shook his head. "I can't win for losing with you two." He dug into his pocket, extracting another candy bar. "You're covered where Del's concerned," he said as he handed it to Jani. "I kept him well entertained throughout the afternoon with descriptions of our exploits." He turned his back as soon as he passed off the snack. "You're perfectly safe, Captain Kilian. No one knows you're here, either."

Jani stilled. The chill started in her gut and worked outward, freezing her limbs, setting off a roaring in her ears.

"Jani Kilian." Royson turned back to face her, his eyes alight. "Wow." He dragged a third bar out of his pocket and tore off the wrapping. "A few months ago, I was on a job on Hortensia when an alert went out through station security that you'd triggered some system or other." He tore a chunk out of the candy and popped it in his mouth. "Was that you? Were you there?"

Jani almost nodded, caught herself in time. The memory started her heart galloping. An old comport code from her Service days, used to send free messages. She should have known better than to try to use it, but she'd been broke, as usual, and had needed to make a call. I almost didn't get offworld in time . . .

"Wow and wow and wow." Royson broke off another chunk of candy, caramel stringing after it like a tether. "But the ID kit contained your old biometrics. Your old face. Shroud said you're completely different now, right down to retinal scans. He made sure." He talked as he chewed, one cheek bulged with chocolate. "Five years ago, I was fresh out of Boot. Just arrived on Phillipa when the story broke. Twenty-six Laumrau killed at Knevçet Shèràa. A documents examiner, they said. Did it single-handed. Picked 'em off one by one as they took a sacramental meal in their tents." He boosted atop a desk, heels knocking against the drawers like a little boy. "They hushed it up quick, of course. You uncovered too much, made too many people look real, real bad."

Jani heard her voice like an echo in her skull. "I don't know what you're talking about." Jani lowered into a chair. Set her shooter on standby and tucked it back in her duffel. Her right arm tingled. Her left, as usual, felt like deadweight. "You have me confused with someone else."

"Nope—John described you like you were standing in front of him. I couldn't have shut him up if I wanted to." Royson grinned. He could have been running down the plot of the latest action holoVee. "Family bastards and Service bad hats promised to support the Laumrau in their war against the Vynshà. In exchange, they arranged for the Laumrau to perform mind control research on human subjects, at a Laumrau hospital shrine called Knevçet Shèràa." The heel banging slowed, then stopped. The grin faded. "But they needed a documents examiner with experience with both idomeni and human paper to cook the books. Transfer records, data. Patients, too, if necessary. Who better to do that than someone who had trained at the Rauta Shèràa Academy, left even the Laumrau examiners in the dust?" He set the candy aside. His speech came hushed, rapid. "But you figured out what was going on. How did Shroud put it? 'Jani possesses a keenly honed sense of right and wrong, and the will to act on it.'" He looked at Annalise, and the glint in his eyes softened. "Now I think I know why you're taking this so personally."

Jani looked at Annalise, who watched her in turn, jaw stalled in midchew.

"Jani?" The girl's lips barely moved. "It's a pretty name."

Jani looked into scared blue eyes, and felt something deep inside break. There were times when the lies came hard. Then there were times when they wouldn't come at all. "Thank you." Annalise smiled, and she smiled back, eventually. "John seems to have learned judgment over the years. He can bring her back."

"He can bring you back, too," Royson said, his voice almost a whisper.

"He's done enough where I'm concerned." Jani felt something move in her hand. She had squeezed the candy bar so hard that it cracked in its wrapping, the pieces moving under her grip like broken bone beneath skin. She loosed her hold, let it fall to the floor. "Did he tell you what came after?"

Royson nodded. "They arrested you. Piled you and your people aboard a transport to cart them back to Rauta Shèràa Base." He set aside the remains of his chocolate, wiped his fingers on his pant leg. "Then the transport—"

"You can stop now."

"—crashed." Royson hung his head. "Everyone aboard killed."

"Except that three young doctors from the Rauta Shèràa consulate clinic found one charred husk that wasn't quite killed enough." Jani held out her fake left hand, and flexed it. And one of those doctors went a little overboard. In every way, professional and personal.

"The work they did on you was amazing. What they learned saved I don't know how many of my buddies later on." Royson sat forward, eyes brightening anew. "They're great men."

"But men just the same." Jani fingered one eyelid. Both eyes felt as though sand had blown in them. She needed to change her films soon. To get out of the room and off Victoria Station as soon as she possibly could. "Please." She looked across the room at Royson, saw the pity in his eyes, mixed with just enough admiration. The open, honest look of someone who just wanted to help. God help us both. "We leave in a few minutes. I'll go with you as far as the shuttle concourse. After that, please let me go my own way."

"Why?" Royson pushed to his feet and walked across the room to her. "They're waiting for you down there. Shroud's worried about your condition. I told him about the spill episode, and he said you need a takedown as soon as possible." He crouched at her feet, then moved to one knee like a lover proposing marriage. "He can provide you all the help you need, all the protection. Why are you running in the other direction?"

Jani struggled for just the right words. When it came to John, they always proved hard to find. "John Shroud and I have a history."

Royson blushed. "I know."

"He'll say whatever he has to in order to get hold of me. Then he'll lock me down, and only tell me what he thinks I need to know, and only let me do what he thinks I should do. Because he wants me to be happy. And he doesn't want me to worry." Jani glanced at Annalise. The girl had pulled her knees up to her chest and buried her face. "And part of me would let him, because sometimes I just get tired. Sometimes, more than anything, I just want a little peace." Her throat tightened. "But it's not right. Living like a caged exhibit, like a collector's item—it isn't living. It's not even existing."

"Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven?" Royson rocked back on his heels and maneuvered into a sitting position. "A sergeant I knew used to rattle off that lit shit all the time. I'll tell you the same thing I told him. Hell is overrated, Captain."

Jani shook her head. "I'm not a captain anymore."

"Yeah, you are." Royson studied her for a time. Then he picked up the broken candy bar and tucked it in his shirt pocket. "You're coming with." He boosted to his feet with the smooth motion of someone with two fully functional legs. "And you'll come quietly." He jerked a thumb at Annalise. "Because you don't want to do anything that might attract attention and mess things up for her." He glanced at his timepiece. "All I have to do is pick up the new travel docs at the mail drop, and we'll be ready to go."

"New docs?" Jani hefted her duffel. "Why can't I just amend the old ones?"

Royson shrugged. "Why take the time to forge when Shroud can send us clean paper written to cover three people?" He strode to the door, head high, the man in command. "Not that you couldn't make the changes—I know better than that. But you know better than anyone that scanpacks leave marks in whatever paper they touch, special encodes that identify the examiner who made the amendment." He stood at the doorpad, hand hovering. "I think Jani Kilian's encodes would set off alarms, don't you?" He looked back at her, eyes narrowing as irritation warred with the pity and admiration and this time came out on top. "Do we want a repeat of Hortensia?"

"I know how to erase encodes," Jani said through clenched teeth.

Royson tapped his hand against his thigh. A slow, even beat, as though he counted to ten. "I'm going to go to the mail drop now and pick up the clean paper. I'll be back here in ten minutes, then we can leave."

Jani stood. "You'll have to pass by the dock to get there—"

"Goddammit." Royson stepped back from the door. "How many times do I have to tell you—we're fine. Nobody's interested in a little girl."

Annalise's head came up. "I'm almost twelve."

"Thank you for that—I'm leaving now." Royson struck the doorpad with his fist. "It will be all right." He stepped out into the corridor, then paused to look back, his hand braced on the door track to keep the panel from sliding closed. "Just think, in a couple of months, we'll reminisce about this over dinner and laugh."

Jani stared at him, the racing tumble in her head stopped cold. "What—?" She caught sight of a new light in his eye, something that gave even his irritation a savor all its own. He's just trying to distract me. And at that particular moment, he was doing a hell of a job. "John would have something to say about that."

"Maybe." Royson winked at her. "Unless he can do more than talk, he's in trouble." With that, he pulled his hand away from the track, letting the panel slide closed. "Ten minutes." Then came his receding footfall, followed by silence.

"I think he likes you."

"Then he's the one who's in trouble." Jani glared at Annalise, who had clamped a hand over her mouth to hide her grin. Then she pushed a hand through her hair and stood. "You should stretch your legs. Once you get to the passenger concourse, you'll be doing a lot of sitting." She shouldered her duffel and paced, dredging her memory for the layout of the passenger concourse and the locations of the emergency and employee exits. I have an employee code. It should work. All she had to do was find an excuse to go somewhere by herself, or with Annalise. The restroom. That would work. Even a riled-up Royson would be reluctant to force his way into the women's bathroom without sufficient provocation. I'll pick one with two doors. She'd be out and away before he realized she'd left—

Footsteps outside the door, louder this time. An impatient hand punching in numbers. The panel sliding open—

—to reveal a harried Delmen, who stepped inside, then let the door close behind him.

"OK, Timas, we need to talk—" His gaze fixed on Annalise, and his jaw dropped. "What the hell?" He stared at Jani and winced. "Look, I don't want to know what you and that clown have been up to, I really don't." He pressed a hand to his forehead. "I'm already going to need psychotherapeutics to erase some of the shit he described." He sighed, let his hand fall. "Something came up that I need you to look at. Could you please come back to the office with me?"

Jani watched his hands, his face. Listened to that soft voice, that never sounded too angry no matter what happened. "How did you know to look for me here?"

"One thing you learn fast when you're a dock lead is where all the hiding places are. Vacant offices are a big favorite." Delmen eyed the ceiling, rocked his head back and forth. "To answer your next question, all the supervisors get all the room codes for the entire wing. If it's got a coded panel, I can get inside."

Jani nodded. "What's the problem back at the office?"

"Screwed-up invoice on a new shipment. Declared values don't square. Customs has questions, and I don't have answers."

"And you want me to come with you now?"

"Yeees."

"Why?"

"Because it's your job?" Delmen massaged his temple. "If it's overtime you're angling for, you can deduct the time that you two"—he waved toward Annalise— --you three spent in here doing--God, I don't want to know."

Jani remained in place. "Royson said that you ordered him to follow me." She shifted her weight so that it balanced evenly on both feet, gauging her numb left leg as best she could. "Who did you order to follow him?"

"What?" Delmen remained in place as well. Since he'd entered, he'd kept his back to the wall and hadn't done much more than turn his head. "Look, I—" He reached behind him, then brought his hand back around. "I should've known you'd ask too many questions." The shooter shone jewel green in the chemical light. "Come with me to the office. Now."

Jani motioned to Annalise. "Get your stuff."

"No. She stays here." Delmen edged away from the door so that he could reach the pad with his free hand. "I just need you."

"What did you do to Royson?" Jani pointed to Annalise, who stood pressed against the wall clutching her bag. "What are you going to do to her?"

Delmen glanced at Annalise, gaze flicking up and down before settling back on Jani. After a few seconds, he arched an eyebrow. "You oughta know."

"Damaged goods. Salvage and sell." Jani waited for some response. The twitch of an eyelid. Anything. You've done this before, haven't you, you bastard? "Someone's looking for her."

"Nope." Delmen shook his head. "I spotted her in the corridor a few days ago and ran a runaway check. No one matching her description has been reported missing through proper channels." The boyish grin shone for an instant. "Improper channels don't count."

"Does the taste of real coffee mean that much to you?" Jani saw the flicker in his eyes then, and gave herself a mental kick. The object wasn't to rile him, but to talk him into letting them go. "I have a friend downstairs who's interested in her. He'll sweeten whatever price you were offered."

Delmen frowned. "The deal's set. I don't like to renege. Complicates future dealings." He paused, but he didn't hesitate. Not one bit. "Now I will do it in here, in front of her. Or we can go out in the hall." He shrugged. "Your choice."

Jani could feel her heartbeat slow, sense the roomlight brighten, colors sharpen. It's all slow motion but me. All the old rules bubbled up from her memory. That shooters were lousy in close quarters. Middle distance, fine. Clear shot to the head or center of mass, fine. But close in, they stank worse than spilled flavoring. Close in, there was always a chance—

—especially when part of you just wanted a little peace.

Jani shrugged her duffel off her shoulder, caught it by the handle, and flung it at Delmen. He ducked to the side, shooter still raised and ready.

Jani pressed forward. Raised her left arm to shield her head. The arm that couldn't feel. The one with no blood in it. The one that could take the hit.

Delmen sighted down.

Grinned.

Fired.

The pulse packet whip-cracked, struck Jani's arm, knocked her back. Her head snapped 'round, right arm twitching and heart skipping as the energy that crossed the biobarrier between her fake limb and the rest of her filtered through. She staggered. Almost fell to one knee, but recovered in time.

Felt the wet warmth splash her coverall. Carrier, pink as the flavoring, the stuff of animandroid limbs. The stuff of nightmare, and bad action holoVees.

Her left hand twitched. Her heart steadied.

"What"—Delmen stared at the dripping carrier—"the fuck?" Then he raised his gaze, looked her in the face.

In the eye.

"Ohmygod—" Delmen's shooter hand wavered. The barrel drooped. "What are you?" Then his mouth twisted as the rage took hold. "You're one of them? You're one of—son of a bitch!" He brought up his weapon again—

—just as Jani drove forward. Hit him square in the chest. Rammed him into the wall. Heard the gasp as the impact forced the air from his lungs. Sensed the shock as he struck at a woman and met a man's strength. Grabbed his shooter hand at the wrist and squeezed. Felt the bones crack beneath the skin like candy in a wrapper. Heard the shooter strike the floor.

Heard Delmen scream.

Jani grasped his arm and spun him around. Vised her left arm around his neck so that her forearm pressed against his trachea, stopping his voice in midyell. Gripped her left wrist with her right hand and levered in hard and fast. Felt the crunch, his body sag as he slumped against her. Heard the gurgle and rasp of a dying breath.

Loosened her grip, and stepped back, and let him fall. Monitored the twitching, then the final stillness.

Turned to Annalise to find her backed into the corner, eyes wide and skin so pale.

"What—?" Annalise stared at Delmen's body for long, slow seconds, then raised her eyes to meet Jani's. "There's something—" She swallowed hard. "There's something wrong with your—eye."

Jani blinked, felt the cool, comfortable nothing of an eye without a film. Pressed a finger to her cheek and came away with a soft sliver of white. "Do you have a mirror?"

Annalise stared down at her bag as though she'd never seen it before. Then she crouched and scrabbled, and came up with a tarnished oval. Straightened slowly, balanced on the balls of her feet, poised to bolt.

Jani broke eye contact and switched her gaze to the floor. Felt the heat rise up her neck. "I'm not a monster. I won't hurt you." Her chin burned—she touched it, fingered the sticky smear of drying carrier.

Felt a hand on her arm and looked down to find Annalise standing beside her, mirror in hand.

"Thanks." Jani took it from her. Breathed deep. Looked at herself.

"Are you human?" Annalise's voice shook.

"I'm not sure anymore." Jani studied her eyes. The right, film still intact, the dead dark green of a bad holograph. The left—

"It's all green." Annalise tilted her head to stare up at her. "Even the white is green. Lighter green, but still."

Jani focused on the cracked marble thing John had made. Jade set in old glass, dark and light, the iris half again as large as a human eye's, the sclera clear and real and oh so alien.

"Idomeni eyes are darker. The ones I've seen." Annalise edged closer, her earlier panic a memory. She seemed enthralled now, probably because she had something to fix on besides the dead body on the other side of the room. "I haven't seen many idomeni, but—"

Jani pulled the bottle of filmformer from her pocket, shook it, then tilted back her head. "My eyes were destroyed in the crash." So John grew new ones. He didn't realize until it was too late that the starter tissue had been contaminated. Three drops. One one thousand . . . two one thousand . . . All the way to ten. Blink. She lowered her head, then turned to Annalise. "So?"

"I like the real one better." Annalise's voice emerged hushed. "But I can see where it would cause a problem."

"Yeah." Jani blinked again and felt the right film shift. "Excuse me." She pulled down her lower eyelid with the knuckle of her right thumb, worked her thumbnail beneath the edge of the film, and flicked out. The film peeled away with a pop, and dropped whole into her waiting hand.

"Eww." Annalise gripped the stark green-and-white thing by the edge and examined it. "Wow."

"Yeah." Jani tilted back her head. Applied the drops. Counted and blinked. "We need to move." She checked her timepiece. "I think we just missed the shuttle we were supposed to be on." She glanced at Delmen's body, then at the door.

"It's OK, right?" Annalise hugged herself. "Because he's dead. No one else is after us?"

Jani shook her head. "I doubt he was working alone up here. And whoever he sold you to must be waiting somewhere. In the station. Downstairs." She tossed the mirror back to Annalise. Then she walked over to Delmen's body, crouched beside it, and started searching. Pockets. Shirtsleeves. Inner pant legs. Ignored the feel of dead flesh, the reflection of the light off dark hair. Sensed Annalise move in beside her. "You can wait by the door."

"I saw you and him talking in the hall the other day." Annalise stood over her, bag gripped in one small fist. "You both laughed. You liked him."

"He would have killed me and sold you off like a chocolate bar." Jani examined her takings—vend tokens, a code card. Nothing with writing. No notes or business cards. Kept it all in his head, damn him. Maybe he'd been more of a pro than she gave him credit for. "He made the decision, and crossed the line." And I was there waiting. Because she had crossed that line long ago.

Jani stood. Drummed the fingers of her left hand against her thigh, and realized as she tried to stop that her fingers didn't want to.

"It's all weird." Annalise poked the hand with her finger, then jerked back as it twitched.

"I lost too much carrier. The fibers are misfiring." Jani shook out the hand, and felt the jittering ease. For the moment. "We have a lot to do, and no time." She recovered her duffel and opened it, dug out her shooter, and activated it, whispered a prayer to Ganesh that nothing important had been broken. "Stay behind me." She shouldered her bag, then picked up Delmen's shooter, set it on standby, and pocketed it.

"Are we going to look for Royson?" Annalise walked to Jani's side, making a wide circle around Delmen's body along the way. "He's got all the papers."

"I know." Jani lowered the roomlights, then opened the door. Paused just inside the entry, and strained for any sound. Stepped out and looked down one end of the hall, then the other, shooter raised and ready. "Let's go."

"You need to clean your face." Annalise broke into a trot to match her pace. "You need to change your clothes."

Jani glanced down at the dried splash of carrier that coated the front of her coverall. "I know."

"You need to find Royson."

"I know."

Up and down hallways, the between-shift conduits in a dying station, empty and silent. Past the locker room to the dock entry.

Jani pressed the doorpad, then stood aside as the panel trundled open. Listened, and heard only the echoing quiet. Smelled the undercurrent of berries in the cool, filtered air.

Strode onto the floor, shooter raised, circling as she walked. Watching. Watching. Seeing nothing.

Stopped in front of the office, palmed open the door, and—

—gagged as an all-too-familiar stench hit her, and her stomach flipped.

Annalise pulled the neck of her pullover up over her nose. "What is that?" Her voice emerged muffled, thinned with panic.

"Wait here." Jani edged inside, shutting down the room lighting before the motion sensor detected her. The dock illumination through the windows shaded everything in grey, cast shadows where none should have been. She wished she had two more people with her, one to guard the door, the other, her back. She started with the cubes, checking each in turn. Moved back up the narrow corridor to the lost lambs' shelves, the coffee table. Smelled the stench grow stronger, burnt hair combined with singed cloth and cooked flesh, and knew what she'd find before she found it.

Royson lay on his stomach, one arm twisted beneath him, the other outstretched above his head, his legs a tangle.

"Maybe he's still alive?"

Jani looked behind her. Annalise stood just inside the entry, stare fixed on Jani's face.

Not with that smell. Jani kept that comment to herself as she knelt beside Royson's body. She fingered the charred cloth in the center of his back, avoided the circle of blistered skin beneath. The entry wound. He'd been standing beside the coffee table when he'd been shot in the back. She hoped Delmen, or whoever had shot him, had surprised him, that he never knew what hit him.

Again, the search through sleeves and pockets, the struggle to ignore the dead flesh beneath. Jani liberated the documents folio, the bottle containing Annalise's tablets, John's business card—

—and in the very depths of a pant pocket, all by themselves, a blue poker chip and a few centimeters of pink ribbon.

Don't think. Don't imagine what the things might have meant, because it was the imagining that killed you bit by bit. The what had been, stopped in its tracks, never to be followed by the what will be.

. . . in a couple of months, we'll reminisce about this over dinner . . .

Jani stuffed the chip and ribbon back in Royson's pocket. Gathered up the other things, and carried them back to her old cube.

"What are you doing?" Annalise dogged her heels. "We have to go."

"We can't go until we know what we have and where we're going." Jani sat at her desk and cracked the fasteners on her duffel, then rummaged through the layers until she struck scanpack. "Shooter fire—is like a bolt of lightning." She freed the device from its case and activated it, watched the start-up sequence scroll across the display. "It tends to fry everything in its path." While her 'pack finished initiating, she opened the folio and removed the first set of documents. They proved to be the fresh transmittals from John, designed to cover three people, the time stamp showing they'd been received by the station mail service only thirty minutes before.

Jani unfolded the station letter, the diplomatic-level clearance that would guarantee them unimpeded passage from the station to Victoria's main shuttleport at Wodonga. Crisp parchment the color of sunflowers, the text etched with multicolored inks and the edges trimmed with enough foil to draw a lightning strike on a sunny day.

"Exterior really went overboard with the foil this edition." Jani picked up her scanpack, muttered a prayer to Ganesh to remove this particular obstacle quickly, thanks, then passed the device across the top of the document. Then passed it again. And again. "Shit."

"What?" Annalise wedged in beside her chair. "Nothing happened. That's good, right?"

"It means the paper's dead." Jani spoke as she would have to another examiner, wished she could have bitten back the word right after she said it. But Annalise didn't seem to notice, so intent was she on the document itself.

"What's it supposed to do?" She poked it, then drew back her finger as though it stung.

"I should get a whole string of numbers and letters across the display." Jani pointed to her scanpack, which sat atop the paper, dark and silent as a scuffed black brick. "All paper contains chips, insets, and weave coding that tells people like me which mint it came from, and when it was made, and who coded it originally. Where it's been, and whose hands it's passed through. Every change that's made to it is recorded and stored within." She pressed a hand to her stomach, which had started to rumble as her augmentation backed off, and the jitters reasserted themselves. "Then the paper gets hit by shooter fire, at which point it gets wiped as clean as the day it emerged from the kettle."

"Can't you fix it?"

"If I had about a week and a real documents center at hand where I could get hold of new chips and insets and the latest updates for my 'pack." Jani checked the clock on the wall, and swore. Forty minutes for the next shuttle.

She reached into the folio and removed the original documents, the set designed for two. Unfolded the station letter, a more sedate issue in lilac and cream, courtesy of the Commerce Ministry. Ran her 'pack over it, expecting the same nothing she'd seen before—

—and saw instead broken strings of code. Locations. Colony markers. Identifications. Names.

"Your name is Gita Birkin." Jani nudged Annalise with her elbow to keep her from crowding so closely. "I've heard of Birkins—they're affiliated with the Ulanovs." John's circle of acquaintances must have expanded over the years.

"Gita?" Annalise grimaced. "Why couldn't they use my real name?"

"Because they couldn't be sure that it wasn't contained in some system somewhere, and that someone wasn't already looking for you. A relative you don't know about. Your former foster parents."

"They don't care about me." Annalise tapped the letter with her finger. "What else does it say?"

"I'm reading it." More strings scrolled past, and Jani's heart stuttered. "Damn."

"What?" Annalise pressed closer than ever. "I hate it when you just swear, then don't say anything else."

"Royson had his ID coded in here, too." Jani pointed to the broken chains of numbers and letters. "The name, N. Royce, I can work with. But his gender and description are coded in here as well. So are a lot of Service designators." She rubbed her eyes, taking care not to apply too much pressure to her new films. "The best way for me to recode this is to leave as much alone as possible, which would mean that I would be N. Royce, Captain, discharged with honor, working in security services for an affiliate of the Ulanovs." She unhooked her touchboard from her workstation and inserted the connector into a jack located on the side of the scanpack.

Annalise boosted up on the desk, allowing her to loom and press too close at the same time. "Can you do it?"

"Yeah." Jani picked through the strings of code, filling in gaps and altering designations. "The problem is that once you add in the Families, you add in a whole new layer of complication that I would rather do without."

"Don't forget your encodes."

Jani's hands stilled above the touchboard. "Thank you." Her fingers started to move again, this time more slowly. "I know how to cover my tracks.

Annalise rested her elbows on the desk and cupped her chin in one hand. "This isn't legal?"

Jani laughed, a little. "No, this isn't legal. If the people who make the rules for documents examiners saw me doing this, they'd take my 'pack away." So much for clean hands. And that last little step. "You and I need to find new clothes," she said, not so much changing the subject as kicking it to the curb. "Because there's no way in hell that a Family git and her paid security escort would walk around dressed as we are at the moment."

Annalise straightened. "Where are we going to find clothes?"

"The warehouse." Jani entered the last edit to the documents coding, said another prayer that she had caught all she needed to catch, then unhooked the touchboard from her scanpack and reattached it to the workstation. "Women's clothing." She entered in the warehouse codes, and waited. "Aisle 4. Stack 2." She looked up at Annalise. "What size do you wear?"

The hunt for clothes went quickly. Jani worked as lookout while Annalise climbed over crates with a knife and code wand, popping locks and dragging out the chosen items.

"This is real leather." She had pulled on the tunic before they left the warehouse, a simple style in creamy tan that lit her skin and brought her hair to life. New pants followed, dark brown and fitted. Soft boots, and a large shoulder bag.

"Hang on to your old clothes." Jani adjusted her own weighty bundle of new tunic, trousers, and boots. "You never know." She checked the slip of paper that she had inserted between the office door and the jamb, saw that it was still in place, and coded in. Waited for Annalise to enter ahead of her, and waited some more.

"Can I stay out here?" Annalise stood back from the door. "I can't—" Her eyes glittered. "I can't—" Her voice pitched higher.

Jani dropped her clothes and scrabbled in her pocket for the tablet bottle. "You don't have to go in." She shook out one tablet, all the while watching the girl for any sign of a personality shift. Don't scream—just don't scream—

"I'm OK, it's just—" OK or not, Annalise took the tablet, chewed and swallowed. "It's the smell. I think I'm going to smell it for the rest of my life."

"I know." Jani shoved the bottle back in her pocket and picked up her clothes. "Stay by the door. I'll be right out," she said as she slipped inside the office.

The burnt flesh smell had lessened, but was still strong enough to make Jani's stomach clench. She dragged off her stained coverall and stuffed it into her duffel, then pulled on the outfit deemed more fitting for a Family retainer. Trousers and tunic in darkest blue-black. Black boots, and a matching slingbag large enough to swallow her duffel. And finally, because she was now officially a security operative, a black belt complete with holster, into which she tucked her old Service shooter.

All dressed up with someplace to go. "But where, James? You never got the chance to tell me." Jani sat down at her workstation and brought up a Wodonga directory, display after display of names and business advertisements. Entered John's name, then Neoclona's, and came up empty both times.

"Half an hour outside Wodonga." She brought up a map of the city, guessed the distance, inscribed a circle and checked to see what fell on it. Smiled. Memorized the names. Shut down the workstation. Shouldered her new bag, then walked down the aisle to Royson's body. "What was Delmen's plan? Murder-suicide? Make it look as though I killed you, then turned the shooter on myself?" She crouched down and touched one red, springy curl. Cleared her tightening throat. "I'll get her out. I promise." Then she whispered a prayer for the dead that she had learned from her mother, a prayer she had said too many times before.

Annalise met her at the door, hands filled with dripping dispo napkins, courtesy of the watercooler. "Your face." She handed Jani a napkin, then watched as she scrubbed. "How's your arm?"

Jani flexed her left arm. The muscles trembled but obeyed, moving as she wanted them to move. "Better, I think." She checked her timepiece. "Ten minutes to the next shuttle. Let's go."

* * *

Compared to the commercial wing, the passenger concourse of Victoria Station hummed like a hive. Business travelers from Padishah. Service recruits from across the Pearl Way. Families and station workers and students. They filled the food kiosks and streamed in and out of the shops that lined the concourse, their voices a multilingual rise and fall.

Jani scanned faces as she waited in the billet line. Security operatives were a common enough sight—no one offered her more than a cursory glance in return. More importantly, no one seemed interested in Annalise, who stood next to her and nudged against her every so often as though confirming her presence.

"Everybody always wants to go to Chicago." The billet agent addressed the crowd in general as she took the documents folio Jani handed her, spread out the station letter, and inserted it into the slot of her reader. "I been to Chicago. It's expensive." She shivered theatrically, which set her dangling earrings swinging like pendulums. "And it's cold." She pulled the letter from the exit slot with enough force to make the device whine, refolded it, and tucked it back into the folio along with two boarding passes and a flyer for a new shop. "There you go."

Jani took the folio with a nod, then maneuvered Annalise to a couple of chairs in the waiting area.

"Why didn't she check the letter?" Annalise sat primly, shooting the cuffs of her tunic and plucking nonexistent lint from her trousers. "You did all that work."

"She spot-checked it with the reader. If anything hadn't matched up, she'd have called down an examiner from the Transportation Ministry, and they would have questioned us about who we were and where we were headed and why." Jani watched a pair of shabbily dressed women enter the waiting area and poke into one of the trash receptacles until one of the clerks chased them off. "Maybe the letter would have worked as is. Maybe. But if you do the work up front, it's one less thing you need to worry about down the line." Not that she didn't still worry. Her real limbs, in recovery from yet another augmentation burst, ached. Her bones felt lead-filled. And my damned arm—She flexed her left arm over and over, and felt the animandroid muscles quiver and cramp in response. I should have done something to fix them. But it would have taken time they didn't have. I'll take care of it after. After she had delivered Annalise to John. After she could breathe again.

Their call sounded. They headed down the gangway as though it was something they did every day. Handed off their passes to a disinterested attendant. Boarded the shuttle.

Annalise stuffed her bag into a floor-level grapple rack, then nestled into her seat, a business-class lounger upholstered in leather just a little darker than her tunic. "We're really getting out."

"Yeah." Jani stowed her bag and strapped in.

"You know where we're supposed to go?"

"I'm pretty sure, yes."

"They're waiting for us there already."

No, they're waiting for you. "They're probably wondering where the hell we are as we speak." Jani felt the engines rumble, the sweat bead. Over the years she had ridden more shuttles and transports than she could count, yet every time she felt the start-up vibrations, the old memories returned. The shouts. The takeoff shudder and roll. The . . . nothing. The gods get one chance, she'd once heard someone say. If you survive one crash, you'll never need worry about another because they've shot their bolt. "Your mouth to the gods' ears."

"Are you praying?" Annalise exhaled with a shudder. "This has been too easy, hasn't it?"

Jani studied the side of the girl's face, looking for some sign she joked and not finding it. She's spent weeks in hiding, and half a day on the run. Witnessed one killing and the results of another. All that, and she asks if it's been too easy.

"Yes, it has." Jani gripped the arms of her seat and waited for the breakaway.

* * *

Arrival at the shuttleport outside Wodonga, Victoria's largest city. A bumpy landing and hurried traverse through the concourse to the garage and the skimmer Royson had leased.

"Bay four nineteen—it's right down here." Annalise bounded ahead of Jani and down the narrow aisle.

"Stay with me." Jani drew her shooter and activated it. She hated garages. Too many shadowed corners. Too many cramped charge bays to crouch in, vehicles to hide behind. I wish John had met us here. She would have risked a face-to-face encounter if it had meant avoiding this damned rats' nest of a place. I need someone out front. Someone at my back. Maybe two someones at her back, and even then she'd feel exposed. Vulnerable.

Annalise lagged beside Jani until they reached their bay. Then she quickened her step, almost skipping to the battered brown sedan. "Let's go—hurry up." She yanked at the passenger-side door mech.

"Dammit." Jani reached out to grab her, bending at the waist and bringing her right arm up—

The blow came from behind, like a board across the back of Jani's shoulders. She dropped to her knees, her shooter skittering across the smooth concrete floor like a skipped stone. Tried to break her fall, but her damaged left arm buckled under the weight. Struck her chin on the concrete. Rolled onto her back, and caught sight of Mopey dragging Annalise back down the aisle. The girl fought his grip like a fish on a line, twisting and kicking.

Jani reached into her pocket, the roar in her ears overwhelming all other sound. Pulled out Delmen's shooter and activated it. Sighted down.

Fired.

The shooter crack echoed through the garage, silencing the roar. Mopey dropped to the floor, the back of his shirt smoking, while Annalise pulled away from him, slapping at her clothes as the shooter aura flashed 'round her, sparking and hissing.

Jani struggled to her feet, the pounding in her head easing as augie once more took hold. She'd pay for it later, with nausea, aching, and the cramp of exhausted muscle. But now she walked down the aisle to where Mopey lay, still and scorched. Took Annalise's hand, felt the tingle of shooter static, and led her back to their skimmer. Opened the passenger-side door and bundled her into the cabin, followed by their bags. Recovered her shooter from the place it had fallen. Eased into the skimmer, closed herself in, then leaned against the steer mech until her hands steadied and the worst of the shakes had passed.

"Are you all right?" Jani waited for Annalise to answer, heard only a sniffle in reply, followed by quiet weeping. She rested her hand on the girl's shoulder, as much to reassure herself as to assure. "If they'd wanted to do it right, there needed to be two—one to kill me and one to take care of you. But there was only one of them. That means they're shorthanded. He may have been the only one we have to worry about."

"But you don't know for sure?" Annalise stared down at her hands, clenched in her lap. "You never know for sure?"

"No. You never know for sure. You just keep guessing, and hope you guess right." Jani let go Annalise's shoulder and activated the skimmer dashboard. Keyed the names from the map into the autonav. Pressed the charge-through, and maneuvered the vehicle out of the garage.

* * *

The sunset scenery around Wodonga, Victoria, gifted the eye with the best that the colony had to offer. The mountains. The cool, clean air. If you didn't ponder what else went on out there besides the growing of the coffee trees, and if you blocked your ears to the distant rumbles of convoys in areas where no guidance tracks had been installed, ignored the occasional blast of long-range shooter fire, if you kept your eyes and your vehicle on the road, you could enjoy the verdant views and count yourself lucky to have seen them.

Problem with that was, if you stayed on the road, everyone could see you coming.

Jani skimmed alongside the two-lane, just outside a line of trees, staying as close to the guidance track as she could. Sometimes she'd lose contact, and the skimmer would shudder and whine. Then she'd reconnect and the directionals would reset, the vehicle surging beneath her like a horse gearing up to bolt.

"I don't want to die before I get there, you know." Annalise gripped the dashboard, eyes squinched tight.

"You won't die." Jani dimmed the headlamps and thanked Ganesh for clear skies and the reflective whiteness of the regional stone. "I won't die." She pressed the accelerator and flared the lift mech, taking the skimmer over a tumble that had once been a wall. "Nobody else is going to die."

"Why can't you stay on the road?"

"I don't know who's out there."

"Would it matter?" Annalise squeaked as a branch struck the windscreen. "Just run past them."

Jani edged the skimmer away from the trees. "They could shoot us. There could be more than one of them, and they'd run us off the road. They could hit us with a pulse that stops the motor cold. The possibilities are endless."

"Mom used to say that when in doubt, you blinded them with footwork."

Which might explain why she isn't around anymore. Jani glanced at the girl, a sliver of light in the darkening cabin. "What did your mom do?"

"I don't know." Annalise shrugged. "Some of the guys that used to visit . . ." She turned and looked out her window. "They looked like the guy at the garage."

Jani worked her bruised shoulder. If I hadn't leaned forward to grab Annalise, he'd have caught me across the back of the head. And the evening would have ended much differently. "There will be no more garage guys in your life." She let the skimmer decelerate as the trees grew thicker and the scattered stone gave way to well-joined wall.

"Melbourne Hill Farm." Annalise squinted at the autonav display. "Are you sure they're going to be there?"

"It's the closest of the three coffee farms that are within a half hour of Wodonga." Jani slowed the skimmer even more as shrubbery scraped the bottom and closed in on all sides. "If we don't find them at this one, we'll try the next one, and if we don't find them there—"

"What if we don't find them at all?"

"If we don't find them at all,"—Jani tapped a beat on the steer mech—"I will call the code on the Neoclona business card and arrange to meet John."

"I don't know why you didn't do that in the first place." Annalise grew more and more fidgety, anticipation nerves swamping out the sedative effects of her medication. "Royson said that John just wanted to help you."

"They just wanted to help you at the hospital on Padi, didn't they?" Jani couldn't quite control the sharpness in her voice. "I'm sorry. That wasn't fair."

"They wanted to change me into something that was easier for them to deal with." Annalise glared at her. "I don't think it's the same—" She fell silent, then boosted up in her seat. "I see some lights. Off the to right."

"I see them, too." Jani slowed the skimmer to a shuddery halt. Drew her shooter and activated it before popping her gullwing door and easing to the ground. "Stay behind until I give the OK." She slammed shut her door, then trotted through the knee-high grass to the stone wall and poked her head just above the top. Searched for one thing and one thing only, because if she saw it, she'd know she was in the right place, and if she didn't, nothing else would matter.

Fifty meters or so distant, just off to the side of the road. Amid the small group gathered in the light of skimmer headlamps, a tall, slim form dressed in grey. A cap of white hair.

"Hello, John," Jani whispered. "It's been a while." She watched him pace, a walk as distinctive as his appearance. Weighty fluidity. A wraith framed by the gathering dark.

"Is that him?"

Jani's heart skipped. "I thought I told you to stay put."

"You weren't moving. I figured it was OK." Annalise had scrambled atop a rock and now peered over the top of the wall. "Why's his hair so white?"

"He's an albino." Jani watched John slow, then stop, and peer in their direction. "His tissues lack melanin, so his hair and skin are white, and his eyes are pink." She fielded Annalise's alarmed look. "He films them, though. Different colors to match his clothing."

"Yuck." Annalise wrinkled her nose. "Why didn't he just get his melanin fixed?"

Because when he was a boy, his parents wouldn't allow it. Jani watched John walk over to one of the skimmers. And as he grew older, he learned that being different had its advantages. "I don't know—maybe you should ask him." As John fell into conversation with the man perched on the skimmer's hood, she beckoned to Annalise. "See the man he's talking to? His name's Val Parini. He's easier to talk to than John sometimes. If something comes up, or you're worried about something, you can talk to him." She stepped back from the wall and listened, heard only insects and the odd nightbird. No rustling in the trees. No signs of circling subordinates sent to trap her. He trusted Royson to bring me to him.

"They—" Annalise stood on her toes, then gasped and would have scrambled over the wall if Jani hadn't grabbed the back of her tunic. "They brought Ricky." She pointed to a slight figure standing near Val, so still he seemed as one with the stone. Dark, bowed head. A bouquet of flowers in one hand.

"You shouldn't keep him waiting. You should go." Jani kept her eyes fixed on Ricky until she felt Annalise's stare drilling the side of her face. "Don't argue with me."

Annalise's voice emerged tight. "You should go to them, too. Royson said you were sick."

"I can't." Jani stepped back from the wall. "Now, please."

Annalise didn't meet her eye as she stepped down from the rock, shouldered her bag, and made a few tentative steps toward the waiting group.

Then she stopped and looked back at Jani.

"Go on." Jani nodded to her. "You'll be fine."

"Will you?" Annalise stilled, then let her bag slip to the ground and ran back to her.

Jani braced herself as Annalise barreled into her and hugged her tightly. Touched the pale head, then unwrapped her arms and eased her away. "Go." She watched the girl walk away, pause to hoist her bag, then continue without a backward glance. Waited until she was out of sight, then ran back to the skimmer. Imagined the reunion that took place a short distance away as she reversed the vehicle and sped out of clearing. The tears. The hugs. The news of Royson's death, and all that came after.

John's questions when he realized that she wasn't there, and what he'd do when he realized she'd slipped his grasp.

He'll go to the shuttleport. He'd expect her to try to escape immediately, which meant he'd check the passenger concourse, the departure lounges. Which meant, of course, that she needed to go to the one place he would never expect her to go.

* * *

"Welcome to the Veterans Club, Captain." The attendant spun the register around, and handed Jani a stylus. "Please sign in here."

"Thank you." Jani filled in the blanks according to the information encoded in the station letter. Name, rank, and C-number. N. Royce, Captain, and the alphanumeric string she memorized after seeing it only once. When she came to the space marked "Last station," she hesitated, then entered "Fort du Lac, Phillipa" because she knew enough about the place to fake it in case any of the dozen or so retirees scattered about the club room engaged her in conversation.

The attendant glanced at her entries, then handed her back the station letter. "Specials today are chicken pot pie and steak and pommes frites, ma'am." He glanced at her. "Both are kettle crap, but rumor has it that the kettle the steak was cooked up in once came within a hundred meters of an actual cow."

"I'll keep that in mind." Jani hefted her bag and wandered into the clubroom, a surprisingly pleasant arrangement of tiled floor, potted trees, and woven wood furniture complete with mountain views.

She chose a table nearest the open window, and enjoyed the scent of fresh evening air. Ordered a bourbon and soda. Adjusted to being called "ma'am" for the first time in years. Opted for the steak, with crème brûlée for dessert. Checked her timepiece every so often and wondered when John would abandon his search of the shuttleport. A few hours, probably. After two or three shuttles had departed Victoria for the station and his crew had searched every bathroom and closet, and the realization dawned that his creation had slipped his net once again.

She savored the quiet, even as she sat facing the entry and checked every new face. Even as she wondered where she would go next, and what she would do when she got there.

Hell is overrated, Captain.

Maybe, Mr. Royson. Jani sat back, drink in hand, and remembered the expression on Annalise's face when she saw Ricky. But sometimes it has its moments. Even if they only served to remind you of the things you'd lost. The things you could never have.

She finished her meal, then adjourned with her coffee to the sitting room to bide her time. Given the proximity of the coffee farms, the club served the real stuff, black as space and deep as a cave. She drank it sans cream. John would have approved.

After a pleasant time spent perusing newssheets and discussing with a retired major the stylistic flaws of the latest Service uniforms, Jani visited the club bathroom. Added packets of sugar and salt that she had swiped from her table to a dispo of warm water, and mixed up her own version of animandroid carrier replacement. Using a filter syringe she kept for such occasions, she injected tiny aliquots of the solution into the lab-grown muscles of her left arm. After a few minutes passed and the constant quivering eased to an occasional twitch, she cleaned up her gear and departed the club.

Over the next hour, she made several circuits of the Service wing of the concourse. She disposed of the station letter and everything else she had taken from Royson and Delmen in various trash bins. She also disposed of Delmen's jewel-green shooter, knowing as she did that she would see his grin in her nightmares for years to come. The one he'd tossed at her when he'd teased her earlier that day. The same one he'd flashed when he'd aimed the shooter at her and sighted down.

Her load thus lightened, Jani sold the leather bag and the holster belt at an exchange shop.

Lastly, she visited a shrine. Sat in the quiet dark for a time, then lit candles for absent friends. Some five years gone. One, more recently lost.

Then she walked out of the shuttleport and dropped off the edge of the world.

* * *

Kristine Smith is the author of several novels.

Tesseract

Written by Tom Brennan
Illustrated by V. Shane

Anna came in too fast, too low.

There was a screech of tearing metal as Stheno's carbon trees gouged the hull and the flyer tilted fifty degrees. Anna's body slammed forward in her rigid suit. She stared at the flyer's shattered displays; emergency lighting and halon made every surface greasy. She tasted blood.

Before she could cancel it, the screech of the distress beacon filled every channel. She punched her harness release and yelled at the chaperone, "Get out!"

In its bulkhead nest, the skeletal steel chaperone tried to unfurl itself. A dislodged spar pinned it down. It flailed its six limbs like an upturned crab.

As Anna splashed through gushing hydraulic fluid, the flyer's hull began to crumple under the carbon tree's reflexive attack. Metal groaned. Anna upped her suit servos, braced herself against the bulkhead, and tore the steel spar away. She dragged the chaperone to the airlock, overrode the safeties, and blew both sets of doors. Halon erupted into the moon's atmosphere. Half of the outer door lay buried in the tree's surface, revealing layers of carbon and leaking electrolyte.

Anna pushed the chaperone out and rolled after it. She looked back and saw the flyer's keel buckle as the tree's branches curled around it, centimeter by centimeter.

God, she'd screwed up. She should have kept her eyes on the screens. Radar was useless on a moon where the flora absorbed every wavelength. Perfect black-body receptors, the carbon trees climbed out of Stheno's weak gravity and soaked up every particle of radiation, their flexible branches constantly rearranging themselves into perfect receivers.

And she should have killed the beacon before the tree reacted to the blast of radiation. Anna remembered exobiologist Jerabek's words: "Faced with something new, an organism will try to screw it, eat it or kill it. Sometimes all three simultaneously."

Now, Anna couldn't count how many branches had curled down. Enough to turn the flyer into scrap; the electrolyte made a good hydraulic. The emergency signal died. Then one of the branches angled toward Anna. Without the flyer's halo of radiation, the tree could smell her suit's minute emissions.

She ran to the edge of the tree's crown, a ridged plateau half a kilometer wide. Two kilometers below lay the frozen surface of Stheno. Above her, Ixion's bloated yellow globe filled the sky.

"Pilot?" The chaperone's voice crackled in Anna's helmet. "I advise—"

Anna gestured for silence. Too late. The tree detected the shortwave signal. Branches curled down, searching. Anna looked down the two-kilometer well, signed to the chaperone, then jumped.

She plummeted through viscous clouds of ethane. Black trees crowded around, the opposite of color. Beside her fell the angular spider of the falling chaperone, its six limbs jutting out. Before she flipped over, Anna fired the suit's directional jets. Nitrogen hissed and threw her forward. She adjusted the jets until her dive slowed. The chaperone copied her.

The moon's surface appeared, a world of white lakes of ammonia and ice, fields of carbon dioxide snow. Anna aimed for open ground.

With fifty meters to go, Anna's fuel failed. She braced herself for the shock, curling her arms and legs, protecting her faceplate with her hands. She smashed into the brittle crust and swam through carbon dioxide until a claw fastened around her arm and hauled her up. Anna stared into the chaperone's sensor array.

The chaperone plugged a fiber feed into Anna's suit. "Pilot? Injured?"

Anna struggled to her feet. The fiber linked them like an umbilical cord. Down here, the trees shouldn't be a threat, but they weren't Stheno's only radiotropic organisms.

"Pilot? Orders?"

A good question, Anna thought. The adrenaline faded, leaving a nauseated hollow in her stomach. For a moment she thought she would vomit. She sipped water and took a deep breath.

Anna stood with her chaperone in a crater fifty kilometers wide. Stands of carbon trees climbed into the sky, matte black silhouettes like old photographic negatives. Beyond the hydrocarbon fog were the crater's curved walls, then open plains and mountain ranges.

Anna's heartbeat slowed. She scrolled through the suit's readouts: power, eighty-seven percent; three liters of water; air recycling undamaged. Suit temperature 17°C. Ambient temperature -103°C.

No food, but the survey station, left over from the first landing thirteen months before, had stores. It also had a satellite uplink. One of the other pilots, Howards or Videan, could reach Stheno in a day. Anna just had to walk thirty-two kilometers to the station and report back to the Jefferson.

But Per Hals, the EV Jefferson's engineering chief, had sent Anna to Stheno because the survey station had stopped polling. Anna hoped simply a processor or feed had burned out. She could replace them with on-site spares.

And if something else had happened? Anna pushed that thought to the back of her mind.

"Pilot? Orders?"

Anna activated her visor overlay. "We head for the station."

* * *

Anna tried to develop some kind of rhythm of walking on the snow, but her legs ached despite the low gravity. She'd turned off the suit's servos, since the same power supply fed her air scrubber. She had worked on Luna, Mars, Titan, Io, and Europa, and she'd worn this suit's prototypes: a rigid, vapor-coated titanium shell, with sealed neoprene joints. Light yet strong, it should protect her even if she fell into the eutectic lakes.

She could see one of the lakes now, where water ice floated in vast stretches of liquid ammonia; the solid ammonia ice lay at the bottom. Delicate pagodas of ammonium salts grew at the shores, crystalline white and yellow. Wisps of ethane drifted over the surface.

Anna imagined what it would be like below that glassy surface. Silent. Peaceful.

Mark would have enjoyed Stheno. Like Anna, he'd loved cold landscapes, ice and rock, tundra, sastrugi. They had met on Mark's first job after college, core-drilling in Antarctica. Anna had been flying the big Tereshkoff cargo choppers, coasting until an orbital pilot job came up. After Antarctica, they'd tried to follow each other's contracts through Sol.

But Anna had been delivering a study team to Titan when the Europa dome cracked. The news had taken a week to reach her.

"Pilot?"

Anna stumbled, surprised by the chaperone's voice. "What is it?"

"How are you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Your condition?" The machine sounded asexual and monotone. "Are you distressed?"

Anna glanced back at the chaperone, a plodding creature like a huge, upright cockroach. The fiber umbilical rose and fell like a sine wave. "You're asking me how I feel?"

"I can monitor somatic environment but not emotional state."

"Is this in your system?"

"My function is to protect you."

Anna laughed. She wondered what survival routines the designers had set up. "So, what could you do if I was distressed?"

A pause, then, "Converse with you. I have many diagnostic routines loaded, plus reference works on—"

"Thanks, but I prefer the quiet," Anna said. "I'll let you know if I feel lonely."

The chaperone fell silent. Anna heard only the tide of her own breathing, in and out, and the background creaks and whines of her suit. After the initial shock and her reflex reactions, a numb acceptance had set in. She almost enjoyed the hike; Stheno was a beautiful world.

She'd reached the point, on the Jefferson, where the crew's noise grated. Two-thirds of them would be going home in ten days when the ship segmented itself. The returning crewmembers were gate-happy, eager to get back to Sol. Anna could understand that and make allowances for it.

But she volunteered to stay behind. She'd spent the past three years drifting further and further away from Sol. Seemed like 47 UMa was far enough.

Had it only been the day before when Per Hals had found her floating above the expedition vessel's core docking bay? He'd called up, "Hey, Anna, you looking for work? We lost a survey node on Stheno: two days out, two back."

She hadn't hesitated. The trip meant Anna could quit the EV Jefferson for the best part of a week. "Do I have to take anyone?"

"Just a chaperone. Sign out one of the flyers and keep in touch."

Before Hals reached the exit, Anna had asked, "How did you know where to find me?"

Without smiling, Hals had said, "Simple: I checked out the remotest, emptiest part of the ship."

Per Hals would be going back home on the first trip. He'd invited Anna to visit him in Amsterdam. Per, the only crewman who had sat with Anna in the mess, despite her silence. He talked about the city, his childhood on the island of Terschelling, his family. But then Per had discovered she'd be staying behind. Thanks to relativity, Per would be over sixty by the time the second crew returned to Earth.

Now, Stheno's fog cleared and slender structures loomed up beside Anna and her chaperone, abstract mineral eruptions from the imagination of Dali or Bosch. Whorls of smooth white, contorted compounds following their own logic. Towers and ridged arches. Crystal fronds. Lattices spanning the path and dripping sharp stalactites.

Anna picked a careful path through, but her shoulder brushed against a monument, reducing it in seconds to bright shards. Anna stared at the debris for a moment before walking on. Even with the best intentions, she couldn't avoid destruction.

* * *

Ahead of her, two hundred meters of cliff face reared up and marked the crater's boundary. Millennia before, some planetismal had smashed into Stheno and formed the depression. The force of the impact had sent shock waves racing around the mantle to create a jagged mountain range on the opposite side of the moon.

"Pilot? Are you injured?"

"No . . . just tired."

Her quadriceps burned with lactic acid. She wished she could rub her lower back. Jefferson's medics could work on her later. She could picture herself in the ship's pool, sinking through warm water . . .

Anna stank. Despite the air scrubber, sweat trickled through her black hair and into her eyes, down her chest and back.

"Pilot? You rest here?"

"Not yet."

Anna headed for the cliff. She'd been lucky so far: she hadn't seen any geysers, even thought they preferred the element-rich craters' floors. She checked her suit: power at sixty-two percent; one-point seven liters of water; air recycling at full. Internal 21°C. Ambient -102°C.

She'd have to cut back on her water intake. There'd be plenty to drink at the station. And to eat. Anna focused on the lip of the crater. Twelve kilometers gone; twenty to go. She just had to pace herself.

The utter peace and solitude were addictive. Anna entered a calm, disconnected condition, almost a fugue state. Her limbs moved in mechanical rhythm. Her situation caused no worry; she'd soon be in the survey station, showered and fed. But she wished she'd had time to grab some music from the flyer.

She'd been listening to Arvo Pärt on her com-set when Per Hals had tracked her down. Minimalist music suited this world, as if the musicians had been here before any of the scientists. Some of those old composers had been alive when the Huygens probe landed on Titan—had they seen the transmitted pictures?

Anna had to rest. She gazed up at Ixion's surface—47 UMa's gas giant—at storms of hydrogen and helium larger than the Earth. Ixion had three moons, all named after ancient Gorgons, but Medusa and Euryale had lost atmosphere early in the system's formation, as Ixion's mass pulled in loose matter. Planetismals and fragments had rained down on the three moons; by chance, Stheno survived with just enough atmosphere to trap the distant star's heat.

Euryale and Medusa's elliptical orbits brought them close to Ixion; at pericentron, tidal heating wrenched at their cores. Anna wondered what would happen when Euryale crossed the Roche limit and disintegrated, torn apart by tidal forces. The three moons, locked in a complex resonance, would become two. Would Stheno survive? Or would it follow Euryale into Ixion's well? All this would be lost.

The first geyser erupted forty meters to Anna's left. The nitrogen plume ripped through the snow and widened as it rose, fanning out in silence across the sky. The airborne tesserae sparkled for a moment as they rose.

Anna fed power to the servos and started running, ignoring the pain. She didn't look back. Her heart hammered and her breath came in ragged bursts.

She had to get away from the geyser. The nitrogen and assorted volatiles didn't worry her but the tesserae did. Small carbon and mineral formations, some only millimeters across, had the same tropism as the carbon trees: any and all radiation. If they swarmed, they could clog Anna's suit, then bond like concrete.

Anna reached the foot of the cliff. She dragged air into her lungs and looked up. She'd planned to use the suit's crampon spikes and monofilament line, but she had no time for that now. She turned to the chaperone. "How much fuel do you have?"

"Twenty-six percent, Pilot."

It might be enough. "Take us up."

As the chaperone wrapped two of its manipulators around her suit, Anna looked back. The tesserae had started to fall, a horde of bright insects.

Anna lurched into the air. The cliff face filled her view and she winced, sure she'd collide. Then they were over the curled lip. As soon as the chaperone's grip loosened, Anna killed the servos and started out across the snow, striding toward the survey station under her own power.

A handful of tesserae landed on her forearm, attracted by the external control pad. They flattened themselves to the quartz panel and changed color from white to black. Three of them slid together. Where they bonded, the joints became invisible.

Anna headed for the mountain range to the north: to one side, the spire of Cathedral Peak; to the other, the Presidents, bulbous formations jutting from the sheer rock. They made good landing reference points. Anna aimed straight for them.

* * *

Anna woke, sure that someone had called her. Every muscle ached, just as she'd felt after cadet training in the centrifuge at Austin. She'd been dreaming of Mark but realized that she couldn't picture him clearly. She felt cheated, glad to be awake but still struggling to remember Mark's face.

"Anna?"

A man's deep voice. She must still be asleep.

"Hey, Anna? Respond."

Anna sat up. "Hals?"

"Jesus, Anna, I thought we'd lost you." Despite the time lag, Hals sounded as if he stood next to her.

"Hals? Where are you?"

"On a cargolifter midway between Jefferson and Stheno," Hals said. "We're about twenty hours away. Think you can hold out?"

Anna couldn't concentrate. Fatigue filled her like a heavy shadow. "I don't get it."

A small delay, then, "The surveysat grabbed part of your distress call and sent it through to the Jefferson. We hauled out the fastest lifter and set up a laser link to your chaperone, via the sat. Clear?"

Anna shook her head. "I guess."

"Good, because I don't want to stay on too long. It looks like your power is down to about forty percent. You're heading for the survey station, right?"

"Right."

"Then look out for us. Keep steady and don't screw up."

As the signal died, Anna realized she didn't want to explain to Hals how badly she'd already screwed up.

She stumbled to her feet. She forced one leg before the other, trying to get back into rhythm. She fell to her knees and let the chaperone help her up. Twenty-nine kilometers down. Three to go. Only three. A baby could crawl that.

She'd never been so tired, not even when that blizzard had caught her on Mount Cabot, back home in New Hampshire. She'd skied nonstop for a day, sometimes through whiteout, before finding the road to Lancaster. Her dad had called her every name he could think of for being out there alone: "You need someone to watch out for you, for chrissake."

She'd been lucky, then. She'd been lucky since. She'd been due to meet Mark in the Europa dome, but she'd missed her lift off Titan. Instead, Mark had been swimming alone in the Mining Company pool, the geothermal "tropical oasis" the Company used on all its promo clips. Mark hadn't known the geologist who drilled the angled borehole close to the dome, but he might have understood what was happening as the interconnected cave system collapsed and the Europa dome tilted way past its forecast stresses.

Anna had seen the netcast footage. In seconds, the atmosphere had blasted away. Everything froze. It had a strange, crystalline beauty.

Anna tripped and fell into the snow. She lay there, a glistening metallic outline.

"Pilot?"

Anna didn't have the energy to reply. She let the chaperone help her up. She stared at the distant mountains and stumbled on through the snow.

* * *

The survey station had vanished. Perfect black domes had replaced the complex. The surface of the tesserae showed no joints, no cracks. Layer upon layer, they had set as hard as concrete.

Anna stared at the domes and tried to calculate how many millions of tesserae had flocked to the station and buried it. She could identify the laser array. The tesserae had glued themselves to the installation but followed its form.

Jerabek and the other exobiologists had said the geysers wouldn't blow up here: that's why they had chosen the site. And the tesserae couldn't travel far under their own power. Okay, a few stray ones might stick to the shielded steel alloy domes by mistake, but not many. . . .

Anna started to laugh. The sound came from somewhere deep within her and wouldn't stop. She doubled over, gasping, crying at the absurdity. She gulped stale air that tasted of sweat.

"Pilot?" The chaperone stared into Anna's visor with its multifaceted sensors.

"I'm okay," Anna said, then doubled up again at the obvious stupidity of her words. She'd screwed up when she crashed and she'd screwed up believing the survey station would be working.

The hysteria stopped as suddenly as it had started. In its place, utter emptiness.

She'd been in trouble before. After Mark died, she'd chosen the most dangerous expeditions, the contracts with the smallest margins for error. She hadn't been reckless with other lives, but she'd stopped worrying about her own.

It had been like a game of poker, with Anna bluffing all the way. But she'd been bluffing herself.

Hals wouldn't be here for another twelve hours. Anna had enough power for between four and five hours, even if she tapped the chaperone's reserves. Simple math.

"Hey." Anna didn't know what to call the chaperone. "Hey, can you open up a laser channel back to the lifter?"

The chaperone dropped onto four legs. Its carapace split to reveal a compact comms array. "Link polling. Polling. Active."

"Hals? This is Travis."

A delay, then, "Anna? What's happened?"

In the fewest words possible, Anna told him about the station.

Silence, then Hals said, "Shit."

Anna grinned. "You bet."

"We're still . . . eleven plus hours away. I don't think we squeeze any more out of the lifter."

Anna didn't reply. Hals had access to her suit readouts via the link.

"Give us some time to think this one through," Hals said.

"Don't do anything stupid. This is my own fault."

"You're on my team, Anna."

The link died. Anna looked around. She had a simple choice: sit and wait for her power to drain, or start walking. But to where?

Clumps of carbon trees stood a few hundred meters to her left. More crowded the higher ground further away, on the mountain ridges and crags. The distant trees looked smaller than the ones in the crater, maybe younger. They crowned the Presidents, the bulbous rock formation.

The mineral caves behind the "faces" were supposed to be spectacular. But she should wait by the station. It would make things easier for Hals.

As if to prove the exobiologists wrong again, geysers erupted left and right of Anna. She settled back, switched her systems to powersave and let her body relax. She wasn't going anywhere and it didn't much matter, now, if the geysers' tesserae troped in on her own suit's meager emissions. She watched the tesserae's small hexagonal compounds reach the top of the plumes before searching for the most hospitable hosts: those carbon trees held the most charge. Once they troped in on the highest potential, they flocked to it using tiny bursts of nitrogen. The smaller tesserae had enough for one or two bursts before falling to the snow.

The successful tesserae fastened themselves to the host trees, adding their own small charge. They locked on at the molecular level and changed from white to black. Organic circuitry, they absorbed radiation and passed the charge into the electrolyte. The electrolyte eventually fed the fermentation. A full cycle.

The exobiologists argued whether the organisms were symbiotic or different states of the same genus. Anna doubted they'd ever know. The study teams devoted themselves to Cybele, the Earth analogue just over one AU from the star. Anna preferred Stheno's beauty.

She saw the truncated core of a derelict tree. Half a kilometer tall, the crown ended in shattered filaments instead of branches. The tesserae had avoided this host, leaving it to decay. It stood alone, jagged and stark.

Anna had thought about death many times. After Europa, she'd sat in an orbiting hotel room with two strips of tranks and a bottle of imported brandy. She couldn't do it, not then.

And now? With the power gone, carbon monoxide would build up. Like drifting off to sleep. Anna closed her eyes and settled back. An easy death. So easy.

Too easy.

The realization brought Anna bolt upright. She wasn't ready to give in, not yet. Maybe that's what had kept her going: stubbornness. Maybe that's what kept everybody going.

And she didn't want to let Hals down.

Despite the fatigue, Anna searched for a way out. Her suit needed more power. The chaperone's batteries might add another hour or so to Anna's reserve of two hours. Still eight short.

The trees were giant storage cells. If she could drive in two probes and tap the charge . . .

But how would the tapped tree react? Anna didn't have much choice except to find out. She powered up and stumbled toward the nearest group of trees. Before she'd gone five steps, an unexpected geyser erupted, blocking her path. Another blew behind it, filling the air with tesserae. Anna ran from the plumes. Now the nearest trees stood high up on the exposed ridges. With the chaperone close behind her, Anna headed for the mountains.

Now that she had a clear goal, her fatigue drained away. A part of her mind warned that euphoria wasn't a good sign, but she ignored it. She started running up the snow and scree. She glanced back and saw the chaperone right behind her. Ixion gave everything a yellow sheen, like an ancient sepia print.

Anna scrambled up and up, slipping on hidden rocks. The slope became a level ridge. No geysers blew here as Anna slipped silently between black trunks, searching for one in good condition and with plenty of charge, one that would survive being tapped. Here at the base of the trees, well out of range of the flexible, responsive upper branches, she should be safe enough. There wouldn't be much a tree could do to stop her even when—if—it detected her drilling into its trunk. As far as Anna knew, none of Stheno's organisms had the capability or evolutionary need to puncture the trees' bark. She would be the first.

She was almost grateful that she and the chaperone had hardly any power left in their systems. Less emissions meant less of a target for the tesserae.

Near the top of the ridge stood a young tree thirty meters across and half a kilometer tall, its bark glassy and fragile beneath Anna's glove. She realized how ridiculous this was, but she had no choice. She turned to the chaperone. "I need to access the stored charge here."

She repeated the order in different phrases, trying to get the robot to understand. Eventually, the chaperone raised one of its manipulators and spewed out a drill bit with a bright tip. After five minutes work it pulled back the bit; the trunk had been barely scratched.

As the chaperone tried again, Anna pushed down the rising sense of panic. She looked up at the tree's contorted crown and remembered how flexible, responsive branches like those had destroyed her flyer. She appreciated the half-kilometer gap between her and this young tree's reflexive defenses. She hoped it would be enough.

The chaperone stepped away from the trunk, hesitated, then raised another manipulator and opened a segment of steel iris. Its laser drilled two small holes in the trunk. Electrolytes seeped from the holes, but the tree didn't appear to react to the unexpected invasion. The chaperone inserted two probes into the trunk and adjusted them as if searching. Finally, "Potential flow."

"How much?"

"Mean: fifty-three point two volts."

"Can you link that up to my suit?"

"I can process the current."

"Do it."

Anna stepped forward as the chaperone unfurled a shielded copper cable. Anna scrolled through her suit readout: power, four percent. As she watched, the display rose to four point five.

If the tree registered the tapped current, it didn't show it, at least not in any way that Anna could see. She sat beside the chaperone and closed down all her suit's functions save for environmental. A single point of red light shone. She looked to the horizon. Medusa showed as a pale disc reflecting Ixion's glow.

* * *

Anna woke after dreamless sleep. The air tasted foul. The chaperone stood beside her, patient and still.

"How are we doing?" Anna asked.

No reply.

Anna began to panic, then remembered to activate the comms link. "Hey?"

"Pilot?"

"How long was I out?"

"You were inactive for nine point six hours. Cargolifter Edmund Maguire attempted contact three times."

Anna saw her power level at under two percent. The tree's borrowed charge had kept her alive, but it had been close.

"Can you open up a link?" Anna asked.

"Negative. Line of sight is now blocked."

Restrained by the copper and fiber leads, Anna looked up into the sky. Hals must be behind Medusa.

"Keep trying. Laser, shortwave, everything, right across the dial. Full power."

"My reserves are low," the chaperone said.

"Try again at ten-minute intervals."

If they didn't respond after that, Anna thought, there wouldn't be much point. She tried to slow her heartbeat. Her body felt like a plucked steel cable strung too taut and still resonating. She fed power to all her suit's systems, ready for that one last effort.

Slowly, so slowly, Medusa dropped toward the horizon. Then Anna noticed brief plumes firing into the air above the ridge. Two geysers erupted a hundred meters below her. After a few minutes, another erupted, coating the slope with tesserae. Anna realized that the geysers were moving toward her, zeroing in on the chaperone's full-bandwidth emissions and her suit.

Some of the tesserae landed on her arms and tried to converge; she shook them loose. Was it coincidence? Or was it the tree's symbiotic response? Now that it had detected her, it couldn't reach Anna with its branches—was it using another weapon?

Two geysers blew, sixty meters away. The tesserae darted toward Anna with invisible bursts of gas. One part of her mind knew that Karl Jerabek would have swapped places with her in an instant, but exobiologists were more than a little crazy.

"Can you get a link yet?"

"No, Pilot."

"Keep trying," Anna said, knowing they had no choice. "Every minute."

A handful of tesserae landed on Anna's leg and formed a tensile sheet. While she tried to peel them off, another handful landed on her chest.

Hals's voice echoed. "Anna? Respond."

"Hey, Hals." Anna peeled off another layer of tesserae. "I'm not at the survey station, I'm on the ridge above the Presidents."

"Hang on." The sound of Hals talking to someone else. "Okay, ETA five minutes. How's your power?"

"Low, but I've got other problems." The left side of her visor disappeared beneath a cloud.

"What problems?"

"I'll tell you later." I hope, she added.

She saw the lifter's rockets. The pilot had to switch from field drive to chemical propulsion well away from any atmosphere. The glowing dot grew larger.

Anna helped the chaperone peel tesserae from its carapace. "Take out the probes."

Maybe, with the power down, the tesserae would leave them alone. As the chaperone withdrew the probes, Anna disconnected the copper cable. Her suit readout darkened.

The tesserae still flocked toward them, swarm after swarm, as if some signal or instinct drew them to their already-bonded colleagues. Anna saw a geyser erupt ten meters away, releasing yet more. They must be everywhere, forming century after century, millennia after millennia.

The squat, massive lifter banked above the ridge and started to descend. Then Anna saw her mistake: she stood surrounded by trees, with the sheer ridge in front. The lifter couldn't pick her up without blasting down through the trees, probably burying her and destroying the organisms.

"Hals?"

No reply. Anna checked the fiber feed between her suit and the chaperone. Garlands of tesserae hung from the cable like icicles, but it was still connected. Then Anna saw the chaperone's sensor and comms arrays buried beneath tesserae.

Anna led the blind chaperone to the edge of the cliff and waved to the lifter. Above her, the cargo bay opened and a steel cable unfurled. The hook slammed into the rock face before Anna could reach it. She fumbled, trying to connect it to her suit's recessed eyelet. Then the hook clicked into place.

Anna grabbed the chaperone as the cable tightened. "Hold on."

The cable reeled in, but tesserae anchored the chaperone. The slick white hexagons started to turn black.

The cable strained and whined. Anna knew she should let go, but she couldn't. She had an image of the chaperone lying beneath a black dome.

Suddenly, Anna and the chaperone cleared the ridge and swung free into space. Anna saw the chaperone's lower manipulators still anchored to the tree. The machine had left half of its body behind.

Anna looked up into the yawning bay. Hands dragged her inside. As the doors closed, a cloud of loose tesserae surged past, driven wild by the excess of radiation.

Hals led Anna into the inner lock and plugged a fiber feed into her suit. "Of all the stupid, idiotic—"

Anna looked at Hals, smiled, and passed out.

* * *

She woke up in a bunk's cocoon, her body weighted down by acceleration. A single light showed the inside of a sparse cabin. She stared at the ceiling, thinking.

The door opened to reveal Hals. "How are you?"

"Okay."

Hals sat on the edge of the bed. "The medic said you're in reasonable shape."

"How about the chaperone?"

"After a new rig it'll be fine."

They sat in silence for a moment, then Anna said, "I'm sorry I screwed up."

"To err is human."

"Even so—"

"Don't knock yourself out about it. We can talk about blame later." Hals stood up. "Get some rest."

Anna sat up in the bunk. "Thanks."

Hals nodded. "I'd do the same for any of my team."

She hesitated. As Hals opened the door, Anna called out, "What's the beer like in Amsterdam?"

He looked back. "I like it, but I'm biased. Maybe you should try it for yourself."

Anna smiled.

Hals echoed the smile and said, "Welcome back."

* * *

Tom Brennan is the author of two novels.

Alone

Written by Joe R. Lansdale and Melissa Mia Hall
Illustrated by Paul Campbell

The smooth silver rockets stood against the sky, silent sentinels piercing the night. Waiting for something or someone, those spaceships reminded him of those big, old stone faces down on the ridge outside of Mud Creek. He never knew rightly how they got there but their open mouths and wide eyes turned ever skyward seemed connected somehow, since the rockets never rusted and the moss never grew over the expectant stone features. They were always bright with the morning light or copper red with the dying sun. He liked them best when they glowed silver in the moonlight or burned like white gold when the moon vanished blindly behind clouds.

And though the rockets seemed ready for take-off at any time of day or night, there was no one to ride in them. And no one had anything to do with them except him, James Leroy Carver, the self-appointed guardian of the town and the rockets—although what he did wouldn't pass for much and there was never anyone to pat him on the back and say, "Good job, Jim; good job!"

For that matter, there was hardly anyone left at all. There was Sleepy Sam who worked the fields with the help of his son, Cranky Dan'l, and Issy, a big spotted hound dog, two cows, a goat, two hogs and some chickens. They lived in a farmhouse that used to be white but was now faded into mottled gray. They also had a barn with a tin roof and some pitiful outbuildings they took care of just about as good as they took care of the vegetable garden that was surrounded by barbed wire—fair-to-middling. There used to be a horse but it died of old age. They gave Jim eggs, carrots, onions and potatoes when he helped out. He had to barter for anything else.

Behind and beyond the spaceships, the trees had started to come back, and Jim realized he had lived practically his entire life (how long that was he had no expert opinion) watching them return. First, they'd just been scorched sprouts, but somehow their roots had survived and given bloom to new life. Gradually, they inched up until they were almost taller than Jim. Lately, they'd grown as big as one of the sheds at Sleepy Sam's. It amazed him. Didn't seem quite right. Were trees supposed to grow that fast?

The world was coming back green, and he felt like there was nothing much left but the green. His parents were long dead now. The Revolution had taken them.

Back in the before time, the bad times when he was really small, he hid more than anything. The people who survived the fighting didn't seem much interested in him. Sometimes someone would take him in and feed him. Sometimes he'd just steal food. He stole so little, no one much minded. One time an ugly man, an outsider who talked funny tried to take him outside of town on his bike but Jim cut him with his knife and bit him for good measure and escaped. And then Sleepy Sam had killed him after a poker game went wrong and the man refused to hand over his bike. Jim never knew the drifter's name. He hadn't been a regular in Mud Creek and certainly not on his street.

Part of the street sign had broken off so he couldn't quite remember the whole name of the street. Something Heights. His mom had had a book called Wuthering Heights that she liked a lot. "Nobody ever wrote a book as good as Wuthering Heights." Funny how things stuck in a person's head. Jim took to calling his place "Wuthering Heights" although most of the house had burned down during the Revolution when his parents ran off and left him or were killed. He couldn't remember anything. Seemed his life began one day when he woke up in the back seat of the SUV, head on his plaid backpack, sucking his thumb and holding on to his old brown teddy and his blue bankie and his crackers. He loved his warm sleeping space in the family's unworkable SUV that was parked in what was left of the garage. He had been old enough then to survive.

And, in time, there was no one really hunting boy meat anymore, or anybody doing much of anything. Sleepy Sam said the cannibals focused on the still crowded cities, not on the dead little towns or out here on the fringe—that's what Sleepy Sam said. Jim thought that suited him just fine out here by the rockets. And as far as it went, he was okay. Cannibals didn't like rockets, he guessed. Can't eat rockets. And they didn't seem to like any meat but human meat. Animal meat must seem too tame.

"Stay here and keep your nose clean," Sleepy Sam said. He had a generator so he had electricity when the lights went out and stayed out a few years ago.

Most people left the little town during the Revolution or were killed by the monsters and the cannibals. Some stayed and some came back, then left again. They were primarily teens with no parents and no place to go, but the intense jungle that had suddenly surrounded and engulfed the town freaked them out and most left. They liked concrete and danger better. It put him in mind of The Jungle Book he kept in his ragged backpack. His parents were long dead now but they used to read from that book sometimes, together at night when he was little and dreaming about living in a jungle someday and here he was. The Revolution had taken his parents but given him back the jungle. He kept a picture of another jungle at his sleeping space. He'd stolen it from the library. The picture also showed some terrible animals attacking each other. What if this jungle would summon such creatures? He began considering the possibility such wild beasts might arrive and decided he would always be ready. He kept his pocketknife, a sharp stick and a hammer always handy.

Not long ago there was a group that rode into town who seemed nice at first and then turned deadly. He had had little to no interaction with those just passing through Mud Creek, but these people laughed and danced and sang a lot. They built a big bonfire and ate rabbits and squirrel they shared with him. They made a game out of chasing a big beach ball one of them blew up and threw around like it was something special. Then one of the women got angry, the red-headed leader and her man who had a long black beard. They fought like feral cats and it scared him. He crawled back home when they started killing each other.

The next day, when he went to see if their camp in the parking lot of the abandoned police station was still there, he found it abandoned. Gone from Mud Creek. He was relieved and sad at the same time.

* * *

"Good riddance to bad rubbish," Sleepy Sam had said when Jim told him and his son. Cranky Dan'l, who rarely spoke, nodded his head.

"Dey kilt my hog, Billy. I hate dem," Dan'l added.

"They be lost wanderers, those gypsy kind. They don't care about nothing but getting high and eatin' all they can, stealin' all they can and fightin' about what they didn't eat and didn't steal," Sleepy Sam said.

"But they danced. They sang songs. They seemed real happy and they just went crazy."

"I know. But the whole world be crazy now, son. Just keep clear of weirdoes."

Jim took the advice and a hat full of eggs and left.

* * *

Mud Creek was just a little town near the Rockets now. Weeds and grass grew in the cracks of the streets, curbs and sidewalks. The windows of most buildings no longer were glass. Most of the stores had been looted and truthfully, Jim had done his share of looting before going away to hide, but after most of the people left, he found it just wasn't as much fun doing it alone.

Jim knew there was still much to be had for one man and he shouldn't act like a kid, afraid of the ghosts in the stores. If he needed something now, he just took it like a man. Jim knew he had to act like a man now, not a little boy. The encounter with the ugly man had taught him that, as much as his own Jungle dreams which sometimes included a sad faced girl with big eyes and soft pink lips.

He wondered where everyone had gone to after they left Mud Creek and what in the Sam Hill could be better out there? He envisioned only the worst. All of them gone crazy and eating one another like sharks with blood in the water.

The town provided most of his needs and the library had provided books that taught him about things like sharks that he had never seen except in pictures, and about bears and such, the monkey, the lion, the birds. From Sleepy Sam and Cranky Dan'l, he also learned about how to plant the seeds from the stores, and because he planted them behind the garage, he survived because he didn't have to depend on Sleepy Sam or on anyone. He even bartered with his extras, sometimes with an old lady who made beeswax candles. She sold them in the center of town along with some moonshine her old man made, but she frightened him. She always made awful cannibal jokes.

"I got me a hankering for boy today. My stomach aches to eat me some boy. You know some boy I can eat? What's pink and white and et' all over?" she'd laugh.

"Raw boy," Jim would have to say or she wouldn't exchange her candle for what scavenged item he was proffering, usually some stolen book, unbroken crockery or beans. Mr.'s moonshine wasn't too bad and it was cheap. A book of matches and Jim was set with a jar full of amber fire. He didn't drink it, though. He used it to clean stuff.

* * *

Their set-up was in an old gasoline station that smelled funny. He avoided Mr. and Mrs. (they had no other names that Jim knew of). He preferred the Rockets.

He had even come to like the quiet, the sky and the moon, the stars at night. The sun in the daytime. The rain. He had a good shelter not far from the SUV where he hid things and sometimes slept when he wasn't too scared. It was inside one of the old Rockets and it was roomy in there and the power that ran the lights never went down. It was not bad at all. He felt safe there, protected.

Being alone was not bad until he saw the girl. Saw her one day in town while he was hunting for things to barter with to go with what he grew. Saw her scrounging through an old Wal-Mart store, dressed only in a pink tee-shirt, flip-flops and boy's underwear. He saw her. She saw him. And she ran. And in that moment he knew he did not truly like being alone or with farts like Sleepy Sam and his dumb son.

After that, he thought of her often. Her long blonde hair and the way she looked in that underwear.

He knew about girls—and women like Mrs. and the insane warrior woman and her maniac man who fought till they died. Girls were better. There had been girls when there was a school, but after the Revolution there were few more girls to see, just some guys. The girls often fled to the cities. He assumed some girls lived nearby, he'd just never seen any. He thought most went into hiding because of the monsters who enjoyed taking women to their masters, so he thought they were all gone and he figured cannibals liked girl meat even more than boy meat. He liked to watch the old movies Sleepy Sam had on videos and DVDs. Sleepy Sam had quite a stash and Jim had loved watching the Star Wars series over and over but Sam always demanded payment. Jim had swiped the first Star Wars movie and watched it several times on a small battery powered DVD player he had found in some rich person's house but the battery went dead and he hadn't found another battery that would work. After awhile, though, he just got tired of the movies, especially the porno films Sleepy Sam adored. Too many pretty women in the movies.

It was better to know you were alone, and just be alone, and learn to like it. If you didn't, you thought too much, and if you thought too much, you hurt too much, and that led to wondering too much about imagined things that could not be. Then, if you held yourself in your hand at night and made pleasure come, it became a mean, hollow pleasure that only made you want the other and that made you feel just how lonely and alone you truly were.

If you didn't watch the DVDs and the jerky videos, then you didn't think about it so much.

Not so much.

Not as much.

But, once he knew the girl existed, he could not rest. He could no longer be alone and like it.

* * *

Alone was no longer the absence of others. It was a hollow ache, a hole that couldn't be plugged and had no bottom. Then he asked Sleepy Sam what he did to get over being lonesome.

"I just never think about it none."

"What about Dan'l's mom?"

"She died."

"Well, how'd you get over it?"

Sleepy Sam attacked the dirt with his hoe. "You just don't."

"Well, then how do you stand it?"

"You just do."

Not much help. Jim supposed the two were his best friends in the universe but they weren't really very bright. He guessed he would have to find the girl. He needed to talk to her.

* * *

On another day, as the year wound down and summer died out and the cool winds came in, bringing the first rains of the winter to come, he went back to town and scrounged about for some canned goods. He found some canned meat, and was happy even if the expiration date had come and gone years ago. He thought pork and beans and tuna and Spam would just make Mr. and Mrs. the happiest souls on the planet. And the tin of sardines, even if slightly spoiled, would make Sleepy Sam laugh. He also found a Corning Ware lid in excellent condition. That should be worth three candles at least. If he had a gun he might shoot something fresh to eat, but he had only seen a few crows and scrawny squirrels.

All the guns in town had been taken; the stores looted of them and their ammunition. So that was out. He fished from time to time with a pole, cord, and hook made from a paper clip. Worms he dug out of the ground for bait. Sometimes he used crickets. But finding the canned meat was a good thing. He had thought it was all gone, but there were several cans in a store he thought he had checked out. They were stashed under a tarpaulin inside an old standing fridge.

It was the store where he had first seen the girl. He was hoping she might be there.

She wasn't.

He took the meat back to the rocket ship and ate the Spam with some fresh carrots and enjoyed it, but it didn't stop him from thinking about the girl, and he couldn't be happy alone anymore.

* * *

The boy had long dark hair. He kept it tied back with a strip of black leather. He acted tough, like he owned Mud Creek and he made her so angry. He stole her stash of food that she'd found the day before. She watched him cram everything into a kid's backpack. Her stomach growled. He was like a monster, one of those creeps that stole her family. She hated him and yearned for him at the same time. She decided to stalk him, pretend he was a beast she could capture and roast over a slow fire for dinner. A little garlic made anything edible. She carried a jar of garlic powder, pepper and salt with her at all times. Her mother had taught her how to cook when she was six years old. That was how old she was when the rockets came and the Revolution began.

The monsters. The cannibals. The robots.

How long had it taken her to reach Mud Creek? "Get to Mud Creek," were her mother's last words before the fire and the screams sent her running into the forest straight into the claws of a monster. She had told her the coordinates every night before bedtime and what to do when she got inside one of the spaceships. "Go home," her mother said. Sally didn't know where home was. She had to find out though.

She followed him quietly, like an Indian. Mother was an Indian. Maybe. Actually, Sally was not sure what Mother was, just that she was alone and much older than six.

And now seeing her reflection always disturbed her. How did she get so big? Her body had betrayed her. She even bled once a month and that meant she could have a baby. She saw a monster take a baby once. And she didn't want to know what it did with it. It frightened her. How she wanted to rip it from its claws and protect it.

That was when she got the dog. The dog, a shaggy, golden retriever became her friend and loyal companion. She knew his breed because her mother once showed her a dog book with wonderful pictures. When she saw him scavenging for food on the outskirts of a city, she called to him with a pang of longing sweeping through her: "Little One!" He came to her as if he had always known her. They slept together at night, Sally's hand often resting on his head. It was better than being alone. But the dog couldn't talk. She wished it could talk, explain to her what had gone so terribly wrong with the world that they had been forced to live like this, so alone, so horribly, hideously alone.

She called the dog Little One even though he wasn't exactly little because someone had once called her that. Maybe her mother or her father had whispered those words—his face was an even more distant memory than her mom's, featureless with two dark smudges for eyes and a mouth that never opened except to say, "Good bye." She was not sure. Maybe she didn't even have a dad.

Sally tracked the boy to the library, a place of rotting books and broken computers, several times. It took all her courage to confront him on the third visit. He rummaged in the librarian's office, squatting in front of an old DVD player. "If I could just figure out how to make a battery or make a generator. I really should study on it some. I think I could do it . . ." he said out loud, as if he knew she was standing behind him.

"I hate you," she finally said to force him to turn around, her shadow almost touching his. Of course he knew she was there. The light in her lantern glowed.

"Say what?" he turned slowly and looked at her.

"Won't do no good," she said, "—that thing can't hear you scream when I kill you.

"I've decided to roast you well done with wild onion and garlic or make me some boy jerky that will last me a year or more. How'd that be? You scared yet?" She set the lantern down with one hand. In the other she held a Glock 19, something she stole from the last cannibal she'd killed.

"I don't think you want to do that," the boy said, eyes wide. The gun always frightened the country boys.

Sally smiled. "Maybe. Maybe not. If you got a knife, show it now. Toss it over here or I'll shoot you right between the eyes."

The knife slid between her feet. "I'm unarmed now. You got me dead to rights. But are you sure you want to kill and eat me? You don't look like a cannibal."

"There ain't much meat on you, I do confess. Some fat makes for better eating when it comes to roast meat."

"I got some carrots, onions, potatoes and I can get some eggs. Wouldn't that taste better?"

"Yeah and I bet you've got some Spam, pork and beans and sardines. Am I right, you lousy, no good, asshole THIEF?"

"And you got a cute T-shirt and some Hanes underwear I think I might like to have. Fair exchange?"

"Not on your life," Sally said, trying to keep a smile from flickering across her lips. The fall weather meant her legs were cold. And the T-shirt wasn't enough to protect her against the cold to come.

"And tea. I got tea back at my sleeping space. Lipton or some Stash spice tea I've been keeping for just the right time. I'll share it with you if you don't kill me. That's a fine piece of gun you got there. I don't reckon I've seen one of them guns before. Not in these parts, anyway. You from the city?"

"I want my food back."

"I'll give it to you, just put the gun away. Okay? Let's be friends."

Her dog, Little One, had done nothing. He had stood beside her, didn't growl and his tail began wagging.

"Nice dog. What's its name?"

"Little One."

"He's not very little."

"I know and if you are mean to me, one word and you're dead meat."

"Okay."

"So—do you want to go shopping with me? I need me some clothes." Mother and Sally used to go shopping. She would never forget shopping. That was another word for scavenging now.

"Only if you don't kill me if we don't find much. There is this little clothes place that still has some wearable stuff. I bet you're kind of cold."

Sally looked at her torn, smelly T-shirt. "Yeah, I am. Lead the way."

The boy stood. He was a young man with long legs in worn jeans. The bare chest that showed through the opening of his button-less flannel shirt had brown hair on it while his shirt had sleeves that were far too short for his arms. He had some hair on his face, too, not a lot but enough to scare her just a little bit. At least it wasn't a lot and it looked kind of fine. Sally also realized he was a lot taller than she was. She followed him cautiously.

He led her out of the library and down about three blocks or so, to a small department store. A few mannequins still stood in one display, miraculously sporting the latest in pre-Revolution, post-Republic of Texas fashion, cobwebby and filthy. But the shoes looked intact—sturdy black shoes that might fit. Hands slightly shaking, she snatched them and tried them on. He threw her some socks. She put them on and then tried the shoes. They fit. "This is good," she said. She didn't know how long they'd last but she'd take them.

"The best clothes are at the back in a storeroom most looters miss," the young man said.

"Okay. What's your name?"

"Jim, James Leroy Carver. What's yours?"

"Sally Louise Alice Mistral Corabeth Angelique Kiki Anne Robinson Lewis Thompson Johnson Mason Something or Other. In other words, I haven't the vaguest clue but I think my Mother called me Sally."

"Well, dang, that's a mouthful, Sally." He smiled.

Sally felt suddenly weak. He held out his hand. "Let's get you some new clothes. I could use some new trousers myself. These jeans are getting too tight."

They were tight, she noticed but didn't think that was such a bad thing.

In the storeroom, the lantern came in handy. They tried on clothes, backs turned, used to nudity and unaware that seeing each other might provoke some strange feelings.

She looked at him like a wolf looked at a wounded pig when his pants slipped to the floor so he could try some gray silky suit pants.

"You don't got any underwear on. How come?"

He seemed stunned and uncomfortable. "Just don't see the point."

"Oh." She pulled on a short red skirt. "This is cute but I guess I need me some pants, too."

He threw her some jeans. She tried them and grinned. "I can wear these. They fit. I want me a shirt with pockets. And a jacket and sweater, too."

He grinned.

"I need me a back pack better'n that thing of yours. How come you carry such a little baby backpack? Don't you need a bigger one now? You're a man, not a kid."

"I guess I should. Never thought about it, really."

"Hey, thanks."

"Don't mention it."

"What do you mean?"

"I guess we're friends now."

She tried on a jacket after shaking the dust out of it. "This could do with a wash in the creek. Mud Creek has a creek, doesn't it?"

"Sort of. We can go bathe in the creek, if you'd like, but you can't swim with a gun."

"I'd like that, Jim. But I want my food back first or I'm telling you I'll kill you and roast you for supper." She waved the Glock 19.

"Put that away or we can't be friends," he said softly.

* * *

Jim had done more talking with Sally than he'd ever done with another human being. She talked so much that it shocked him. He talked so much he got hoarse. They talked at the creek before they got naked and jumped in. He had never seen such a pretty girl in his life, certainly not one his own age and certainly not one with a gun.

He really wanted to look at the gun up close but she wouldn't let him. She made her dog sit on it while they swam.

Jim wanted to touch her so badly he actually ached. It hurt to watch her breasts bob in the water. They swam closer and closer to each other. He shook the cold water out of his ears when he came up for air after a few strokes that brought him right next to her. He suddenly had to do something or burst. He grabbed her and kissed her. She resisted at first and then she kissed him back. They were kind of sloppy at kissing.

It took a few tries before it felt right.

They kissed a lot and then she got scared and swam away. She got into her clothes, whistled to her dog and left. Jim treaded water for awhile and then he got out before his skin got all wrinkled. The sun was going down and the warmth of the moment had vanished

He waited for her to come back and get the food he'd stolen from her but she didn't. He didn't want to go all the way back into town to the SUV so instead he went to the rocket ship where he hid things.

That night he sat alone outside the Rocket, and looked at the stars and wondered what she thought about their kisses. Way out in the distance, coming from the mountains, he could see light. Fires. Someone was up there. He wondered if one of the lights belonged to the girl. He wondered if she were still alive or if some other man had her and was enjoying her.

It was not a thing he liked to think about for very long. Then he thought about the ridge and the giant faces.

He told himself that she was most likely not that far away. The lights from the fires looked near, but they were not. Maybe the beasts of the jungle were coming or the monsters or the cannibals. He wondered if they would come to the Rocket and find him. He feared that. He knew that he could stay inside his hiding place and finally figure how to close it up, and it would be impossible for them to come in after him, with him way up high, the hatch closed and air-tight. No one could ever get to him in here.

Maybe that girl Sally had become a cannibal. Let her have that damn Glock 19 and that dog she liked to sleep with. Maybe she had fleas. Maybe if he slept with her he'd get fleas and they'd scratch themselves to death. If he did not get caught outside, nothing could happen. That was the thing to watch out for, not getting caught out where there was a chance of being hurt, captured, killed and eaten. Or maybe just his supplies taken, his rocket ship stolen by a girl who could grow up to be like, well, Mrs.

There were other rockets. Someone like that girl could come along and move in next door. There could be a lot of people living in the rockets. They could call it Rocket City on Wuthering Heights Street. They could borrow tools and plant gardens and share and work their way straight into a Post-Revolution civilization. They could get that dang DVD player working again and the electric plant and make new Spam and pork and beans that never rotted.

It was a pretty thought, but he knew it was just a thought. If more men and women like Sally came with guns, they would most likely kill him. They had formed their packs, and the packs were what they protected. If you were outside the pack, they wanted you dead; they wanted to eat you.

He wondered if he would eat a human being, and knew, if there was no other food available, he would—easily—with or without potatoes. Sally had mentioned garlic. He liked garlic.

He remembered his garden behind the garage growing in the moonlight. It was fat with vegetables, and he was pleased by the thought of the coming harvest. If he didn't go check on it, what would happen? The garden needed watering.

Seemed like several days went by and he got bored waiting to see if Sally would come find him. She didn't so he decided to go into Mud Creek to just see what she was up to and check on his garden but he was afraid. What if she laughed at him?

He lingered in the rocket ship, at the doorway after checking his clothes and looked out, hoping she'd still come so he wouldn't have to search for her. He had slept poorly the night before, and while it was dark he had released the hatch and sat with his feet dangling out of the opening. Just sat there watching at the sunrise, as bright as red orange trumpet flowers opening in the morning air.

The air smelled rich with oxygen and the trees around him were bright green and the mountains in the distance shimmered a blue violet capped with white snow. He thought going to the mountains might be nice. It was cold up in the mountains and the air might be thin, still he might be able to breathe better, think better. The beauty might be enough to soothe his itch.

But he decided he had a better chance of coming home if he went into town, and even that was not smart.

He went anyway. He went back to the store where he first saw her.

* * *

Sally hid behind a stack of hardware when she heard him enter the store.

He looked about, didn't see her. It was a large store. She knew he was looking for her. The store, an old Wal-Mart, had mostly been looted, but there were still tools lying about, and any one of them might make a good weapon.

He didn't pick one up. Maybe he didn't want to look aggressive. Still she couldn't be sure it was safe to be his friend. Could humans be friends now? Was she human? Could anyone be trusted after the Revolution? She crept backwards, trying to reach a back room.

"I'm just lonely," he said out loud and that surprised her."—I've seen you in your underwear, and you've seen me in less than that. We kind of know each other." He laughed. "We should at least be friends."

And then she stood, at the back, just behind a door. But the door had not pulled back far enough. It had swollen and would only go so far, and he could see her right elbow poking out.

"Look. I don't have a weapon. I know where you are. I don't want to hurt you. Wouldn't you like someone to talk to some more, Sally?"

He stood still, waiting.

She did not move.

He said, "I have more fresh food. I could share it. I have some cocoa powder, too. I have a nice safe place to stay in the Rockets. I don't want to hurt you."

* * *

The elbow moved.

An arm appeared. Sally waved. "Hi, Jim."

"Hi," he said.

They embraced. She shivered in his heat.

* * *

He took her not to the Rockets, but to the ridge. He wanted her to see the stone faces staring up into the stars that night they finally satisfied their hunger.

The faces watched them make a fire. They ate and they mated like the animals in the jungle. He felt almost safe in her arms. Then he became frightened. Towards the chill of dawn he slipped from her sleeping form, gently disengaging her arms from his waist and pulling his blue blankie over her to keep her warm. Little One took his place. Sally moaned in her dreams but didn't awaken. He crept to the Rocket where he hid things, where he felt truly safe. He fell asleep curled around his ratty backpack, The Jungle Book on his bare chest.

Morning came. Jim rubbed his eyes as he heard something rustling. The hatch he had not been able to secure had betrayed him. She had found a way inside.

Sally stood over him with her Glock 19.

"I should kill you now, but I won't."

Jim tried to snatch the gun. She drew back. Little One growled.

"Go away!" Jim said.

"I intend to do just that."

"Go!" he said.

"Well, I am. But do you want to go with me?" Her large eyes blinked away tears.

Jim shook his head, confused. "This is my Rocket. You leave, now!"

"Jim, please—don't you understand? I'm taking this spaceship. I know how to activate it and I'm going home. The second I saw it, I remembered everything I'm supposed to do. Maybe my mother told me or something or somebody else. All I know is I've got to get out of here, now! I'm leaving this awful place. It's programmed to take us home."

"Us? Home?"

"We don't belong here, you know. We never did. We just got stuck here, that's what Mother said before she died."

"No."

"Yes. Now you must decide. You can either get out of this Rocket or I'll kill you and throw you out and let what's left of the damn humans eat you for dinner."

Jim pulled out his pocket knife.

Sally pointed her gun.

Little One whimpered behind her.

Sally put one hand on a dull panel that burst into violet and orange hues that pulsated and hummed. "L21--00-systems go," she whispered.

The Rocket thrummed louder, a high-pitched keening. The long dead Rocket had come to life, a silver bullet primed to erupt into the heavens.

"You've got to get out if you're staying. You've got to decide. You're either in or you're out."

Jim got to his knees and dropped his knife. He couldn't hurt her. "But this is my home. It's not yours."

"Why can't it be mine, too? Why can't we just share it?"

"You're stealing my safe place, my home—" Jim tried to knock the gun out of her hand and she hit him. He grabbed her wrist.

She screamed, "How dare you? Who are you?"

They struggled for possession of the gun.

She kicked him where it hurt the most. He let go, groaning. He had kissed her. He had—loved her? Love. What did that word mean? Hell what if she wasn't even human? Was she a lost wanderer? A gypsy? An alien monster?

"I'm sorry. Oh, Jim, did I hurt you?" The gun slid down to the smooth reflective surface and they saw their own scared faces. She kicked the gun and the knife out of the hatch. Their reflections shimmered.

"Yes, you did—but I hurt you first, didn't I?" Then he understood. If Sally was a lost wanderer, maybe he was too.

"I don't want to be alone. I just want to go home."

The hatch slid into place. The strangers stared at each other while the dog licked Jim's hand.

"But where is home? Where are we going?"

Sally didn't know.

He didn't either.

Maybe it was better that way.

At least they could be alone together.

And as far as home went, they'd figure that one out when they got there.

Sally reached for Jim's hand, the one free of dog slobber. A half smile touched her lips. Jim sighed as his fingers curled around hers. Maybe they were already there.

Home.

* * *

Joe R. Lansdale is the author of many novels and stories. Melissa Mia Hall is an author of many short stories, book critic, journalist and artist.

Olaf and the Merchandisers

Written by Barry N. Malzberg and Bill Pronzini
Illustrated by Dan Skinner

Olaf imagines better times while he watches sports action rumble, commercials and promos tumble. This time-out brought to you by Father Time Timepiece, "you'll never be late for the march with Father Time," this call to bullpen sponsored by Hokura Cellular, "the whole wide world of technology in the palm of your hand," this picture of bleeding toothless hockey defenseman in penalty box brought to you by rumble tumble bumble sponsors who bring you everything else on Sports Channels I through XII.

Old Olaf steams with rage as sports, commercials, promos continue unabated in his two-bedroom furnished, heat and hot water extra, no charge for cockroaches. Olaf's legs hurt, hips hurt, back twinges every two minutes regular as if atrophied muscles attached to timer. He can't sit long without standing, can't stand long without sitting. TV sports are all Olaf has left in his misguided life. Twelve sports channels on cheap cable; he switches back and forth, forth and back, back and forth.

Ravens versus Colts, 34-7 Colts in the third quarter, game brought to you by Steinmetz Gold, world's finest hops and barley, chill-brewed in special vats, "it's liquid gold in your glass." Greater Cleveland golf tournament, Miller and Deloach tied for lead at six-under, Deloach in rough on back nine, Miller with 40-foot putt for birdie to take the lead, but first a word from our sponsor, Derry's Restaurants, Hungry Folks' Breakfast $2.99 every day all day. World skateboard finals live from Fiji, courtesy of Polynesian Airlines, "a taste of paradise in the sky." Championship tennis, Turgenov versus King, Turgenov leads two sets to one, 40-love in fourth set, serves ace for game set match, match brought to you by Matchmaker Inc., "matchmaker, matchmaker, match my ideal mate." Scores, names, games, commercial messages buzz and flit through recently retired Olaf's brain.

Olaf once believed retirement means quiet life in two-bedroom furnished, watching live broadcasts of great sports events, analyzing games along with analysts, finding some peace after forty years of dry goods and happenstance and parsing goods of useless existence. But what does he get?

This is what Olaf gets: distraction. Barrage of commercials, assault of spot promos for other sports and for sitcoms, reality shows, game shows, news shows. Olaf feels like old ugly animal in zoo cage, bombarded and insulted by talking heads, products and services and laugh tracks and prime-time time wasters hurled at him like stones. TV's highest rated show, funniest sitcom ever, coaches' roundtable, Joe Bob's Best Sports Moments, WWF Bonecrush Facedown; loudest, sexiest, silliest, most thrilling, most informative. Monster truck demolition derby brought to you by New Millennium Insurance, "our claims back up your claims." Olaf sits, Olaf stands, Olaf suffers in angry solitude. Game recap brought to you by Happyland Pleasure World, "fun in the Florida sun for the entire family." Olaf's life recap brought to you by Storr's Premium Lite and Analgesic Double Plus Pain Reliever.

Here is the life of Olaf Thorkelssen: Born in St. Paul, Minnesota same year John F. Kennedy elected president. Good student with many insights, many plans for future as business entrepreneur. Migrated east at age eighteen to attend college, met Mary Jo Petersen from Yonkers in sophomore year, got her pregnant first time in after drunken frat party. Olaf did right thing, quit school, married Mary Jo, took job with Plume Dry Goods Inc. Fathered second child bang-bang, bought house, worked hard, lived conventional life. Children grew up, moved out, devout daughter Clarice married Baptist minister in Indianapolis, drug-freak son Vernon (named after wife's brother) MIA in California. Olaf sold house for below market value because of poor upkeep, moved with Mary Jo into two-bedroom furnished, retired from Plume Dry Goods. Wanted only solace and peace for declining years, but has been denied same.

One day in two-bedroom furnished Olaf made another mistake in mistake-riddled life. Said to wife why don't kids combine interests, make commercial for religious TV network, get rich. "Today's sermon brought to you by Meth-Ease, the gentle high for pious sinners." Humor-challenged wife burst into tears, said to him "You monster!" and rushed out of room. Olaf thereafter refused dutiful marital relations, despite repeated threats and occasional begging.

After six months inevitable happens. Wife says all Olaf does since retirement is watch TV sports and drink beer, spend all day and half the night in tomb of empty beer cans, announcers' voices and crowd noise and commercials blaring, and she can't take it any more. She moves out, moves in with sister in Hackensack, leaves poor Olaf all alone. Frustrated bitter Olaf thinks he is better off without her.

Olaf now has no one except fat Lou Dinucci. Lou occupies one-bedroom furnished in same building and is also victim of wifely defection, and also recently retired from sales job with Fleet Organic Snack Food Company, "Fleet—the elite treat." Sports and Storr's Premium Lite only things Olaf has in common with Lou the mooch, Lou the know-it-all. Every Saturday and Sunday Lou comes over to eat Olaf's food, quaff Olaf's beer, make Olaf's miserable life more miserable.

Here is what Olaf and Lou do together: watch sports, drink flavorful, noncaloric brew, argue about Celebrity Bowling brought to you by New Age Burgers, "the fast food of the future," and NFL Game of the Century brought to you by Hansen's Fine Stuffed BBQ Chicken Breasts, "we fill 'em, you grill 'em," and Championship Pool sponsored by Big Fellows, "the natural sexual enhancement for the man on the rise." Argue about college football and pro football and soccer and baseball and basketball and hockey and track and field and gymnastics and croquet and curling and sumo wrestling. Argue about types of deodorant, headache remedies, radial tires, American cars, Japanese cars, German cars, hair replacement methods, potato chips, microwave popcorn, cheese (Wisconsin has the best, no California, no England, no Holland), and brands of ketchup, mustard, pickles, soup, soap, and packaged nuts. Fat Lou, arrogant Lou, he says if he makes it to heaven he'll argue with God about nature of the universe. Conflicted Olaf hates long hours spent with loudmouth nonfriend, looks forward to them at the same time.

One Sunday Olaf is seized by sudden idea in the middle of whick-whack hi-team women's beach volleyball semifinals from beautiful island of Maui, brought to you by Sun-Oil Sixteen, "as gentle as a lover's touch on sensitive skin." Excited, he stands up to ease pain in aching back and hips, says to Lou, "Brilliant money-making concept just came to me. How about we start a brand-new TV sports event?"

Lou struggles to position of attention. "There is no new sports event," he says. "All sports are already on TV."

"Darts," Olaf says.

"Darts? Did you say darts?"

"Organized series of championship dart tournaments. Beginning at local level, moving on through increasing attention and popularity to national prominence on cable sports channel, title match brought to you by Old England Dart Boards or other related corporate sponsor."

"Look at the ass on that blonde," Lou says, staring at the TV screen.

"World Series of Darts," Olaf says. "No, better yet, International Darts Federation Tournament of Champions."

"Best asses in TV sports in beach volleyball matches," Lou says.

"It's a brilliant concept and you know it," Olaf says.

"Not brilliant, stupid." Lou listens to the announcer say Rocky Mountain Ice Beer, "no brew colder south of Alaska," is best of all American beers. "Garbage," he says. "Storr's Premium Lite is the best, the coldest, any fool knows that."

"Darts," Olaf says.

"I don't know anything about darts," Lou says. "You don't know anything about darts. Who cares about darts?"

"Patrons in bars. Darts is a very big game in bars."

"To play, not to watch on TV. Darts is not a big-audience game."

"Beach volleyball isn't a big audience game either," Olaf points out. "Nobody in Minnesota plays beach volleyball, yet viewers in Minneapolis and St. Paul are watching beach volleyball this very moment same as we are. It's all promotion."

"No ocean beaches in Minnesota," Lou says wisely.

"We'll make millions with the right promotion, right sponsors, right TV channel," Olaf says. "Sports Channel X, home of Xtreme toboggan racing, is perfect for International Darts Federation Tournament of Champions."

"Another slice of crazy Olaf pie," Lou says and shakes his head in disdain. "Volleyball asses far more interesting than darts any day."

Olaf tries not to look at volleyball asses. He is not too old for sex; thoughts of blonde beach girls are very disturbing. "Brilliant concept," he says. "Golden goose eggs."

"Goose eggs, all right, but not golden." Lou stirs, belches, heaves to his feet as commercial break for Sun-Oil Sixteen interrupts volleyball match in the middle of hard whick-whack spike by another blonde beach girl. "Suppose we go down to O'Ryan's, ask him what he thinks?"

Cunning Olaf doesn't argue with this. Olaf knows O'Ryan, once drank many Storr's Premium Lites in The Rose of Shannon Irish Pub before his back and hips hurt too much for long hours of perching on bar stool. O'Ryan is a very wise man, knows more about sports than anybody in Yonkers, has connections with local TV station. O'Ryan will be Olaf's ally and perhaps not so silent partner in great darts venture.

Soon stooped aching Olaf and fat smart-mouth Lou are in The Rose of Shannon Irish Pub, Olaf making direct appeal to O'Ryan whose actual name is Isidore Gomfrey. Upon transfer of bar ownership in 2015 from the O'Ryan family, he adopted O'Ryan name as what they call in the trade his working moniker. O'Ryan listens to Olaf's brilliant proposal for International Darts Federation Tournament of Champions. Nods, considers. Olaf leans forward, expectant, dollar signs and vague beach girl images dancing merrily through his head. "Well?" he says. "What do you think?"

"I think you're crazy," O'Ryan says.

"What?"

"Darts is not a big audience game."

Lou makes noise like a chortling rabbit.

"No money in darts," O'Ryan says. "Nobody cares about darts except drunks throwing for beers in dark corners of The Rose of Shannon."

Olaf and Lou return to two-bedroom furnished, Olaf percolating with rage and humiliation. Lou makes a fool of him, Isadore Gomfrey makes a fool of him, life makes a fool of him. Olaf the maligned, Olaf the doomed failure. Nothing he thinks or plans or does ever turns out right, even brilliant darts concept; he must be cursed by capricious gods who single him out for special torture.

Angry Olaf and chortling Lou sit-stand and sip suds, watching six-man helmetless Xtreme Toboggan Racing teams engage in thrilling, dangerous competition brought to you by Hilfinger's Custom Sleighs, "we'll give you the ride of your life." Is toboggan racing a big-audience sport? Olaf wonders. One toboggan crashes into wall, caroms off, spills helmetless men onto ice slide. Announcers very excited, Lou very excited, until snowmist clears to show none of the spilled tobogganers badly hurt in the crash. "Damn," Lou says. Plenty of mayhem and broken bones in Xtreme Toboggan Racing, Olaf thinks; that must be the reason for big-audience appeal on Sports Channel X. No mayhem and broken bones in darts tournament, unless maybe opposing contestants have boards strapped on their heads to catch thrown darts like William Tell with apple and arrows.

Olaf says this to Lou, who laughs so hard his jowls wobble like gobs of vanilla pudding. "Crazy Olaf," he says. "Forget about darts and crack me another brew. Time for the big game to start."

Olaf yearns to tell Lou to crack his own brew, bring his own brew next time, but he doesn't. Weak spineless Olaf does Lou's bidding.

Big game today is Giants versus Jets from RingTech Computer Software Company Stadium, formerly Giants stadium, brought to you by ShellEx Petroleum, "our gas is your gas," and Steinmetz Gold, and hot powerful new American Zephyr Z-8 sports coupe, "all new safety features and fastest zero to sixty acceleration of any passenger car ever built." Most important game of NFL season, winner likely to play undefeated former expansion Daytona Bulldogs in Super Bowl XLXVIV in Mexico City.

"Giants by two touchdowns," Lou says confidently.

"Jets," Olaf says. "Jets by seven."

"Bobby Immelman is best quarterback in the NFL."

"John Jay Finkelhammer has better stats."

"Immelman has better touchdown to interception passing ratio and more last-minute come-from-behind victories than John Elway. Best pro quarterback ever to play for a New York team."

"No, Joe Namath, bad knees and all, was the best ever. Namath should be in the Hall of Fame."

Lou emits a derisive laugh, quaffs beer, licks foam off his upper lip like cat licks cream, throws empty can onto pile on floor. "Namath was one-year phenom," he says, "Super Bowl hero but regular season bum."

Olaf feels rage come back. Argue, argue, argue, and he never wins even one time. Olaf deserves better than this, a better friend than loudmouth retired snack-hack salesman, a happier post-retirement existence. But Olaf's life is a tattered tapestry woven of hangovers and back pain and Saturday and Sunday arguments and five minutes of commercials to every one minute of top sports action. Olaf is fresh out of options, fresh out of future prospects.

Game starts, game progresses. Rumble tumble fumble. American Zephyr and Steinmetz Gold and Foot-Long Hot Links, "livin' high on the hog with the big dog." Giants lead 17-10 at halftime, lead 24-13 middle of third quarter. Jets go on offense, drive to Giants' 47 yard line. John Jay Finkelhammer rolls out, can't find open receiver, is swarmed over by six huge Giants' defensive linemen. Players unpile, John Jay Finkelhammer doesn't get up.

"Hurt," Lou says. "Look at instant replay. Hurt bad."

"No," Olaf says.

"Yes," Lou says. "This could be worst sports injury on TV ever."

"Worst sports injury on TV ever Joe Thiesmann's broken leg, Giants versus Redskins, RFK Stadium, November 1985."

"Wrong," Lou says. "Until today, worst sports injury on TV ever Jerome 'Slammer' Marshall's broken neck, Knicks versus Celtics, Madison Square Garden, June 2012. Slammer dove for a loose ball, jammed his head into scorer's table, spent three hundred and six days in a coma before they yanked his feeding tube."

Angry Olaf swallows more beer. Foamy brew passes straight through to his bladder so fast he almost doesn't reach the bathroom in time for usual trickle, wiggle, spurt and squirt. Olaf makes painful way back to living room, hears TV announcer say John Jay Finkelhammer still not moving, situation looks bad, could be very serious injury.

"Didn't I tell you?" Lou says, staring raptly at the screen. "Worst sports injury on TV ever."

"Finkelhammer is a very tough competitor," Olaf says. "He'll get up pretty soon, lead Jets to fourth-quarter victory."

"Wrong on both counts, as usual." Lou belches, farts. His face seems to grow bigger, wider, to open up like a white poisonous flower with a wet red center. "Finkelhammer may never get up again."

Olaf's rage grows and grows, assumes Viking proportions. Something goes click-clack, whick-whack in his head. Darts farts Zephyr Steinmetz bowling golf Bonecrush Facedown volleyball asses Fleet Fleet elite treat fill 'em grill 'em matchmaker matchmaker Hungry Folks' Breakfast high on hog with big dog Namath Slammer Finkelhammer best beer worst injury crazy Olaf hateful Lou rumble tumble mumble. Olaf gets up, goes into bedroom, finds cunningly hidden weapon bought long ago to repel intruders, goes back to living room.

Fat noxious Lou is still staring at tube, Storr's Premium Lite can raised in midair. "This might be the end of Finklehammer," he says, excited. "No kidding, I think he's dead."

"I think so too," Olaf says and the gun goes bang bang bang. Bullets punch neat round holes in Storr's, neat round holes in Lou Dinucci. Former snack-hack salesman falls over dead in tomb of empty beer cans.

TV announcer says, "This injury timeout brought to you by Mexican Village, home of Gigantico Burrito, 'big enough for two and better than mamacita makes.'"

Olaf Thorkelssen, brilliant creator of International Darts Federation Tournament of Champions, says, "This murder brought to you by Jones and Smith thirty-eight caliber Undercover Model 2015 revolver, 'aims straight, shoots great.'"

Then happy sad crazy like a fox Olaf pops open another brew, changes channels, and watches commercials and promos occasionally interrupted by rumble tumble sports action until police come and take him away.

* * *

Barry N. Malzberg and Bill Pronzini are the authors of many books and stories.

Murphy's Law

Written by Douglas Smith
Illustrated by Richmont Gan

Dex hadn't planned to save the entire human race. Mostly, he'd been trying not to die, while still keeping his job in the process—two goals that, Dex had learned, were often mutually exclusive. However, since humanity remained unobliterated, from Earth to the outer ring colonies, while Jack Dexter—Dex to his friends—remained broke, he figured that his fellow humans at the House Limit could at least buy him a beer.

The Limit was the only spacer bar on Station Beta One, making it the perfect destination for two things: cheap beer and a good yarn. More importantly, Dex knew that the second could serve as payment for the first.

Crash Carswell was lovingly polishing the long strip of white heat shielding that formed the top of the bar when Dex walked in. The shielding came from Crash's old tug ship, a vessel that had provided both Crash's nickname and much of the décor of the Limit. The big bartender scowled when he saw Dex.

"No credit, Dex."

"Nice to see you too, Crash," Dex said. Tossing his last pay chip on the bar with a sigh, he ordered a beer then made his way to where a crowd of regulars was sitting at the back.

Long, dark, and narrow, the Limit wasn't like the spacious, comfy watering holes that catered to tourists and business types. Everything in the Limit was salvaged from real ships, from the gray plasteel hull plates covering the walls and low curved ceiling to the viewports welded onto deck struts that served as tables. The place had the close, cramped feel of a ship and the smell of too many spacers in too small a space. Dex felt right at home.

Nodding to some familiar faces in the circle, he slipped into an empty chair that had once been a crew seat from Crash's tug. Sly Silverstein was in the middle of a story about transporting Fanarucci viper eggs that had hatched in transit. Dex sat for an hour, nursing his beer and listening to others tell their tales, waiting for exactly the right moment.

It came as Stumpy Burgess finished a rambling and—in Dex's view—uninspired story of how a string of improbable accidents had left his ore freighter drifting towards a black hole.

"Murphy's Law," Stumpy declared. " 'If anything can go wrong, it will.' That's what happened to us."

"Aye," Sly Silverstein agreed. "And it'll pick the worst time and place to do it. Murphy's Law is right."

Like any good pilot—and storyteller—Dex knew an opening when he saw it. "I knew him," he said.

All eyes turned towards him. "Knew who, Dex?" Sly asked.

"Murphy," Dex replied quietly.

Stumpy snorted. "Whaddya mean? There's no real Murphy."

"I heard there was," Sly said. "Some fly-boy on Earth, before the Fall. They say . . ."

"Ah, that's a load of moon dust," Stumpy interrupted.

Dex stood up, both to cut off Sly's retort and to move his chair into the center. "Nevertheless, gentlemen and ladies—and using such terms to describe this audience will be the last time I stretch the truth today—" Dex paused for some good-natured guffaws. "—nevertheless, I knew Murphy. Or rather a 'Murphy.' For ever since our ancestors crawled from the primordial muck, we've had Murphies among us—sad souls who attract more than their fair share of calamity." Noting that he had everyone's undivided attention, Dex glanced at his empty glass.

"Ah, jeez, all right," Stumpy groaned and called to the bar. "Crash, bring Dex a brew on my tab. Just this one, mind you. Some other sucker can spring for the next."

Crash brought the beer and joined the group himself. Dex took a swallow. "Not to denigrate in any way the risks faced by Mr. Burgess in his fine tale, but my encounter with the vagaries of Murphy's Law placed not merely myself and our ship in danger, but also—and I rely on my reputation for veracity here to escape your disbelief—the entire human race."

"Veracity, my ass," Stumpy growled. "Just earn your beer."

Dex grinned and continued.

* * *

I first met Murphy serving on the MCES Fiscal Restraint, a freighter in the Merged Corporate Entity's fleet. I was first officer. Or chief cook. Or security chief. Take your pick. It kind of depended on the day.

To appreciate how Murphy came to have the impact that he did, you need to understand that the MCE in its corporate wisdom had recently made cost-saving "improvements" across all of its fleet. Most of these savings had taken the form of smaller crews, resulting in double or even triple roles for those of us "lucky" enough to have made the cut. So one day, you might be supervising a jump through a wormhole, and the next cleaning the latrine.

We were refueling at the jump station on Devon II, and I was trolling spacer bars desperately trying to replace the most recent member of our crew to decide that unemployment beat working for the MCE. You see, the MCE's HR policy memo number 1394-A stated that any MCE vessel must maintain a minimum crew complement, to remain compliant with corporate insurance policies. We were currently one short of that minimum, so we'd be stuck at the jump station until I found a replacement. My sales pitch emphasized the "variety" of experience available on the Restraint. But so far, I'd failed to find anyone sufficiently uninformed or desperate enough to sign on with an MCE ship.

Then I met Murphy.

I found him in the Jack High Flush, a bar that makes our present surroundings look classy. Or rather, he found me. I'd run out of candidates and was trying to drink down enough courage to tell Captain Henshaw that we'd have to delay our jump. Henshaw didn't like bad news, and I still was at least three drinks away from not caring.

"Excuse me, but I hear you're hiring," a voice said.

I looked up, expecting to see one of my crew, pulling my leg. Instead, I saw Murphy. Or rather, I didn't see Murphy. You see, he had one of those faces that is so plain that it makes its owner seem insignificant and inconsequential, almost invisible and easy to overlook. Which is what I did. I looked at him, past him, and then back to an intense study of my empty glass, blaming its former contents for my imagining voices.

"Excuse me, but are you hiring?"

I looked up again, forcing myself to focus on him this time, focus on lonely puppy-dog eyes in a round face that sat under black, tousled hair and on top of a small, lean frame.

"Uh, yes. Yes, I am," I said, collecting my inebriated thoughts just enough to grasp at this last straw I now saw before me. I launched into my spiel. "The Fiscal Restraint is the finest ship in the MCE fleet. It boasts—"

"I'll take it," he said.

"—unblemished record of under-budget . . . What?"

"I'll take it. The position. I'd like to sign on to the Restraint."

"You will? You don't want to hear about the medical plan?"

"Not especially."

"Good, cuz it's lousy, and I'm tired of reciting it." I stuck out my hand. "Jack Dexter, First Officer."

"Orville Sod, but most people call me 'Murphy.'" He shook my hand and sat down beside me.

"Why Murphy?"

"It beats Orville," he said, which made sense at the time. Ah, the benefit of hindsight.

"You sure you want to sign on?"

"You're not much of a recruiter, are you?" he said with a sad smile.

I grinned. "I am drunk, Murph, and when drunk, my sense of guilt outweighs my sense of duty. The Restraint is not much of an opportunity. It's an MCE ship, so the pay's crap, but they make up for that by overworking you in lousy jobs."

"You're going to the outer colonies, aren't you?"

"Next jump. As soon as we're at full complement."

"Then I'll sign on."

"I should shut up, but I need to know your experience."

When I heard his background, I figured that I was still out of luck. He had the creds for a senior engineer, having worked on a dozen ships plus a generating plant on a middle ring world.

"Shit, Murph. We aren't looking for an engineer, just a Class III crewman for a bunch of sh— uh, low level jobs."

He shrugged. "I'll still sign on. I want to get to the outer colonies, and I don't mind doing menial work to get there."

I wondered about that, as well as the number of times he'd moved and his short stints with each employer, but he seemed bright, sincere, and likeable enough. And hell, at the time and in that place, I couldn't be picky.

So I signed Murphy on and felt very pleased with myself as we made the jump to Sector Seven . . .

* * *

"Sector Seven?" Stumpy interrupted. "Where we made first contact with the Gorunds?"

Dexter took a swig, noting that his audience had grown and that mention of the Gorunds had won him everyone's undivided attention. "Yep. If you describe making contact as them T-beaming most of our colonies from orbit." He took another swallow. "Now, where was I? Oh, right. Sector Seven . . ."

* * *

We made the jump and set course at sub-light for our first colony stop. I assigned Murphy to general maintenance, which included assisting our passengers.

You see, the Restraint was an old freighter converted by MCE, like its crew, to do double-duty. The cabins of my now-redundant former shipmates now served as passenger suites. I guess MCE figured to add some revenue as well as cutting costs, the greedy bastards. We were hauling dome field generators and nano-bot miners to MCE Colony 7-27, one of the few outposts that the Gorund attack had spared.

In our passenger section was Mr. Jackson Thorburn, the new governor of that colony, his wife Millicent, and their ten-year-old son, James. The governor was a little withdrawn, but not a bad sort, and I wondered what past peccadillo had prompted MCE to exile him to a Sector Seven colony. I put his demeanor down to him ruminating on his bleak future—and Mrs. Thorburn.

Millicent Thorburn had the haughty bearing of dowager empress and the personality of a rabid skunk, which is perhaps speaking too harshly of both royalty and skunks. She did not walk around the ship so much as parade through it, commandeering any unwary crewmember she encountered to accompany her to perform one chore after another. These jobs usually involved addressing perceived deficiencies in her "stateroom" or in the conglomeration of medical equipment that constantly surrounded young James.

James Thorburn was the exception to the rule that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. In fact, as I got to know him, I couldn't believe he was from the Thorburn tree at all. He was friendly and bright, with a hunger for any and all information about the ship. He was supposedly, however, in the words of Mrs. Thorburn, "on the very brink of death." The boy lived his life cocooned in a personal force field, to "keep out all the dreadful germs" and accompanied by an array of bio-monitors that floated beside him wherever he went.

Now, to my eye, James was the healthiest-looking resident of death's doorstep I'd ever encountered.

I raised this question with Mrs. Thorburn shortly after they had boarded the Restraint. Mrs. Thorburn had just delivered a litany of instructions for keeping the boy isolated from unnecessary contact with lower life forms such as the crew.

"Mrs. Thorburn, what exactly is young James suffering from?" I asked.

She sniffed. Mrs. Thorburn always sniffed. She seemed incapable of speech without sniffing. I wondered if skunks sniffed too.

"James has a severely diminished immune system. He is susceptible to a wide range of infections and therefore must be protected from contamination—" She fixed me with an icy stare as she emphasized that word, and I had a feeling that if Millicent Thorburn looked up "contamination" in the ship's computer, she'd expect to see my picture. "—at all times. At all times! Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

As clear as a skunk's perfume, I thought. "I've informed the crew that contact with James must be kept to a minimum, Mrs. Thorburn."

Another sniff. "See that they comply. Meanwhile, send someone to our stateroom. One of James' monitors is acting up." With that, she turned on her heel and sailed down the hallway.

Now before anything comes aboard an MCE ship, be it animal, vegetable or mineral, it is scanned, poked, prodded and generally examined five ways from Sunday to determine its exact nature and condition. The Entity wants to know what it's transporting, and most importantly, if any goods are dangerous or illegal. Do not mistake this for a concern by MCE for either the crew's safety or the law. Identifying dangerous or illegal cargo simply allows MCE to charge an even more exorbitant fee for such items.

This screening now extended to our latest class of cargo, our passengers. As a result, young James had likewise been scanned, poked, prodded and generally examined five ways from Sunday before we left by our ship's doctor, Hajib Fasil.

"There's nothing wrong with that kid's immune system, Dex," Haj confided over a bottle of Andusian ale, from a case that had somehow been damaged on loading. We had dutifully inspected the case's contents and found that several bottles needed to be consumed immediately to prevent spoilage. "If you ask me, it's just something that old cow—"

"Skunk," I corrected. "After extensive research, I have determined that her closest zoological relation is a skunk."

"—just something she's invented to keep the boy under her thumb. She's certainly a control freak."

"Control skunk," I corrected. But if Haj was right, then Mrs. Thorburn was needlessly limiting James' ability to enjoy life. Regrettable, but not my problem. At least, it wasn't until Murphy got involved.

We were two weeks out from the jump point and a month from our first colony stop. I was passing through the passenger section when I heard Mrs. Thorburn scream. Now I say "scream" but that word, worthy a verb though it is, conveys neither the volume nor the nerve-grating pitch of that sound. I froze as Mrs. Thorburn exploded from their compartment into the hallway. She set her eyes on me like a Fanarucci viper spying a rodent far from its burrow, grabbed me by a lapel and pulled me inside.

"He's killing my son!" she screamed, shaking a bony finger towards the scene at the end of the room.

James was sitting on the floor—the "disgustingly dirty, germ-covered floor" as Mrs. Thorburn later related to Henshaw—surrounded by his ubiquitous array of hovering bio-monitors. A very worried-looking Murphy sat beside him. Between them lay the small cylinder of James' personal force field generator. I didn't know much about those devices, but I guessed that the sparks and smoke it was spewing out weren't a normal selling feature. I realized then why James looked different—I'd never before seen the boy without the shimmer of his protective force field between us.

"Murph? What happened?" I asked.

"Stop breathing on my son!" Mrs. Thorburn shouted. "Get out! Both of you!" Throwing herself between us and James, she herded us out of the room. "Send someone to fix that generator immediately, someone who doesn't break everything he touches—"

"I didn't break—" Murphy began.

"And make sure you send them in a sealed suit. I don't want another lummox contaminating my son. Now get out!"

She slid the door shut with a slam, almost taking my arm with it. I turned to Murphy. "What happened?"

He reddened. "I don't know, sir. I was trying to fix one of the kid's bio-monitors, like Mrs. Thorburn asked." He shot a look back at the compartment. "She wouldn't let the kid out of there until it was fixed. Not much of a life for him, is it?"

"Murphy, what happened?" I repeated.

He didn't meet my eyes. "I don't know, sir. Suddenly that force field thing just shut down."

He seemed less surprised at the situation than I'd have expected. But part of me was secretly pleased with Murphy for causing Mrs. Thorburn so much grief, so I just clapped him on the back. "Forget it. I'll reassign you to the mess hall. That'll keep you out of trouble and away from Mrs. Thorburn."

Wrong. And wrong.

I was on my way to the mess hall later to grab dinner when I heard a high-pitched whining. Thinking it an alarm, I sped up, rounding a corner only to find the hallway blocked by crew and passengers. It was then I recognized the sound. Mrs. Thorburn. I pushed my way through the crowd and into the mess where I confronted a scene of culinary devastation.

The walls, floor, and even the ceiling were coated in what I assumed were selections from today's menu. Beside each table, the serving apertures that delivered the diner's requested meal continued to spew out food, projecting each helping at high speed across the room. Alone in the middle of this bombardment stood my favorite passenger.

Mrs. Thorburn normally left a visual impression that spoke of hours of obsessive primping. At the moment, however, a gooey yellow liquid plastered her mousy brown hair to her head and face, and long white noodles drooped all over her. On spying me, she stomped her foot, causing the end of a noodle currently dangling from her nose to do a perfect loop around her face and settle on her left ear.

"He's done it again!" she screamed at me, pointing to the far corner. There stood Murphy, trying very hard to look invisible as usual. It wasn't working.

I ordered two crew members to help Mrs. Thorburn back to her room. She began screaming something as I hauled Murphy out, but her no doubt valuable advice was cut off when a white mushy blob from an aperture hit her squarely in the mouth.

Alone in a hallway, I confronted Murphy. "What the hell was that?" I asked.

"Mashed potatoes, I think. On top of chicken soup."

"I mean what happened? Jeez, Murph. And with Mrs. Thorburn again?"

He hung his head. "I don't know, sir. I'd programmed in today's menu, but then she arrived, looked at the choices, and demanded something else. I was reprogramming her unit when it started. I guess I hit a wrong sequence."

"I hope you remember that sequence, Murph. We'll add it to our weapons system."

He grinned. "She did look pretty funny, though, didn't she, Mr. Dexter?"

I grinned back at him. "Dex. Call me Dex. Yeah, she looked pretty funny." I sighed. "Okay, we need another duty for you. One with no possible contact with Mrs. T."

I settled on having him assist our navigator. Navigation was off-limits to passengers, and Murphy's background included interfacing engineering systems with navigation computers. Murphy wasn't too keen on the idea, saying he'd never worked on the particular system we had, but I explained that he wouldn't need to do much since our course was already programmed.

I was awakened in the middle of my sleep shift by my door buzzer. I opened the door to find our chief engineer, Roberta Fallon, glaring at me, and Murphy trying again to look invisible. With our smaller crew, navigation now fell under Fallon. I had a sinking feeling she wasn't reporting Murphy for a dress code violation.

"Problem?" I asked.

"Only if you count having no navigation computer," Fallon said, pushing past me into my quarters with Murphy in tow. "Mr. Murphy says he can explain, but only to you."

We sat down. Well, Fallon and I sat. Murphy assumed more of a head-down huddle.

"Murph?" I asked.

"I thought I had it under control, Dex. Then she—" Murphy stopped. He wore the saddest expression I'd seen since Near-sighted Ned Turner, after betting a month's pay on a straight flush, realized that the seven of spades he thought he'd drawn was really the seven of clubs.

"Had what under control?"

"Things . . . happen around me," he whispered.

I felt something very cold and unpleasant growing in my gut. I swallowed. "Uh, what kinds of things?"

He shrugged. "Stuff breaks. Or stops working. Or starts working at the wrong time."

All those jobs he'd had. The frequent moves. The short stints in each place. His nickname. I groaned as everything fell into place. "Murphy's Law."

"What?" Fallon asked.

Murphy then told us his sad history, of the years of causing havoc in machines, equipment, and computers wherever he went. "I don't know how or why it happens, I just know it does. I have a lifetime of proof."

"God, Murph. Why didn't you tell me?" I asked.

"I wanted to get to a new colony, a place with fewer machines and computers and technology." He looked at me. "A place where I could help not hurt, Dex, where I could belong."

"You could have got us killed," Fallon said. "Isn't a space ship a dumb place for you to work?"

Murphy shook his head. "I've had it under control for years. I learned how to focus whatever's inside me, to keep it damped down, quiet. I thought I could control it for the trip."

"So what happened to change that?" I asked.

His face clouded. "Mrs. Thorburn."

"Huh?"

Murphy sighed. "My problem first appeared when I was about James' age. My parents—" His voice got harder. "My parents decided that the best solution was to keep me isolated, away from other kids, from people, from machines. From the world. They kept a normal life by taking mine away from me."

"Like Mrs. Thorburn is doing to James," I said.

"Seeing what she's doing to that kid brought back all my old anger, made me remember what it was like being cut off from the world."

"Well, that explains the incidents with her. But what happened in navigation?"

Murphy shook his head. "This thing inside me has got stirred up too much. I can't control it right now. I will eventually, but it could take weeks of meditation."

I sighed and turned to Fallon. "How bad is it?"

She shrugged. "The navigation computer's toast. But our course was set, so we'll make the colony. We can fix it there if they have parts, else we'll have to wait for a supply ship."

I groaned. "I'd better tell Henshaw."

Fallon brightened. "Can I come? That should be very entertaining."

After confining Murphy to his quarters, I went to Henshaw's cabin, accompanied by Fallon despite my protests. Henshaw was working at his desk. We sat down, and I cleared my throat.

Henshaw looked up at me and swore. "Oh, crap."

"Sir?"

"You always clear your throat before telling me something I don't want to hear, Dex. So what's wrong?"

I related the navigation situation and the story of Murphy, with Fallon happily adding any embarrassing details I omitted. Henshaw shook his head. "You're telling me that you hired a crew member for a space ship who cannot come in contact—"

"Or even close proximity," Fallon added in a helpful tone.

"—with anything mechanical, electrical, or computerized," Henshaw finished, glaring at Fallon.

I swallowed. "'Fraid so, Cap."

"Jeez, Dex. Good move."

"Well," Fallon offered, "at least Dex didn't stick him in Engineering. We'd have blown up by now."

Henshaw glared at her again. "Thank you, Chief Engineer, for that perspective." He rubbed a hand through his thinning hair and sighed. "All right, Dex, see that Murphy stays in his cabin and away from anything we don't want going perflooie."

"Is that a technical term, sir?"

"Shut up, Fallon."

I cleared my throat again. Henshaw groaned. "What else?"

"Well, there's MCE's HR policy memo number 1394-A," I replied.

Henshaw frowned. "Number 1394-A says we must maintain a minimum crew complement. So? Murphy brought us up to minimum, and he's still part of the crew on our records."

"Ah, but there's also the more recent and much beloved memo number 2405-E. The Min-Max Memo," Fallon added with a smile. She was enjoying this far too much.

"The Min-Max Memo?" Henshaw repeated.

I sighed. "Memo number 2405-E requires that crew members log a minimum number of hours in order to count in our complement, and that no crew member's hours exceed the safety maximum in our insurance policy. Murphy won't meet that minimum sitting in his cabin, and those of us covering for him with extra duty will exceed the max."

"So whoever covers for Murphy logs some hours against his I.D.," Henshaw replied.

I shook my head. "Time logging works automatically. The system scans our biometrics at whatever station we're working at to positively I.D. us and then logs the time we spend there. We can't fake being Murphy."

"Who would want to be Murphy, anyway?" Fallon said.

"Shut up, Fallon." Henshaw banged his fist down on the desk. "Damn it, Dex! You brought this albatross onboard. You fix it! And I mean now!"

I looked at Fallon. She shrugged and bit her lip, any trace of a grin now gone. This was serious.

* * *

Dex paused to drain his glass, and then considered the circle of faces surrounding him in rapt attention like a ring of human moons captured by the gravity of his tale.

"So there I was," Dex continued. "My back to the proverbial wall, and a wall containing a roaring fireplace since my ass was getting well roasted. It was then, gentlemen and ladies of this dubious and overpriced establishment, that I came up with the most brilliant and surprising solution to our predicament, an idea that not only saved my career and our ship, but also quite possibly our entire species."

"That must have been some solution," Silverstein said. "So you gonna tell us what it was?"

Dex raised an eyebrow at his empty glass, and Crash leapt up to refill it. Once Crash returned, Dex took another long swig. "Ah, that's better. Now, where was I?"

"Your brilliant freaking solution," Stumpy growled.

"Right. Yes, friends, it was a solution destined to become renowned not only for its sagacity, but also, like many of you present, for its simplicity . . ."

* * *

"What?!" Henshaw roared.

"Dex, that's brilliant!" Fallon cried.

"Brilliant? It's bloody insane! Are you totally spaced?" Henshaw said.

I shrugged. "It works, Cap."

Henshaw glared at me. "You want to make Murphy . . . captain?"

"Captain is the only position not required to log time," I replied. "So the computer wouldn't need to scan Murphy's biometrics. And you'll be available to help the rest of us out so nobody exceeds the maximum hour limit."

"You don't do anything important anyway," Fallon offered.

"Chief Engineer, you aren't helping," Henshaw said. He turned to me. "Do you really think that this ship can function without a real captain?"

I bit back my first thought, as Fallon covered a smirk. "Only because you've done such a great job of building your team, Cap," I said.

"Ass kisser," he replied.

"And we'd still rely on you for direction, sir," I said.

"As we always have, Captain," Fallon added with a straight face.

"Shut up, Fallon," Henshaw snapped. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "But what jobs would I do? I mean, my technical skills are a little . . . rusty."

"Oh, we're so under-crewed that there'll be plenty of ways to help out, sir," Fallon offered with a grin. I knew she was imagining Henshaw on latrine duty.

"You could assist Mrs. Thorburn," I offered.

Henshaw glared at me. "I'd rather clean the latrines," he said. Fallon's grin broadened.

I got the task of telling Murphy. I sat him down on my bunk, far from my computer console, com link, and coffee maker. Especially the coffee maker. I considered some technology more crucial than others.

"Captain?" he said. "Me? I don't know anything about being a leader." Murphy sat hunched over, looking even more insignificant and inconsequential than when we'd first met.

"Neither does Henshaw. Murph, it's the only solution. Don't worry. You won't have to make any decisions. We'll still take everything to Henshaw. It's just for the ship's records."

Well, Murphy wasn't very happy about it, but by then I'd decided that he was never really happy about most events in his life. So on the ship's roster database, Murphy became captain of the Restraint, the rest of us returned to being overworked, and I returned to feeling pleased with myself.

Wrong again.

We were a week out from the colony when the entire ship shook like a die in some cosmic crap game. I was on the bridge, and my first thought was Murphy. My second was that we were going to die. Then I looked at the view plate to where a Gorund destroyer the size of a small moon had just materialized. My first thought disappeared, but the second one stuck around.

The Gorund boarding party herded everyone on the Restraint into one of our empty cargo bays, empty because the Gorunds had appropriated its former contents and transferred them to their ship. I was trying to figure out why we were still alive.

Now for those of you who have never seen a Gorund, and I wish I was included in that group, I'll try to describe one. There is ugly. There is butt ugly. Then there is a Gorund. They look like God tried to build the rear end of a Seroptian slime beast using nothing but the product from the rear end of a Seroptian slime beast, then He decided it was a bad idea and tried to rub out the whole mess but that didn't work so He just kind of left it unfinished.

Ugly.

And they smell bad.

And they are really, really big.

Their captain was also, in that moment, really, really angry and was directing that anger at a half-naked human they'd brought with them. I guessed that he was a prisoner from one of our colonies that the Gorunds had trained as a translator. The translator listened and cowered, cowered and listened, then shuffled over to where we were being kept in a tight little knot surrounded by Gorund troopers. The poor soul explained that the Gorunds had scanned our ship's computers and were a little miffed to find that the navigation database had been erased. Unless we restored the database, we would all be killed.

"And if we do restore the database?" Henshaw asked.

"You'll all be killed," the translator replied. "But with less pain."

"Really?" I asked.

"No," the translator admitted. "Actually, it'll hurt just as much."

"They want the location of our colonies. And Earth," I whispered to Henshaw.

"I figured that out, Dex," Henshaw rasped back.

"We can't give it to them, sir."

Henshaw stared at me. "I'm proud of you, Dex. Take one for the human race, eh? Sacrifice ourselves for the greater good. The needs of the many—"

"Actually, I meant we can't give it to them. Murphy toasted the entire navigation system and the backups."

"Oh." Henshaw actually seemed disappointed.

"Don't worry, sir. There's still the opportunity of resisting under torture," Fallon offered.

"Shut up, Fallon," Henshaw said, but his heart wasn't in it.

"They won't need to torture us."

We turned to see who spoke. It was Murphy. He stood there, still looking insignificant and inconsequential, still almost invisible and easy to overlook, but the sadness in those eyes seemed even deeper than ever.

"What do you mean, Murph?" I asked.

"They'll figure it out. Our ship has no FTL drive, and the only colony within range of our fuel is the one ahead of us."

I saw what he was driving at. "They'll know we used a worm hole. And all they'll have to do is back-track along the vector we were on to find the hole."

Henshaw swore. "And once they're through that hole, they're in the middle ring colonies."

"And two jumps away from Earth," I finished.

"Anybody got an idea?" Fallon whispered.

I did. I looked at Murphy, but even though it was just one life in exchange for trillions of human lives everywhere, it still wasn't my life. I couldn't bring myself to say it.

I didn't have to. Murphy met my eyes. And nodded. He drew himself up tall and stepped forward.

"Murphy, where are you going?" Henshaw snapped.

Murphy ignored him. He stopped beside me and put out his hand. "Thanks, Dex. For understanding. For being a friend."

I swallowed. "You sure about this, Murph?"

He smiled. "All my life, I've been searching for a place where I belonged, where I could do some good instead of just messing things up. Looks like I finally found it."

I couldn't think of anything to say, so I just shook his hand and watched as he approached the huge bloated figure of the Gorund commander. And as Murphy walked away from us, suddenly very visible and impossible to overlook, I wondered how I ever could have considered him inconsequential and insignificant.

He stopped in front of the towering alien. "I am Captain Murphy. I can give you what you need."

* * *

Henshaw, Fallon and I stood staring at the image on the view plate. A small dot, insignificant and inconsequential, almost invisible and easily overlooked, moved slowly away from the Restraint towards the Gorund ship.

Murphy's shuttle.

The ship's records, supported by a biometric scan, verified for the Gorunds that Murphy was indeed the captain of the Restraint. The records also showed that he worked in navigation and was the last person to have contact with the navigation computer. Murphy then convinced the Gorunds that as captain he would provide them with the locations of all human colonies. He'd even accompany them on their ship to assist in that navigation. But he'd only do so in exchange for our lives and freedom. We knew that the Gorunds would just destroy the Restraint—and us—once they had what they needed. But they didn't know about Murphy.

Murphy's shuttle was almost at the Gorund ship.

The intercom buzzed. Henshaw answered it. The shrill voice of Mrs. Thorburn filled the bridge, her words incoherent but her tone frantic. Henshaw killed the intercom.

"We could have sent Mrs. Thorburn, too," I said. "To ensure Murphy was at full power, just to be on the safe side."

"Tempting. So tempting," Henshaw mused.

"That ship is the size of Earth's moon," muttered Fallon.

Henshaw nodded. "Just one of their docking bays could swallow Earth's entire fleet."

"And their smallest scout ship is ten times the size of our largest destroyer," I said.

"Each of them carrying a million of their warrior class, any one of whom could take on twenty humans without breaking a sweat. Assuming they sweat," Fallon said.

"Not to mention their weapon technology that can take out entire planets," I added.

Fallon shook her head. "And all we've got is . . ."

"Murphy," I finished.

We watched as Murphy's shuttle disappeared into a docking bay on the Gorund ship, like a tiny fly being swallowed by a huge bloated toad.

I shook my head and sighed. "Those poor slimy bastards don't stand a chance."

* * *

Dex looked at his listeners. "And they didn't, either. We waited there on the bridge, expecting to be blasted to our constituent molecules any second, when suddenly . . ." Dex paused, and the crowd leaned forward.

"BOOM!" Dex said, opening his hands up. "No more Gorund ship. It gave us quite a little blast wave to ride out, but that was the last we saw of the Gorunds." He sighed. "And the last I ever saw of Murphy." Dex looked up. People were sitting quietly, looking thoughtful. Silverstein was wiping his eyes.

Dex raised his glass. "To Murphy."

"To Murphy," they murmured, glasses raised.

They fell silent. Then Stumpy looked up. "Say, Dex. What was Mrs. Thorburn so frantic about, there at the end?"

Dex grinned. "Before leaving, Murphy had paid a visit to the Thorburn's cabin."

Sly raised an eyebrow. "Did he try to do the old bird in?"

Dex shook his head. "Nah, but he got up close and personal with every bit of equipment hooked up to young James. He left the field generator and every bio-monitor a smoking molten slag. Mrs. Thorburn was fit to be tied, but James was free and happier than I imagine he'd ever been in his life."

Dex drained his glass and thumped it down on the table. "Sometimes, folks, it's good to have things go wrong."

* * *

See more of Douglas Smith's work at: www.smithwriter.com

The Big Ice

Written by Jay Lake and Ruth Nestvold
Illustrated by Dean Spencer

"Governor-General's dead."

I glanced up from the disassembled comm-comp I'd been trying to Frankenstein together. The G-G was Core. Unkillable. But Mox didn't look like he was kidding.

"How?"

Mox's expression was more intense than during orgasm. "Field Control says the west face of the Capitol Massif collapsed in a quake. Took most of the palace with it."

A few million tons of rock and masonry trumped even invulnerable immortality. "Shit. Yeah, that might wipe out Core. Wonder what Mad Dog Bay looks like now."

"Scary stuff, Vega."

I rubbed my forehead. "Field got any instructions?"

"Hold position, maintain current activity, refuse all orders not from direct chain of command."

Think, dammit. What was important? Besides the possibility of a House coup, that is—with my brother in the thick of the plotting, no doubt. Murder most foul, if it were true.

"Why should anyone care what we do?" I asked myself as much as Mox.

For the love of inertia, we were planetologists. What we cared about was Hutchinson's World, and most of all, the mystery of the Big Ice. The unusual degree of variation in density and gravity readings. Its challenging thermal characteristics. The stray biologicals deep down where they shouldn't be.

Mostly those freaky biologicals, truth be told.

We were neither armed nor dangerous. Our station had a tranq gun, for large, warm-blooded emergencies, but there wasn't much we could do out here on the ass end of nowhere about a succession crisis back in Hainan Landing. There wasn't anything interesting about us—except me.

Mox gave me a look I couldn't interpret. "You tell me."

* * *

Core ruled.

It was the way of things, had been for centuries. Core was jealous of their history, told one set of lies to schoolkids, another to those who thought they needed to know more. I'd never believed that they were the result of progressive genengineering in the twenty-first century. Smart money in biology circles was split—very quietly split over home brew in the lab on Saturday night—between a benevolent alien invasion and something ancient and military gone terribly wrong.

Some would say terribly right.

Core didn't rule badly.

They took what they wanted, what they needed, but on planets like our own lovely little Hutchinson's World, Core was spread so thin as not to matter. Economy, law, society, it all lurched on in an ordinary way for ordinary people. I had a job, one that I mostly liked, that kept me out of trouble. So far, Core hadn't done so badly by the human race, driving us to 378 colony worlds the last time I saw a number.

Core believed in nothing if not survival. I wondered how someone had managed to drop a palace and half a mountain on the Governor-General without his noticing the plot in progress.

* * *

"You still finding those protein traces in the deep samples?" Mox asked. He was back to biology, using one of our assay stations, distracting himself from disaster with local genetics. My instrument package on the number one probe was down in the Big Ice around the four-hundred-meter layer, digesting its way through Hutchinson's specialized climatological history.

I didn't need to look at the readouts. "Yup." It was slightly distressing. There shouldn't be genetic material hanging around in detectable quantities that far below the surface. The cold-foxes and white-bugs and everything else that lived on the Big Ice lived on the Big Ice.

It was also distressing not knowing what was happening back in Hainan Landing—but not as much to me as it obviously was to Mox. He kept glancing at the comm station, his features tense. Mox and I lived and worked in a shack high up on Mount Spivey, almost two thousand meters above the Big Ice's cloud tops.

Far enough away from politics, I had thought.

He gave me a long stare. "Anything else I need to know?"

I looked away. "Nope."

The Big Ice was a bowl, a remnant impact crater from a planetoid strike so vast that it was difficult to understand how Hutchinson's crust had held together under the collision. Which arguably it hadn't—the Crazydance Range, more or less antipodal to the Big Ice, was one of the most chaotic crustal formations on any human-habitable world, with peaks over twenty thousand meters above the datum plane.

The bowl of the Big Ice was over a thousand kilometers across, thousands of meters deep, and filled with ice—by some estimates over 10 million cubic kilometers. A significant percentage of the planet's freshwater supply was locked up here. The Big Ice had its own weather, a perpetual rotating blizzard driven by warm air flowing over the southern arc of the encircling range that rose to form the ragged rim of the bowl. The storm rarely managed to spill back out, capping an ecosystem sufficiently extreme by the standards of the rest of the planet to keep a bevy of theorists busy trying to figure out who or what had ridden in on top of the original strike to seed the variant life-forms.

From our vantage point, it was like looking down on the frozen eye of a god.

Our instruments were in a cluster of military-grade shacks just above the high point of the ice-tides, deep inside that storm. We made the trip down there as rarely as possible, of course, though making that trip is something every adventure junkie ought to do once in their life. That long, cold, frightening journey into the depths was the main reason why we were on the Ice instead of lurking in some remote telemetry lab back in Hainan Landing. Every now and then, someone had to climb down and kick the equipment.

And deep beneath the surface of the Big Ice, below that cap of raging storm, was genetic material that had no business being there.

* * *

I started awake to find my sometime-lover staring at me. "Planck on a half shell, Mox! You scared the shit out of me." I stifled a yawn, my mouth still filled with sleep.

His expression was the attempt at unreadable I had begun to fear. "Field Control called back in."

"Looking for us, or just delivering another bulletin?"

"Us. Asked for someone named Alicia Hokusai McMurty Vega, cadet of the House of Powys. Took me a minute to figure they meant you."

I gazed at him a moment, rubbing my short-cropped hair and trying to wake up the rest of the way. Had I just been dreaming that he'd figured out who I was?

It didn't matter now. My cover was shot, no matter who had dredged up my full name. "What did they want?"

"Seems your presence is desired in Hainan Landing." He leaned forward. "Are you going to tell me who you are, Vega?"

I wasn't sure if I could. The identity he wanted from me now was one I had rejected long ago.

Maybe I could save this friendship. "When did we first meet?"

"Over six years ago," Mox replied promptly. He'd been thinking about it.

My gut turned over with something that felt like regret. "And we've been out here more than five months alone, right? I'm still Vega Hokusai, just like I've been all these years. Still a planetologist."

He locked his hands behind his back—I had the impression that he was making an effort not to touch me. Which had its own novelty; our relationship had never been characterized by impulsive, passionate embraces.

"And a cadet of the House of Powys," he pressed out.

I should have known I couldn't escape it. "We all come from somewhere. It's not who I am now."

"It's who they're asking for, back in the capital."

"Screw them." I was surprised to find I meant it.

And screw my brother, too. This would be his doing.

* * *

A cadet of House Powys. To graduate, to leave House training, someone had to die. A real death, irrevocable, not the strange half-life they could and did place us in for decades on end. One cadet had to kill another. Secretly. Plots shifted and revolved for years.

That was how House cadets discussed things. One death at a time.

* * *

When next Mox approached me with That Look, I was deep in protein analysis. Hutchinson's native gene structure was pretty well understood, though we still couldn't reverse-engineer an organism just by scanning like we could with terrestrial genes. Didn't have centuries of experience and databases, for one. It was still a small miracle how stable the underlying gene model was across planetary ecosystems: kept the panspermists going.

Either way, I didn't know what I had yet, but it was interesting—no matches in our planetary databases. Not even close.

"Vega?" His voice was low and tense.

"Uh-huh?"

"Can't we talk about this House stuff?"

I flipped off the virteo-visualizer and turned to face him. "Not much to say."

He looked up from the tranq gun he was polishing. Which didn't need the maintenance. "What are you doing out here?"

I wanted to laugh. "Mox, it's the Big Ice. I'm studying it, same as you. You think I'm out here plotting revolution? Against what? The cold-foxes?"

He shifted on his feet and stopped polishing the gun. "Got another call. I'm supposed to arrest you."

Ah, Core asserting itself against whatever House effort my brother Henri was running in light of the G-G's death. Or Henri calling me in through channels, over clear?

Either way, it didn't look good for me.

I couldn't take Mox's hand now—he felt betrayed, and he would think it calculating. Which maybe it was.

I shook my head. "I may have been raised by wolves, but I really am a planetologist. Six years you've known me, you've seen enough damn papers and reports from me. Am I faking this?" I taped the virteo-visualizer.

"No . . . you're good at archaeogenetics, and you've got a decent handle on climate as well."

"And anyway, when would I have had time to run a revolution? Against Core, for the love of Inertia."

"I don't know, Vega."

He really was considering it. Perhaps our relationship had been more convenience than anything else, but still . . . this was Mox. I hadn't killed anyone since I left House, but my training—my programming—wouldn't allow me to let him do me in either.

I swallowed. "Mox, put down the gun."

He set the tranq pistol on the workbench, and I let out a breath I hadn't known I'd been holding.

I favored him with a smile accompanied by a high dose of pheromones. If I'd had a choice, I wouldn't have resorted to the manipulation, but autonomous survival routines were kicking in. "Thanks."

There was no answering smile on his face. "Now tell me why they want you in Hainan Landing."

"I truly don't know. But I'm not going back if I have any say in the matter." I'd made my peace with Core, thought I'd seen the last of my House progenitors. I wanted no more of Henri and Powys House, no more of Core and plots and power. The Big Ice and the mysteries of Hutchinson's were my life now.

What if they threw a revolution and nobody came?

Mox glanced at the tranq pistol. "You're House. Doesn't that mean you're like another version of Core?"

I shrugged. "We're not immortal, if that's what you mean. You've known me six years. Noticed the gray hairs?"

His gaze shifted from the pistol back to my eyes. "A superwoman." It was almost a whisper.

Unfortunately, he was very nearly right, but I didn't want to go there. "Seen me fly lately?" I asked dryly.

Then number one's telemetry alarms started going off. We both spun to workstations, bringing up virteo-visualizers to an array of instrumentation.

Something was eating the number one probe. Four hundred meters below the Big Ice.

A text window popped up in my virt environment as I tried to make sense of the bizarre thermal imaging. So low-tech.

Coming for you. Be ready. Henri.

Situation alarms flared on the station monitor at the deep edge of the virteo.

* * *

Core made enemies. They controlled all interstellar travel, most of the planetary economies, the heavy weapons, and they couldn't be killed. Usually.

But for the revolutionary on a busy schedule, even cliffs can be defeated in time, by wind and rain, by frost, by tree roots, by high explosives.

The Houses were rain on the cliff face that was Core. Long-term projects established by very patient people, well hidden—some on the fringes of society, some within the busiest bourses in human space.

Certain Houses, Powys for one, raised their children in crèches as seeds to be planted, investments in the future. I was one seed, left to grow in comfort as a planetologist. My brother Henri was another, raised as a revolutionary, just to see what would happen to him.

Seeds are expendable. Houses are built to last.

* * *

Whatever was savaging our number one Big Ice probe, all we could tell about it was that it wasn't biological. Thinking about that gave me a bad case of the fantods.

Satellite warfare was going on overhead, judging from the dropouts in the comm grid and exoatmospheric energy pinging our detectors. Planetary Survey, ever thrifty, had put neutrino and boson arrays on top of our shack for correlative data collection in this conveniently remote location—and those arrays were shrieking bloody murder.

I figured I had an hour tops before Henri got here, with a couple House boys or girls in case I got fussy. Henri was a Political. I was . . . something else. Something Henri needed?

What was a good House soldier to do?

I turned to Mox. "I'm going down to the Big Ice and try to rescue our probe."

He froze. "Four hundred meters deep? Planck's ghost, Vega, you can't get that far under the ice! Even if you did, you'd never make it back."

I didn't know what to say, so I didn't say anything.

We were only sometime-lovers, but still I could see the exact moment he realized. "You don't intend to come back."

I shook my head. "My cover's blown. I may as well try to rescue the probe on my way out."

Mox looked away, no longer willing to meet my eyes. "So what can I expect?"

"House for sure. Probably Core, too, following after."

"Shit."

"Play stupid. Don't mention Powys House, don't say anything about anything. Tell them I went down on a repair mission."

"And if they come after you?"

The decision made, I was already up and pulling gear out of the locker. "The Big Ice is dangerous. They have to fly through that frozen hurricane, handle the surface conditions, and find my happy ass. Accidents happen."

"Vega . . ."

I looked up. Mox had that intense look again, the one I had only seen in bed up till now, but he wiped it off his face before I could get up the courage to respond. House gave its seeds all kinds of powers, but bonus emotional strength wasn't one of them.

"Yeah?" I finally choked out.

"Good luck."

"You, too, Mox."

"I hope you make it."

"Thanks. So do I."

Moments later, I was outside. Day's last golden glare faded behind the western peaks. Colored lights glowed in the sky, orbital combat (coming for me?) mirrored by hundred-kilometer-wide spirals of lightning in the permanent storm of the Big Ice, glowering dark gray fifteen hundred meters below. I could smell ionization even up on Mount Spivey. Thirty-five hundred meters above the datum plane, the air gets thin, and the weather can be pretty shitty by any standards other than those of the Big Ice.

It was glorious.

Our base shack was on a wide ledge, maybe sixty meters deep and four hundred long. Nothing grew on the bare cliff except lichens and us. Power cells and some other low-access equipment had been sunk in holes driven into the rock, but otherwise the little camp spread across the ledge like an old junkyard, anchored against wind and weather. I glanced at the landing pad, but there was nothing I could do about anyone who might arrive and threaten Mox.

On the other side of the landing pad was the headworks of the tramway running down to our equipment shacks Ice-side. It was a skeletal cage on a series of cables, quite a ride on the descent. Unfortunately, the ascent required hours of painful winching, unless you wanted to climb the ladder that had been hacked and bolted into place by the original convict work crew.

I didn't have time for the tram today. I snapped out the buckyfiber wings I'd brought with me months ago and stashed against a day such as this.

Big, black, far less delicate than they looked, they could have been taken from a bat the size of a horse. There were neurochannels in my scapulae that coupled to the control blocks in the wings, wired through diamond-reinforced bone sockets meant to accept the mounting pintles. Once I fitted them on, they would be part of my body.

My gear safely stowed in a harness across my chest and waist, I opened my fatigues to bare the skin of my back. The wings, tugging at the wind already, slid on like a welcome pair of extra hands. The cold wind on my skin was a tonic, a welcome shock, electricity for batteries I'd long neglected.

I stared down into the vast hole that was the Big Ice, the crackling lightning of the storm beckoning me. I spread my wings and leapt from the icy ledge into the open spaces of the air.

* * *

One theory about the Big Ice was that it was an artificial construct. The thermal characteristics required to drive such a vast and active sea of ice had proven extremely difficult to model. Planetary energy and thermal budgets are notoriously challenging to characterize accurately one of the greatest problem sets in computational philosophy, but the Big Ice set new standards.

So fine, said the fringe. Maybe it was a directed impact all those megayears ago. Maybe something's still down there, some giant thermal reactor from a Type II or Type III civilization come out of the galactic core on an errand that ended up badly here on Hutchinson's World.

Yeah, and cold-foxes might pick up paintbrushes and render the Mona Lisa.

But there were those nagging questions . . . all a person really had to do was stand on the rim wall somewhere and look down. Then they would understand that the universe has impenetrable secrets.

* * *

Flight is the ultimate high. The wind slid across my skin with lover's hands, and the muscles in my chest stretched as my back pulled taut. I could see the crosscurrents, the play of gravity and lift and pressure combining in the endless sea of air to make the sky road. A hurricane bound solid and slow in crackling ice, but no less deadly, or frightening, than its cloud-borne cousins over the open sea.

Below me, the lidless, frosty eye of the world beckoned.

I spilled air, leaning into a broad, circling descent that gave me a good view of the blizzard's topography. Even by the light of the early evening, the core of the storm was foggy, a cataract in the eye, but the winds there would be very low. The lightning on the spiraling arms of the storm bespoke the violence of the night.

Fine—I would ride the hard winds. I continued with my wide curves, circling a few kilometers away from the cliff face that hosted our shack and Mox. I hoped he would be okay, play it easy and slow, a bit stupid. Neither Core nor House would care anything for him.

And hopefully he would forgive me someday for keeping things from him.

With that thought, I expelled the last of the air from my lungs and accelerated my descent.

* * *

A few hundred meters above the clouds, my sky-surfing was interrupted by a coruscating bolt of violet lightning.

From above the storm.

"Inertia," I hissed as I snap-rolled into the crackling ionization trail from the shot, a near miss from an energy lance. With a quick scan of the sky above me, I saw a pair of black smears shooting by. Interceptors, from Hainan Landing, running on low-viz. Somebody wasn't waiting for me to come in.

Gravity and damnation: I didn't have anything that would knock down one of those puppies. I slipped into another series of rolls. None of their targeting systems would lock on me—not enough metal or EM, and I was moving too slow for their offensive envelope—so it was straight-line shots the old-fashioned way, with eyeball, Mark I, and a finger on the red button.

The human eye I could fool, and then some.

They circled over the storm and made another pass toward me. I kept spinning and rolling, bouncing around like a rivet in a centrifuge. Think like a pilot, Vega. I spilled air and dropped straight down just before both lances erupted. The beams crossed above me, crackling loud enough to be heard over the roar of the storm below.

It took some hard pulling to grab air out of my tumble. I regained control just above the top of the storm, a close, gray landscape of thousands of voids and valleys, glowing in the light of the rising moon. It was eerily quiet, just above the roil of the clouds. The background roar I felt more in my bones than heard with my ears, like a color washing the world; the detail noises were gone—all the little crackles and hisses and birdcalls that fill a normal night. The only other sound was the periodic body-numbing sizzle of lightning bolts circling between cloud masses within the storm.

I had no electronics except the silicon stuffed inside my head. If I got hit hard enough to fry that, there wasn't going to be much future for me anyway. But those clowns on my trail had a lot more to lose from Mother Nature's light show than I did. So I cut a wide spiral, feinting and looping as I went, trying to draw them down closer to the clouds. They came after me, in long circles nearly as slow as their airspeed would allow, the two interceptors snapping off shots where they could.

It was a game of cat and bird. When would they fire? When should I weave instead of bob? I'd already surrendered almost all my altitude advantage. I didn't want to drop into the storm winds until I was close to my target, not if I could help it. My greatest problem was that I was muscle-powered. I couldn't keep this up nearly as long as my attackers could.

Then one of them got smart, goosed up a few hundred meters for a diving shot.

Gotcha. I rolled slow to give him a sweet target.

My clothes caught fire from the proximity of the energy lance's bolt. I twisted away, relying on the flames to take care of themselves in a moment, praying for my knowledge of the storm to pan out.

It did. Multiple terawatts of lightning clawed upward out of the clouds, completing the circuit opened by the energy lance's ionization trail. My bogey took enough juice to fry his low-viz shields and probably shut down every soft system he had. Regardless of its ground state, there's only so much energy an airframe can handle. Number one clown might not be toast, but he had too much jam sticking to him to be chasing me anymore.

Number two got smart and dropped below me, skimming in and out of the cloud tops. I guess he figured on there not being much more air traffic here tonight. I watched him circle, angling for an upward shot. Angling to draw the lightning to me.

Time for the clouds, Vega.

I folded my buckyfiber and dropped away from violent death, a bullet on the wing.

* * *

The storm was hell. Two-hundred-kilometer winds. Hail bigger than grapes. Sparks crackling off my wingtips, off my fingers, off my toes.

I loved it.

I had no idea where number two interceptor was, but he couldn't have any better idea where I was, so I figured that made us even. Neither House nor Core was going to find me down here. And to hell with the Governor-Generalship.

I was still a hundred kilometers or more from the probe, my real reason for being here. In the storm, I could steer—a little—and ride the winds—a lot. But it was like being inside a giant fist.

The training of my childhood came back to me, hard years in dark caves and abroad on moonless nights, initiating trickle mode. I could breathe as little as once every ten to twelve minutes when my blood was ramped up. The tensile strength of my skin rose past that of steel, shattering the ice balls when they hit me.

There's a beauty to everything in these worlds. A spray of blood on a bulkhead can be more delicate, ornate, than the finest hamph-ivory fan from Vlach. A shattered bone in the forest tells a history of the death of a deer, the future of patient beetles, and reflects the afternoon sun bright as any pearl. Take the symmetry in the worn knurl on an oxygen valve, the machined regularity of its manufacture compromised by the scars of life until the metal is a little sculpture of a tired heaven for sinning souls.

But a storm . . . oh, a storm.

Clouds tower, airy palaces for elemental forces. During the day, the colors deepen into a bruise upon the sky, and now, at night, they create the only color there is in the dark. The air reeks of electricity and water. Thunder rumbles with a sound so big I feel it in my bones. The blue flashes amidst the rainy dark could call spirits from the deep of the Big Ice to dance on the freezing winds.

I flew through that beauty, fleeing my pursuer, racing toward whatever was consuming our number one probe.

* * *

The Houses aren't places, any more than Core is. They're more like ideas with money and weapons. Maybe political parties.

Powys House, as constituted on Hutchinson's World, was spread through several wings of the Governor-General's Palace of late lament. I had grown up occasionally visible as a page in the G-G's service. Between surgeries, training time, and long, dark hours in the caves of Capitol Massif.

Core is everywhere and nowhere. The Houses are nowhere and everywhere. Some believe there is no difference between Core and House, others that worlds separate us.

I spent my childhood falling, flying, being made both more and less than human.

I spent my childhood training for a day such as this.

* * *

Down below the cloud deck, I traded the storm's beauty for the storm's punishment. Here there was nothing but flying fog, freezing rain, ice, and wind—wind everywhere. It was brutally cold, frigid enough to stress even my enhanced thermal-management capabilities.

Screw you, Core. If that other bastard behind me made it to the Big Ice in one piece, I would give him a cold grave.

Then a gust hit me, a crosswind powerful enough to flip me with a crack of my wing spar and drive me down on to the Big Ice headfirst. I barely had time to get my arms up before I plowed through a crusted snow dune into a frigid, scraping hell.

"Damn," I mumbled through a mouthful of ice. That wasn't supposed to happen, not with these wings. The neurochannel control blocks screamed agony where the connections had ripped free on impact. I shut them down and began the wiggling, painful process of extracting myself. After a couple of minutes, I pulled free to see a pair of ice-foxes watching me.

"No food today," I said cheerfully over the howling wind, for all the good it would do me. Ice-foxes are long-bodied, scaled scavengers—and deaf. They eat mostly white-bugs, lichen, and each other; but at forty kilos per, they could be troublesome.

Something changed in the tone of the wind, and I looked up in time to see the second interceptor roar by overhead, shaking on the wings of the storm. The ice-foxes vanished into the snow.

The Big Ice is shaped more like a desert than an ocean of ice, with dunes, banks, and troughs formed in response to the permanent storm. There are some density variations, relating mostly to aeration of the ice formations, but also trace minerals and pressure factors. The surface even has features mimicking normal geology—outcroppings, cliffs, crevasses. The difference is that geology sticks around for a while. The Big Ice . . . well, it has tectonics, but at human speeds rather than planetary.

Which for us mostly meant there'd never been much point in making or keeping maps. Every day was an adventure, down in the pit of the storm.

I was within a few kilometers of my instrument package's tunnels. The entrances would be filled with snow, possibly blocked by falls, but as long as at least one was open, I was in business.

I wasn't here only to avoid Core or whoever was after me—I hadn't lied to Mox when I told him I was a planetologist. The mystery of the Big Ice fascinated me, belonged to me, was mine to decipher and share, so much more important to me than Powys House and politics and Core. My brother would never understand.

And then I was sliding and struggling for footing against the wind, vehemently cursing what fascinated me.

* * *

The tunnel was a surprise when I found it. The number one probe had trundled across the Big Ice to this point, though its tracks had long been erased by wind and storm. As its entry point, it had chosen a solid cliff facing leeward, the closest thing on that particular stretch of the Big Ice to a permanent feature. The ice had preserved a tunnel like a black maw in the pale darkness.

I experienced a sudden shiver that had nothing to do with the temperature. At least I'd be out of the wind.

To access the tunnel, I had to get down on my hands and knees. It was almost like slithering, making me wish House had given me some genetic material from ice-worms. The tunnel was shaped in the slightly off-center ovoid cross section of the number one probe's body, the ice had melted, then injected into the walls to refreeze in denser spikes that served to reinforce the tunnel. Half-crawling, I had some clearance for my back, though not much. Were I to lie flat, I would barely have enough room to operate a handheld. Otherwise, it was a coffin of ice.

Hopefully I could prove deadlier than whatever might actually be inside the Big Ice.

To see, I had to use low-wave bioflare. It hurt my planetologist's soul, but I didn't want to be surprised by anything before finding the probe.

It was damned cold in the tunnels. My thermal management was keeping up, mostly due to the blessed lack of wind beyond a slight updraft from below, probably stimulated by some version of the Bernoulli effect at the tunnel mouth.

And if I had been merely human, the cold and the dark probably would have slain me with despair and hypothermia.

* * *

Stray voltage and a faint trace of machine oil led me to the probe. I approached cautiously, not sure what awaited me, what had sabotaged the probe.

In all the history of Core and House and humanity as a whole, no one had ever found an alien machine. There were worlds that showed distinct signs of having been mined, or worked for transportation routes and widened harbors. But never so much as a rivet or a scrap of metal to be found: no machines, no artifacts.

And so we scoured the odd places for odd genetic signatures. Though as the centuries of Core raveled onward, it had become increasingly clear that the oddest genes were in our own cells.

Finally I found the number one probe, quiescent but not dead, and no evidence of what had savaged it.

The probe was vaguely potato-shaped, a meter-and-a-half wide by a meter tall in cross section and three meters long, with a rough surface studded with the bypass injectors that had created the tunnel. From the rear, it looked normal. No sign of the attacker. Just me and the probe, four hundred meters below the Big Ice.

Had our telemetry been spoofed? The trick was as old as Tesla's ghost, but the probe was stopped. That was more than spoofed telemetry.

I shut down, slipping into passive recon mode. Black. Dampened my EM signatures, turned off my thermal management. Nothing but me and my ears on all their glorious frequencies.

The Big Ice groaned and cracked, settling into the rotation of the planet, the stresses of the crustal formations around and beneath it, breathing, a frigid monster half the size of a continent.

But there was something beyond that.

The gentle slide of crystals on crystals as the walls of the tunnel sublimated.

The distant echo of the storm.

A very faint click as something metallic sought thermal equilibrium with its surroundings.

And out of that near silence, a voice.

"Good-bye, Alicia." My brother Henri.

As fast as I was, he was faster. I was buried in tons of the Big Ice almost before I could even finish the thought: sororicide.

* * *

"House cadets are typically killed in their twelfth or thirteenth year of life. Appropriate measures are taken to preserve the brain stem and other structures critical to identity maintenance and retention of their extensive training. They are then left in a state of terminality until new training is called for. This process is considered critical to the development of their character, and since the dead know no flow of time, their thanatic interruption is not experienced by them as such. Some House cadets have waited centuries to be revived."

House: A Secret History in Fiction, (author unknown), quoted by Fyram Palatine in A Study of Banned Texts and Their Consequences, Fremont Press, Langhorne-Clemens IIa.

* * *

I found myself, reduced in cognitive ability, packed in loose snow.

Which meant I wasn't embedded in ice.

I have cavitation-fusion reactors within the buckyplastic honeycomb of my long bones. This means, given any meaningful thermal gradient at all, I will have energy. Even for exceedingly small values of thermal gradient. Such as being adjacent to a three-meter mass of plastic and metal, deep below an ice cap.

And given energy, the bodies of House, like the bodies of Core, will seek life. Repeatedly.

But if I was no longer buried in the ice, how long had I been here? My internal clock refused to answer.

Inertia.

I hadn't reached this state overnight. A cold stole over me that had nothing to do with the Big Ice. I could have been down here for months. Years even.

Then I realized I could hear the wind, close, which meant I was just below the surface. I had some muscle strength, so I pushed toward the noise. And if I heard noise, I had ears.

Above the rushing sound of the wind came some kind of long, drawn-out wail, not natural. With the part of my brain which was re-forming, I identified it as a siren.

Warning? Or call?

With my internal clock nonfunctional, I had no idea how long it took me to emerge from the snow, but eventually I did, body changing with my progress. There I found I could see.

I was at the base of a shallow hill—the cliff where the probe had tunneled? Worn by time and wind? How long had I been beneath the Big Ice?

The siren wailed once again above the white expanses, and I followed it, climbing frozen wastelands.

With hands that weren't human.

I stopped, staring at the thing that had once been a palm with fingers. Now it was a claw, the skin a blue-fired tracery of webbing no human genome had ever produced. I had regrown myself from the stray organics down beneath the Big Ice.

The mysterious archaeogenes were within me.

And then another sound, a shot, followed by pain and a giant roar that wrenched itself out of my gut.

Mox stood above me, tranq gun poised, his expression bordering on terror.

I felt a surge, a burn of some strange emotion, retaliation, vengeance, but I fought it back, allowing the tranquilizers to work, staring at Mox, willing him to understand.

How could I make him realize that the monster in front of him was me?

* * *

I came to in a room in our shack, my hands and feet tied with rudimentary restraints I knew wouldn't hold. Mox sat across from me, tranq gun across his lap, still looking scared and dazed.

Some primal impulse wanted to break my bonds and him, too, for trying to restrain me; but the part of me that had once been human was able to retain the upper hand.

I tried to speak, but all that emerged was something resembling a roar. Mox started up, gun trained on me.

I tried again. This time at least it was recognizable as speech.

"Planck on a half shell, Mox. Put down the gun." It was my quietest voice, but it reverberated off the walls of the little shack.

Mox winced and dropped the tranq gun. "Vega?"

I nodded; the less I spoke, the better.

"What happened to you?"

I shrugged. "The archaeogenes."

"But how?"

"House."

House was hard to kill. I had metabolized ice.

Mox nodded. He'd seen the data on the stray biologicals, too, and he thought I was a superwoman. He accepted it. He believed me.

The beast in me quieted.

"Now what?" he asked.

"Take me to Hainan Landing."

* * *

It had been over a year since my disappearance, and my brother Henri was now G-G. Core.

Unkillable?

"I did my research after you disappeared," Mox said. "Killing siblings is regarded as necessary to advancement among your kind."

"I was no competition," I roared. I wished there were something I could do about my beastly voice.

Mox winced, shaking his head. "Even if you assumed you'd taken yourself out of the running, he didn't assume that."

I don't know how I thought I could ever get away from House politics.

Since Mox had originally been ordered to bring me in before I went to find the probe, we decided that was what he would do—arrest me and take me to Henri. That would be the simplest way to get me to a place where I could confront my brother. There was a surge of that emotion again, the one I associated with the beast, a cross between anger and a powerful sense of ritual, like I imagined formal vengeance might once have felt.

Of course, the risk was that he would kill me on sight, but I was willing to take it. Besides, knowing Henri, he'd be curious to find out how I survived.

He would want to see me.

The transporter was a tight fit—it was made for two humans, and I had become very much bulkier.

As we flew over Hainan Landing, I inspected the changes. Capitol Massif was a mountain of rubble spilling into what was left of Mad Dog Bay. The city itself didn't look much different, its white low-rises spread like ancient pyramids among an emerald jungle topped with birds and flowers, bucolic existence beneath the gentle, guiding hand of Core. Flatboats and pontoon villages still graced the waterfront—surely new since Capitol Massif had collapsed. That must have been quite a tsunami.

But not caused by an earthquake, I was certain of that now. Until I saw the city, it had still seemed possible that Henri had capitalized on a natural occurrence to further his ambitions.

Only too much of Hainan Landing was still standing.

Interceptors filed into formation with our transporter and accompanied us to the landing pad of what I presumed was the new palace, on the other side of Mad Dog Bay from the remnants of Capitol Massif and in a geologically stable location. A squad of heavy infantry was waiting when we stepped out of the vehicle, me with my clawed hands bound behind my back for verisimilitude. They formed up around us and led us through hallways even more convoluted than those I remembered from childhood.

Perhaps House really could become Core.

Then the hallways gave way to a huge audience chamber, paneled in mirrors to make it seem even bigger, and I was confronted by image upon image of what I had become—huge, ungainly, webbed, blue. Inhuman. Ugly as sin and more dangerous. How had Mox been able to converse with me as Vega? Look into my eyes and see the woman who had once been his lover? The sight of me scared even me.

But then there was my brother, standing at the end of the large room, hands locked behind his back, his stance mirroring my own bound wrists. Except that he still had the deliberately chiseled features of House: a look determined to provoke admiration, a look calculated to command. While I was something Other.

Beauty and the Beast.

Henri looked from Mox to me and back again. "This is supposed to be my sister?" he asked, one finely sculpted eyebrow raised for effect.

"Henri!" I roared before Mox had a chance to answer. My voice shattered the mirrors lining the hall and made my brother finally look at me seriously.

Henri shook his head. "This does not look like Alicia to me. Your humor is in poor taste."

The sense of formal vengeance surged, and I growled, causing everyone, including Mox, to step back.

Mox caught himself first. "Just talk to her."

"This could not have once been a human being."

"I think she reconstructed herself out of the archaeogenes in the Big Ice."

"But what is there in this—thing—to make you think it's her?"

"Planck on a half shell!" I bellowed, tired of being ignored. "Henri! Why?" It was all I could do to keep from breaking my bonds and tearing my ostensible brother to shreds.

Henri winced with everyone else in the hall at the sound of my voice, but now he was looking at me rather than Mox, accepting my transformation, recognizing me by my words if not my voice or my appearance. The calculating smile of House began to curl his lips.

No, not House. Core.

"Politics," Henri said, as if that explained everything. Which, of course, in terms of Core it did. "You were supposed to stay dead down there."

"Well, I'm back now," I said. More glass exploded. Was my voice growing bigger, or only my anger?

Henri actually laughed. "Yes, but bound."

This time I couldn't control the surge of emotion, and I snapped the buckyplastic bonds as if they were twine. Half a dozen guards stormed me, but I reached out one long, clawed arm and slapped them away, surprised at my own power. One guard began to rise, his weapon trained on me, but I broke his back and left him howling on the marble floor. I would have broken more, but then I saw the way Mox was looking at me, his expression even more horrified than the first time he had seen me.

"Halt!" Henri cried out, uselessly; by this time, no one was moving except the screaming soldier.

He approached me and stopped, facing me at arm's length. "As you look to be quite difficult to kill, sister, I have a proposal to make."

I could slay him before anyone shot me, I knew it—arm's length was not nearly distance enough for his safety. The being I had become calculated the speed and distance and moves without even thinking, and I kept this form's inherent need for formal vengeance in check only through the greatest effort.

And the awareness in my peripheral vision that three of the soldiers still standing had moved closer to Mox, weapons ready.

I had not moved my head, but I saw somehow that Henri was cognizant of my assessment of the situation, knowing in the same way that I knew exactly how to break his neck.

"Proposal?" I echoed.

Henri smiled, sure of himself—Core. "I could use a creature like you at my side, you know. You would make a fearsome bodyguard. And you are no threat to my ambitions now . . . like this."

Like this. A monster, no longer House. What I had always wanted—but not like this.

"I might kill you," I bellowed.

He shook his head. "No. Because you, too, are Core. Sister."

"I'm not Core."

His smile grew even wider. "What then?"

Yes, what? A killing machine, obviously. And I could kill my brother—who, after all, had killed me first—kill him, and free Hutchinson's World of Core.

Two aides hurried in and loaded the wounded guard onto a stretcher. The man's screams faded to whimpers as they hauled him away.

In the moment of departure, I could scent everyone. The wounded man's blood and pain and bodily fluids, Henri's brittle confidence, and fear everywhere. They were all scared—Mox, the guards, even Henri. Everyone was scared of the beast I had become.

What was underneath the Big Ice? What was so dreadful, so powerful, it had to be buried in such a huge grave?

Me. Something like me.

Did it have a conscience? Did I have a conscience?

I turned that thought over in my head. I was big, powerful, House-trained, angry—and back from the dead. I could challenge Henri here and now on his own ground. Somewhere inside me, that sense of formal vengeance stirred again. Some actions were fitting.

I gave that thought long consideration. Slow as the Big Ice, I turned it around and around. Some actions were fitting, but some actions were not.

Perhaps Core was not such a bad thing after all. And, as Henri had pointed out, if House Powys had become Core on this planet, then I, too, was Core—albeit monstrous Core now. But Core or not, I couldn't stay here, where I would likely kill anyone who crossed me. I could be better than whatever the Big Ice's archaeogenes had made me, better than what House had made me.

I could be better than my brother. I could be more than the sum of my biology. I did not have to accept his offer.

"I will not be your bodyguard."

My brother's smile disappeared. "Then I will have to kill you again, you know."

That he might. But what choice did I have? And how successful would he be this time? I looked at Mox, whose fear of me seemed to have fled. He held my gaze a long moment, and I imagined I saw some flicker of our old companionship.

Mox understood. And for his sake, I had to go.

I glanced once more at Henri. "I am not Core, and I never will be. Dead or alive, that will not change." I turned, expecting energy lances in my back.

Henri surprised me. None came.

I walked through the shards of shattered mirrors and down the long corridors and out of the New Palace, walked down to Mad Dog Bay and into it, walked beneath the waters and across the face of the land for days until I got home to the Big Ice.

Broad, deep, a world within a world. My place now. My family, my House. My Core. Perhaps if I dug deep enough, I could find a new brother.

* * *

[Jay Lake is the author of several novels.

See more of Ruth Nestvold's work at: www.ruthnestvold.com.

The Nature of Things

Written by Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff
Illustrated by Emily Tolson

"Can someone explain to me what a box labeled 'cookware' is doing in the upstairs guest bath?"

Harry Ferguson looked up from the laptop perched atop the kitchen table to see his wife, Marilyn, standing in the kitchen archway rooting in her purse for her keys.

Across the table from Harry, his teenaged daughter, Kim, looked up from her last bite of Rice Krispies. "I didn't do it."

"Don't look at me." Her younger brother, Scott, had already deposited his dishes in the sink.

"Gosh," said Marilyn, still rooting. "Must've been those darned cookware fairies. Harry, honey, if you could move it back down . . . Oh, here they are." Marilyn produced her car keys with a flourish. "I'm off. In the car, kids."

Scott was already out the door with the delicate patter of size eleven sneakers. His sister followed at a more decorous pace.

"Sure you'll be okay here with Megan?" Marilyn asked Harry. "What if you have to go to the office?"

"I'll just take Meg with me. Gwen loves her."

"Hm. How does the DA feel about it?"

"He'll love anything that contributes to the prosecution of a case, even if it involves a five-year-old in the law library. He might even hire her. After all, she knows everything."

Marilyn laughed and kissed his cheek. "Good luck."

Good luck. He'd need it, he mused over his coffee. It was a bad time to have moved into a new house, but moving was always a pain in the wazoo, and the real-estate market did not obey human whim.

Which made his personal and professional life a matched set; the case he was working on was equally disobedient. They had a body—Marcellus Boite, owner of a downtown gun shop. They had a suspect—Ernest Combs, a small time embezzler Boite had the misfortune to hire. They had a motive—Boite had recently reported to the police that some inventory was missing. They had opportunity—Combs had no alibi for the time of his employer's death. They had suspicious behavior—confronted with a police presence, Combs fled, though he claimed an emergency at home.

What they did not have was a murder weapon.

Boite had died of a single .38 caliber bullet to the head, but no gun had been found during the search of Combs' home and car, and no record existed that he had ever owned one. Till now, he'd been a "numbers" man—mangling accounts not people; his thefts had been confined to the virtual world. His fingerprints were everywhere at the crime scene, but then he worked there. The only place they mattered was on the conspicuously absent murder weapon.

Harry grimaced at the taste of his coffee and went to the fridge for milk. The carton was empty.

"Damn." He was in the act of putting the carton back when he caught himself and sheepishly threw it in the trash.

Returning to his makeshift laptop, he read Combs' criminal record again, slowly. A tiny sound from the foyer made him glance up expecting to see Meg. The words "How're you feeling, sweetie" stalled on his lips when he realized there was no one there.

"Winslow, leave the ficus alone!"

There was a rustle of foliage and the soft thump of little cat feet. Harry went back to the futile task of trying to pry leads out of Combs' file.

Ernest Combs was a man without a life. A man who could be reduced to a birth date, a list of schools, a series of dead-end jobs, and a succession of unspectacular crimes. Maybe, Harry thought, he'd committed murder out of boredom, figuring that prison had to be more stimulating than life on the outside.

The rustle of ficus leaves repeated. Without raising his head, Harry said, "Winslow! You're cruisin' for a bruisin'."

"What's that mean?"

Harry jumped. His youngest daughter stood in the foyer, still in her PJs, a stuffed Pooh bear tucked under one arm.

"Hi, sweetie," he said, wondering what had made him think he could work at home. "Feeling better?"

"I'm hungry," she announced and flounced into the kitchen to pull herself up into a chair across from him.

He wasn't getting anywhere with Ernest Combs anyway. He rose and began a search for breakfast cereal. "Glad to hear it. What'll it be?"

"Scrambledy eggs. Please, Daddy?"

He made the mistake of looking at her. The sweet heart-shaped face with its chocolaty brown eyes, the silky auburn hair, tousled from sleep. Her Pooh bear smiled amiably at him from under her chin.

"As you wish. If I can find the cookware."

They'd been in the house for about a week and had yet to cook. They'd unpacked cereal bowls and flatware and little else. Nothing was where it belonged, every available corner was piled with boxes, the furniture was half-arranged. As were Harry's thoughts. He felt guilty for not unpacking, but knew if he unpacked, the guilt of not working on the case would be just as intense.

Belatedly, Harry recalled that the cookware box was in the upstairs bathroom. He dragged it down to the kitchen, popped the lid, and rummaged for a sauté pan.

"Daddy? What sort of animal lives in a closet?"

Goody, Harry thought, a five-year-old joke. "I give, honey, what lives in a closet?"

"Dad-dy," she said in a tone of voice that suggested he had slightly less wattage than an oven light.

The phone rang and he leapt to get it before the voicemail kicked in, giving Megan the universal shush sign, finger to lips. "Ferguson's."

"We may have a problem," his assistant Gwen said without preamble. "We've got two weeks to build a case. Not four."

"How did that happen?"

"Fortis pled personal duress. Her baby is due in a month and a half. She told the judge it might be early. Which is such bull. Merle Fortis has delivered two weeks late three times running. And, if that's not bad enough, the date change lands us with a different judge: 'Technicality' Quinn."

Harry rolled his eyes. Justice Erica Quinn had earned her nickname for an unparalleled record of throwing cases out on technicalities.

"Yeah, I know," Gwen said, as if she had heard his eyes turning in their sockets. "I have some case law for you, counselor. I know Meg's not well, and I'd bring it to you, but John's got me on the Edwards case. I'm not even getting a lunch break."

"Meg's well enough to ride in the car."

"Great. I'll leave the stuff on your desk."

Harry rang off, his mind tilting slightly at the thought of trying to mount this case in two weeks. His eyes went unfocused to the ficus benjamina by the front door. It seemed to have blossomed. A bright red sock was cradled among the leaves.

Damned cat. He retrieved the sock and shook out the ficus debris. A "watched" feeling made his nape hairs prickle; he turned to find Winslow regarding him quizzically from the middle of the staircase. A strange creature whose behavior was less than catlike, Winslow followed his favorite human everywhere. He allowed himself to be led on a leash. He fetched. He stole socks.

Harry shook the sock at him. "Winslow, I'm sorry we haven't found your cat toys, but . . ." He knew a moment of guilt as the tabby's dark yellow eyes gazed back at him, soulful and doggish. He decided he'd buy a catnip mouse today. A red one.

"Hey, Meg, honey, how about breakfast at Applebee's?"

* * *

"Fortis will move for dismissal due to insufficient evidence." Those were the first words out of Gwen's mouth when Harry entered the office. She smiled when she saw Megan standing in the doorway behind him. "Hi, sweetie. How're you feeling?"

"My nose is sniffly." She demonstrated.

"The case law?" Harry prompted.

Gwen ignored him. "Poor baby. Want a tissue?" She snatched one from the box on her desk.

"Gwen, the case law?"

"Oh, yeah. Here." She moved to his desk and bent to embrace a stack of legal books. A rainbow of little vinyl tags sprouted festively from the pages.

"The blue ones," Gwen said, "are cases in which the defendant worked for the victim. The red ones deal with search and seizure powers. In the yellow ones the defendant skipped bail. Purely cautionary."

"Any of them give you gooseflesh?"

Gwen swore that when she encountered items that "meant something" she felt as if someone were blowing on the back of her neck.

"Anderson vs. the State of California," she said, then added, "Want me to show you how to use that tissue, sweetie?" She was smiling past Harry at Megan who was snuffling into Pooh's ear.

Gwen, he thought, is a mother waiting to happen. "I can arrange for you to borrow her."

"Hah. Go study your case law, counselor."

Homeward bound, Harry was jarred out of his ruminations by an irregular thudding on the back of his car seat. "Meg, please stop that."

The thudding was replaced by steady pressure.

"Megan! Stop kicking my seat." He glanced up into the rear view mirror, half expecting to catch an urchin grin; she was gazing out the window.

She faced forward. "I wasn't kicking your seat, Daddy."

"You were pushing it with your feet."

"No, I wasn't."

"Meg."

"I wasn't."

He pulled the car into the driveway contemplating how to handle the fib. "Look, honey. I realize I wasn't paying as much attention to you as I should have at breakfast. But you really need to refrain from these little demonstrations of—"

"What's 'refrain'?"

"Never mind."

"Can I watch TV, Daddy?" Megan asked as they came through the front door.

Harry tripped over a pair of shoes left smack in the middle of the entry and hopped forward, trying not to topple over.

Meg giggled. "You look like a kangaroo."

"Thanks. Yes, you may watch TV." Chances were, she'd fall asleep and he would get some work done . . . and he wouldn't have to enforce naptime.

Harry went back to the kitchen—noting with annoyance that he'd forgotten to turn off the lights—and started weeding through the case law. As Gwen predicted, he found Anderson vs. the State of California interesting. Because the prime suspect had worked for the victim and the crime had occurred in the workplace, the judge had extended the search warrant to the home of the suspect's ex-wife, which was between his office and home. There they'd found the murder weapon.

Combs didn't have an ex-wife, or even a girlfriend. But the scenario of him dumping the weapon between work and home seemed plausible. The police had gotten to Combs' house within thirty seconds of his arrival, surprising him as he came out of his kitchen. He'd had no time to hide a weapon. Yet no weapon had been found.

Harry went over the timeline: Mrs. Boite called 911; the arresting officers spotted Combs' car less than a half-mile from the crime scene and tailed him back to his house. They'd lost sight of him for about twenty seconds when he ran a light. He'd had no time to take a detour. If he dropped the gun somewhere, it had to be in a direct path between the crime scene and his house.

Harry checked Combs' phone records. Prior to the murder, he'd called only two numbers with addresses in the target area. Ignoring the stentorian falsetto of Muppets filtering in from the living room, Harry e-mailed the numbers to the lead detective, tagged "urgent." Then he wandered the house, thinking, turning off lights, straightening pictures, moving things from one place to another. He mulled over Ernest Combs as he "tsked" over the state of the upstairs bathroom, wondering why a row of hair clips marched across the top of the toilet tank.

Combs had a motive.

He dumped the hair clips into a drawer.

Of course, it was a motive that worked for a number of people, including the victim's wife.

Combs had opportunity.

He moved mouthwash from the floor to the medicine cabinet.

Closing the cabinet, he caught movement in the mirror—someone passing the open bathroom door. Meg was too small for him to see more than the top of her head in the bathroom mirror.

He poked his head out into the hall. There was no one there. He started down the hall toward the master bedroom. An inhuman shriek greeted him at the door and Winslow shot out into the hall like a furry cannon ball. He ricocheted off Harry's knees, and skidded toward the staircase.

Heart pounding, Harry teetered on the bedroom threshold with the eerie feeling there was someone standing behind the half-open door. He sucked in a breath and barged into the room, slamming the door against the wall. No one was behind the door.

Harry shook his head, clucking ruefully at himself. He was as bad as Winslow—jumping at shadows. Dufus.

The phone rang, drawing him downstairs.

"Checked those numbers," Gwen told him. "Both businesses. A Blockbuster Video and a pawnshop."

"Pawnshop? Okay, let's get—"

"Done," Gwen said. "Detectives Price and Kirwan are on it even as we speak. If that's not where Combs disposed of the weapon, maybe it's where he purchased it. You coming to work tomorrow?"

"That's the plan. Marilyn got another professor to cover for her. I can't wait to get back. A half-moved-into house is . . . damned distracting."

As he rang off, the cartoon voices from the living room cut off in mid squeak. "Daddy, Winslow and I are gonna take a nap."

He turned to find Meg standing in the foyer with the cat draped over one arm, looking singularly more relaxed than it had the last time he'd seen it. Meg padded upstairs and Harry went back to his case. He was deeply engrossed when he got an e-mail from Detective Price announcing that the pawnshop was a dead end. The owner, Bill Greeley by name, recognized Combs, but had never sold him anything. He'd done a background check on Combs the first time he tried to buy something, uncovered his criminal record, and refused service.

Which didn't keep Combs from trying, Greeley noted, though he denied that Combs had ever tried to sell him anything.

So, Combs didn't get the gun at the pawnshop nor, if the owner was to be believed, did he dump it there. Then . . . Harry called up a manifest of Boite's missing inventory. What better place for Combs to arm himself than his employer's stock? Combs' harassment of the pawnshop owner might just be a means of covering his ass.

"All right." Harry leaned closer to the screen. There were indeed a number of .38 caliber guns missing—five Smith and Wessons, two Colts, and a couple of Glocks.

Harry's train of thought was derailed by what sounded like a police chase being conducted at warp speed by chipmunks. "Meg, turn that down!"

The cacophony continued. Harry popped up from the table and crossed the foyer to the living room. "Meg, I asked—" He stopped. The TV blared toons into an empty room. He turned off the TV and went upstairs where he found Meg fast asleep on her bed, Winslow sitting Sphinx-like at her feet.

"I gotta get back to the office," Harry told the cat, who yawned.

Downstairs, the front door opened. "Dammit, Harry—you left your shoes in the middle of the entry!"

Harry had left his shoes neatly on the mat behind the ficus, but decided to let it go. He was sincerely glad Marilyn was home, because it meant he could remand stewardship of the house to her, recover his wits, and get to work.

* * *

"So now you know Combs had a weapon, right?" Marilyn asked as she settled under the covers.

"If he's the one who stole the guns, yeah. The murder weapon was a .38—probably a Smith and Wesson. That narrows it down to five guns in Boite's missing inventory. If the murder weapon came from Boite's inventory."

"But?"

"But if we don't find the gun, Combs may walk."

"Bummer."

"Meg's going to school tomorrow, right?" Harry asked, yawning.

"I'd rather keep her home one more day, but I've got it covered. You can return to work, counselor."

"God bless you," Harry murmured. "This house is . . . creepy."

"What?"

Reality began to recede toward sleep. "Shoes," he mumbled.

* * *

"Daddy? Dad-dy!" Meg was a blur in the dim light. "Daddy, something's under my bed. Make it go away."

Like a well-trained dog, he rose, trailed her docilely to her room, and looked under her bed. "Nothing there, Muffin."

"I bet he went back into the closet."

He straightened. "Oh. Do you want me to chase him away?"

"No, I don't mind him being there. I just don't like it when he crawls under my bed. He wakes me up."

"Okay. Well, um, you stay in that closet then, you hear?" he said to the half-closed door.

Meg beamed. "Thanks, Daddy."

* * *

The next morning, Harry packed his briefcase and escaped the house gleefully, leaving Marilyn in charge. He piled the two older kids into the car and ferried them to school, absently pondering the connection between Combs and the pawnshop; wondering if there wasn't more there than met the eye. Maybe . . .

"Hey, Scott. Stop kneeing me in the back."

"Huh?"

"You're pushing on the back of my seat," Harry complained, pulling into the turnaround in front of the high school.

Kim shot a grin back at her brother as she opened her door. "Busted. See ya, Dad."

"I wasn't pushing on your seat," Scott said. His door slammed.

"Yeah, right," Harry muttered. "Nobody kicks my seat. Nobody leaves the TV on, or the bathroom lights, or the water. Nobody leaves shoes lying in the entry."

He pulled away from the school trying to regain his concentration. Was the pawnshop owner witness or accomplice? If Combs was ripping off his boss, the guns had to go somewhere. It might be productive to bring the guy in . . .

"Dammit, Scott, I said stop!" Harry's annoyance guttered in the realization that Scott was on his way to Algebra 101. He pulled over against the curb and craned his neck around to peer down the back of the seat, expecting to find that Winslow had snuck into the car.

No Winslow.

Great. Now I'm having back spasms.

By the time he stepped out of the elevator into the DA's office, Harry was much more chipper. He had a hunch. He told Gwen as much the moment he entered the office.

"You hide it so well," she said, straight-faced.

Not long after, Harry found himself behind a two-way mirror in an interrogation room watching Detectives Price and Kirwan question Bill Greeley, pawnshop owner. Greeley stuck doggedly to the claim that he knew Ernest Combs only as a nuisance who continued to try to buy weapons and ammo he wouldn't sell him.

"I'm a law abiding American citizen, dammit," Greeley said for the fiftieth time. "A card-carrying member of the NRA and Neighborhood Watch. I don't sell guns to criminals. Ernest Combs was a criminal."

Detective Price looked into the two-way, rolled his eyes, and mouthed "No go" to the invisible Harry.

"I think he's being straight," Price said later. "The way his eyes bugged out when we asked if he'd purchased arms from Combs, I thought he was going to have a coronary."

"Maybe he's a good actor," Harry said.

"Yeah, but Combs isn't. Practically the first thing he said when the question of gun ownership came up was, 'I can't buy a gun in this freakin' town. I tried.' Maybe he was planning all along to use this guy as a sort of alibi—you know, establish that he'd made repeated attempts to buy a gun and failed."

"I still think that gun is hidden somewhere on his property," said Detective Kirwan. "We mentioned that we'd interviewed Greeley. He seemed completely unconcerned, then asked if we'd finished tossing his house. Said we'd better have put everything back where we found it. Said he'd hold us responsible if there was any damage to the place. He seemed a little angsty about it."

"Chitra, we've turned that whole damn place over," argued Price. "The gun's not there."

Harry chewed his lip. "He was exiting the kitchen when the arresting officers entered the house."

The detectives nodded.

"So they started the search there."

"We dismantled the kitchen," Price said, "pulled appliances out from the wall, even looked for hidden compartments."

Kirwan added, "First, we thought it was in the broiler pan because the door was slightly ajar—and stuck, as if it had been closed in a big hurry. Maybe he started to stash the gun there, then changed his mind. Maybe it was a deke."

"He didn't have time to change his mind," objected Price. "And why bother with misdirection? We searched everywhere."

"Was he nervous about the search?"

"Yeah, he was. But apparently he didn't need to be."

* * *

After lunch Harry paid a visit to Combs' house. It wasn't much more than a shoebox with a peaked roof, but it had obviously just been through a major remodel. Combs had moved in a scant three months before. There were three rooms downstairs: living room, kitchen, bath. The furnishings were simple but tasteful. And they were of a quality beyond the means of most store clerks. There was a hand-knotted silk Persian carpet. The kitchen had Viking appliances.

Suppressing envy, Harry checked the broiler tray, the lettuce crisper, and the garbage disposal, knowing the detectives had already done that. Then he moved to the second floor.

Up a flight of spiral stairs he was confronted by a single, long room with a sharply peaked ceiling that ran the length of the house from front to back. The bed was cherry wood, with side table and dresser to match. A wardrobe stood at the end of the room opposite the door. A wood-burning stove hunkered halfway between in a wide gable, its pipe extending up into the ceiling. Ashes littered the floor in front of it, a souvenir of the police search. Every drawer and cabinet hung open.

Harry had bubkes. No clues, no epiphanies, not even a niggle. He went home to the joys of unpacking.

"Any idea where the cookware went?" Marilyn followed her voice into the foyer. "I'd swear it was right here by the table this morning."

"It was. I brought it down myself." Harry mounted the staircase, intent on a quick change into a sweat suit.

"Huh . . . By the way, you left every light on downstairs this morning."

He stopped halfway up the stairs. "No, I didn't. I only left the foyer light on."

"Oh. Must've been Scott."

"Wasn't me." Scott's voice floated from the living room on a raft of video game sound effects.

Marilyn gestured "never mind" and headed back into the kitchen. "If I can't find the cookware there'll be no dinner tonight—unless you want to order out."

"Pizza!" yelled Scott.

At the top of the stairs, Harry nearly collided with Kim who'd appeared on the landing cradling a box.

"Cookware?"

Kim nodded. "It was in the upstairs bathroom."

"Again? I brought it downstairs," said Harry.

"Sure, Dad." Kim gave him an indulgent smile, then carried the box downstairs.

Marilyn had come out of the kitchen again. She winked up at Harry. "Poltergeists. They also got Scott's homework." When Harry didn't laugh, she followed him up to their bedroom. "No breakthroughs on the case?"

"No." He sat heavily on the bed, shaking his head. "That gun has got to be in Combs's kitchen. He flat-out didn't have time to hide it anywhere else."

"But they searched the whole house."

"Thoroughly."

"Yeah? How about the turkey carcass left over from Thanksgiving?"

Harry smiled. "Checked it. No gun."

* * *

Harry Ferguson had long been accused of living in his head. At the moment his head contained an exact replica of the floor plan of Ernest Combs' house. As he padded down his own staircase to let the cat out, he recalled how many steps were in Combs's. Returning upstairs, he was disoriented by the sight of a transverse hallway instead of a right angle turn into a loft.

"Daddy?" Megan's voice issued tentatively from the semi-darkness of her room.

He crossed to her door. "You're supposed to be asleep."

She was sitting up in bed, hands in her lap, watching him solemnly. "I need you to talk to him again. He won't obey me."

"Who, honey?"

"The thing in my closet. He keeps going under my bed. He snores."

Harry smiled. "He snores."

She nodded.

"Okay," Harry crossed to the closet and opened the door quickly, as if he expected to surprise something out of hiding.

Meg cleared her throat delicately. "He's under the bed, Daddy."

"Oh, right."

Harry got down on hands and knees and peered beneath the bed. His eyes locked on a darker patch of dark that seemed to be blocking the glow of Meg's nightlight. A frisson ran up his spine before he could chide himself for being over-imaginative. Had to be a stuffed animal. He started to reach under the bed for it and was vaguely ashamed when his hand refused to move.

"You there," he said, making his voice menacingly deep. "You're upsetting my little girl. I must ask you to stop hiding under her bed. Please return to the closet."

He straightened and looked at Meg. "Okay?"

"Thank you, Daddy. You sounded mean. But could you check and make sure he's gone?"

"Oh . . . sure." He peered beneath the bed again. Odd. Now he could see the nightlight through the bed skirt. He straightened. "Gone."

Meg smiled and held out her arms. "Thanks, Daddy. You're great."

He hugged her. "Glad you think so."

He passed the closet on his way out, half of a mind to open the door and peek. He didn't.

* * *

Saturday morning Harry realized he'd dreamed about Combs's house all night. Waking in his flat-ceilinged, perfectly square bedroom was disconcerting.

After breakfast the family dispersed and the house, empty and quiet, seemed to give up a huge sigh. As did Harry. He sat at the kitchen table for a while, savoring his coffee and mulling over the case . . . for all the good it did.

Coffee exhausted, he wandered upstairs and found every light on. He made a complete round, shutting them off—bathroom, Meg's room, Kim's room, Scott's room, the master bedroom. Then he headed back toward the staircase determined to do some gardening.

The bathroom light was on. Again. He remembered turning it off.

He approached the room cautiously, nape hair at attention. The door was ajar, and he swore he saw movement through the slit between door and jamb. He slapped himself mentally. It was probably an electrical problem. Even new houses could have electrical problems.

He stood uncertainly in the doorway. Then, swearing under his breath, he thrust the door open. It impacted the wall with a padded thump.

Harry entered the room fully, turned, and swung the door shut, belatedly considering what he'd do if there were someone there. It closed with a swish and flap of the bathrobes hanging on the back.

Harry chuckled. Alarmist. He let the door swing half-open and turned his attention to the light switch. It was in the "on" position. He flipped it on and off, then wiggled it. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a shadow slip past the bathroom door and down the hallway. He lunged at the door and flung it open.

Nothing.

He took a deep breath and stepped into the hall, looking both ways and wondering if stress caused hallucinations. Shaking his head, he turned and nudged open the bathroom door.

A thin, dark, little man with startlingly pale, protuberant eyes blinked up at him. He was wearing black pants and matching long-sleeved turtleneck sweater. He looked like a mime who'd forgotten his makeup.

"Nuts," he said in a high, nasal voice.

An understatement.

"What . . . what are you doing in my house?" Harry asked around the lump in his throat.

"Ex-cuse me. This is really embarrassing."

"What are you doing in my house?" Harry repeated.

"Uh . . . I work here."

"Who are you?"

"I'm the Thing That Hides Behind Doors. Did I scare you?"

"Hell, yes! I thought I was going to turn around and find you sneaking up behind me."

"Oh, not me. That would be the Thing That Sneaks Up Behind You. He's off today. Now, if you'll excuse me . . ." He started to turn away.

"No, I won't excuse you! You work here?"

"Yessir. Really, I oughta get going. I'm not supposed to talk to you. Wow. This is weird."

"No kidding." Harry's heart rate slowed. The guy didn't seem dangerous, just incoherent and nervous. "Who are you?"

"Didn't I say? I'm the Thing That—"

"Hides Behind Doors. I caught that. I just don't know what it means."

The guy fidgeted, his big watery eyes bobbing this way and that. "It means . . . well, pretty much what it says. I hide behind doors. I'm a—a Thing."

"A thing . . ." Harry shook his head. "What do you mean 'a thing'?"

The protuberant eyes flicked back to Harry's face. "I really shouldn't be talking to you. Can I go now?"

"Go? I find you in my bathroom and I'm supposed to just let you go?"

"Aw, c'mon. I promise to do better. Only don't tell the Boss."

"How about the police?"

He seemed puzzled. "The police? What would the police care? This isn't their jurisdiction . . . is it?"

"I'm willing to find out." Harry stepped backwards into the hall.

The little fellow quivered and glanced feverishly about. "Oh, jeez, mister. I don't want—" His eyes darted to a spot over Harry's left shoulder and froze there. "Oops."

Harry swung around. A tall, thin, sepulchral fellow faced him across the upstairs runner. He wore a black serge suit with a long coat and string tie. Sad, dark eyes were a perfect match for the doleful set of his mouth, while graying eyebrows arched toward a distant hairline. The man inclined his head.

Harry dropped into a posture he'd seen in a Jackie Chan movie. "Stay back. I know Kung Fu."

"Of course you do, sir. But I came only to apologize."

"Apologize . . ."

"For the behavior of my staff."

"Your staff?" Harry realized he was echoing, but could think of nothing remotely intelligent to say.

"The Household Things. I am, I regret to say, the Chief Thing for this domicile. I am forced to admit, sir, that in all my years in your service, I have never had such a raw and undisciplined crew."

"You've . . . you've been in my service," Harry echoed, "for years."

"Well, not your service precisely, sir, but your family's. In fact, I've been in service to this family since you married and rented that quaint little cottage on Sepulveda." He said "quaint" with the same disdain Scott showed when he said "peas." "Your personal staff are quite good, if I do say so myself, but these other Things . . ." The sad eyes rolled heavenward.

"What do you mean 'things'? What things?"

"Well, sir, since you inquired—there are three classes of Things in your service. Personal Things (which include myself and immediate staff), Furnishings Things, and of course Household Things such as the Thing That Hides Behind Doors." Contempt curled his thin lips. "It is the last group that has caused the trouble, I fear. They are inexperienced and cocky, which I suspect comes with attachment to one of these 'designer' homes. Modern conveniences, indeed."

"They've caused trouble?"

"Oh, sir, surely you've noticed how clumsy they are. Never waiting long enough to turn on lights you've turned off; open doors you've closed; close doors you've opened. And they are too ambitious altogether. Why the Thing That Lurks in the Closet of your youngest daughter's room has been bucking for a promotion to Thing That Hides Under the Bed since you moved in. He's disturbed the dear child a number of times. No, I fear your Household Things are utterly without experience and poorly trained."

"P-poorly trained?"

"Especially in comparison with your Personal and Furnishings crews."

"Ah," Harry said, as if he understood one word of what this odd man was telling him. "Those crews are . . . more experienced and better trained, then."

The funereal fellow drew himself up to his full height, reminding Harry of Jeeves, the quintessential butler. "I pride myself on it, sir. As I said, your Personal Things have been with your family since your first rental. And even your Furnishings Things have been with you long enough to understand your comings and goings—with the possible exception of the Thing that came with your new car."

"A Thing came with my car?"

"Yes sir. The Thing That Kicks the Driver's Seat. He's the newest member of the crew. But I have confidence that in a few weeks time, he'll get the hang of it."

"M-my car has a Thing."

"Yes sir. As do all your major appliances."

"Appliances . . . as in our washing machine and dryer?"

"The Thing That Hides Socks."

"Our refrigerator?"

"The Thing That Drinks the Last of the Milk and Puts the Carton Back Empty."

"I thought that was my son."

Jeeves beamed. "As you were meant to, sir."

"Is there a Thing That Feeds Pâté to the Cat?"

"That would be your youngest daughter. You also have a Thing That Rumples the Carpets. In some homes he would also do bedspreads, but you have a cat for that purpose. Cats are honorary Things," he added.

Harry rubbed his temples. "You and your staff work at scaring us?"

"Oh, no sir. Our purpose is to engage you, keep you on your toes, make your lives interesting. And of course, to give your home a personality—to make it feel lived-in."

"Lived-in? It feels haunted. And I'm not engaged, I'm frustrated."

"For which I am profoundly sorry, sir. Were your Household Things better trained, you would never have noticed us at all."

"I find that hard to believe."

"You never noticed us before."

"Wait a minute. Are you responsible for carting our cookware all over the house?"

"You see—that's exactly what I mean. That unfortunate incident was perpetrated by the Thing That Misplaces Your Belongings—a Household Thing unversed in the Protocols. No Thing under my tutelage would have made such a gross error as to move that box to the target area so quickly."

"Target area? Protocols? What are you talking about?"

"Domestic Protocols, sir. You can't run a household without them. Take, for example, your cookware. Protocol requires that the movement of such articles be made in logical increments over time so that if the movement is noticed it can be easily attributed to the natural propensity of people to displace items that are in the way. So your cookware should have been moved from the kitchen floor to the top of the refrigerator, or to the floor of an adjacent room. Then it should have been moved to sit among those boxes that are still halfway up your staircase."

Harry detected a note of reproach in that "still." "We've been busy."

"Of course you have, sir. And so, unfortunately, have your Household Things. They saw fit to take your cookware directly from the kitchen floor, under the table, to the upstairs bathroom atop the étagère."

"The what?"

"The shelved unit above the toilet tank."

"Why there?"

Jeeves shrugged as if that should be the most obvious thing in the world. "A simple case of geometry. Each house is divided into quadrants. Likewise each room. Articles are moved so as to end up in the quadrant opposite the one in which they were originally located. So, from the lowest point along the southwest wall of your kitchen . . ."

"To the highest point on the northeast wall of our upstairs bathroom."

"Precisely, sir. You have a keen grasp of the situation."

"Thanks. So, everything we own is going to be moved around like this forever?"

"Oh no, sir. Every object has a particular place in which it belongs. We move only objects that are not where they belong. The cookware was on the floor under your kitchen table. Not at all where it belonged, sir."

"Uh-huh. Does everybody have . . . Things?"

"Every man, woman, and child who inhabits a domicile built or remodeled since 1900."

"Siberian sheepherders?"

"They call them domovoi, sir. Siberia is not the backwater you might think it is. Now, sir, I really must go. I've broken Protocol in discussing this with you, but I felt an apology was imperative." He executed a smart little bow and said, "Good-day, sir. I promise we will do better."

Harry reached out to prevent him from leaving, but the front door banged open, startling him.

"Da-ad!" Kim's voice carried up the stairs. "I brought some friends home. We're going to the den to study."

Harry took his eyes off the Head Thing for only a second, but it was enough. He was gone.

"Hey!" Harry stage whispered. Then louder: "Hey! Where'd you go?"

"The den, Dad. Why?"

Harry crossed the hall to look down the stairs. Kim had poked her head back into the foyer and was peering up at him.

"It's nothing. Just . . . have fun."

"Yeah. Right. Fun." She disappeared.

Harry made a systematic search of the second floor, but found nothing. He spent the remainder of the day in a state between credulity and denial. He considered telling Marilyn, but she'd only say he was over-stressed. Was he? Undoubtedly. But he'd never heard of stress manifesting itself as a six-foot-seven "Jeeves" archetype who claimed he'd been working for you unseen for umpteen years. No, he couldn't tell Marilyn.

In the end, he decided there was only one person in the family who wouldn't think he was nuts if he started asking questions about Things That Go Bump in the Night, and she was at the mall.

To kill time, he ran experiments. He collected odd items—useless keys, a penlight, one of Meg's bevy of Furbees—and put them in places they definitely did not belong. Then he went into the kitchen and unpacked the remainder of the boxes there. When he went back to check on his experiments he met with uneven results. The keys and Furbee were gone, the penlight was right where he'd left it.

He embarked on a systematic search of the premises based on what Jeeves (possibly a figment of his imagination) had told him about protocols. He'd left the Furbee on the hearth in the living room; he looked for it on the bookshelf on the opposite side of the room. No luck. He moved to the foyer next. Nothing.

Okay. Cut to the chase. If our Things are extremists, then the Furbee should be . . . He sprinted upstairs to Meg's room—opposite side of the house, second floor, opposite quadrant.

The Furbee was sitting atop the window casement in Meg's room.

Next, he looked for the keys. He'd left them under the sink in the kitchen. He found them, as insanely expected, atop the étagère in the upstairs bathroom.

What did that mean? That there really were Things living in his house that misplaced toys, lurked in closets, and returned empty cartons of milk to the fridge? Or that he was coming unglued?

Marilyn arrived home with Megan at last, sporting Macy's bags. They marched through the front door and up the stairs, brushing past Harry where he hovered on the landing.

"Hi, hon." Marilyn airmailed him a kiss. "Meg, sweetie, I'm going to go put my things away, then I'll help you with yours."

"I'll help her," Harry volunteered.

Marilyn stopped and stared. "You? Mr. Wad-it-up-and-throw-it-in-the-nearest-drawer?"

"I don't—" Harry began and stopped. He didn't. But apparently Something did. "I'll be careful."

"Uh-huh. I'll inspect the results."

Marilyn sailed into the master suite with a rustling of bags. Harry meanwhile, ushered Meg into her room and emptied the contents of her bag onto her bed.

"Look at this pretty dress Mommy got me," she enthused, holding up the article.

"Oooh," said Harry. "Let's hang it up." He snagged the dress and opened the closet.

"Mommy cuts the tags off, first," Megan said.

"Oh. Well, you can do that the first time you wear it, okay?"

She shrugged.

Harry made a big deal out of finding a hanger, pushing aside clothes to peer into the closet's dark corners. Nothing.

"Say, Meggie . . . about the guy who hides in your closet."

"Uh-huh." She was standing next to him holding another dress.

"Is he there all the time?"

"No. Only at night."

"You've seen him?"

"Uh-huh." She handed him the dress.

"What does he look like?"

"He looks like that guy in the funny Frankenstein movie. The one with the buggy eyes."

"He looks like Marty Feldman?"

She shrugged and went back to the bed for another outfit. "But he wears a black super-hero suit."

"When did you see the funny Frankenstein movie?"

"Only a little of it. Then I sneezed and Mom made me go back to bed."

"So you don't mind this guy being in your closet?"

"Uh-uh. He finds lost stuff. Besides, I'm kinda scared of the dark sometimes, so I'm glad he's there. But I don't like it when he hides under my bed. He snores. The other guy didn't snore. And I'm afraid if he stays there, the other guy won't come back."

Harry sat weakly on the foot of the bed. "The other guy?"

"Yeah. The one who's s'posed to hide under my bed."

"And what does he look like?"

She shrugged. "I dunno. I've never seen him. But he bumps so I know he's there. But he doesn't snore."

"How long have you known about these . . . guys?"

"Well, before we moved, I thought they were there, but I wasn't sure. I thought they might be piglets of my imagination."

"Figments, honey," Harry corrected absently.

"Oh. Anyway, I wasn't sure they were there until we moved into this house. That's when I saw them. I think they're elves."

Elves. "Are . . . are you sure?"

She gave him a wounded look. "Daddy, I saw them. I wouldn't make something like that up."

No, Harry thought, she probably wouldn't.

* * *

Lying in bed that night, he went over it drowsily for the zillionth time: the Thing lurking behind the bathroom door, the Things in Meg's room, the experiments that seemed to prove Jeeves's Domestic Protocols.

Suddenly wide-awake, Harry found his head galloping with wild thoughts. He rolled out of bed, pulled on a tee-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, then hesitated. How do you contact someone who wants to remain hidden? Someone who may very well be, as Meg put it, a piglet of your imagination?

He tiptoed into Meg's room and poked his head into the closet. "Hey," he whispered. "You. Thing That Hides in the Closet—I need to talk to your boss."

The closet was silent. Meg mumbled in her sleep.

"Please. I really need to talk to the—the Chief Thingie, or whatever you call him."

Still nothing. But the feeling of being watched sent serious willies up his spine.

"C'mon guy. I'm not kidding. This is important!"

"Sir?"

Harry stifled a yelp and spun around. Jeeves stood behind him, his basset eyes glistening in the light from the hall. Harry hurried him out of Meg's room.

"All that stuff about protocols and procedures—that applies to all Things everywhere?"

"Well, of course, sir. Without protocols, you have chaos."

"And the protocols are always the same?"

"Naturally, sir."

"Okay. You implied that our Household things are rookies because they came with a new house."

He nodded solemnly.

"What about a house that's just been through a major remodel, new appliances, furniture, window treatments, the works? Would that have a rookie crew?"

"Indubitably."

Harry clapped a hand on the tall guy's shoulder. "Jeeves—may I call you 'Jeeves?'—you've been immensely helpful. Thanks."

"'Jeeves is fine, sir." He smiled in a way that reminded Harry of the Eeyore puppet perched on Megan's bedpost. "Is there anything else?"

"Yeah. Are you guys some kind of . . . elves?"

Jeeves looked positively morose. "We've been called that, sir. But we are Things. Nothing more; nothing less."

"Great. Thanks. I'm going back to bed now. Have a nice night, Jeeves."

"Thank you, sir. And you."

* * *

"We've been over this, counselor," said Detective Price. "If Combs had a gun, he didn't hide it here."

"I think he did. Just not where we expected." Harry stood in the entry of Ernest Combs' cottage, flanked by Detectives Price and Kirwan. "You thought he'd hidden it in the broiler pan, right?"

"Right," said Kirwan. "But he hadn't."

Harry glanced through the kitchen portal to the Viking range, then made a beeline for the stairs.

"Where are you going?" Kirwan asked.

Harry didn't answer. He wanted to say something nonchalant and cocky, something James Bond might have said, but as he might be about to make a fool of himself, he stifled the urge.

On the upstairs landing, he turned and scanned the attic bedroom's left-hand wall. It was dominated by the woodstove. Heart pounding, mouth dry, Harry moved to the stove, aware of the watchers at his back. He looked up, following the stovepipe. About six feet off the floor a handle stuck out of the pipe. It looked like a tapered spring with a porcelain knob at one end. Above it, a metal cuff encircled the pipe.

"What's that?" Harry pointed at the handle.

"Flue handle," said Price. "You turn it to adjust the flow of air."

Harry turned the handle. Something rattled down the stovepipe and dropped heavily into the firebox. He opened the stove door, squatted, and peered in. There, at the bottom of the empty firebox was a handgun. Harry pulled a pen out of his coat pocket, fished the gun out, and held it up for inspection. It was a .38 Smith and Wesson.

Kirwan made a sound like a cat hocking up a fur ball.

"I'll be damned," said Price.

"I don't get it," said Kirwan, watching Harry bag the gun. "How'd you do that?"

Harry shrugged. "Just a hunch."

"Some hunch. There is no way Combs had time to come up here, slide that cuff up, and slip the gun onto the flue."

"Yeah," said Price. "And even at that I'd swear we looked there. C'mon, Harry, how'd you come to think of it, really?"

"Something a . . . a friend of mine said about what happens when you put things where they don't belong."

"Let me guess," said Kirwan. "A forensics guy?"

Harry waggled his head. "Not exactly. Just someone who knew a Thing or two."

* * *

See the promo for "Mr. Twilight," Maya's collaboration with Michael Reeves, at: YouTube.

Singing Them Back

Written by Marissa Lingen
Illustrated by Jessica Douglas

Every fall, I was there when my grandmother sang the disir back.

They had an agreement with our family, back through the ages, carried over the sea when our ancestors came to the New World. They were ours and we were theirs, and every fall on the Disting holiday, we renewed our bond. We sang to them, to ask them to return to us after a summer apart, and they always came.

I'd never done it without her. I supposed I'd have to start now.

The university was generous with bereavement leave, but I had to go back to work the Monday after her funeral anyway. Like many old Norwegian ladies, my mormor had never been the sort to sit around moping when there was work to do, and I had plenty. The grad students could proctor the tests for the undergrads, could get themselves through the weekly meeting, but we had a grant proposal due Friday. I've never been the kind of advisor to make the grad students write the whole grant proposal without supervision. I had to do that too many times myself when I was a research assistant.

Hilary was already there when I got to the office. Hilary almost always beat me there in the morning. Most grad students are consumed by their work, but Hilary lit up with it. She was a joy to have in our research group, and the other students held her in some awe.

To tell the truth, so did I.

She was not waiting outside my door, but I could tell she had given me a discreet amount of time to check my phone messages and my e-mail before pouncing on me. Her section of the proposal was waiting in my inbox, annotated. It is difficult to quash such enthusiasm.

Sometimes it seemed that she was personally offended by the unproven nature of Thurston's geometrization conjecture. She had already written papers that would have made a thesis for any of my other students, but it wasn't enough for Hilary. She kept stretching her hands out for something more.

That, I understood. The disir had brought it to me.

The disir come to us in our homes, in our real lives, but also sometimes in our dreams. They have an old habit of revealing people's destinies in dreams. I don't recall ever asking for it, but apparently they decide, not the dreamer. So they came to me, and they showed me mathematics. They showed me such beautiful abstract concepts that I woke breathless and weeping, and the next night they showed me myself at the heart of it all, my hands tangled in the structure of the universe itself.

I was twelve. I dropped the idea of becoming a doctor as though it had never existed. I belonged in mathematics.

My mother was dubious about the whole affair, but Mormor convinced Mor that the disir did not steer us wrong. Mormor had sung the disir for longer than my mother's life, since she was a sturdy teenage farm girl, and she put a good deal of trust in their wordless assurances.

So when fall came, I joined the math club, and I spent Saturday afternoons at my grandmother's, learning to cook all the old-world foods my mother had scorned in favor of lentil dal and pesto pizzas. Mor thought of it as teenage rebellion until I finished my Ph.D. in topology. After that she was just relieved that I got a faculty position at the university in my hometown and took over Mormor's Saturday afternoons again, and she tolerated my apparently conventional cooking and adored my apparently conventional husband, who had his own Norwegian gran and fought Mormor for the last piece of pickled herring at holidays.

And even through my sadness, Mormor's memory and the disir's visions made me smile, and helped me to help Hilary and my other grad students reach for more.

"Hil, you have to calm down," I told her. "A grant application is a lengthy process. We're going to be sitting around twiddling our thumbs for a while now."

"It could make such a difference," she said dreamily. "If we just didn't have to spend quite so much time—oh, you know I don't mind teaching, exactly, but the time, the calculus, all the calculus—"

"I know, I know," I said, although I didn't mind the calculus sections. "Teaching is part of the job, Hil. I teach you and the others, you teach the study groups, and everybody winds up knowing more math."

She flushed. "I didn't mean to complain. I just—look through the files I sent you. I really think this is a promising direction."

"I do, too, at first glance," I said. "We'll pursue it. I promise. We're all doing what we can. I think you should get out and get some sunlight, all right? Think about something besides math for a while?"

"And something besides bureaucrats," she said glumly.

I laughed. "Yes, something besides bureaucrats, too."

After several hours of filling out more forms, checking over proposals, calling for signatures, I began to wish I could have taken my advice to Hilary. It was a relief just to get out of the building, to roll the windows down and howl tunelessly along with the radio and not think about who needed what and from whom I'd have to beg, borrow, or steal it. The disir had shown me a world of mathematics that was cool, orderly, ethereal. It wasn't the world mathematics had given me at all.

When I was in kindergarten, I drew a picture of the disir during coloring time. Nine women in white, nine women in black. Some of them were turning cartwheels, some brooding in corners. Even at that age, I knew you could never tell with the disir. My kindergarten teacher called my mother, confused and worried, and she and Mormor sat me down to discuss it.

"Darling, you can't draw the disir," said Mor. "They're spiritual beings. You can't just put them in crayon."

"I did."

"What she means is that you shouldn't," my grandmother jumped in. "They're not for the people at school to know. They're just for us."

I eyed her skeptically.

"The people at school don't have disir, Karin."

"How do you know?"

Mormor smiled. "A fair point. They might, and they might just not tell me about it, the way I don't tell them."

"Why don't you tell? Why is it secret?"

"They don't like to be talked about. Do you like it when people talk about you?"

I thought about it. "It depends on what they say."

Mor threw her hands up, but Mormor smiled again. "That's true, Karin. Sometimes it's not good enough to treat people the way we want to be treated. Sometimes we need to treat them the way they want to be treated."

"And the disir don't want people talking about them?"

"It's part of our bargain with them," said Mormor. That was the first I heard of the bargain. I must have looked confused. Mormor leaned forward. "When our ancestor Kjersten was packing to leave the old country, her disir came in and flung her clothes back out of her trunk again. She spread her hands to them in despair. 'What can I do?' she said. 'There is no food for another mouth here; the land can only hold so many. Shall I push my brother's family into starvation?'

"'But we want you,' said the disir. 'Jonas's family is not sure of us. They treat us like skittish beasts, and they would ignore us if they could. You would never ignore us. We would have a family with you.'

"'I can have no family here,' said Kjersten. 'Lars and I must go to the New World. Can you not come with me?'

"The disir thought about it. 'All the way to the New World?'

"'Yes.'

"'Over the ocean and farther still?'

"'Yes. You could come. We will have a farmstead again.'"

I interrupted her. "The disir don't talk."

Mormor smiled. "No, they don't, do they? But they manage to communicate with us just the same. And when they agreed to come to America with Kjersten, our ancestor, they didn't want her to talk to others about them. They knew they would be strange spirits in this land, and they didn't wish to be the topic of gossip for miles around.

"You can keep their secret, can't you, Karin? If you can't, they might not come back to us."

I was flatly incredulous that anyone would attempt to punish the mountain that was my grandmother for something my small self had attempted. "They could just ignore me."

"No," said Mormor, gently insistent. "It's all our family or none. You and your cousins are part of them with me. If they won't come back for you, they won't come back for anyone. Will you promise?"

"I promise not to tell anyone outside the family," I said, awed by the totality of their needs. And from that time on, I was theirs, and they were mine. My whole life was colored black and white around the edges, the wondrous family secret setting me apart in my own head. But it couldn't separate me from all of the world's demands, and losing Mormor shook my world all the way down.

The days slipped past, and Indian summer turned to true fall. Hilary could not understand why I was so calm about the grant application. "Do they give you serenity with your doctorate?" she demanded.

"If you're lucky, I suppose they might," I said. "Heaven knows I didn't get any until I was done with my first postdoc at least." I saw that she was only half-kidding. "Hilary. Dear. It will be fine. We have all the administrative t's dotted and i's crossed, thanks in no small part to your attention; we have rewritten the proposal until the prose sings and the math—" I waved my hands helplessly. "It pops off the page. Go, go home, do your laundry, buy yourself groceries, think about something else. I don't care what. I'll send out the packet on my way home, and tomorrow you can come in and think about math again and not marketing."

She smiled. "That will be a change, won't it? All right. I'll do that."

I scuffed through the leaves and managed to get the application to the post office two blocks from campus long before it closed. The late-afternoon sunlight turned too quickly to dusk. By the time I got home, it was almost dark, and Eric already had the bread in the oven and was working on the chicken. His best friend Andy was there, drinking a beer and offering commentary on Eric's cooking techniques. I collected hugs from both of them and a kiss from my husband.

"How's the world of numbers?" Andy asked, as I washed my hands and dug into the crisper to start the salads.

"I haven't seen a number in weeks," I said, "unless you count all the damned phone numbers and identification numbers and all that with this grant application. And anyway, you know mathematicians try not to deal with numbers whenever they can."

"Grad school takes away their ability to do simple arithmetic," said Eric. It was the same joke— half joke —he'd made a dozen or a hundred times before, but we smiled anyway.

And we made more of our old jokes over again, and Andy told us the latest installment in his office drama, which had acquired Greek proportions, though we were not yet sure whether it would turn out a comedy or a tragedy. As he was leaving, Andy promised to make sure he was not in the final body count if there turned out to be one, which reassured us immensely.

"Disting is coming, honey," I said.

It took Eric a minute to know what I meant. "With your grandmother's . . . spirits. Disir."

"Yeah."

"I'm a lot more used to this sort of thing from your mom than from you, y'know."

"They're very . . . solid," I told him. "You'll see. Assuming I can do it right, that is."

He kissed the top of my head. "I'm sure you'll do fine, honey."

"You shouldn't be," I said. "You've heard me sing."

"But maybe it's not about the singing. When Andy's niece sings him 'Row Your Boat' on the phone, he's not analyzing it for pitch-perfect performance."

"Thanks," I said.

"No, but you know what I mean."

I thought about it. "I suppose. That it's more the symbol than the song."

"I think so."

"I hope so," I said, "or I am so screwed."

"Karin, relax," he said. "You've been so caught up in your grant proposal, and now this. When was the last time you made cookies, or just sat down with a book?"

"I don't know."

Eric shook his head. "Neither do I. You're always shooing your grad students out for a break, but you need to listen to that yourself. Don't worry about it. You'll do fine."

"I guess."

When I was fifteen, I joined the debate club at my high school. It was a distraction from math, but not a terminal one, and besides, people were always telling me that colleges liked to see well-rounded people, and they didn't seem to mean people who spent time with their families or entertained themselves well.

I took to debate readily, arguing with almost as much glee as I learned math. The similarities leapt out at me without my seeking them, with almost synaesthetic glee—the firm lines of an argument carrying through, the curves of insinuation, solid points of reference. I cultivated a cool style, sometimes contemptuous as only a teenager can be, other times gentle and nearly imploring. As I went on, I found that I liked to implore more and sneer less, and I won more rounds.

In my junior year, I argued my way to the final round of the state debate tournament. In the middle of my rebuttal, I saw flashes of black and white out in the hall. I finished my speech with a glow of the joy that comes of doing things just right.

I don't know what family spirits my opponent had at her disposal, but she won anyway.

I was less bothered than I would have expected; I had done well, and I had done my best. The disir were behind me, always waiting. I went back the next year and won the finals.

They had always been the source of my confidence. I had never needed to be confident about them before. Mormor had always taken care of it. But I didn't need a reminder that I could never rely on that again.

I got into the closet and fetched out the long red dress. It hung loose around me, the way it had around Mormor the last year. I went out to the fireplace in the living room—I had only considered houses with fireplaces, because in the back of my mind I was always thinking of the ritual for Disting. Mormor's house had smelled like the things she had left behind her, her hairspray and her cheap green perfume and her tired old body; but it also smelled of her almond cookies, and very faintly of the ritual fires at Disting. Now mine would, too. I laid the fire. Eric sat in our old wooden rocker and watched me.

I lifted my hands like Mormor always had, and I threw my head back, and I sang.

I would like to say that nothing happened. Nothing would have been an improvement. Instead I had to know that with each note I missed, each interval that was not even a near approximation, I was slipping further and further away from bringing the disir back. I'd seen Eric blank-faced before, but he'd gone so far past it that I had to wonder if rigor mortis had set in. I finished the song doggedly—inasmuch as I was singing it at all—and let my arms drop. I flopped on the couch.

"They're not here," I said.

"Are you sure—" He hesitated, trying to be gentle. "Are you sure they'll come for anyone but your grandmother? Maybe it was just—just a thing they had with her."

"She said it was all the generations." I picked at the tassel on the blue afghan Mor had made us for a wedding present. "She said it had been passed down from her grandmother and before that through all the years in the old country, from the time our ancestors pushed the Saami north."

Eric, who had a Saami grandfather, raised an eyebrow at me.

I waved a hand at him. "When we have kids, the Saami will come back to the disir again, so can we go on with this without ethnic politics?"

"All right. They have come back and come back."

"But all the others sang for them. Sang right."

"Could you try it again?" He saw the look on my face and grimaced. "Yes, all right, I can see why not. What else can we do?"

"I don't know. Mormor never said."

He put his arms around me. "I'm sorry, hon. Maybe they . . . had the wrong day."

"Eric."

"Sorry."

Mormor and I had talked about a lot of things, but the worst-case scenario was not one of her strong points—at least, not as long as she could avoid it. It was to her credit, I suppose, that she didn't try to dodge her diagnosis in the end.

I could hear from her voice on the phone that there was something wrong, but I tried to have a normal visit with her. "We should get the cousins in to clean out your cabinets," I said. "You shouldn't have to do spring cleaning at your age, even though I know you can."

"Karin."

"It's no trouble, really," I rattled on, "and Tove and Siri will say the same, and the others. Do you want to make some spritz? I could do with fresh spritz."

"Sit down, Karin."

Mormor and I almost never just sat. We always did things, projects. I sat.

"I asked your mor not to tell you this because I wanted to say it myself. Karin, my kidneys are failing. They were damaged when I was sick as a little girl, and they're not going to last me more than a few years with dialysis."

I sucked in a breath. One of the white-robed disir put a hand on my shoulder. "Can't you get a transplant?"

She fixed me with one of her stubborn looks. "Maybe. I might be able to find a match eventually. But what would it buy me? A year, two, five? The odds aren't good. I've had a good run. I've seen my grandchildren grow up, spent time with a great-grandchild or two. Better that someone young should have a chance, Karin."

"What about the disir?"

"You will take care of them once I go," said Mormor. "We settled that years ago."

Years ago I didn't have to think about what it actually meant. "I didn't mean that. I meant you should ask them."

"Ask them for what?"

"They have magic," I said, frustrated. "They're supposed to help this family. Make them heal you."

Her smile was already weary. "It doesn't work that way, Karin."

"Why not?"

"They don't do that kind of magic. They can't." The white-robed one at my shoulder drew a skinny finger down my arm. I squirmed out of her reach, shuddering.

Thinking back, I wondered if that had done it, or if I would have failed to call them back no matter what. If it was something I'd done, or not done, or if it was . . . just me.

I called my mother, and she refused to talk on the phone. Needed to see my face. Rather than listening to the whole speech about auras and phone lines, I caved in and got in the car. When I got there, she was dealing just fine with auras and phone lines in order to yell ("we don't yell, darling, we speak firmly") at Far's sister, Beth, on the phone. I made myself coffee and settled in with a handful of roasted almonds, making patterns with them on the kitchen table like I was still five years old.

"Oh, that wretched woman," she said, hanging up the phone. "She delights in disturbing other people's equilibrium, I swear she does. Always has. And you look distraught—what on earth is it?"

"Mor, I failed," I said.

"Now, that's not the kind of talk we like to hear!" she said. "You've perhaps had a temporary setback."

"Mor. I tried to sing the disir back, and—you know me and singing. They didn't come."

Mor fluttered her hands. "They go out into the cosmos, you know? They need to get their energy renewed from their mystical sources."

"Oh, God, Mother," I said.

She waggled her finger at me. "Don't you 'Mother' me. I've learned a few things about the cosmos in this lifetime."

"Well, then, are you going to sing them back?"

"They shouldn't be bound by our customs," said Mor, not meeting my eyes. "What's Disting to the disir? What's Thursday, for heaven's sake?"

"It's the day they were supposed to come back," I said stubbornly.

"Maybe they thought November was not the time to return to Minnesota. Who could blame them?"

"They're fine with November. They don't like summer," I said. "That's why they go in the summer. Mor, it's all part of the bargain. Why would they make the bargain if they didn't want to work by those rules?"

"Maybe they've changed their minds," she said.

That I couldn't dismiss. "How are we supposed to know what they think now, then?"

"Keep an open mind," she said.

"Mor."

"Listen. Just listen. If they have something to say, they'll make themselves heard." She grimaced. "Heaven knows they were never quiet before, for spirits who can't speak."

She had a point.

But while listening is all well and good, the more I thought about it, the more I thought I could listen while pursuing other solutions. Maybe. So I got my cousin Siri to meet me for coffee, in hopes that she'd agree to help.

"Siri, I know you've had a hard time with the disir lately, but I tried singing them back like Mormor used to, and they didn't come, and I need them."

"The what now?"

"The disir. I don't think you were ever there at Disting, but Mormor always sang a song—"

"Oh, that's nice!"

"It's more than nice, it's serious. Our family needs the disir to come back. They're—they're—" I looked at her mask of polite interest dubiously. "They're like the spirit of our family. Mormor told us all about them. Surely you remember."

Siri smiled. "Honey, you can't mean the stories Grandma told us when we were little."

I was speechless for a moment.

"I mean, her cousins were a little weird, but I don't believe half of what Grandma said about them. She just liked to tell stories."

"Her . . . cousins."

"All those funny old ladies."

"The disir."

"I don't remember their last name, Karin. You were always more into the genealogy stuff than I was."

"They weren't her cousins."

Siri rolled her eyes. "Whatever they were, the other old ladies from the old country. If you want to ask them over, just ask. You don't need me to do it."

"They won't listen to me," I said weakly.

"Well, I don't know why you think they'd listen to me."

"You can sing." And I knew then that it was no use, that the look she gave me was never going to change into acceptance and comprehension, that even if she sang, they wouldn't come. "Never mind, Siri. I guess they're just stubborn old Norskies. Thanks anyway."

"Good luck," she said. "There's nothing as stubborn as those old Norwegian ladies when they get a notion in their heads. Sometimes the ones at the hospital drive Tove just mad."

"I'll bet," I said weakly. Siri started telling me some outrageous story about one of Tove's patient's glass eyeball, and from there, things became, if not more normal, at least more usual. We parted with hugs and promises to call each other soon, and I knew we wouldn't see each other until Christmas.

I wandered from my classes to my office in a daze that week. Hilary practically ran the research group meeting for me, and one of the first-year grad students patted my hand and murmured words of sympathy about my grandmother before fleeing in newly adult chagrin.

I was there with Mormor when the disir left her the last time for the summer. Disir did not know about white shoes at Easter or Memorial Day. They left when the spirit moved them, never before May Day and rarely after Syttende Mai. I spent even more of the days with her after May Day because of it.

"It's today," she said one afternoon after I had brought in her tray. Her voice had gotten breathy, and she paused a lot, but it didn't stop her from saying what she wanted to say.

"You think so?"

"I know it. You know it, too, daughter's daughter."

She was right; I did. The disir wandered the room fiddling with familiar knickknacks and running their fingers through her hair. Making sure they remembered, I thought. "Well, you'll sing them back in the fall."

"No, I won't," she said.

I pretended I didn't hear her.

"Karin."

"Don't talk that way, Mormor."

"I've spoken truth all my life, and I don't intend to stop now."

I bit my lip. Then I looked up and had to laugh.

Mormor followed my gaze. One of the black-clad disir was hanging bonelessly over the mantel, swinging a leg back and forth.

"They're . . . not very dignified, are they?" I asked.

She smiled faintly. "What's dignity to them?"

"They don't seem to miss it," I admitted.

"We could learn from them," said Mormor. "Whenever I have faltered—whenever I wondered about what people would say—I have thought of the disir swinging from the chandelier, stealing the cookie dough, behaving for all the world like shameless children. And then I think that it doesn't matter at all what people say. It matters what we say, and what we do."

"That's a good thing to know," I said around a lump in my throat. The dis on the mantelpiece nodded and slithered around until I couldn't see when she became black mist and soaked into the chimney.

Mormor was never one for making a fuss, but she flinched when the disir left.

I knew it was hard on my students to watch me upset and not know why. Hilary tried to ask, subtly, if there was anything I wanted her help with, anything bothering me at all. Finally she blurted out, "Anything at home?" I smiled gently and told her no, but it wasn't true; the hole in my life was even harder for Eric than it was on the grad students.

"Maybe I could do it," said Eric. "Man and wife are supposed to be one flesh, right? So maybe I'm the part of your flesh that can, er. . . ."

"That can sing."

"Well, yah." He looked at me hopefully.

"So I'll tell you what to sing, and then you sing it?"

"We could try it."

The problem—one of the problems—was that it's extremely hard for someone who can't sing to convey a tune accurately. We ended up playing a sort of hot-and-cold game for half the notes, and I think Eric was exhausted before he ever started. Regardless, we worked around to where he could sing something approximating the right tune.

"Sort of think of them coming, if you can," I said. "Think of welcoming them."

Eric eyed me dubiously, but he took a deep breath and projected with his fuzzy baritone. I didn't marry the man for his voice, but I can't say it hurt his case. The disir, however, did not seem to be similarly moved. There was not so much as a twitch of skirt around the corner, a hint of long finger peeking from behind the sofa, a straggle of hair whipped just out of view.

"Did I do the tune wrong?" asked Eric after a moment.

"No, hon," I said, putting my arms around him. "You did fine. It's just . . . it's just them, I guess. And me. They're supposed to be my disir, and I haven't done enough."

"You've done fine," he said. "I don't want you to drive yourself crazy over this." I refrained from the obvious self-deprecating wisecrack, but I thought it.

The next day, I left Eric and Andy playing chess and headed for the university library. They gave me a chic reference librarian in red-rimmed glasses who said mythology was one of her specialties.

"My grandmother used to tell me stories about the disir," I said, "so I was wondering . . ."

"Of course, certainly," she said. She typed some things into her computer and looked at me over her spectacles. "Some sources think they're the angels of death."

"That's not right," I said automatically. The librarian peered at me closer, and I tried to recover. "That doesn't fit in with the stories my grandma knew at all. They visited the living, not the dying." They didn't even come back when she was dying.

The librarian nodded. "Those old stories will vary a lot. Sometimes it's geography; the gods of our town are the demons of the next town over."

"They're not gods, either. In the stories."

I had the feeling that I was vying for the tiresome patron award for that day. "Folktales really do vary."

"Is there anything else about the disir in there? Any other stories?" I asked.

"They tell people's destinies in dreams," she said.

"Yes! Yes, that's what my grandmother said."

"And they might be land spirits, or they might not. And they don't seem very easy to pin down."

"That sounds just like Mormor," I said.

The librarian smiled, relieved that I was apparently done making unreasonable demands that she read my ancestral mind. "Some myths end up resembling their tellers. That's how the process goes."

She found me a few reference volumes on Norse folktales and myths, and I leafed through the indices, scowling at half of them. Half of them were just flatly wrong, and the other half repeated things I knew. The disir hadn't made deals with their people in the old country, not in the same way. My problem was my own.

When I got home, they'd finished their chess game and put on Army of Darkness. I flopped on the couch next to Eric and watched with them as Ash returned to S-Mart. Andy cleared out not too much later than that, saying something about the built-in cabinets we were supposed to help him with that weekend.

When the door closed, I turned to my husband. "Andy loves you," I said.

Eric looked pained. "He's my best friend."

"But he doesn't tell you he loves you."

"Guys don't say that kind of thing!"

"Some guys do," I said.

"Well, we don't." He turned away, fiddling with a stack of magazines. "Geez, Karin, come on, we're from Minnesota. You know the old joke about the Norwegian man who loved his wife so much—"

"He almost told her," I finished with him. "I know."

"Don't you think she knew?"

I hadn't thought about it much before. The wife in the joke was my grandmother, my great-aunts, all the women in my family all the way back. Even when I married a stoic Scandinavian-American male, I made sure it wouldn't be me; I made sure he wouldn't be like that with me.

I didn't remember Morfar much, but I remembered Mormor's voice when she spoke of him. It was not the voice of a bitter woman who had lost her husband still uncertain of his love. I had spent so much time envying her the certainty of the disir, these last days, that I had almost forgotten what sureties we did have in common.

I took my mother out Christmas shopping and had lunch with my cousins for no reason. I had never had Christmas without the disir before, and I didn't relish the prospect, but finals and snowstorms came along and swallowed our lives whole.

I was still marking exams for the first semester of graduate topology when Hilary ran in, snowflakes still unmelted in her hair. "I've finished it," she said breathlessly. "I've—I've got it, here, read, look. I've finished it."

I took the papers from her hand. "You've—"

"I've seen how to take Perelman's work beyond the finite fundamental group limitation."

I scanned the pages. They were messier than Hilary's usual work, the writing wandering upward at the end of each line, arrows leading me from one point to another. The pieces fell into place, one after another, with the universe-shifting click of a good proof.

I laughed.

"Did you find a mistake?" she asked, suddenly deflated.

"No. No, I don't think so. You'll need to develop this section, but—I think you did it." She was still watching me a bit warily, so I held my arms out. She hugged me, giggling when I picked her up off the ground a little. "You did it. Call your mom. Call the others. We'll have a party for you before the next semester starts. This is—" I paused, grinning. "You know how huge this is. You didn't need me to tell you. You already knew."

"Yeah," she admitted, "but—yeah."

"Trust yourself," I said. "You're a hell of a mathematician. Now get home before the blizzard keeps us both stuck here."

She raced off down the hall, laughing like a little kid. With her black coat, the crazy laugh reminded me of the disir.

But the world they'd shown me, the special destiny they'd given me when I was twelve, was hers. It wasn't mine.

They had shown me my own hands tangled in the structure of the universe. I had felt it. But working as a mathematician wasn't like that for me. Mine were not the sweeping cosmic insights. Mine were not the brilliant proofs that made the shocking seem obvious. Mine . . . were the grad students. The undergrads who suddenly got abstract algebra just before they were going to change to a psych major. Mine were the piles of paperwork and the files upon files of grade-calculating spreadsheets. And I liked it that way.

The disir had been wrong about me.

Perhaps they had been wrong not to return, perhaps not, but they had shown me the path of my life, and it was not a path I could walk. I had neither the skill nor the intention—what I really loved, once I stopped thinking of my destiny, was the students. And I had them in abundance.

I drove home very carefully in the snow.

When we are not sure what else to do, Minnesota girls bake. I made six dozen gingerbread and a gross of chocolate peanut blossom cookies that weekend. I fussed and fretted and tried to figure out who would get how many cookies in which box. I had never made Christmas cookies without the disir. They had always been there around the edges, dipping their long fingers into the batter and licking them like naughty children.

I missed my mormor. I missed the way she would slap their hands away, and the way she cracked jokes about them, and the way she was full of instructions and advice, even when I wasn't going to take any of it.

I got out the cookie press for the spritz.

We had made spritz together when I was small, butterflies in the summer, Christmas trees and poinsettias in the winter. We sprinkled them with colored sugar and placed Red Hots in the center of a few of them, for my dad, because Mormor always indulged her son-in-law the way he indulged her daughter.

I mixed the familiar firm dough. The almond scent worked its way into my hands. My own tuneless humming didn't bother me anymore. I loaded the cookie press, twisting the knob to pack the dough in tighter. The first cookie was a loss, of course. It always was. Back in the bowl. The second came out a little large and a little lopsided. I left it. Sometimes you live with imperfection, and sometimes you have confidence that it will come out in the baking.

I had three cookie sheets going in rotation, one baking and one cooling while I pressed cookies onto the third. I was sprinkling green decorating sugar over the tiny tree cookies when I saw a flicker of black out of the corner of my eye. I went still. It disappeared. I picked up the red sugar for the flower cookies. Something brushed past behind me, and it wasn't Eric.

I hummed tunelessly under my breath. A long, skinny white hand darted past me toward the bowl of dough, and I grabbed it by the wrist on its way back with its lump of dough.

"Come back, have you?" I turned, and the disir stood in a ragged double row behind me, grinning and scuffing their feet like children. "Well, and I suppose you want some spritz?"

But they were already gobbling the hot little tree cookies from the cooling racks, tossing them between their long fingers as they ate, and in my own house I was finally home.

* * *

for Elise

See more of Marissa Lingen's work at: www.marissalingen.com.

Servants to the Dead

Written by Steven Piziks
Illustrated by Karl Nordman

"Dad, look out!" Jen caught her father by the shoulders and yanked him away from the rake in the grass. Charlie Liles teetered, then recovered his balance.

"What do you think you're doing, young woman?" he snapped. "Take your hands off me!"

"Dad, you almost—oh, never mind." Jen stooped to snatch up the rake and lean it safely against the yellow garden shed. Overhead, the sun shone like a cold golden eye, and the spring air still carried a hint of chill. The lawn was turning green, but matted clumps of dead brown grass still clogged it—Nick hadn't finished clearing it out. He must have accidentally left the rake in the yard.

Charlie, meanwhile, was muttering to himself. Jen had made sure he was dressed warmly in a clean sweatshirt and thick slacks, though it had been a struggle. He had demanded she bring him his blue-and-white-striped sweater. Jen vaguely remembered a sweater like that from her childhood, which meant it certainly wasn't in the dresser now. She'd told him it was in the laundry.

"Where's Molly?" Charlie demanded, tugging at his sweatshirt. "Dammit, the woman's never around when you need her."

"Mom died eight years ago, Dad," Jen said patiently. "She's buried in Forest Hill Cemetery. We went to visit her yesterday, remember?"

Charlie looked blankly at his daughter. His eyes, once a flashing blue, had gone pale and blank in his wrinkled face. His chest was a shrunken hollow, his hands were thick and gnarled, his hair wispy and gray. Jen had inherited his blue eyes and sturdy build, though her thick brown hair had come from her mother.

"Who're you?" Charlie growled.

"I'm Jen. Your daughter."

Charlie continued to look blankly at her. A robin chirped from a nearby tree, which had already put out a healthy crop of pale green leaves, and the buds on the magnolia tree next door were threatening to burst with a popcorn shower of purple-and-white petals.

"Tomatoes, Dad," Jen finally sighed, pointing to the rows of plastic flats. Each one contained half a dozen tomato plants, ready for transplanting. "You're doing the tomatoes today, remember?"

Charlie turned and looked for a long time at the dark green vines. Then his face lit up. "Tomatoes! We have to get the tomatoes in!"

He strode purposefully toward the flats. Nick had already run the tiller over the garden, leaving the earth soft and dark. Charlie knelt near the plot, picked up a trowel, and began digging with the quick, precise movements of an experienced gardener. Jen let out a long breath. Looking at him right now, she could remember what he was like before the Alzheimer's. These times, however, were coming less and less often. A wave of tiredness swept over her. It was so hard. Sometimes she wished Dad would just—

No, she told herself firmly. No point in that. Like Dad used to say, you can wish in one hand and spit in the other. See which one gets filled first.

After putting the rake inside the shed and inspecting the area to make sure there were no other tools Charlie might hurt himself on, Jen carefully locked the backyard gate and went into the house. A pile of dishes teetered high in the sink, and the floor desperately needed mopping. Ignoring both, Jen cleared a space under the faucet to rinse her hands and strode briskly toward the corner of the kitchen that doubled as her workshop. A small electric potter's wheel sat amid giant lumps of brown and gray clay, wrapped in plastic to keep them moist. Nick had installed a series of shelves on the wall for her, and they were lined with neat brown rows of drying bowls and vases. The corner also had a window that looked out over the backyard, meaning she could keep one eye on her father while she grabbed some personal time. And she was going to grab it. Nick was still asleep—he had worked an extra shift at the hospital last night—and Dad was occupied, so Jen had a few precious minutes to herself. Dirty kitchen or not, she wasn't going to miss a moment.

Naturally, the doorbell chose that moment to ring.

Cursing, Jen glanced out the window. Dad was still digging. He should be all right for the moment. Jen dashed to the front door. A man in a brown uniform was waiting for her with a shoe-box-sized package tucked under one arm.

"Delivery for Dr. Bitterman," he said.

"I'm Dr. Bitterman," Jen told him.

"You need to sign for it." The man thrust a clipboard at her. "First line."

Jen unclipped the pen from the board. "I thought I told the museum not to send anything to my home address."

"I just deliver the packages, ma'am," he said. "I don't address them. First line."

Jen was about to sign when she noticed something odd. The top of the acceptance sheet wasn't printed in English. Arabic script flowed across the page instead. Frowning, she read.

"I accept this package of my own free will and with it, all responsibilities contained therein," she said. "What on earth?"

The man touched his cap, and Jen noticed for the first time that he had dark, olive skin. Curly black hair peeked out from under his brown cap. The vehicle parked at the curb wasn't UPS or FedEx, either. It was a plain, white truck with horus delivery service written on it, accompanied by a picture of a falcon carrying a package in its talons. There were no other signatures on the acceptance sheet.

"I just deliver the packages, ma'am," the man repeated. He had no trace of a foreign accent.

A thought flashed through Jen's mind—was the package a bomb? There were some people who felt that ancient Egyptological artifacts should remain in Egypt, and a few of those people were known to be extremists. Had one of them decided to get revenge?

"I'll tell you what," Jen said. "I'll sign if you stand here while I open the package."

She had half expected the man to run away, but instead he glanced once at his watch. "Sure, ma'am. If you want."

Jen looked at him, still suspicious. Then she remembered Dad was still in the backyard, with no one to watch him. Quickly, she scribbled her signature on the sheet and accepted the package. It wasn't very heavy, only a pound or so. There was no return address.

"If you could hurry, ma'am?" the deliveryman said. "I have a route to finish."

The package was only taped shut. Between the man's willingness to wait and her fear that Dad might be getting into something he shouldn't, most of Jen's trepidation disappeared. With experience born of long practice, she tore off the brown paper and opened the box inside. It was filled with shredded Arabic newspaper. She looked blankly at it.

"All set, ma'am?" the man asked.

"What? Oh, yes. Hold on a second." She fumbled one-handed through her pockets for a tip.

"Don't worry about it, ma'am. Gotta go." The man trotted back to his truck and drove away.

Jen carried the package into the kitchen and heard cursing from the open window. She glanced outside. Charlie was cracking a tomato plant like a whip, and dirt and leaves were flying in all directions. He dropped it and reached for another.

"Damn!" Jen abandoned the box on the table and rushed outside.

It was quite some time later before she was able to come back in and flop into a scarred kitchen chair. She rubbed a tired hand over her face. Dad was calm again and planting the rest of the tomatoes, though clouds now hid the sun. In a few minutes it'd be too chilly for him to work outside, and she'd have to bring him in. Then she'd have to start dinner, and then Dad would need a bath, and then—

Jen's eye fell on the package, which still sat on the table. With a sigh, she pulled it toward her and rummaged carefully through the shredded newspaper. It felt gritty, and it stained her fingertips black. Strange packages arrived at her office down at the museum all the time, though usually via mail or UPS. Most often they contained Egyptian artifacts someone wanted Jen to identify or verify, but occasionally they turned out to be contributions to the museum's growing collection. As the head of the Egyptology Department—which consisted of three whole people—it was part of Dr. Jennifer Bitterman's job to figure out what the artifacts were and/or what to do with them.

Jen's fingers encountered a hard, smooth surface. Gingerly, she grasped the object and fished it out.

A gold light flashed like a miniature sun. It blinded Jen, and she cried out. The object clattered to the table. For a long moment Jen saw nothing but a bright red dot. She blinked furiously until the kitchen came back into focus. A small statue lay on the table. It was a man, about eight inches tall, with the smooth contours Jen had come to associate with Egyptian statuary. The object resembled a miniature mummy case complete with hieroglyphs parading across the back. Jen blinked some more. What on earth had caused the flash? Had the statue caught the light just right?

"What've you got, Jen? A gold statue?"

Jen turned at the familiar voice. Nick, clad in his white bathrobe, had padded into the kitchen. His hair, still as thick and red as the day she'd married him fifteen years ago, was tousled as a haystack, and his green eyes were heavy with sleep. He yawned, then leaned down to give her cheek a scratchy kiss.

"It's an ushepti," Jen told him. "And it isn't heavy enough to be solid gold. It's more likely gilded wood or plaster."

"Ah." Nick shuffled toward the coffeemaker. He had set the timer before going to bed, and the machine was just now flooding the kitchen with the smell of fresh coffee. "Caffeine. Need caffeine. Where's Charlie?"

Jen automatically glanced out the window. "Planting tomatoes. I'll have to bring him in soon."

"So what's an usha . . . usheb . . ."

"Ushepti," Jen repeated. "It's a funerary object. I've shown them to you before."

Nick sat down at the table with a steaming cup. "Aren't they those servant statue things they put in tombs?"

"Yeah. It's got hieroglyphs along here. Let's see." She traced the symbols with one finger and translated. "If there is work to do in the afterlife, if there is grain to thresh or cloth to weave, if there is a field to irrigate or sand to carry to the east or west, I will do it for you."

"Handy." Nick sipped his coffee. "Why would the dead have to thresh grain?"

"No such thing as a free lunch," Jen said. "Not even in the afterlife. You have to pay Osiris for your keep by working in his fields or in his house. But if you have enough usheptis in your tomb, they'll do it for you. People collected them for years before they died."

"So who sent it?"

Jen was already digging through the box. "I don't know. There's no letter or card, and there wasn't a return address on the package. No big deal, really. A lot of people send the letter under separate cover. I'll probably get it tomorrow. The owner wants to know which period it came from or something, I'm sure."

"Ah. Well it's me for a shower." Nick got up and glanced at Jen's work space. "Didn't get a chance to throw anything new, huh?"

Jen mutely shook her head. "Dad was difficult today, and tonight he needs a bath."

"Tell you what." Nick leaned over to kiss her again. He smelled like coffee. "I'll give him his bath tonight if you're reeeeeaaal nice to me later. You haven't been nice to me for a long time, woman."

"Sounds like a deal," Jen laughed. "I better go bring him in."

The phone rang. Nick reached for it while Jen headed for the door.

The temperature outside had dropped considerably. Guiltily, Jen hurried over to her father, who had managed to plant about a third of the tomato plants. She knelt and touched his hands. They were ice-cold. More guilt. Charlie was more like a child than anything else. He didn't know enough to go get a jacket or put on gardening gloves, so Jen had to do it for him.

"Come on, Dad," she said gently. "It's time to go in."

"I'm busy," he replied in the deceptively mild voice Jen had come to dread. It meant he was going to be difficult.

"Dad," she tried again. "It's getting cold. We need to go in."

"I said I'm busy," he snapped.

In the end, Jen had to snatch the trowel away from him and use it to lure him back inside. Nick, meanwhile, had already showered and dressed and was in the kitchen making a sandwich.

"That was fast," she said. "Dad, no—you have to wash your hands first."

"That was the hospital on the phone," Nick told her quietly. "One of the other med-techs called in sick and they asked me to work another double shift. We need the money, so I told them I'd do it. I have to leave as soon as I grab something to eat."

Without a word, Jen guided Charlie's hands away from the dishes and under the warm water. Disappointment dragged at her. Her hopes for some private time seemed to wash down the drain with the crumbly dirt. She wanted to tell Nick to call the hospital and say he had to stay home tonight, spend time with her tonight. But she pursed her lips and remained silent. Nick was right—they did need the money. Her salary at the museum barely approached thirty thousand, and the hospital had recently been forced to lay off a hundred workers and cut pay rates for all those who remained. Between a sick father, two car payments, and a house they had bought in better times, it seemed like they fell further and further behind every month. Jen tried to supplement household income by selling her pottery to a local dealer, but she just didn't have much time to spend at her wheel.

"I'd better give Dad his bath now, then," Jen said, shutting off the water and drying Charlie's hands. "It'll calm him down for supper."

Nick picked up his sandwich. "I'll see you in the morning." He kissed her again, though this time his face was smooth and freshly shaven. "I'm sorry, honey."

"We need the money," Jen repeated.

Nick nodded once and left.

"Come on, Dad," Jen said. "It's bath time."

It took over an hour to get through his bath, at the end of which Jen was soaking wet and completely exhausted. Charlie resisted every move she made. Twice he almost slipped and hurt himself. Finally, she managed to get him into his robe and pajamas and park him in front of the television set to watch an I Love Lucy rerun. And she still had to start supper.

Jen leaned against the smooth living-room wall beside Charlie's easy chair, feeling suddenly frightened and overwhelmed. It had been like this almost every day since Dad had moved in a year ago. They couldn't afford—and their insurance wouldn't cover—in-home care, and the nearest affordable nursing home with an opening for an Alzheimer's patient was over an hour away. It had smelled of stale air and urine when Jen had gone to visit, and she just couldn't bring herself to leave Dad there.

After Charlie had moved in, Nick had transferred to the three-to-eleven shift, and Jen had rearranged her schedule so she could work six-thirty to two. That way, there'd always be someone at home for Charlie. Jen rarely saw Nick during the week, and lately she hadn't even seen much of him on the weekends. They hadn't gone out as a couple in months and months, and Jen had given up two chances to visit Egypt.

Jen blinked hard, refusing to let the tear run down her cheek. She wanted her life back. She wanted time with her husband. She wanted her dad to be the strong, gentle man she remembered from her childhood instead of the childish tyrant he had become. Sometimes she wished Dad would just—

No. No, she didn't. Never that.

Charlie's gaze remained fixed on the TV. Jen pushed herself away from the wall and moved toward the kitchen. With Nick at work, maybe she'd just throw together some sandwiches or something. It would also give her time to make a dent in the mess.

She paused in the kitchen doorway and sniffed. The rich scent of beef stew mingled with the delicious smell of baking biscuits. What in the world . . . ?

Jen peered into the kitchen and caught her breath. It was sparkling clean. The dirty dishes had vanished. The floor was mopped. Even the windows gleamed. A pot bubbled slowly on the stove, and the table was neatly set for two. Jen stared in utter astonishment.

"Hello?" she called hesitantly. She supposed she should be afraid someone had broken into the house, but what kind of burglar made beef stew and baked biscuits in broad daylight? She lifted the pot lid, then checked the oven. Biscuits and stew looked nearly done. Had Nick somehow arranged all this to surprise her? But how?

A golden glitter caught her eye. The ushepti sat on the table, exactly where Jen had left it. She looked at it for a long time.

Don't be ridiculous, she told herself. There's a perfectly good explanation for all this.

But nothing came to mind.

The biscuits were light, buttery, and flaky, the stew was thick, meaty, and absolutely delicious. Charlie ate with gusto and allowed Jen to lead him back to the living room for more television. Jen felt slightly guilty about parking him there, but reminded herself that he rarely remained quiet for long, and there was no harm in enjoying it when he did.

When she got back to the kitchen, intending to sneak some time at her potter's wheel, the table had been cleared and the dishes—washed—were stacked in the rack next to the sink. Jen remembered the flash of golden light and narrowed her eyes at the ushepti, which still sat on the table.

If there is work to do in the afterlife, Jen thought, I will do it for you.

"You're doing this, aren't you?" she said aloud.

The ushepti didn't answer, and Jen felt rather silly talking to a statue. Still, when she searched the kitchen for the ushepti's box to reexamine it for clues, it was nowhere to be found. A few minutes later, Jen was unsurprised to learn that the phone book contained no listing for the Horus Delivery Service.

* * *

"This is a shattered curse tablet," Jen said, gesturing at a glass display case. "It was found in an Egyptian tomb, though the name on the tablet doesn't belong to the man who was buried there. We think the pieces were deliberately hidden in the burial chamber by a workman who wanted to give the tablet's curse greater power."

One of the third-graders raised a hand. "What kind of curse?"

"The Egyptians believed if you wrote someone's name on a clay tablet and smashed it, the person would die," Jen explained.

"Can we see the mummy?" asked another student.

Jen smiled. "It's right around the corner. Let's go look."

The class scurried away, towing their teacher and two chaperones with them. Jen followed and gave the students a short lecture on mummification while they crowded around what looked like a tall glass coffin. A wooden sarcophagus, painted gold, stood upright inside. The front of the sarcophagus stood open to display a vaguely human-shaped figure wrapped in mud-brown bandages.

"Is it true the priests sucked the dead man's brain out through his nose?" asked one boy.

"Absolutely," Jen said, and the children made appreciative "ewwwww" noises.

The same boy asked, "Did the priests eat it?"

After the tour ended, Jen wound her way back toward her tiny office. In some ways, the children reminded her of Dad on his good days, and she wondered for the hundredth time if he was giving Nick any trouble at home. As his dementia progressed, the doctor said, Charlie would probably grow more and more irritable and difficult. Jen tried to imagine Dad being harder to deal with than he already was. The thought made her shake.

Jen shook her head. Stop it, she told herself. Whimpering and wishing won't help matters. Get your work done.

She sat down and reached for her daily stack of mail. The top letter was a reminder that the deadline for the Eagle Grant for Egyptological Study was only four weeks away. Jen let her eyes go out of focus. For a moment, she could feel the delicious heat of the hot, golden sun of Egypt and hear the boisterous sounds of Cairo—braying donkeys, rushing cars, cries of merchant and beggar. A fascinating place, one she never tired of visiting. And then there were the tombs. So much to seek and study, so much to uncover and learn!

Jen set the letter firmly aside. No point in dwelling on the fact that she was unlikely to see Egypt in the foreseeable future.

The phone rang. It was Nick.

"The hospital called again," he said. "They want me in ASAP. Can you come home early?"

"You'd think," Jen complained, "that they'd hire back some of the layoffs."

"Cheaper to pay overtime than benefits," Nick said. "When can you get here?"

Jen glanced at the mound of paperwork that awaited her. Maybe she could take it home and do it after Dad went to bed.

"Give me half an hour," she said. "That'll give me time to—"

The crash of breaking glass came over the line. "Gotta go," Nick said, and hung up.

When Jen arrived home, she found Charlie sitting in front of the TV. His clothes were spattered with something yellow. Nick was mopping the kitchen floor. Yellow goo dripped down the walls. Some of it was also in Nick's hair.

"What happened?" she asked.

"Charlie got into the eggs," Nick said shortly. "I don't know what it was about. He smashed them on himself and the walls while I was talking to you on the phone. Then he started on the glasses in the drainer. Don't let him walk across the floor in bare feet—I'm not sure I got all the pieces."

"Here," Jen said, taking the mop. "I'll take over. You'd better get to the hospital."

Nick obeyed. After Jen finished the floor, she dashed into her room to change out of her work clothes. Charlie continued to stare at the TV, egg still staining his own clothing. Jen would have to change them for him, and he'd probably be difficult. Then she could finish the walls and go over the floor again to make sure all the glass was cleaned up.

A too-familiar wave of tiredness suddenly swept over her. Her life stretched ahead of her like an endless, lifeless desert. The room seemed echoing and empty with Nick gone, and she knew tonight their bed would feel the same. Anger welled up. She had given up everything—her pottery, her archaeology, her husband, everything. Sometimes she wished Dad would just—

No. Never that. A tear splashed down her cheek. Dammit, it wasn't fair. She loved her dad. She did. It was just that he didn't seem like her father anymore. They had traded roles. She was taking care of a six-foot two-year-old who couldn't even remember who she was. And now she was beginning to wonder if Nick accepted all the extra shifts so he could get out of the house. Her husband was slipping away from her while her father hung on with a death grip.

Enough, she scolded herself. Dad's out there with raw egg on his clothes while you sit here and whine to yourself.

Jen marched out into the living room. "Come on, Dad. Let's get those clothes—"

She faltered. His clothes were completely clean. There was no sign they had ever been dirty. Jen stared at him. After a moment, he looked up at her. His eyes didn't have the same blankness they usually held.

"Dots?" he said.

A lump formed in Jen's throat. "Jennyanydots" was Dad's childhood nickname for her, after a cat in a T. S. Eliot poem. "It's me, Dad."

"I'm tired," he said.

"You can take a nap if you want," Jen said around the lump. "Or do you want to eat first?"

"I've been forgetting things, haven't I? So many things. I've caused you so much trouble."

"You're no trouble, Dad," Jen said softly.

Charlie reached up as if to pat her arm. Jen reached out to meet him. Swiftly he snatched her hand instead and gripped with surprising strength. Startled, Jen gasped and tried to pull away. He held her fast.

"You always take care of everything, Dots," Charlie said in a hoarse voice. His pale eyes met hers. "Take care of this, too. My body's a wreck, my mind is going, and I miss your mother so much my bones ache. Take care of me, Dots. I know you can."

"I do take care of you," Jen said faintly. "Don't you know that? Dad?"

No response. Charlie's hand slid off Jen's like a dying snake, and his eyes went blank again. Jen headed shakily toward the kitchen, trying to sort out the emotions that warred inside her. She did take care of Dad, every minute of every day.

A small voice insisted that Jen was deliberately misinterpreting Charlie's words, that she knew damn well what he meant. Jen shook her head. Impossible. Dad couldn't want her to . . . he couldn't mean that. It was part of his delirium. She set the thought aside and entered the kitchen.

It was completely clean. Again. On the table was her briefcase, which Jen clearly remembered leaving by the front door. Jen opened it and found her paperwork neatly stacked inside. Every bit was finished, completed and signed in her handwriting exactly as she would have done it. On the bottom of the pile, however, was an unsealed manila envelope she didn't recall bringing home. With chilly fingers, she opened it and pulled out a pile of papers and typewritten forms. It was a completed application for the Eagle Grant, signed with her name and ready to mail. The writer had requested enough money to bring along an assistant—Nick—at excellent compensatory wages.

Jen set the application down. The ushepti sat next to the stove, gold gleaming in the failing afternoon sunlight.

"Not that I'm ungrateful," she said, "but there's no way I can mail this in. Why are you doing all this, anyway?"

The ushepti neither answered nor moved. Jen picked it up, surprised at how calmly she was accepting the situation. It had to be the statue doing the work. What other explanation was there? She noticed that the figurine's gilding was a little thin in places, especially around the hands, and she felt a sudden kinship with the little statue. They were both worn around the edges from laboring so—

Jen almost dropped the ushepti. That was it, wasn't it? An ushepti was a servant to the dead, and Dad, in many ways, had died long ago. Now the statue labored for him, paying room and board in the house of Osiris.

Or in the house of Jen and Nick, she thought. Well, if the ushepti wants to do the work, who am I to complain?

A quick check on Charlie revealed he had fallen asleep in front of the television. Humming happily to herself, Jen tiptoed to her corner workshop and started up her potter's wheel.

Three bowls and two vases later—all thrown in the style of the ancient Egyptian Middle Kingdom—Jen felt enormously better. Her cares and worries always seemed to melt into the soft clay as it bent and shaped itself to her will. Her growling stomach finally reminded her it was time to make supper. She set the pottery on a shelf to dry—she'd fire it later in the backyard kiln—and headed for the sink to wash her hands.

Sandwich fixings waited buffet-style on the cupboard, and the table was set. The ushepti sat among the plates like a serene centerpiece.

Jen laughed aloud. "You do a fine job," she said. "Thank you."

The ushepti gleamed.

Maybe, Jen thought as she headed into the living room to wake her father, things are finally getting better.

* * *

Things weren't getting better. As if to make up for his moment of tenderness, Charlie refused to go to bed that evening. He sat stubbornly in the chair.

"You go to bed," he growled. "I'm staying up. Who are you, anyway?"

Jen pleaded, cajoled, and threatened. She was considering telling him Mom was waiting in the bedroom when he suddenly got up and wandered into the bathroom to use the toilet. Thanking God Charlie didn't yet require diapers, Jen took advantage of the situation and got him to brush his teeth, but he resisted pajamas. She only managed to undress him down to his underwear. Then he wanted a cup of coffee, which Jen refused to give him, and then, still in his underwear, he decided he wanted to go for a walk. He had gotten the front door open before Jen could talk him out of it. All in all, it was almost midnight by the time Charlie, muttering, finally climbed into bed.

Exhausted, Jen went into the kitchen to get herself a snack before going to bed herself. It was already over an hour past her usual bedtime, but she was suddenly starving. She also wasn't particularly looking forward to empty space Nick left in their bed.

A glass of milk, a slice of cherry pie, and a fork were waiting for her on the table. The ushepti gleamed serenely nearby. Too tired even to smile at it, Jen picked up the fork, then glanced automatically at the vases and bowls drying on the shelf. The bowls were cracking as they dried. Jen sighed. A perfect ending to a perfect day.

Tomorrow, she told herself. Tomorrow things'll get better.

Once again, they didn't. Nick arrived home late from his double shift, red-eyed and exhausted, but unable to go to bed because someone had to watch Charlie while Jen was at work. She persuaded Nick to call in sick so he wouldn't have to work that evening on no sleep, but he accepted the idea with poor grace. The moment Jen got home from the museum that afternoon, Nick vanished into the bedroom. Jen tried to interest Charlie in planting the rest of the tomatoes, but he refused. Instead, he wandered vacantly around the house, opening doors and cupboards, dialing random numbers on the phone, trying to rearrange the living-room furniture, and generally driving Jen to distraction. The ushepti made supper again, but when Jen set Charlie's plate before him, he threw it to the floor. Then he swept the juice pitcher off the table, sending sticky red liquid everywhere. The noise woke Nick, who rushed into the kitchen without thinking and sliced the bottom of his bare foot on a piece of broken plate.

At long last Jen got everything under control and cleaned up. Charlie was staring vacantly at the TV, and Nick had limped into the bedroom "to do some reading." His face was tight and rigid, though whether from pain, resentment, or both, Jen couldn't tell. Jen sat in the kitchen and tried not to cry from her own frustration. How long could she keep this up? How long was Dad going to keep sucking her life away? Didn't he know she had a life, too?

Anger overcame the frustration. How could Dad do this to her? Hadn't she been a loving daughter? Hadn't she worked hard for him? And for what? An estranged husband and a truncated career.

The anger raged, bubbled, and grew within her. She hated what her life had become. She had no life at all. Every time she thought things were getting better, they got worse. Sometimes she wished Dad would just . . . would just—

"Die!" she snarled aloud. "I wish he would die! There—I said it!"

The words spun wildly through the room, and Jen's rage welled up in a fireball. Rage at herself for speaking the forbidden words. Rage at Dad for making her say them. Rage at Nick for not being there to hear them. Her eye fell on the cracked bowls in her work area. With a silent snarl, she snatched the first one from the shelf and flung it to the floor.

A split second before she let go, she saw the writing.

Jen tried to abort, tried to snatch the bowl back, but it was too late. Everything slowed, and it seemed to Jen that the bowl slid gently away from her grasping fingers, tumbled end over end to the floor, smashed slowly into a dozen brown pieces.

Nick found her sitting on the linoleum, trying to piece the shards back together. Desperate tears ran down her face.

"I didn't mean it," she cried. "I didn't mean it."

Minding his foot, Nick knelt and put his arms around her. "It's only a bowl, honey. It's all right."

"It isn't all right," she whimpered. "Look."

She held two pieces together. Spelled across the break in neat, block letters were the words "Charles Edward Liles."

"Dad's going to die," she said.

"He's not going to die." Nick stroked her hair with a warm hand, something he hadn't done in long, long time. "Your dad's going to be fine. Everything's going to be fine."

But in the morning, Charlie was dead.

The next several hours passed in a fog. The ambulance came and went, and the medical examiner declined to autopsy an Alzheimer's patient found peaceful in his bed. Jen vaguely remembered sitting at the mortuary holding Nick's hand and nodding at the arrangements he made. Then she let him lead her back home, where he spent considerable time on the phone. Jen was an only child, but there were aunts, uncles, and cousins to notify, hotel and transportation arrangements to make. The doorbell rang and rang, and Nick admitted people carrying casserole dishes and fruit platters. Many of them were from the church she and Nick had attended before Charlie fell ill. It occurred to her that they could start attending again. The thought brought fresh tears to Jen's eyes.

That evening just before sunset, Nick tried to interest her in going for a walk, but Jen refused.

"Maybe I'll try some pottery," she said.

Nick nodded, his brilliant red hair shining in the fading yellow light that shone into the kitchen. "All right. Call me if you need me."

"Thank you for arranging everything," she said, suddenly taking his hand. "I don't know how I would've managed it."

Nick stroked her hair for a long moment, gave her a hug, and left her at her wheel. Jen started it up, but didn't put any clay on it. Instead, she swiveled on her stool and found herself staring across the kitchen at the ushepti, which sat serenely on the cupboard. A pile of papers sat next to it. Puzzled, she got up and crossed the room.

It was the Eagle Grant application.

Take care of me, Dots.

"Damn you!" she hissed at the statue. "Why can't you leave me alone?"

The ushepti seemed to stare straight through her from its place on the counter. Rage swept over Jen in a black wave, and a snarl of anger escaped her throat. She snatched up the statue and brought it down hard against the Formica counter. With a hollow crack and a billow of pale plaster, the ushepti disintegrated. Only a few fragments remained in her hands.

Bastard! she howled silently. Go back where you came from!

A gold glint caught Jen's eye and she looked down. Heiroglyphs on one of the fragments in her hand were catching the last bits of sunlight. Automatically she translated:

I will do it for you.

Those words echoed through her head, reverberated through her body. The tiny gold gleam in her hand seemed to amplify itself, grow in power and brightness until it was as blinding as day itself. Then it vanished, leaving Jen alone in the kitchen. For a long moment she stood frozen. Truth stood in front of her, and she could no longer ignore it.

I will do it for you.

Jen shifted her gaze back to the grant application, neatly typed and ready to mail. It would be wrong. Her father had just died—and she had helped kill him. She should be in mourning, or even in jail, not callously thinking that she was free to study Egypt again.

"You should mail that in," said a voice.

Jen jumped and spun around with a squeak. The fragments fell to the floor. Nick was standing behind her, ignoring the ushepti's shattered remains. He put his arms around her.

"I know what you're thinking," he said softly into her ear, "and you have no reason to feel guilty. Your dad died a long time ago. You just didn't have the chance to move on. Now you do. You were a good daughter, Jen, and Charlie knew that."

Jen buried her face in Nick's shoulder, drinking in his warm, living presence. When the tears came, she let them flow freely. With them came a new peace. The sun set, and the last beams of light faded from the kitchen.

"I read the application," Nick said when she finally quieted. "You've got nerve, asking for enough money to pay an assistant. Do you have someone in mind?"

Jen looked up and smiled as her blue eyes met his green ones. She could barely see them in the dim illumination that spilled into the kitchen from the living room lamps. Nick had always wanted to go to Egypt with her, but they'd never been able to afford it. The grant, however, would more than make up for the wages he'd lose by taking an extended leave of absence from the hospital. Jen had no doubt the grant would go through—it was the finest proposal she had ever read. And why shouldn't it be? It had been written by the ultimate expert in Egyptology. Jen wasn't ready to visit Cairo again, not yet. But it would take two or three months for the grant application to go through committee, and by then things would probably be different.

Jen pushed a red lock from Nick's forehead. "Let's go for a walk," she said. "I want to talk about Egypt."

Nick's answering smile was broad and bright as the sun. They joined hands and walked out the door into the fresh evening air.

* * *

Steven Piziks is the author of several books and stories.

Caught Forever Between

Written by Adrian Nikolas Phoenix
Illustrated by Nicole Cardiff

Tearing down the yellow crime-scene tape, Cassie keyed open the door to INNER EYE TATTOO and stepped inside. Closing the door, she glanced around the shattered shop she and Alex shared.

Broken glass from the windows glittered like mica on the stone-tiled floor and on the sofa; night-glo inks, their pungent odor lingering still in the humid air, smeared the walls, ceiling, and floor in neon-bright Rorschach designs. Almost everything had been bashed or ripped apart—the computer, the phone, Alex's patterns and sketches and, behind her . . .

Cassie turned, glass crunching beneath her Doc Martens, and looked past the remains of the sterilizer and the tat gun scattered on the bloodstained floor.

Alex's blood. Clotted and dried into eerie designs that rivaled some of his best work—

Throat tight, Cassie looked away. Whoever had done this had hated Alex, hated him in secret until it had finally burst free, spattering the shop with a bitterness so thick she could feel it still; smell it bile-rank beneath the spicy-sweet odors of boiled shrimp and cayenne, magnolias and chicory coffee drifting in through the broken windows.

A week since That Night and Alex remained in a coma at Charity Hospital—would her Michelangelo dream forever? Never again open his eyes?—and nothing had been done.

Just like nothing had been done when her mother was murdered fifteen years ago in Boise.

Switching on the fan, Cassie sank down onto the client lounger. She sighed in relief as the fan's breeze dried the sweat on her face and throat. The warm rush of air plastered her black mesh tank top against her perspiration-dampened skin and fluttered the hem of her red plaid skirt. From outside, jazz and faint laughter from Dumaine Street floated in to mingle with the fan's determined hum. Another sultry Naw'lins night. Her seventh night in hell. And counting—until Alex opened his eyes again.

If, a traitorous part of her whispered, repeating the doctor's words. If. And even then, he could remain in a vegetative state, blue eyes open, but empty. Forever.

Cassie pulled her feet up onto the lounger and wrapped her arms around her fishnet-clad legs. She shut her eyes and rested her chin against her knees. She felt like a little kid again, no longer eighteen, longing for the comfort of embracing arms.

In the darkness behind Cassie's eyes, an image of her mother formed—the only one she had—bending over Cassie's bed, long red hair shadowing her face, but something glittered—fairy sparkles? magic dust? tears?—on her mother's cheeks as she reached for Cassie and shushed her, saying in her husky voice that everything was all right.

Cassie often wondered what had brought her mother in to comfort her—a nightmare? fever? simple love? She'd asked Helena once. Her sister had stared at her, dark eyes shadowed by long red curls, looking so eerily like their mother in that moment that Cassie's heart had started pounding hard and, for a split second, she'd been terrified of what Helena might say. In the end, though, Helena had shaken her head, and said, her voice low and taut, "Geez, Cassie, I don't know. I was on my own then."

Cassie half believed that Helena still wished she was on her own, not saddled with a kid sister. Helena had followed the free trade South, teaching Cassie the Art along the way and with the years. They'd always had to hide since Helena refused to go legit, refused to join the Tattoo Artists Union, refused to be anyone's apprentice. Preferred to be an ink-slinging outlaw.

They'd settled in New Orleans when Cassie was thirteen. That was the year they'd discovered that Cassie was an Intuitive—an artist who could see into and symbolize the inner person. Helena had abruptly stopped teaching her, insisting she wasn't qualified. Helena had found someone who could, though—Alexander "Michelangelo" Paris—another Intuitive and an apprentice to a legitimate ink-slinger. Over the next five years, between his regular duties, Alex had guided and taught Cassie.

And when, six months ago, Alex had opened his own shop, and Cassie'd left Helena to be his apprentice, she'd seen darkness brewing in her sister's eyes and, beneath her cigarette-and-vanilla scent, Cassie'd smelled something bitter.

Like she did now.

The cops were dicking around, and the Union pretended to make an effort, but nothing was being done to find Alex's shooter. So Cassie'd sent word that she sought justice through the streets, bars, and botanicas of the French Quarter, and even into the Projects. Sought justice and would pay for it. Her mother's murder had never been solved, but that wasn't going to happen with Alex.

Tinkling bells, followed by the swoosh of the front door swinging shut, roused Cassie. Her eyes flew open, and she jumped up from the lounger, heart thudding.

The woman standing just inside the door appeared to be in her late fifties or early sixties. She wore a simple, flowered sundress and sandals. A red scarf hugged the gray-streaked black curls framing her face. Gold hooped through her earlobes and encircled her wrists, bright as sunshine on her cypress-brown skin. Her gaze met Cassie's. Cassie's skin prickled. Power radiated from the woman, dark and bayou-steeped. Mambo.

"Be you M'selle Danger?" the woman asked.

Cassie nodded and smoothed down her skirt. "Actually, it's Danzinger, but I work under the name Cassandra Danger . . . ma'am."

"I be Gabrielle La Rue."

"Ma'am. I wasn't expecting an answer so . . . soon," Cassie said, more than aware of the shattered glass, ink, and blood on the floor. "I thought maybe . . . well . . . that I'd have to . . . " What? she wondered, her fingers pleating her skirt. Undergo some midnight ritual, give a secret handshake, slaughter a chicken?

"I don't have time for that kind of nonsense," the mambo snorted, as though Cassie had spoken aloud. "How can I help you, m'selle?"

"Cassie, if you please, ma'am," she said, forcing her fingers away from her skirt. Pondering how to answer the mambo's question, Cassie glanced into her eyes. Their hazel depths tugged at her like quicksand, and the harder she struggled, the deeper she sank. Gabrielle's scent—dark earth, water, and incense—whirled into her, dizzied her.

The mambo clasped Cassie's hand; cool fingers latched around her wrist. "What is it you need?"

Cassie shook her head and forced her gaze down to their linked hands. Summer dusk and pale winter noon, their hands. She felt the sudden urge to draw. She shook her head again, trying to focus.

"My Michelangelo. . . . " Cassie said, then lapsed into silence. There were no words for what she needed to say. Still holding the mambo's cool hand, she turned. She looked at the dried blood pooled on the floor, the designs streaking across stone tiles and spattering one wall. "My Michelangelo," she whispered.

The woman beside her drew in a breath. "Ah," she said, squeezing Cassie's hand, then releasing it. "The blood's been spilled, child. You can't put it back. Name the thing you want."

"I want Alex to open his eyes," Cassie said, her gaze still on the floor. "And justice. I want justice." She glanced at the mambo.

A wry smile curved Gabrielle's lips. "So," she murmured. "Justice." She shook her head. The mambostepped gingerly to the counter, glass and other broken things gritting beneath her sandals. She traced a design on the counter with a long-nailed finger.

"I wonder if you know what that truly means or what shape it can take," Gabrielle said. Her finger stopped moving. She turned to face Cassie. "Or how cold and brutal justice can be."

"Colder than a bullet to the head?" Cassie asked, throat tight. She strode over to the wall. With a trembling hand, she tore down one of the tacked-up patterns. Whirling, she held the blood-spattered paper up for the mamboto see. "More brutal than that?" She shook the pattern. "If so, then it's justice I want."

Lips compressed, Gabrielle stepped forward and gently tugged the pattern from Cassie's fingers. She looked at it for a long moment, then folded and tucked it into a pocket in her sundress. She sighed. A deep line creased the skin between her eyebrows. She held Cassie's gaze, and Cassie thought she saw something submerged like a 'gator in those hazel depths.

"It won't change a thing. You understand?" the mambosaid. "The bullet still fired . . . the blood still spilled. And your Michelangelo, his eyes still closed."

Cassie dropped her gaze. Outside, summer thunder rumbled across the sky. She remembered Alex sprawled on the stone floor, his head pillowed on her lap; remembered her hand pressed against the wound, his blood hot against her fingers.

Her hands curled into fists. "Maybe so. But it'll even things out," she said, voice strained. "Blood for blood."

"Nothing ever evens out spilled blood," Gabrielle said, weariness edging her voice. "But . . . so be it. Come to the bayou tomorrow night, after sunset. Bring your tattoo gun and your inks. Tell mon filleul—my godson—what it is you want. If he lets you set your gun to work on his skin, then all you'll need do is give him a name."

Glass crunched under the mambo's sandals as she walked to the front door. She opened it, tinkling the bell. Glancing over her shoulder, she said, "Then you will get your justice, child." Neon light from the street flickered across the dark planes of her face, creating a mask of ever-shifting colors. "As cold and brutal as you could ever want."

"Wait," Cassie called as the mambo started out the door. "I don't know how to find you. I need directions."

Gabrielle nodded toward the counter. "You already got 'em." Then she was gone.

Cassie looked down at the counter. There, glowing on the polished wood surface, was a map—drawn by the mambo as she'd talked to Cassie. She stared at it, heart pounding, sweat trickling between her breasts and along her ribs. Thunder rumbled and drumrolled. Heat lightning flashed white across the horizon.

Going to the back room, Cassie filled a bucket with hot water and cleanser. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror above the sink—long auburn hair streaked with purple to match her dark violet eyes; eyes blue-smudged from lack of sleep instead of outlined with the usual black kohl; pale, heart-shaped face, rose-tinted lips—a ghost startled by her own unexpected reflection.

Struggling for air, Cassie looked down. Her fingers clutched the cold porcelain edge of the sink. Head bowed, face shielded by her hair, she refused to look up again. Didn't want to see Alex fading from her eyes.

Cassie pushed away from the sink and gave the mirror her back. After tying up her sweat-dampened hair, she fetched a broom, dustpan, and a roll of trash bags. She had a night's hard work ahead of her.

Fixing her gaze once again on the dried blood, Cassie memorized every streak and spatter, needling its design like a tattoo onto her heart. "Whoever Madame La Rue's godson is," she whispered, "he'll never be cold enough or brutal enough for me."

An evening breeze blew in from the street, bringing the smell of distant rain and the river's odor of fish, mud, and decay. As Cassie set to sweeping, an image gleaned from Helena's heart right after Alex's shooting burned in her mind: a tiger rearing up on muscular hind legs, claws slashing, fangs bared in a snarl, guarding a sleeping cub behind it. A figure—just a black silhouette, really—went down beneath those claws. But Cassie recognized her Michelangelo bleeding on the floor.

* * *

Cassie stopped and switched off her scooter when she reached the end of the dirt trail. Lifting her shades, she glanced at the map she'd copied from the counter. The scooter's motor clicked as it cooled, blending with the insect hum and buzz—the only sounds she heard. The air was thick with the smells of green things and wet tree roots and sun-heated swamp water. She wiped sweat from her forehead as she looked up at the Spanish-moss-draped cypress. Beyond the dark trunks, the sunset blazed like a forest fire, searing the sky purple, orange, and red.

Sliding off the seat, Cassie stood beside her scooter, squinting into the sunset-hazed darkness beyond the trees. She thought she saw a building of some kind ahead—maybe a swamp shack. Something tickled the back of her bug-spray-guarded knee, and Cassie slapped the spot without looking, her gaze still locked on the barely discernible path through the cypress and along the edge of the swamp.

She shrugged her knapsack higher onto her shoulder, its weight pressing her sweat-damp velvet-and-mesh dress against her skin. Perspiration trickled between her shoulder blades, and her heart pounded so hard her body trembled with each beat. The humidity and heat sucked at each shallow breath as she drew it in.

Something rustled in the tall grass beside the swamp. Cassie's heart ratcheted up to warp speed. She stared, frozen, at the heat-yellowed sawgrass. 'Gator! her mind babbled. But nothing moved. Nothing she could see, anyway.

Drawing in a deep breath, she stepped onto the path. Dirt crunched beneath her Docs. Dropping her shades back over her eyes, she walked in between the trees and into the sun-gilded mosquito-laden darkness. The insect buzz and chirping, croaking frog song stopped abruptly, abandoning her to a thick, watchful silence.

With each grass-muffled step she took, Cassie became more certain she was being watched. The hair on the back of her neck prickled, and her muscles tensed. She kept her gaze straight ahead and her pace even. She fought the urge to run, sensing that if she did, whatever was out there would chase her. And catch her.

After five long minutes, the back of a weatherworn shack on flood stilts appeared out of the twilight. Cassie stopped several yards short of it. She removed her shades, then tucked them into a side pocket of the knapsack. A motorcycle was parked beside the towering oaks behind the shack—a Harley, Cassie judged.

Off to one side was a cistern to catch rainwater, and on the other side was an outhouse as weathered as the shack. As Cassie walked along the right side, she passed a tree stump holding an ax. She paused for a moment as unwanted slasher-film images popped into her mind; then, shaking her head, she circled around to the front of the shack. A porch with a dock extended to the swamp and the pirogue tied to it. A short flight of steps in front led to the porch.

"Hello?" Cassie called, her voice loud and uncertain in the silence. "Madame La Rue?"

A single cricket chirruped, then fell silent.

"Oui, girl," said the mambo'sfamiliar voice. "Over here."

Breathing a sigh of relief, Cassie glanced in the direction of the mambo's voice. An engine chugged to life, filling the air with a mechanical hum. On the right side of the porch, Gabrielle La Rue straightened up from the generator she'd started. A blue scarf matching the royal blue dress she wore, covered her curls.

"I be right wit' you," the mambo said. Giving the generator one last glance, she descended the steps to join Cassie. She looked Cassie over from head to toe, then shook her head. "Ain't you a sight in your red dress, girl? Mmm-mmm." She shook her head again. "Nothing subtle about you, Cassandra Danzinger. You might as well be wearing your Michelangelo's blood."

Heat rushed to Cassie's cheeks, and she was grateful for the deepening dusk. "No, I . . . that is. . . . " She lapsed into silence, wondering if Gabrielle was right. Had she chosen red to symbolize the thing she sought—to win her cause with the mambo's godson?

Gabrielle glanced past Cassie. "Introduce yourself, boy," she said.

Cassie whirled, the knapsack flying off her shoulder and thudding hard onto the grass-matted ground. In the lingering shadows cast by the cypress and oak trees, the mambo's godson stood no more than a handspan away from her.

"Evenin', mam'selle. I be Devlin Daniels," he said, his voice low, the rhythm of his words Cajun-spiced.

"Uh . . . evening," Cassie managed.

She quickly looked him over, her artist's eye noting details. He appeared to be in his early twenties, taller than Cassie's five-two by six or seven inches, his body lean, muscular, and broad-shouldered. Tangled black hair fell just past his shoulders and swept over the left side of his face, almost hiding the left eye. He was bare-chested and barefoot, his black jeans torn and weathered almost gray. A veve-etched ouanga bag on a leather thong hung around his neck, and through the blackness of his hair, she caught a flash of silver-and-red earrings. Two sets of scars—thick and white with age— crisscrossed his chest.

His dark eyes gleamed, capturing and reflecting the dying sunset behind her. Cassie's breath caught in her throat. Lambent eyes. Hungry and watchful—like something wild waiting in the brush, all glowing eyes and sharp teeth.

"Somethin' wrong?" Devlin asked, leaning closer.

Cassie shook her head, not wanting him to come nearer. But he did anyway, closing the short distance between them. The hair on the nape of her neck rose, and her hands knotted. Survival instincts insisted she not run. She caught his scent, musky and wild and clean.

He slowly circled her several times, his shining gaze sweeping over her, nostrils flaring. She turned with him, heart pounding, refusing to give him her back again.

Was this a test? Or had he just been in the swamp too long? Maybe both?

He wasn't what she'd expected. From what the mambo had said, Cassie had half believed she'd have to sweet-talk the Devil himself to get her justice. But no horns sprouted from Devlin Daniels's forehead, no cloven hooves, just dirty bare feet. She hadn't expected him to be white, either. But why wouldn't Gabrielle La Rue have a Caucasian godson? Devlin's skin was nearly as pale as Cassie's own—and given that he lived out in the bayou, that fact surprised her.

Devlin finally stopped in front of her. Cassie met his gaze. He held out her knapsack. She took it from him, noting his long fingers with their thick, curved nails.

"Boy," the mambo said from behind her, voice stern. "Go on inside with yourself and put on a shirt. Mind your manners."

Devlin stared at Cassie through his hair for another long moment before loping away with an irritated snort. Turning, Cassie watched him leap up the porch steps. The mambo's godson moved with a quick, fluid, almost animal grace. Opening the screen door, he slipped into the shack.

A heartbeat later, the chirping-crrriicking-croaking-humming song of the insects and frogs lifted again into the sultry evening air. They know the danger is past, Cassie thought, her mind still filled with the image of Devlin's gleaming eyes watching her from behind the cover of his hair—hair black as a starless winter night.

"That boy never did like being told what to do," the mambo said. "But at least he knows when to pay heed."

Cassie saw amusement in Gabrielle's eyes. "Which is more than you can say for most male creatures, ain't it so, ma petite?"

Cassie nodded, wondering why the mambo had said male creatures instead of men. Slinging the knapsack onto one shoulder, she glanced up at the shack. It remained dark.

"What if I can't convince him?" she asked, hating how uncertain her voice sounded, how small. "What if he won't listen?"

"Oh, he'll listen, Cassandra, he'll listen good 'n close." The mambo started toward the steps. "But it's up to you to show him the fired bullets and the spilled blood. Up to you to make my Devlin hunger to right things for your Michelangelo."

Cassie followed Gabrielle. "And if I can't? What then?"

The mambo glanced back at her, her eyes night-swallowed, expression cryptic. "Then whatever you do, don't run from him. Hear me? Don't run."

Cassie halted. She stared at the mambo, hoping she hadn't heard right.

"There always be a price," Gabrielle said, drawing herself up. "Justice ain't never been free, girl." Power as dark and deadly as the bayou emanated from the mambo. Her face was cold and regal, and Cassie truly saw her for what she was, a hoodoo priestess steeped in magic, able to summon shambling life or shape a cold and brutal death.

Cassie's gaze drifted back up to the lightless shack. She shivered, chilled, her fingers suddenly numb. Make Alex live for the mambo's godson. You do that and maybe he'll open his eyes again.

Sucking in a deep breath of moist air, Cassie said, "Devlin, what is he?" The steadiness of her voice surprised her.

"He be the last of the coeur sauvage, the wild heart of the bayou—the loup garou." Swiveling around to face the shack, Gabrielle placed her hands on her hips, and said in a low voice, "Turn on some lights, boy. We ain't got your eyes."

Pale yellow light suddenly spilled from the shack's windows and door. Cassie stared at the mambo, wishing she could believe she hadn't heard right, but Gabrielle hadn't mumbled. She'd been quite clear. Loup garou. Werewolf.

"Go on up with yourself, child," the mambo said, waving a hand at the steps. Her bracelets jingled.

"Werewolf?" Cassie said, her voice strained.

Gabrielle chuckled. "Don't be calling Devlin a werewolf. That boy, he a wolf, pure and simple."

Cassie's gaze flicked back up to the shack. A shadow crossed behind the window, blotting out the light for a moment, then was gone. She swallowed hard, thinking of light-filled eyes and black hair, of justice in the form of claws, black and thick, and gleaming white fangs. In that moment, she realized she believed Gabrielle. Why the hell not? she thought. If there can be vampires in the French Quarter, why not werewolves in the bayou?

Grasping the porch railing, the worn wood smooth beneath her hand, Cassie placed her foot on the bottom step. An image of Alex filled her mind; Alex intent on his work, inking an Intuitive design into willing flesh, his golden hair tied back, his deep blue eyes focused, intense; saw again the laugh lines etched beside his lips, felt again the warmth of his gaze.

Cassie climbed the steps. Taking a deep breath, she opened the screen door with a steady hand. Devlin stood in one corner of the sparsely furnished room, his back to the wall. His nostrils flared as she stepped into the shack. She noticed he'd pulled on a black T-shirt. Guess he does know when to listen, after all.

Cassie glanced around the room. An easy chair. A couple of wooden kitchen chairs and a square kitchen table. An acoustic guitar propped in one corner. Next to one window, an artist's easel holding a blank canvas. And, on the walls—her gaze stopped, lingered. Paintings, unframed and raw—dark, swirling colors, the images hungry and hurting and lonely.

Her gaze skipped from one painting to the next—an empty boat on black water, oars floating away, glowing eyes watching from the darkness lining the shore; a tree stark against a moonlit sky, animal pelts hanging from its branches and a wolf howling at its base.

If this was Devlin's work—he was good, very good. He was also an Intuitive. Cassie felt utter truth in the images he'd created.

She also felt Devlin's unwavering gaze as she walked over to the table and dropped her knapsack onto it. Determined not to look at him, to see if he'd slipped silently closer, she unzipped the knapsack. She pulled out a sketch pad and pencil, a box of inks, a few clean rags, antiseptic, a small bottle of bleach and her homemade rig.

Not having the time to replace Alex's shattered gun, Cassie'd cobbled one together, prison-style. A sandpaper-sharpened guitar-string needle, a hobby motor, a spoon for the frame, guitar strings and pen shafts, a nine-volt battery transformer for power connected to a simple foot pedal, and she was good to go.

The screen door thunked shut as Gabrielle entered the shack. A sudden flash of heat lightning strobed through the room, bleaching out the room's yellowish light. Cassie blinked. A long moment later, thunder rolled across the horizon. Her sweat-damp dress was plastered to her back, and her hair clung to her temples and forehead. Several fans churned the hot air. Gathering the heavy mass of her hair, Cassie tied it back into a ponytail.

Turning around, she looked at the mambo's godson, relieved he still stood in the corner, and said, "What now?"

Devlin met and held her gaze, half of his own hidden behind the veil of his hair, but said nothing. Through a window beside him, Cassie saw a jagged tongue of lightning lick from the sky to the ground, dazzling blue-white, haunting her vision for several seconds afterward. Thunder boomed. Heaviness stilled the air. Her skin prickled.

"The loa walk and talk," Gabrielle said, her voice reverent as she looked out the window. "This be a night for requests. The loa are listening, ma petite. Be careful what you say."

Devlin's gaze shifted to his godmother. "Ils sont d'eine mauvaise humeur," he said, his voice pitched low.

The mambo shrugged. "Nothing for it, boy. Their mood be even worse if we turn back now."

Cassie jumped when Devlin suddenly growled, a low, deep-throated sound that vibrated through the room. He dropped down into a crouch, his long-fingered, thick-nailed hands touching the floor in front of him. His muscles rippled, and she caught the gleam of long, curving canines as his growl intensified into a snarl.

Cassie thought of the door behind her and of the mambo's warning—Don't run. Sweat trickled along her temples.

"Speak, girl," Gabrielle said, her voice an urgent whisper. "Storms make him testy."

Gripping the edge of the table, Cassie stared at Devlin. His thick nails had become black talons. "Alex looks into the heart of people, just like you do. Everyone calls him Michelangelo 'cause his work steals the breath and lifts the soul. And someone shot him for it," she said, throat tight but her voice level. "A bullet to the brain. His blood spattered on his own pictures."

Images flickered, nightmare-grained, her memory a theater without an exit.

Flicker: Alex sprawled on the floor, blood spray on the wall behind him.

Flicker: The sound of him choking.

Flicker: The reek of gunpowder and blood and vomit.

Flicker: Raleigh, sketch pad in hand, following her into the shop, face pale.

Flicker: Bored cops. Yellow crime-scene tape. Questions.

And looping endlessly through her mind, Raleigh's strained voice asking if his brother was dead. He's dead, isn't he? Cass? He's dead.

Devlin stopped growling. He continued to watch her, unblinking. Cassie held his gaze, riveted by the wildness stark in his eyes.

"I think Alex sketched out a hidden evil, maybe not even recognizing what it was," she said, kneeling on the wood floor to be at the loup garou's eye level. "But the one he drew it for? That one realized what Alex had revealed and tried to kill him. And maybe they have," she added, the words slow, reluctant. She swallowed. "He's been in a coma and he may never . . . he may—"

"C'est assez," Devlin cut in, sparing her from saying aloud the thing she did not want to say, ever. His voice was thick and harsh, little more than a growl. He rose to his feet in one fluid, effortless motion. "Look into my heart and draw what you see."

Cassie straightened slowly, the velvet fabric of her dress clinging to her thighs. Heart pounding, she settled herself into one of the kitchen chairs. Flipping open her sketch pad, she picked up a pencil and poised it over the blank sheet of paper.

She glanced up at Devlin. He stood still, watching her, his hands with their black claws at his sides. She noted claws arching from the toes on his bare feet, as well. Lightning strobed into the room. Devlin's eyes gleamed through his hair, white fire, silver moonlight, blue heat, and Cassie sucked in her breath, caught in his restless gaze.

Her pencil scratched across the paper, sketching in hard, bold strokes as images and symbols flashed through her mind like the lightning dancing across the sky: a black wolf pierced through the heart with three swords. Strobe.

Claws scraping across a bare chest, blood welling up in their wake. Strobe.

A bloodied figure huddled among a pile of corpses—human, wolves, and some in between—blood-smeared arms wrapped around knees, head down, face hidden, long black hair spilling, spilling, spilling. Strobe.

A blood-red moon hanging low on the horizon silhouetting a crouched figure, flames blazing where a heart should be—

Light-headed and gasping for air, Cassie felt the pencil slip from her grasp, heard it tunk against the floor and roll away. She looked up and almost fell out of her chair when she saw Devlin standing over her, his gaze on the sketch pad. His scent—musk, sweat, and night-cooled green ivy—filled her nostrils. She stared at him, her eyes following the strong line of his jaw up to the pointed tip of his ear poking through the black depths of his hair.

The mambo had been right. This was no man. This was an upright wolf. And a wounded one, at that.

"You seek justice, too," Cassie whispered.

Devlin went still. Listening. Waiting. His gaze never wavered from her sketch pad.

"Do I get mine, loup garou?" she asked. She extended her hand, thinking to touch him, pet him maybe, get him used to her scent.

A low growl rumbled up from his throat. Cassie froze, her hand still in midair.

"Don't touch him, child," Gabrielle said. "You leave your scent on him if'n you do, and that's a mighty personal thing."

Lowering her hand to her lap, Cassie said, "Well, do I?"

Devlin turned his head and looked at her. She tried to read his eyes, but couldn't, their dark, moonlight-flecked depths wary and waiting. He tapped one thick, black claw against the sketch pad.

Cassie glanced down, then stared, transfixed, by the image captured in her quick pencil strokes. She recognized it as one of the Major Arcana of a Tarot deck; a tall tower struck by lightning, ravaged by fire and battered by waves, figures tumbling through the storm-darkened air, plummeting helplessly as disaster overtakes them.

"It's a long way back from hell, for true," Devlin said. "Y'sure you wanna go down that road?"

"Already on it," Cassie said. Lightning flared, and searing white light pulsed in from outside. Light pulsed in Devlin's eyes, as well. After many long seconds, thunder grumbled. The storm was moving away. She held Devlin's gaze.

"Oui, mam'selle," he said, his voice low and solemn. "Je te donne ma parole. I give my word," he translated. He shook his hair back from his face. A handsome face, Cassie realized. He glanced at his godmother. A wry half smile tugged up one corner of his mouth. "Sa fini pas."

Gabrielle nodded. "Oui, boy. It never ends. Ain't that the truth." She crossed the room to the little dormitory-sized fridge next to the sink. She retrieved three bottles of Dixie, giving one of the ice-cold bottles of beer to Cassie and one to Devlin. The third she kept for herself.

Twisting off the cap, Cassie poured nearly half of the amber-colored beer down her parched throat. Then she touched the bottle to her face and forehead, sighing and closing her eyes. Relief, as icy and soothing as the beer, poured through her. Blood would be spilled for blood.

"Set your gun to work," Devlin said. Again, he tapped at the Tower sketch.

Cassie realized that his claws were gone. His long fingers ended in thick, curved fingernails. How does he do that? she wondered. She glanced at his feet. Yep. No claws. Toenails. She looked back up and into Devlin's watchful gaze. Amusement flickered in his eyes, there and gone. She flushed, but didn't lower her gaze.

"One more thing," Devlin said. He touched the paper beneath the design. "I want the words 'coup de grâce.'"

Turning the kitchen chair around, he straddled it. He pulled off his T-shirt, muscles flexing with the movement. He tossed the T-shirt onto the floor. Gabrielle tsked, but said nothing.

Cassie opened the jars of ink and readied her rig. Scooting her chair beside Devlin's, she said, "I need to clean your skin, okay?"

Devlin glanced at her, nose crinkling at the antiseptic's sharp odor. Leaning his forearms on the chair back, he nodded.

Cassie cleaned his skin, wiping it dry with a soft rag. She splashed bleach on the already sterilized guitar-string needle, just to be double sure. She tapped the rig's foot pedal. The gun buzzed, its bumblebee-drone filling the room. Her fingers tingled. She never pretraced patterns onto flesh. She always worked by memory, freehand.

Glancing at her sketch, Cassie needled black ink into Devlin's shoulder. His muscles tightened, then relaxed. Otherwise, he didn't react. The pungent smell of fresh ink curled into her nostrils. As the Tower took shape beneath her fingers, Cassie focused on the sketch and the skin under her needle and forgot about everything else. Even Alex.

The night beyond the windows was still and deep when Cassie lifted her foot from the pedal and sat back. The gun fell silent. She wiped perspiration from her forehead with the back of an ink-stained hand. She felt utterly drained. She tossed the little homemade gun onto the table and picked up her bottle of Dixie. She poured the rest of the now-warm beer down her throat. She closed her eyes.

"You got talent, girl." The mambo's voice dropped into the silence like a pebble into a pond, her words rippling into Cassie's thoughts. "Ain't that right, Devlin-boy?"

"Oui," the loup garou murmured. "For true. She should take that talent and go."

Cassie opened her eyes. Arms still folded along the back of the chair, Devlin watched her, his gleaming gaze and half-shadowed face impossible to read. She stiffened, then leaned forward. "No."

Devlin looked away. He stood, a sudden and graceful movement, turning the chair around as he did. He tossed his head, but his night-black hair still tumbled across his face. "Who?" he asked.

"Helena Danzinger," Cassie said, voice tight and hard. Unfamiliar even to herself. "My sister."

Behind her, Gabrielle gasped. Devlin held Cassie's gaze for a long moment, then he turned and walked to the door, but not before she saw the muscle jump in his jaw. He pushed open the screen door.

"Wait!" the mambo called. "She never said it was her own kin that needed hunting. You sit yourself back down, boy. You don't have to do this."

"Name's been give, marraine," Devlin said. "Word's been given, too, for true." He glanced at Cassie. "Tomorrow night. Tell ma marraine where." He stepped out into the night, the screen door slamming behind him.

Face tight with dismay, Gabrielle turned to face Cassie. "His kin's been murdered, and you ask him to slay yours. You pushin' fire, girl."

Cassie nodded. She'd been pushing fire all her life.

* * *

Cassie held Alex's cool, unresponsive hand, her gaze on his dreaming face. At least, she hoped he was dreaming and that the dreams were sweet. The machines that monitored her Michelangelo's every breath and heartbeat blipped and beeped, a steady, reassuring sound. Needles pierced his flesh and IVs dripped fluid and medication into his veins.

A beige curtain partially encircled Alex's bed, giving the illusion of privacy, but the harsh coughing from the patient on the other side provided the reality. Cassie'd placed a vase of lilacs on the nightstand; the purple flowers glimmered under the lights, and their sweet, clean scent filled the room.

She slid her hand over Alex's chest, rested it over his heart. She felt every faint beat. She'd never tried looking into Alex, had never tried to see the inner man, feeling no need; whenever she looked at him, he dazzled her sight. He burned white-hot and pure, like the sun. She almost believed that sunlight filled his veins instead of blood; he was strong and golden and warm. He smelled of summer, like dew-flecked grass at dawn and cool blue lakes and August heat.

But now when she looked Cassie saw only darkness; sunlight hadn't sprayed from his veins, after all. Now she only smelled stale air laced with disease and death.

She caressed his hand, squeezed it. "Don't leave me, Alexander Paris," she whispered. "Don't let go."

"Hey, Cass," drawled a soft, familiar voice.

Cassie glanced up as Raleigh strode into the room, his sketch pad tucked under his arm. The sight of him was like a knife to the heart—tall and lean, long blond hair framing his face and sweeping past his shoulders, his lips curved into a smile. Except for the wry twist to his lips and the shadows lurking in his cobalt-blue gaze, Raleigh was the spitting image of his older brother.

But where Alex blazed, burning with life and laughter and talent, Raleigh was more like a reflection in an old, dim mirror. His eyes held dark secrets, and a look of mirth lit his face at odd moments—like he'd heard a good joke, a really good one, but a joke only he was smart enough to understand.

Cassie often felt sorry for Raleigh. Twenty-one to Alex's twenty-four, he was light-years behind in talent and personality. Yet he tried so hard to be like his brother.

"How is he?" Raleigh asked, his voice shaking Cassie from her thoughts. He tossed his sketch pad onto the nightstand next to the vase of lilacs.

Cassie noticed dark spots spattered or dripped across the sketch pad's cover. Looked like blood. Maybe from That Night . . . "The same," she said. "But I believe he'll get better soon."

How had blood gotten onto Raleigh's sketch pad?

"Do you, now?" A strange tone edged Raleigh's voice.

Cassie looked at him. His gaze was on his brother's face, his own still and tight with some emotion—grief, she thought, but in the split second before Raleigh's attention shifted back to her, she realized, with a cold shock, that what she saw on his face was hatred.

"Well, if he doesn't," Raleigh said, voice hushed, "I'll take you for my apprentice, Cass. That's a promise."

"You don't have a practice," Cassie said.

"I will," Raleigh said.

She stared into Raleigh's eyes, looked for light in his midnight-blue gaze, searched for the sun, but all she saw was her own reflection. His gaze shifted back to Alex.

Cold iced Cassie's veins. She felt faint movement beneath her hand. Alex's fingers twitched within her grasp. Pulse racing, heart triple-timing, she kept from reacting to the movement, to the fire melting the ice within her, to the sudden hope blazing in her heart. A sunburst filled her vision, golden and white-hot, then it was gone. Cassie squeezed Alex's hand.

Then, glancing up, she looked into Raleigh.

An endless abyss stretched before her, utterly lightless; a yawning maw surrounded by row upon row of razor-sharp fangs as yellowed as old bones. Like a black hole it sucked in everything around it. Compressed. Absorbed. Annihilated. Nothing escaped. Nothing remained to escape.

Had Raleigh attempted to feed the void with Alex's light? Tried to shift from reflection to the one reflected? Yearned to live Alex's life?

Had Alex finally looked into his brother?

Shuddering, Cassie turned her face away from Raleigh and her vision. Instead, she looked at Alex's pale face. She released his hand and wiped her sweaty palm against her skirt. Her heartbeat thudded loudly in her ears. She felt sick.

"What were you doing?" Raleigh asked, his voice flat. He leaned over her and tipped up her chin with an ink-stained finger. "Were you looking?" he whispered.

Beneath Raleigh's sharp sage cologne, Cassie smelled something hot and bitter, like vomit in an alley, like the lingering stench at the shop.

The blood on Raleigh's sketch pad was Alex's. It'd been spattered there when Raleigh had shot him. Had he still been there when she'd come in? Gone out the back? And what—came back in to see his handiwork? her reaction? to savor the moment? all of the above?

And Devlin—the loup garou—was on his way to deliver cold and brutal justice to the wrong person.

Or, at least, for the wrong reason. What had she seen within Helena's heart?

"What did you see, Cass?" Raleigh demanded, leaning in close enough for a kiss, his breath hot against her cheek, his sage and bitter-bile scent stealing her breath. One hand closed on her shoulder.

Forcing a smile onto her lips, Cassie met his black-hole gaze. "The sun," she said. "Only the sun."

Raleigh blinked.

"I'm tired. Would you mind taking me home?" Cassie said. "I hate making the trip alone, especially on the bus."

"Yeah," he said, releasing her shoulder. "Sure."

"Great. Just let me call Helena and tell her she doesn't have to meet me." At Raleigh's nod, Cassie fished her cell out of her purse and speed-dialed her sister. The phone rang twice, then Helena's voice mail kicked on. Dread snaked through Cassie.

It's too soon! she thought, glancing at the clock. She left a message for Helena to phone her before coming over, then ended the call.

Cassie glanced at Raleigh. His sardonic expression and tilted smile were back in place. Something cold and dark twisted within her, latched on to her heart. He wouldn't be wearing that expression much longer.

"Let's go," she said.

Lights burned inside the shop. Cassie's dread intensified. She climbed out of Raleigh's pickup and shut the door. The night air felt thick and still, oddly soundless, given that it wasn't yet midnight. On the sidewalk, people hurried by, shoulders hunched, hands in pockets, like a storm loomed over them or a mugger followed, surefooted and silent.

He's here, Cassie thought. The loup garou had arrived and, somehow—primal instinct, sixth sense—people felt the danger in their prickling skins, their senses electrified and wary.

Just like Cassie.

"Looks like Helena didn't get your message," Raleigh drawled, narrowed gaze on the light seeping around the boarded-up windows. "You still want me to come in?"

"Just to make sure it's safe, okay?"

Raleigh grunted in assent.

Cassie pushed open the unlocked door. The bell above tinkled, the sound loud in the silent shop. She looked around the room; not much to see or hide behind since she'd cleaned it and trashed all the ruined furniture and equipment. Counter. Walls bare of patterns. Fan. Nothing out of place.

She glanced at the door leading to the back room and the living quarters upstairs. It was open. Her heart leapt into her throat, and she felt cold and fevered at the same time.

"Helena?" she called.

Silence.

Taking in a deep breath, Cassie hurried across the stone floor—cleaned of the blood-smeared swirls and designs etched forever onto her heart—and through the door. A thought arrowed through her mind: Maybe she didn't return my call because she's already dead.

"Cass?" Raleigh said. "Something wrong?"

She didn't answer him, couldn't. Her words dried up in her throat when she saw her sister backed up against the kitchen counter, her face white, her gaze locked on something or someone out of Cassie's sight—but she didn't need to see Devlin to know he was there. A blood-red moon, full and swollen, filled her vision. She stumbled to a halt, her hand groping for the wall.

Cassie blinked until the image cleared from her mind and from her sight. Helena didn't glance at her, didn't even blink. Maybe she believed her steady gaze kept the beast in his place.

"What's going on?" Raleigh stopped beside Cassie. He fell silent, his narrowed gaze dropping from Helena's face to her white-knuckled hands gripping the counter behind her. He took a step back.

Cassie gripped his arm. "I made a mistake," she said, her voice low and level. She knew the loup garou's pointed ears would hear her even if she whispered. "I gave the wrong name."

Raleigh stared at her, his muscles tensing beneath her tight-fingered grip. "Who are you—"

In a blur of snarling movement, Devlin sprang around the corner and onto Raleigh, hitting him so hard that Cassie was knocked away. Her head thudded into the wall. Bursts of color starred her vision. Nausea knotted her belly. She slid to the floor.

As her vision cleared, she saw Raleigh on the floor, his right arm up and over his throat, his blond hair spilled across the floor like honey, his eyes wide as he struggled to escape the creature on top of him.

Devlin, still mostly in two-legged form, eyes silvered and gleaming, black claws extending from human fingers, crouched on Raleigh, knee to chest.

Cassie glanced up as a hand latched around her arm and hauled her to her feet. Helena clutched a steak knife. Cassie sucked in her breath.

A low growl, building in intensity, froze them both. Cassie looked at the loup garou. Devlin's claws pierced Raleigh's shoulders. The smell of blood and musk filled the room. The loup garou watched Cassie through a wild tangle of hair, curving canines revealed as he growled.

"I gave you the wrong name," Cassie said, heart pounding. She wondered if Devlin was still human enough to reason with. Wondered if he'd ever been. What had Gabrielle called him? Coeur sauvage. Wild heart.

"Raleigh shot Alex," Cassie said. "I'll still walk the road with you, loup garou, but let my sister walk away."

"No," Devlin said, voice thick. "You had it right. She a kinslayer, for true." His burning gaze fixed on Helena.

Helena held his gaze for only a heartbeat or two before she lunged, jaw clenched, knife slashing like claws through the air, arcing down toward Devlin's chest.

"No! Don't!" Cassie cried, uncertain of who her words were meant for.

The loup garou yanked one hand from Raleigh's shoulder and slapped the knife from Helena's hand. The blade tunk-tunked across the stone tiles. Helena's wrist snapped beneath Devlin's black-clawed grip, the sound sharp and sickening. Gasping, she dropped to her knees.

"Kinslayer," Devlin snarled.

"It was an accident, but I'd do it again," she whispered. Sweat beaded her forehead. "I've got no regrets."

Helena looked at Cassie, and Cassie felt herself drawn into her pained, defiant eyes like smoke into a fan. Thoughts and images whirled through her mind, leaving her dazed.

Tiger. Sleeping cub. Black silhouette.

She'd been right. And wrong.

Cassie knew in that moment, knew it with the clarity of a polished mirror, a mirror aimed behind her, that her treasured and puzzling memory of her mother bending over her was a memory of Helena; long red curls, dark eyes, smoky-sweet smell of tobacco and vanilla. The glitter sparkling on her face hadn't been fairy sprinkles or magic dust or even tears—it'd been droplets of blood, their mother's blood.

Closing her eyes, Cassie turned her face away.

"She was doing meth again. Neglecting you," Helena said. "Her life revolved around meth. I asked her to give you to me, since she had no time for you. I was eighteen, Cass, and I'd been on my own since you were born. Because she had no time for me, either. And I asked . . . we argued . . . she hit me . . . one thing led to another."

Helena laughed, a low, throaty sound full of irony. "When I found out you were an Intuitive, I was afraid you'd see what I'd done. And hate me for it. So I sent you to Alex." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "And I was right."

"Cass, I got nothing to do with this—" Raleigh's words ended with a snarl from the loup garou. Raleigh moaned and whether it was just simple fear or added pain, Cassie couldn't tell.

"Cassandra Aphrodite Danzinger," said a familiar voice. "Open your eyes, girl, and witness what you done brought about."

At the mambo's cold words, Cassie opened her eyes. Gabrielle La Rue stood in the doorway between the front and the back of the shop. She stepped forward, the door swinging shut behind her. She fixed Cassie with a gaze as icy as her words, her eyes like night-hidden stones. A purple scarf covered her hair and silver flashed at her ears, throat, and wrists. Her purple dress was simple and summer-sheer, and her brown feet were sandals-clad.

A queen stood before her, a queen full of dark power, one who weighed and measured her better than any set of scales. Cassie straightened. Met the mambo's gaze.

"You set all this in motion, girl," Gabrielle said, crossing the floor to stand beside her crouching godson and his downed prey. "You a decision to make." Her gaze shifted to Helena. Helena met the mambo's dark eyes and lifted her chin slightly. "Justice for your mama or—" Gabrielle glanced at Raleigh. Her lip curled slightly as though she smelled something bad—maybe the bitterness he'd splashed all over the shop and himself when he'd pulled the trigger That Night. "—justice for your Michelangelo."

Returning her attention to Cassie, she looked at her for a long moment. "You must choose one. The other be released, y 'hear, girl? Released until the day a higher power calls 'em to task for what they done."

"I didn't shoot Alex," Raleigh said, his voice thin. "He's my fucking brother!" Sweat gleamed on his forehead. His strained face looked ghostly even in the kitchen's clear light, his eyes as dark as midnight.

A sudden pang pierced Cassie. He looked like Alex had when she'd discovered him on the blood-pooled floor, pale and fading, eyes shut. She remembered Raleigh walking into the shop, the color draining from his face as he looked at his brother held in her blood-smeared arms; remembered his words: He's dead, isn't he? Remembered the shocked expression on his face when she'd breathed, No. Call 911.

Remembered the shattered-heart feel of the world ending as Alex's blood pulsed past her fingers

Tearing her gaze away from Raleigh, Cassie looked at her sister kneeling before her, broken wrist held tight against her chest. Helena met her gaze. Held it. She said nothing. Her earlier words looped through Cassie's mind: I'd do it again. I've got no regrets. And felt again Helena's arms wrapping around her, comforting and warm, strong enough to hold her forever. Recalled Helena's voice shushing her, soothing her—right after she'd murdered their mother.

Cassie shifted her attention back to Devlin. He watched her through the dark fall of his hair. "Raleigh Paris," she said. "D'you hear me, loup garou?"

"Oui," Devlin growled. "I hear you, for true."

"No!" Helena exclaimed. "Cassie, this is all wrong—"

Her words ended when Devlin threw back his head and howled. The sound reverberated through the small room, lonely and full of yearning, dark and primal. The hair rose on Cassie's arms and neck.

Helena stared at Devlin, lips parted, eyes wide. Raleigh struggled frantically to push himself free of the loup garou's weight.

In seconds, Devlin stripped off his clothes. His muscles rippled.

Gabrielle strode past her morphing godson and, hand to elbow, eased Helena to her feet. "You be free, girl," she said, her gaze stern. "You weren't named. Time to go."

"No, I—" Helena began, but the mambo held her hand up to her mouth and blew the glittering dust cupped in her palm into Helena's face.

Coughing, Helena wiped at her face. The dust sparkled like tears in moonlight, like blood in the dark, like gold in a sunlit stream. Her hands fell to her sides. Her eyelids drooped.

Behind Gabrielle, the loup garou shifted; bones cracked like gunfire, and joints popped like fire; and Devlin howled, his voice full of anger, hurt, and hunger.

"Let's leave this place," Gabrielle murmured. Grasping Helena's good hand, the mambo led her from the kitchen.

Cassie pressed herself against the wall, breath caught in her throat, as she watched Devlin shape himself into a creature as much a part of the night as the moon. Gleaming fangs. Silver eyes. Black fur. Claws.

She realized she was seeing his true form—the crouching hunter silhouetted by a swollen blood-red moon. Saw flames where his heart should be.

Raleigh no longer scrabbled to get away from the loup garou. He stared, frozen, mouth open, as Devlin looked down on him, silver eyes moon-bright, lips wrinkling up on his muzzle as he snarled, saliva dripping from his fangs.

The sharp smell of piss filled the room as Raleigh's bladder let go. A dark stain spread across his jeans and down one leg.

The loup garou's muzzle dipped and, at the same moment, Raleigh threw his right arm across his own throat. The wolf bit into Raleigh's forearm, tearing into the flesh. Bone cracked beneath fangs. A high, ragged scream pierced the air. And for one heart-stopping second, Cassie wasn't sure who'd screamed—herself, lost in a nightmare replay of finding Alex on the stone-tiled floor, or his brother, caught in the werewolf's jaws.

Nosing past the damaged arm, the wolf's muzzle closed on Raleigh's throat. Blood sprayed onto the loup garou's face, into the air, and spattered hot against Cassie's throat and chest.

Heart pounding, muscles coiled, Cassie struggled to keep watching. Raleigh's feet drummed against the floor as the loup garou's muzzle burrowed into and shredded his throat. Her stomach clenched, and she swallowed hard. Raleigh gurgled. Thrashed. She remembered Alex's blood pooled and smeared on the floor. Remembered his closed eyes, the froth on his lips, his convulsing body. Tried to remember the warm feel of Alex's hand; tried to remember the sun.

But instead, the moon sucked her in, and the night swallowed her whole as she looked through the loup garou's eyes, the tang of blood in her/his mouth as she/he, no, they, abandoned Raleigh's ruined throat. Their claws and bloodied muzzle tore into the man's chest, snapping through bone. Their fangs sliced into the man's quivering heart. Tasted it. Gulped it down. Blood spread dark across the stone tiles.

The night suddenly released her, and Cassie gasped for air, pulse racing. The reek of blood, piss, and animal musk saturated the air and left the scent of death upon her clothes and skin like a too-sweet perfume.

Raleigh was still. His eyes, half-lidded, glazed. He seemed to shrink, to become smaller and thinner. Cassie stared at him, the rich and raw taste of his heart still on her tongue.

Her stomach lurched, and she looked away, her hands knotting into fists. What if she'd seen wrong? She'd been wrong about Helena, albeit not completely. Pain pierced Cassie's temple, doubled her vision for a moment. She felt something close within her, like shutters over a window.

The loup garou looked at her, silver eyes unblinking. Cassie met his gaze, then looked within and saw . . . nothing. The pain in her head faded, leaving a dull ache. A different kind of pain squeezed her heart and stole her breath. She remembered the mambo's words: Justice ain't never been free, girl.

"Are we done walking the road?" Cassie asked.

The wolf circled Raleigh's body, sniffing it, pushing at it with its muzzle. Pissed on it. After a few circuits, the wolf sat on its haunches and its body undulated, twisted in on itself.

Unable to look away, Cassie watched as Devlin shifted back into two-legged form. She winced at the painful sound of bones and joints rearranging themselves. When the metamorphosis was complete, he crouched nude on the floor, hair a wild tangle across his face. He glanced at Cassie with gleaming eyes.

"I told you, for true," he said, his voice thick and rough. "It's a long way back from hell, and we got a ways to go yet."

He stood, and Cassie's gaze swept over him, seeing in her mind the way she'd translate his lean, taut-muscled body and blood-smeared face onto paper, but that was all she saw, no matter how far into him she looked. She watched as Devlin pulled on his jeans and T-shirt, then tugged on scuffed-up scooter boots.

Bending, he eased Raleigh's limp piss-and-shit-stinking body onto his shoulder, then stood. He looked at Cassie. She stood and led him out the back door into the courtyard with its ivy-blanketed walls. Water gurgled through the white stone fountain, splashing into the small pool below—normally a musical, soothing sound, clear as wind chimes in the night. But not on this night. This night she only heard the liquid passing of time, time measured in cold water, time spilling away forever.

Crossing the courtyard, Cassie unlocked the padlock on the door leading to the street on the other side of the building. She stepped onto the sidewalk. An old battered Ford pickup was parked at the curb. She looked back at Devlin, lifted an eyebrow. He nodded. Cassie glanced up and down the sidewalk. All clear. She stepped out so Devlin could follow with his burden.

Cassie waited, hand on a cold bronze horsehead hitching post, while Devlin heaved Raleigh's body into the bed of the pickup and covered it with a tarp. She watched, feeling nothing, seeing nothing, numb inside and out—just like she'd been after Alex had been shot. Wrapped in cotton. Muffled. Unreal. Her head ached, but that was all, and even that was fading.

"Follow me."

The words shook Cassie awake like a hand to a dreamer's shoulder. She looked at Devlin and just managed to catch the keys he tossed to her.

Devlin trotted across the street to a motorcycle. It was the Harley she'd seen outside his shack. He kick-started it into rumbling life. Cassie started the pickup and followed when Devlin pulled away from the curb.

* * *

Raleigh's body splashed as it slipped into the swamp's night-blackened water. Orange lambent eyes flashed for a moment before sinking beneath the surface. The water suddenly churned.

'Gators, Cassie thought. "Justice," she murmured, throat tight. She closed her burning eyes. Made herself see—one last time—the designs Alex's blood had made on the floor, the dark spatters on his patterns and sketches.

Raleigh's voice: I didn't shoot Alex! He's my fucking brother!

Remembered: He's dead, isn't he? Cass?

And Helena's calm words: I'd do it again. I have no regrets.

"Automne be your name," Devlin murmured. "You be the twilight season caught forever between summer and winter, for true."

Fingers brushed at her temples. Cassie's eyes flew open. Devlin stood just a handspan away, his lambent eyes full of moonlight. His fingers whispered against her temples again, there and gone, but the feel of him burned against her skin.

He gazed into her—she knew he was seeing—and she tensed, felt herself knot up against him. Leaning in, he nuzzled her, rubbing his cheek against hers. His scent—musk, sweat, and night-cooled green ivy—lingered upon her face. He smelled of the deepest night, wild and hidden. He also smelled of blood—Raleigh's blood—and death.

"Sa me fait de la pain," Devlin said, his breath warm against her cheek. "Your Sight is gone. That be a hard price to pay, for true." He straightened, but remained where he was, his heat baking into her body. "Didn't I tell you to take your talent and go?" He looked away suddenly, staring into the night. "Our walk be done, for true."

Cassie nodded, then said, "I was right about Raleigh, wasn't I?" She blinked back the tears threatening to spill from her eyes. "He shot Alex—"

"Take the pickup," Devlin said, leaving her question, her doubt, unanswered. "Gabrielle, she expecting it."

"I want you to know—"

Devlin shook his head. "Go."

At the pickup, Cassie glanced back the way she'd come through the dark. Devlin had stripped and hunkered down, his pale-skinned body shifting. On all fours, he ran into the night. She watched until he was gone, a swift black shape caught for a moment in the moonlight.

* * *

Cassie held Alex's hand. The fresh fragrance of lilacs drifted through the room. The harsh coughing from the next bed had ceased—the bed empty and stripped bare. Out in the hall, voices called over the intercom, paging doctors and squawking codes. Inside, the machines monitoring Alex blipped and beeped.

Cassie drifted into half dreams of the night and the moon, of autumn fires and gleaming eyes, of a black wolf and a man. But in her hands, she cupped the sun. A sun she could no longer see.

Caught forever between, the loup garou and her, trapped between skin and fur, sun and moon, justice and vision. Maybe the walk along hell's road never truly ended.

Grief squatted like a gargoyle on Cassie's heart. Her Michelangelo would need a new apprentice. And his brother was gone forever. But maybe Raleigh had vanished the moment he'd pulled the trigger. And Helena? The tiger defending the sleeping cub? Cassie didn't know. She hadn't spoken to or even seen her sister since the mambo had led her from the kitchen.

Murder was murder, wasn't it? Killing for love no cleaner than killing out of envy, no cleaner than asking another to kill for you.

Wasn't it?

Shaking free of her half dreams, Cassie glanced down into eyes of deepest blue, cool and soothing: a mountain lake; a twilight sky just before the stars sparked to life. Her breath caught in her throat.

Alex had opened his eyes.

* * *

Adrian Nikolas Phoenix is the author of several stories.

CLASSICS
Home is the Hunter

Written by C. L. Moore and Henry Kuttner
Illustrated by Laura Givens

There's nobody I can talk to except myself. I stand here at the head of the great waterfall of marble steps dropping into the reception hall below, and all my wives in all their jewels are waiting, for this is a Hunter's Triumph—my Triumph, Honest Roger Bellamy, Hunter. The light glitters on the glass cases down there with the hundreds of dried heads that I have taken in fair combat, and I'm one of the most powerful men in New York.

The heads make me powerful.

But there's nobody I can talk to. Except myself? Inside me, listening, is there another Honest Roger Bellamy? I don't know. Maybe he's the only real part of me. I go along the best I can, and it doesn't do any good. Maybe the Bellamy inside of me doesn't like what I do. But I have to do it. I can't stop, for I was born a Hunter. It's a great heritage to be born to. Who doesn't envy me? Who wouldn't change with me, if they could?

But knowing that doesn't help at all.

I'm no good.

Listen to me, Bellamy, listen to me, if you're there at all, deep inside my head. You've got to listen—you've got to understand. You, there, inside the skull. You can turn up in a glass case in some other Hunter's reception hall any day now, any day, with the crowds of Populi outside pressing against the view-windows and the guests coming in to see and envy, and all the wives standing by in satin and jewels.

Maybe you don't understand, Bellamy. You should feel fine now. It must be that you don't know this real world I have to go on living in. A hundred years ago, or a thousand, it might have been different. But this is the Twenty-first Century. It's today, it's now, and there's no turning back.

I don't think you understand.

* * *

You see, there isn't any choice. Either you end up in another Hunter's glass case, along with your whole collection of heads, while your wives and children are turned out to be Populi, or else you die naturally (suicide is one way) and your eldest son inherits your collection, and you become immortal, in a plastic monument. You stand forever in transparent plastic on a pedestal along the edge of Central Park, like Renway and old Falconer and Brennan and all the others. Everyone remembers and admires and envies you.

Will you keep on thinking then, Bellamy, inside the plastic? Will I?

Falconer was a great Hunter. He never slowed down, and he lived to be fifty-two. For a Hunter, that is a great old age. There are stories that he killed himself. I don't know. The wonder is that he kept his head on his shoulders for fifty-two years. The competition is growing harder, and there are more and more younger men these days.

Listen to me, Bellamy, the Bellamy within. Have you ever really understood? Do you still think this is the wonderful young time, the boyhood time, when life is easy? Were you ever with me in the long, merciless years while my body and mind learned to be a Hunter? I'm still young and strong. My training has never stopped. But the early years were the hardest.

Before then, there was the wonderful time. It lasted for six years only, six years of happiness and warmth and love with my mother in the harem, and the foster-mothers and the other children. My father was very kind then. But when I was six, it stopped. They shouldn't have taught us love at all, if it had to end so soon. Is it that you remember, Bellamy within? If it is, it can never come back. You know that. Surely you know it.

The roots of the training were obedience and discipline. My father was not kind any more. I did not see my mother often and, when I did, she was changed, too. Still, there was praise. There were the parades when the Populi cheered me and my father. He and the trainers praised me when I showed I had special kill in the duel, or in marksmanship, or judo-stalking.

It was forbidden, but my brothers and I sometimes tried to kill each other. The trainers watched us carefully. I was not the heir, then. But I became the heir when my elder brother's neck was broken in a judo-fall. It seemed an accident, but of course it wasn't, and then I had to be more careful than ever. I had to become very skillful.

All that time, all that painful time, learning to kill. It was natural. They kept telling us how natural it was. We had to learn. And there could be only one heir . . .

We lived under a cloud of fear even then. If my father's head had been taken, we would all have been turned out of the mansion. Oh, we wouldn't have gone hungry or unsheltered. Not in this age of science. But not to be a Hunter! Not to become immortal, in a plastic monument standing by Central Park!

Sometimes I dream that I am one of the Populi. It seems strange, but in the dream I am hungry. And that is impossible. The great power plants supply all that the world needs. Machines synthesize food and build houses and give us all the necessities of life. I could never be one of the Populi, but if I were, I would go into a restaurant and take whatever food I wished out of the little glass-fronted compartments. I would eat well—far better than I eat now, as a matter of fact. And yet, in my dream, I am hungry.

Perhaps the food I eat does not satisfy you, Bellamy within me. It does not satisfy me, but it is not meant to. It is nutritious. Its taste is unpleasant, but all the necessary proteins and minerals and vitamins are in it to keep my brain and body at their highest pitch. And it should not be pleasant. It is not pleasure that leads a man to immortality in plastic. Pleasure is a weakening and an evil thing.

Bellamy within—do you hate me?

My life has not been easy. It isn't easy now. The stubborn flesh fights against the immortal future, urging a man to be weak. But if you are weak, how long can you hope to keep your head on your shoulders?

The Populi sleep with their wives. I have never even kissed any of mine. (Is it you who have sent me those dreams?) My children? Yes, they are mine; artificial insemination is the answer. I sleep on a hard bed. Sometimes I wear a hair shirt. I drink only water. My food is tasteless. With my trainers I exercise every day, until I am very tired. The life is hard—but in the end we shall stand forever in a plastic monument, you and I, while the world envies and admires. I shall die a Hunter and I shall be immortal.

The proof is in the glass cases down there in my reception hall. The heads, the heads—look, Bellamy, so many heads! Stratton, my first. I killed him in Central Park with a machete. This is the scar on my temple that he gave me that night. I learned to be more deft. I had to.

Each time I went into Central Park, fear and hate helped me. Often it is dreadful in the Park. We go there only at night, and sometimes we stalk for many nights before we take a head. The Park is forbidden, you know, to all but Hunters.

It is our hunting ground.

I have been shrewd and cunning and resourceful. I have shown great courage. I have stopped my fears and nursed my hate, there in the Park's shadows, listening, waiting, stalking, never knowing when I might feel sharp steel burning through my throat. There are no rules in the Park. Guns or clubs or knives—once I was caught in a man-trap, all steel and cables and sharp teeth. But I had moved in time, and fast enough, so I kept my right hand free and shot Miller between the eyes when he came to take me. There is Miller's head down in that case. You would never know a bullet had gone through his forehead, for the thanologists are clever. But usually we try not to spoil the heads.

What is it that troubles you so, Bellamy within? I am one of the greatest Hunters in New York. But a man must be cunning. He must lay traps and snares a long way in advance, and not only in Central Park. He must keep his spies active and his lines of contact taut in every mansion in the city. He must know who is powerful and who is not worth taking. What good would it do to win against a Hunter with only a dozen heads in his hall, while risking your own collection and your own head?

I have hundreds. Until yesterday, I stood ahead of every man in my age-group. Until yesterday, I was the envy of all I knew, the idol of the Populi, the acknowledged master of half New York. Half New York! Do you know how much that meant to me? That my rivals loathed me and acknowledged me their better?

You do know, Bellamy. It was the breath of life that True Jonathan Hull and Good Ben Griswold ground their teeth when they thought of me, and that Black Bill Lindman and Whistler Cowles counted their trophies and then called me on the TV phone and begged me with tears of hate and fury in their eyes to meet them in the Park and give them the chance they craved.

I laughed at them. I laughed Black Bill Lindman into a berserker rage and then almost envied him, because I have not been berserker myself for a long while now. I like that wild unloosening of all my awareness but one—the killing instinct, blind and without reason. I could forget even you then, Bellamy within.

But that was yesterday.

And yesterday night, Good Ben Griswold took a head. Do you remember how we felt when we learned of it, you and I? First I wanted to die, Bellamy. Then I hated Ben as I have never hated anyone before, and I have known much hate. I would not believe he had done it. I would not believe which head he took.

I said it was a mistake, that he took a head from the Populi. But I knew I lied. No one takes a common head. They have no value. Then I said to myself, "It can't be the head of True Jonathan Hull. It can't be. It must not be!" For Hull was powerful. His hall held almost as many heads as mine. If Griswold were to have them all, he would be far more powerful than I.

The thought was a torment I could not endure.

I put on my Status Cap, with one bell on it for each head I have taken, and I went out to see. It was true, Bellamy.

The mansion of Jonathan Hull was being emptied. The mob was surging in and out, while Hull's wives and children were leaving in little, quiet groups. The wives did not seem unhappy, but the boys did. (The girls had been sent to the Populi at birth, naturally; they are worthless.) I watched the boys for a while. They were all wretched and angry. One was nearly sixteen, a big, agile lad who must have nearly finished his training. Someday I might meet him in the Park.

The other boys were all too young. Now that their training had been interrupted, they would never dare enter the Park. That, of course, is why none of the Populi ever become Hunters. It takes long years of arduous training to turn a child from a rabbit to a tiger. In Central Park, only the tigers survive.

* * *

I looked through True Jonathan's view-windows. I saw that the glass cases in his reception hall were empty.

"So it is not a nightmare or a lie—Griswold does have them," I thought, "and True Jonathan's, besides."

I went into a doorway and clenched my fists and beat them against the brownstone and groaned with self-contempt.

I was no good at all. I hated myself, and I hated Griswold, too. Presently it was only that second hate that remained, so I knew what I had to do.

"Today," I thought, "he stands where I stood yesterday. Desperate men will be talking to him, begging him, challenging him, trying every means they know to get him into the Park tonight. But I am crafty. I make my plans far ahead. I have networks that stretch into the mansions of every Hunter in the city, crossing their own webs."

One of my wives, Nelda, was the key here. Long ago I realized that she was beginning to dislike me. I never knew why, but I fostered that dislike until it became hate. I saw to it that Griswold would learn the story. It is by stratagems like this that I became as powerful as I was then—and will be again, will surely be again.

I put on a glove, with hair and knuckle-lines and nails painted on to look like a hand, and I went to my TV phone and called Good Ben Griswold. He came grinning to the screen.

"I challenge you, Ben," I said. "Tonight at nine, in the Park, by the carousel site."

He laughed at me. He was a tall, heavily muscled man with a thick neck.

I looked at his throat.

"Tonight at nine," I repeated.

He laughed again. "Oh, no, Roger," he said. "Why should I risk my head?"

"You're a coward."

"Certainly I'm a coward," he agreed, still grinning, "when there's nothing to gain and everything to lose. Was I a coward last night, when I took Hull's head? I've had my eye on him a long time, Roger. I'll admit I was afraid you'd get him first. Why didn't you, anyway?"

"It's your head I'm after, Ben."

"Not tonight," he said. "Not for quite a while. I'm not going back to the Park for a long time; I'll be too busy. You're out of the running, anyhow, Roger. How many heads have you?"

He knew, damn him, how far ahead of me he was—now. I let the hate show in my face.

"The Park at nine tonight," I yelled. "The carousel site. Or else I'll know you're afraid."

"Eat your heart out, Roger," he mocked me. "Tonight I lead a parade. Watch me. Or don't—but you'll be thinking about me. You can't help that."

"You swine! You rotten, cowardly swine!"

He laughed; he derided me, he goaded me, as I had done so many times to others. I did not have to pretend anger. I wanted to reach into the screen and sink my fingers in his throat. The furious rage was good to feel. It was very good. I let it build until it seemed high enough. I let him laugh and enjoy it.

Then at last I did what I had been planning. At the right moment, when it looked convincing, I let myself lose all control and I smashed my fist into the TV screen. It shattered. Griswold's face flew apart; I liked that. It was very satisfying.

The connection was broken, of course. But I knew he would check quickly back. I slipped the protective glove from my right hand and called a servant I knew I could trust. (He is a criminal; I protect him. If I die, he will die and he knows it.) He bandaged my unharmed right hand and I told him what to say to the other servants. I knew the word would reach Nelda quickly, in the harem, and I knew that Griswold would hear within an hour.

I fed my anger. All day, in the gymnasium, I practiced with my trainers, machete and pistol in my left hand only. I made it seem that I was approaching the berserker stage, the killing madness that overcomes us when we feel we have completely failed.

That kind of failure can have one of two results only. Suicide is the other. You risk nothing then, and you know your body will stand by the Park in its plastic monument. But sometimes the hate turns outward and there is no fear left. Then the Hunter is berserker, and while this makes him very dangerous, he is also good quarry then—he forgets his cunning.

It was dangerous to me, too, for that kind of forgetfulness is very tempting, the next best thing to oblivion itself.

Well, I had set the lure for Griswold. But it would take more than a lure to bring him out when he thought he had nothing to gain by such a risk. So I set rumors loose. They were very plausible rumors. I let it be whispered that Black Bill Lindman and Whistler Cowles, as desperate as I at Griswold's triumph over us all, had challenged each other to a meeting in the Park that night. Only one could come out alive, and that one would be master of New York so far as our age-group counted power. (There was, of course, old Murdoch with his fabulous collection accumulated over a lifetime, but it was only among ourselves that the rivalry ran so high.)

With that rumor abroad, I thought Griswold would act. There is no way to check such news. A man seldom announces openly that he is going into the Park. It could even be the truth, for all I knew. And for all Griswold knew, his supremacy was in deadly peril before he had even enjoyed his Triumph. There would be danger, of course, if he went out to defend his victory. Lindman and Cowles are both good Hunters. But Griswold, if he did not suspect my trap, had a chance at one sure victory—myself, Honest Roger Bellamy, waiting in berserker fury at a known rendezvous and with a right hand useless for fighting. Did it seem too obvious? Ah, but you don't know Griswold.

When it was dark, I put on my hunting clothes. They are bulletproof, black, close-fitting, but very easy with every motion. I blacked my face and hands. I took gun, knife and machete with me, the metal treated so that it would not catch or reflect the light. I like a machete especially—I have strong arms. I was careful not to use my bandaged hand at all, even when I thought no one watched me. And I remembered that I must seem on the verge of berserker rage, because I knew Griswold's spies would be reporting every motion I made.

I went toward Central Park, the entrance nearest the carousel site. That far Griswold's men could track me, but no farther.

At the gate I lingered for a moment—do you remember this, Bellamy within me? Do you remember the plastic monuments we passed on the edge of the Park? Falconer and Brennan and the others, forever immortal, standing proud and godlike in the clear, eternal blocks. All passion spent, all fighting done, their glory assured forever. Did you envy them, too, Bellamy?

I remember how old Falconer's eyes seemed to look through me contemptuously. The number of heads he had taken is engraved on the base of his monument, and he was a very great man.

"Wait," I thought. "I'll stand in plastic, too. I'll take more heads than even you, Falconer, and the day that I do, it will be the day I can lay this burden down . . ."

Just inside the gate, in the deep shadows, I slipped the bandage from my right hand. I drew my black knife and, close against the wall, I began to work my way rapidly toward the little gate which is nearest Griswold's mansion. I had, of course, no intention of going anywhere near the carousel site. Griswold would be in a hurry to get to me and out again, and he might not stop to think. Griswold was not a thinker. I gambled on his taking the closest route.

I waited, feeling very solitary and liking the solitude. It was hard to stay angry. The trees whispered in the darkness. The moon was rising from the Atlantic beyond Long Island. I thought of it shining on the Sound and on the city. It would rise like this long after I was dead. It would glitter on the plastic of my monument and bathe my face with cold light long after you and I, Bellamy, are at peace, our long war with each other ended.

Then I heard Griswold coming. I tried to empty my mind of everything except killing. It was for this that my body and mind had been trained so painfully ever since I was six years old. I breathed deeply a few times. As always, the deep, shrinking fear tried to rise in me. Fear, and something more. Something within me—is it you, Bellamy?—that says I do not really want to kill.

Then Griswold came into sight, and the familiar, hungry hatred made everything all right again.

I do not remember very much about the fight. It all seemed to happen within a single timeless interval, though I suppose it went on for quite a long while. It was a hard, fast, skillful fight. We both wore bulletproof clothing, but we were both wounded before we got close enough to try for each other's heads with steel. He favored a saber, which was longer than my machete. Still, it was an even battle. We had to fight fast, because the noise might draw other Hunters, if there were any in the Park tonight.

But in the end I killed him.

I took his head. The Moon was not yet clear of the high buildings on the other side of the Park and the night was young.

I summoned a taxi. Within minutes, I was back in my mansion, with my trophy. Before I would let the surgeons treat me, I saw to it that the head was taken to the laboratory for a quick treatment, a very quick preparation. And I sent out orders for a midnight Triumph.

While I lay on the table and the surgeons washed and dressed my wounds, the news was flashing through the city already. My servants were in Griswold's mansion, transferring his collections to my reception hall, setting up extra cases that would hold all my trophies, all True Jonathan Hull's and all of Griswold's, too. I would be the most powerful man in New York, under such masters as old Murdoch and one or two more. All my age-group and the one above it would be wild with envy and hate. I thought of Lindman and Cowles and laughed with triumph.

I thought it was triumph—then.

I stand now at the head of the staircase, looking down at the lights and the brilliance, the row upon row of trophies, my wives in all their jewels. Servants are moving to the great bronze doors to swing them ponderously open. What will be revealed? The throng of guests, the great Hunters coming to give homage to a greater Hunter? Or—suppose no one has come to my Triumph, after all?

The bronze doors are beginning to open. And I'm afraid. The fear that never leaves a Hunter, except in his last and greatest Triumph, is with me now. Suppose, while I stalked Griswold tonight, some other Hunter ambushed even bigger game—what if, for example, someone has taken old Murdoch's head? Then someone else would be having a Triumph in New York tonight, a greater Triumph than mine!

The fear is choking me. I've failed. Some other Hunter has beaten me. I'm no good . . .

No. Listen. Listen to them shouting my name! Look, look at them pouring in through the opened doors, all the great Hunters and their jewel-flashing women, thronging in to fill the bright hall beneath me. I feared too soon. I was the only Hunter in the Park tonight, after all. So I have won, and this is my Triumph.

There's Lindman. There's Cowles. I can read their expressions very, very easily. They can't wait to get me alone tonight and challenge me to a duel in the Park.

They all raise their arms toward me in salute. They shout my name.

I beckon to a servant. He hands me the filled glass that is ready. Now I look down at the Hunters of New York—I look down from the height of my Triumph—and I raise my glass to them.

I drink.

Hunters, you cannot rob me now.

I shall stand proud in plastic, godlike in the eternal block that holds me, all passion spent, all fighting done, my glory assured forever.

The poison works quickly.

This is the real Triumph!

* * *

Henry Kuttner (April 7, 1915 - February 4, 1958) was a science fiction author born in Los Angeles, California. As a young man he worked for a literary agency before selling his first story, "The Graveyard Rats", to Weird Tales in 1936.

Catherine Lucile Moore (January 24, 1911 – April 4, 1987) was an American science fiction and fantasy writer. She was one of the first women to write in the genre, and paved the way for many other female writers in speculative fiction.

SERIES

The Ancient Ones, Episode 3

Written by David Brin
Illustrated by Charles Bernard

Picture a lonely human, sleeping fitfully atop a cold marble slab in an alien cemetery, his dreams threaded by a night-long rhapsody of the undead—a crooning zombie serenade.

How restful would you find that, after a long hard day getting pummeled by bourgeois werewolves, seeing your comrades snatched away by cloaked figures in the night, and then losing even the distant comfort of contact with your starship, orbiting far overhead?

Would your slumber be fitful? Disturbed?

Not mine. For the rest of that long first night on Oxytocin 41, I slept like . . . well . . . the dead . . . somehow knowing that my new friends—Moulder and Sully—would guard me until dawn. Protecting the most precious thing that I had left. Something the two of them no longer possessed.

Life.

* * *

The next morning's weather was "perfect" for my kindly hosts. Dank, chilly and overcast, but not too humid. An ideal sort of day for "recents"—the newly risen dead—to stroll into town.

We had to wait, of course, for the great Zombie Conclave to break up, after that strangely stirring nightlong dirge. The (literally) haunting harmonies at last began to fade, along with the brittle constellations, when a pale morning glow spread in the east. Gradually, through a predawn mist, shambling figures could be seen descending through the graveyard, returning to tombs and crypts, then pulling shut their hinged lids, leaving behind a trampled slope scattered with various organs, limbs and other fallen parts, twitching, dissolving into sludge and vapor.

A few of the oldest walking cadavers—nearly fleshless and evidently confused—wandered past the tombstones and monuments, moaning softly as they meandered toward the dim city skyline, heedless of a mine field that lay in the way, just short of the town wall. A staccato of muffled explosions made me wince. But Moulder, the male zoom who had befriended me last night, grunted with satisfaction each time a detonation resonated through the rows of tombs.

"That's how I plan to move on, when the time is right," he commented. "With a bang. None of that soul-o whimpering for me!"

A final coffin lid slammed shut, even as the mist condensed into swirls and then clouds that drifted upward, revealing the resplendent skyscraper towers of a city that had been named—until yesterday—Cal'mari. In this light, the metropolis looked pretty typical for a Stage Eighteen world . . . only with some unique features. For example, a maze of netting—like spiderwebs—making it next to impossible for any creature (alive or undead) to fly between most buildings. One of many defensive measures erected by the planet's living population. Perhaps paranoid . . . but understandable, given what I had learned so far.

The city proper was a realm for the planet's most numerous subspecies, known as "standards"—sufficiently humanoid that an Earthling like me could walk among them. At least that was what I hoped to do . . . with help from the substantial makeup kit that my other new friend, Sully, carried with her at all times.

"We'll have to change your skin tone and put some box-corners on your ears," she commented while applying putties and sprays "Oh! And let's give you a nice goatee beard to cover up that awful chin."

I stopped myself from blurting: "What's wrong with my chin?" Even with nano translators tuned to the local language, I had to assume there would be, well, exaggerations. So I quashed any impulse to take offense.

Besides, she had a gentle touch . . . and was by far the most attractive corpse I had ever met.

Sully even made a few alterations to my Alliance uniform, sewing some of the rips and tears from my battle with local lycanthropes, the night before, then adding a few clever touches to make my clothes resemble normal street attire. Moulder, pacing nearby, grumbled that she was putting in far too much effort.

"It's not as if he'll really blend in. Have you forgotten we'll be with him?"

Moulder had just finished puttying his own face, but only in a very dark room would anybody fail to note a missing chunk of skull, perhaps the very injury that brought him to this place. To his second phase of "life."

"Oh, hush," Sully responded. "Don't you want the flavor of a good deed to carry with you, as memory and mind fade away?"

Moulder muttered some more. But of course, this merely confirmed something that I've long observed during my voyages aboard the Clever Gamble. For all of its apparent malignity, the universe also overflows with kindness and skill.

Anyway, I just have to believe it. A character flaw, I suppose. They only pick optimists to serve as human advisors aboard Demmie-crewed ships.

Anyone else would probably go quite insane.

* * *

Our day began with a hurried search of the big park where my crewmates and I had slurried down to this planet, only a day before. I held out little hope of finding the Nozzle intact. After all, I couldn't see the Hose. A careful scan of the sky showed no blue, shimmering line leading upward to the heavens. Still, I had to check. If our ship had been destroyed, the Nozzle-reconstructor should still be there . . . along with a tangled coil of fallen tubing that would trail ever westward, falling from space to snarl trees, power cables, and clotheslines across half a continent.

The Nozzle was gone. No sign of it in the park. And, in a sense, that was encouraging! So, the Gamble hadn't been destroyed in a flash. There must have been time to at least begin hauling in the slurry hose.

A small comfort. Very small.

Our search brought forth one more clue . . . a tattered tunic of lime green, very large, with WEMS spelled across the chest. I turned it over carefully, checking for clues to what might have become of the security crewman, but there were none that I could see.

Then I tried using the garment's built-in transmitter to contact Commander Talon, on the Clever Gamble.

No luck. My ear nanos conveyed only space static.

Something terrible must have happened to the ship. Because my crewmates would never leave comrades stranded below for so long. Say what you will about Demmies; but most of them are loyal to a fault.

I've got to find out what's going on!

* * *

No choice then, but to head into the town proper, accompanied by Moulder and Sully. In order to seek aid from one of the local dignitaries.

The apparently renowned "Professor Ping."

* * *

I had to revise my earlier notion about social arrangements in the city that only yesterday (without the inhabitants' permission or knowledge) was renamed "Squid." So far, I had encountered four subspecies of humanoids on this world, comingling in a complex life cycle, with some of them treating others as prey. A place where—as I've said—paranoia seemed quite justified.

Nevertheless, the various types weren't at war. Not exactly.

True, the city showed signs, everywhere, of profound efforts at self-defense. Like those huge, ominous nets, spanning open spaces. High concrete walls, topped with razor wire, ran along the river bank, dividing downtown from the park/cemetery area, turning the broad stream into a moat. Watchtowers overlooked several gated bridges.

Yet, despite the backdrop of predation and mutual mayhem, it was remarkably easy to enter the city proper. No one stopped us, or even scrutinized passersby, as we ambled across one of the spans into the main commercial zone. At the city end, formidable barriers had swung aside on hinges, apparently unneeded by daylight. Motor traffic rushed past us in both directions.

I wondered—could the local interspecies asperity be limited only to night? Was it simply a matter of bad luck (and Demmie impatience) that Captain Olm had us slurry down to this metropolis so late in the day?

Standards swarmed the streets and canals of Squid City, busy at trades and industry. Making, buying and selling things. Bickering, talking, raising their young. Doing all the normal things of civilization. Yet, amid the throng I also glimpsed a few of the predatory types—always given plenty of room by the standards, who stepped aside out of reflex. As if the protection of daylight could only be trusted so far.

A lordly nomort strode past one side street, smiling nonchalantly—and frighteningly—with sharp, Demmie-like teeth, his aristocratic black cloak drawn up into a hood, for protection from the sun. Later, we turned a corner and almost ran into a pair of hirsute licans, with trails of drool dangling from their lower tusks. I cringed for an instant, fearing that the larger one might be Besh, the wolfish leader of a band that had imprisoned and beaten me in the urb.

But no, unlike Besh, these two were well-groomed. In fact, their combed and coifed facial fur was perfect. As we passed, I overheard a snatch of raspy speech. It was only a moment, but they seemed to be in heated discussion of some kind of sporting event. Almost like a couple of regular guys on a street, back home.

* * *

Apparently, on Oxytocin, death wasn't like the sudden, on-off transition back on Earth, or that I had seen on so countless other worlds—an either-or thing. Till now, I simply assumed it was a law of nature. Only here, "life" had stages, complex, unpredictable, filled with change and nuance.

Moreover, evidently some kinds of afterlife rated higher than others. While the rare nomorts moved through town like aloof nobility, and licans had the apparent tastes and temperaments of middle class monsters, clearly the poor zooms got no more respect than that accorded to ghoulish proletarians. Though my two lifeless friends had made great efforts to fit in—with all that putty and lacquer—they got only curt and disdainful looks from citizens in prim, high-collared business suits hurrying by on their way to work. Standing at a curb, waiting for the light to change, Moulder seemed especially unpopular. Normal folk edged away, pinching their noses.

I soon learned more about this prejudice, when Sully asked if I was hungry.

"Starving!" I replied. "I suppose when we get to Professor Ping's . . ."

She shook her head—carefully of course.

"The Prof is absentminded. He may not have stocked up for himself, let alone a guest. We should bring something."

She gestured to an establishment on a commercial street . . . a grocery store apparently, with commodities stacked on shelves—bottles, boxes and cans, mostly.

"I prefer to shop at Wail Mart," Moulder commented. "Half of their employees already have one foot in the—"

"That's at the other end of town," Sully interrupted. "And we should hurry along."

Now I caught scents that churned my stomach with hunger pangs. Normal landing party procedure calls for detailed tests before consuming local food on an alien world. But right then, possible allergic reactions seemed the last of my worries.

"I'm afraid I haven't any money."

"That's okay," Sully assured. "I had savings when I died, and no heirs but a brother, who insisted I take it with me. Fat lot of good it'll do me soon. So take this." She held out a purse. I heard clattering nonmetallic coins. "Anyway, you must do the buying for us."

"Why's that?"

She pointed. A man wearing a stained apron stood in the doorway, glowering at our little group. To his right, set prominently in the window, stood a sign which nanos in my eyes set to work translating, overlaying the alien typescript with Demmie letters, that seemed to hang ghostly in space, before me—

NO SHOES? NO SHIRT? NO PULSE?
NO SERVICE!
LYCANS SERVED UNTIL NOON ONLY.
(NO EATING, DRINKING, OR HOWLING ON PREMISES.)
NOMORTS STRICTLY CASH. (NO B-BANK DRAFTS.)
WE GLADLY ACCEPT CAL'MARI EXPRESS.

Underneath, a second, smaller sign bore a caricature of a zombie with one eyeball hanging out of a socket and both disjointed arms outstretched before it. Jagged slash marks across the figure translated as FORBIDDEN, while a slogan advertised—

THIS ESTABLISHMENT PROTECTED AND SANITIZED BY ACE CREMATION SERVICE.

Sully must have sensed my outrage. She put a hand on my sleeve, speaking in a low voice.

"Don't make a fuss."

"But it's . . ."

I kind of strangled in my search for the right words. Not "racist" or "sexist," certainly . . . or even "speciesist."

Life-Chauvinism, was all that came to mind. An irrational and bigoted preference for the animate over the rotting-deceased. How unevolved.

"Never mind," she urged, slipping me a tattered sheet of paper. "Just get the things on this list, will you? We'll wait around the corner, in that alley over there." She gave me a pretty smile (that must have been lethal, when she was alive) and Moulder stuck up his remaining thumb in a friendly gesture as they both turned to go.

The proprietor sent me a sour look as I entered the store with list in hand. I felt certain there must be a word in their language for my kind—the sort who fraternizes with pariahs—and I guess I shouldn't have been surprised. In both Earth and Demmie history there were plenty of shameful periods when fear conjured odious, illogical prejudices. Level Eighteen worlds often had plenty.

In the overall context of time, it could be viewed as just another, natural phase along this planet's hard road to maturation.

Natural or not, I hated it.

* * *

I mentioned that the clothing fashion among standards ran toward bulky, pseudo-Victorian attire, with high necklines for both men and women. The store offered an assortment of what at I took for pet collars—studded with sharp spikes—till I saw a sign: "FOR A RESTFUL NIGHT'S SLEEP." It made me wonder what they used as pillows here.

The shopping list was fairly easy to follow. Eye nanos scanned my field of view as I looked around the store, highlighting matches with the letters on Sully's paper. For example, I quickly found SlimFaust—the liquid soul food. Also into the basket went vials of cosmetics and preservatives, like those she used that morning.

For myself, I chose the blandest of food products. A loaf of plain brown bread and some yellow fruits, like bananas, that smelled pretty good. My hand hovered near a box of breakfast cereal. The illustration looked cheery enough at first, featuring ravenous kids surrounding a giant bowl full of what looked like . . . grinning Viking heads.

Canutes n' Berries

It's grendelicious!

Eat it slow or beowulf it down!

I vowed to have a talk with whoever programmed my nano-translators. If I ever made it home.

On impulse, I threw in a cheap brown jacket and one of the doggie collars. I'd surely be able to repay Sully. If not when we reached Professor Ping, then upon being reunited with the Clever Gamble. Perhaps Commander-Healer Paolim could even do something about the condition Sully and her friend were in—though I could hardly imagine how.

A clump of manicolored plastic coins fell on the counter from her handbag, when it came time to pay. While picking through the grimy pile, the clerk looked at me with disgust, as if to say "Are you sure you have a pulse?" I'm all but certain he shortchanged me. But how could I protest? I didn't know the local coinage and he'd have me dead to rights.

Taking up the bag of purchases, I left the store and turned right, seeking the alley where Sully and Moulder said they'd await me. I reached the corner, holding out her list. "I hope this is everything you wanted—"

Staring, I realized that my two dear-departed friends were gone.

In their place stood a lanky man wearing what looked a lot like a trenchcoat and battered fedora. Poking around, he used the toe of one shoe to nudge something small and smoldering . . . perhaps a bit that had fallen off of Moulder. It didn't take Demmie instincts to know a cop when I saw one.

Shall I just step forward and introduce myself? Work my way up the ladder of officialdom? Take me to your leader?

As the fellow bent over to examine the site closer, his coat parted, revealing a vicious-looking gun strapped to one thigh—almost certainly not set to stun. Holstered alongside were several wooden stakes. And a hammer.

Maybe the authorities aren't my best option, right now, I pondered, and started to back away . . .

. . . only to collide with a wall that hadn't been there a second ago. I turned swiftly, to find myself looking up at a formidable figure dressed in police blue. Shiny buttons spanned a chest that seemed almost as broad as the alley. But that was not the biggest surprise.

The face grinning down at me was suddenly familiar.

"Uh . . . Crewman . . . Wems?"

The Demmie security man kept smiling, but something struck me as wrong. Not the layer of makeup that gave his face (like mine) an imitation local-greenish tone. No, it was the teeth. Several were crudely capped, I realized suddenly, in order to make them look less pointy.

"Hello Professor," Wems said in a low and friendly tone.

That is, it seemed friendly . . . till he whipped forth a truncheon, the size of a tree branch, and used it to rap me sharply on the head, ending that brief morning and bringing back the night.

* * *

After it has happened to you enough times—(and if you hang around Demmies, it will)—you finally get of kind of used to waking up in strange, dank places with a splitting headache, lacking a clue to where you are and how you got there.

(There was that time when Captain Olm insisted that we go bar-hopping on Eurythromycin-Six . . . and we came to in the harem of a Slug Queen on Escargotia, more than ninety parsecs away. But that's another story.)

On this occasion, at least, I regained consciousness on a soft surface. Not a bed, exactly, but a cushioned pallet or sofa, in a dim room that was illuminated only by a single, fancy candelabra on a nearby table. Dust motes and the flickering light made my eyes itch, so I quickly looked away from the flames, rubbing my nose. But the rest of the chamber wasn't any more comforting. Cobwebs spanned the corners and furnishings. Gloomy figures, attired in lavish native costumes, stared down at me from large portraits, with expressions that seemed to say nothing good will come of this.

I sat up, gingerly bracing for the inevitable stabs of pain. At least Wems had been trained well, there was that small mercy. His application of force had taken away consciousness without crushing my skull. Even the hematoma, throbbing under my fingertips, didn't seem too blood-sodden or swollen. A fine, professional job. Only . . .

. . . only why?

Why did Wems disguise himself as a local constable and then attack me?

Wincing as I stood up, I inspected my own body and then my surroundings. Both seemed similarly shoddy, creaky and derelict, having seen better days. The furniture and decorations looked as if they must have once been plush and upscale, though numerous gashes and gouges now defaced the wood paneling and several paintings—perhaps traces of some long-ago battle that once careened through these chambers. Dark, unpleasant-looking stains blemished several patches of wall and floor.

I wasn't especially surprised, upon trying the door, to find that the knob would not turn. It was locked from the other side. Moreover, the portal was too heavy and stout to force, even with human muscles.

On the table, next to the candelabra, I did find a surprise. The shopping bag that I had been carrying when Wems knocked me out. Next to it were several of my purchases . . . the loaf of bread, the bundle of fruits. Then I noticed symbols, written in the thick dust. Next to the bread, some finger had traced a Demmie-script glyph for safe. On the other hand, the fruit that had smelled so fine came accompanied by a mark that stood for hallucinogen. (A much-too common and familiar emblem; Demmies had never been shy about been experimentation. Especially before human beings arrived, giving them an attractive alternative—the power to meddle on an interstellar scale.)

Nearby lay a tall and elegant (though chipped) carafe of water, plus an empty packet from one of our Alliance food-testing kits. So, Wems had cared enough to give me a choice. To not trust him and starve. To trust and eat something blandly nourishing. Or to seek escape down paths of illusion.

I picked up one of the yellow, bananalike orbs. It sure smelled good. And escape did have its attractions.

But frankly, I wasn't tempted. Illusion is overrated. Anyway, this adventure was already stretching credulity. Bread and water would help anchor me down.

They also stanched the agony of hunger and thirst. I've had better meals. And much worse.

Thank you, Wems. I'll be sure to mention this at your court-martial.

Energy restored, I began turning my thoughts to escape, starting with a thorough thumping of the walls. After all, this was just the sort of place to have hidden panels leading to secret passageways, right?

No luck with the first wall. But, pushing aside a set of heavy curtains, I did discover a set of double doors with cracked glass panes. Unlike the other portal, this one was unlocked. In fact, it gaped open to a wide, stone balcony. And beyond that, a nighttime cityscape.

Stepping outside I found the lights of Squid spread out before me, a forest of glittering towers, their twinkles gradually merging into a scattering of stars and nebulae above. Taking a deep breath and standing quite still, I gazed skyward for a time. Although the constellations were alien, I still felt homesick just looking at them. All I could do was cast my hopes and thoughts toward my ship and crewmates, who might be struggling with danger even now. The other thought . . . that it might already be too late . . . was unbearable. That the Clever Gamble and her stalwart company might already be destroyed, stranding me forever on this lonely and desperately strange world.

My balcony-perch jutted near the top of a tall masonry building—at least twenty stories high—built in a rather gothic style. Peering left and right, I saw no easy route to get away. No nearby verandahs lay within reach through some cinematic leap . . . though I did spot a collection of garish gargoyles, spaced around the cornice-ledge, that seemed to leer and taunt, as if daring me to use their crumbling shapes for hand and foot holds.

I didn't feel that desperate. Not quite. Not yet.

Some of the closest buildings loomed even taller than this one. Generally, the higher floors were dark and perhaps long abandoned; but many of the windows lower down shone with light. Dim figures could at times be glimpsed, passing back and forth beyond closed curtains. Despite the warm evening, not a single window or door was open.

Except . . . for . . . this one, I realized.

Peering about, I found that I could trace patterns of netting that I had seen earlier, spanning the open space between many structures . . . an array of obstacles that had seemed formidable by day, and all-too evanescent by the wan glitter of starlight. Moreover, the defensive shroud looked rather sparse near me.

In fact, I seemed to be situated well above all but a few of the webs.

Checking the balustrade and nearby wall, I finally found one attachment point, just overhead, near the right-end of the balcony. From a gobbet of sticky substance, a slender filament plunged arrow-straight into the darkness, parallel to the ground. If the cord was meant to support netting, those mesh strands had long vanished.

In fact, I began to suspect that was never its purpose. Tentatively and more than a little nervously, I reached out and touched the threadlike cable.

It hummed. A vibration that at once reminded me of the music from that cemetery serenade, a night (or two?) before, in the crypt-suburb of the zombie clan. Similar to that music, and yet somehow more frightening.

Something about it made my heart race faster.

I let go and started backing away, eyes anxiously darting across the night. Maybe I should close, lock, and barricade the balcony doors. After all, by day I would have many options. I could even drop messages to the street below. Attract attention to my high-elevation prison. Whatever faults the authorities might have, at least they were standard humanoids . . .

I stopped, frozen in my tracks by . . .

. . . by a slight variation in the blackness out there. In the same direction as that narrow strand. Staring hard only made it go away, so I averted my gaze slightly, favoring the more light-sensitive retinal rods—an old astronomer's trick.

It returned. An inky fluttering, like a raven flapping against a sable curtain or the dark wall of an unlit cave. The tenebrous shape grew larger, closer with a suddenness that left me stunned, unable to react . . .

. . . until—quite suddenly—it arrived, impending over the balcony's stone railing with a final leap.

Landing in a graceful crouch, the manlike figure, dressed all in black, stood up slowly now, lowering both arms to gather-in the winglike folds of a large cape, before rising, straightening.

I managed to retreat a step, another. Put my hand upon the edge of the door. Preparing to slam it shut . . .

. . . when something transfixed me, preventing further motion as the dark figure finally turned to face me. The emotion of surprise.

"L-lieutenant? Lieutenant Morell?"

The face was certainly that of our security officer, the one who had accompanied the captain and me, along with the rest of the landing party, when we slurried to the planet's surface. Now dressed in local costume—nicely cut for her generous figure—she appeared to know me and started to smile with those charmingly dainty-pointy Demmie teeth . . .

. . . only no longer quite so charming. Two of them, canines at the corners of her mouth, now seemed much larger and far more intimidating. In what little light reached them from the candelabra inside, from the city, from the stars, they gleamed.

Also gleaming, almost with a light of its own, the twin-lobed décolletage of her black, low-cut attire, enhanced by a tight, push-up effect. Apparently, becoming a nomort did not alter one aspect of Demmie nature. If you got it, flaunt it.

"Hello Dr. Montessori." Her voice was familiar, even friendly, though now with a mellifluous tone, far more confident. In fact, one that I could only interpret as somehow smugly superior. Like a student who had become teacher. A long-resentful underling, now become master.

"Are you surprised to see me?"

We humans who work close to Demmies like to encourage some of their myths about the Ancient Ones, especially the widespread notion that Earthlings do not lie. Of course it isn't true. Some of our less honest ancestors used to do it monthly, even weekly, I hear.

"Surprised, Lieutenant? Not for an instant. In fact, I was expecting you. I see the transformation was effective. How do you like it?"

"I . . ." She blinked and seemed briefly nonplused. "It takes some getting used to. But how did you . . ."

Morell's expression narrowed, taking on a look of fierce calculation—in my view a less-savory substitution for the fetchingly innocent intelligence of the young Demmie officer I knew before. A feral light seemed to glow in her eyes.

"Perhaps it is time for you to find out for yourself, Professor," she murmured smoothly, taking a step forward. And I realized that the "glow" in her eyes had become something more than metaphorical.

"That is, if you are one of the lucky ones."

"L-lucky ones?" I could no longer put up a pretense of confidence. The shine had taken on a hypnotic quality, twin glints of painful sharpness that stabbed from her eyes to mine, slowing time to such a degree that my muscles felt kilometers away. Frantically ordering them to move, to slam the door between us, felt like sending messages through molasses. Her languid, poised approach would reach me long before they obeyed.

"About one in a hundred. That's the ratio among the local humanoids, Professor. The fraction of victims who then rise up all the way to become nomorts, instead of entering some lesser afterlife. Of course we don't yet know the ratio among Demmies . . . or humans . . . But I hope you do make it. I always liked you, Dr. Montessori."

It did little good struggling to avoid her captivating gaze. The sharp, hypnotic glare hurt . . . and worse . . . it itched, tickling and scraping my sinuses. And yet, at the same time, something compelling and attractive about it, felt . . . terribly familiar. Though I could not close them, my own eyes squinted.

"The captain . . ." I managed to blurt. "The others . . ."

"Everybody has a destiny, as you'll soon discover, Doctor." Her voice was smoother now, almost soothing. "It's time to feed your legendary curiosity . . . while you feed me. . . ."

Leaning forward and spreading her cape again, she opened her mouth. Those pointy canines shone. I could not move or speak.

But I did remember, all of a sudden, what was familiar about the sensation. That tickling itch. And with realization, I abruptly stopped trying to look away from her eyes. Instead, I focused all of my attention upon them, letting the force of those rays enter completely.

I gasped inward, sharply, squinted even more . . .

. . . and released an explosive sneeze.

* * *

There have been many attempts to divide the natural Terran species of Homo sapiens into subgroups. Into races. Blood types. The two (or more) sexes. All sorts of oversimplifications and outright bigotries abounded, during our crude and simpleminded climb toward civilization. Especially during phases fifteen to twenty.

And yet, one stark division was seldom mentioned, though it pervaded all times and cultures.

There had always been those who—when they felt a sneeze impending—would look for a sharp light, to help trigger it.

And then there were all the others, the rest of humanity, who thought that the first group were liars.

It wasn't till we finally arrived at level twenty, that some grasped the reason for it all.

* * *

The vampire reacted, at first, with a backward leap. A look of shocked surprise mixed with disgust.

Well, after all, her mouth had been open, taking the full brunt. Expressing some vestige of her former, mortal fastidiousness, Lieutenant Morell's expression was one of offended revulsion, even though she had been preparing to suck out my life's blood.

That countenance shifted rapidly, though, even as I blinked hard, shaking off her predatory trance. The Demmie nomort coughed, spat . . . and then snarled.

"Very clever, Professor. But that only bought you a few seconds to—"

Morell stopped. A growing look of puzzlement spread across her aristocratic nomort features.

Then, the former Demmie officer screamed.

She did more than scream. She clawed at her throat, at her shoulders and chest, nails dragging deep grooves that would have bled, if she still had a beating heart. Thrashing and shrieking, she plunged about the balcony, striking a wall, shattering a pane of the glass doors, then colliding with the nearby stone railing. Teetering dangerously, she clutched at a leering gargoyle, that first took her weight . . . and then betrayed it, toppling her over the precipice with a final screech as she plummeted into empty space.

Still sluggish, I was unable to reach the edge in time to follow Morell's plunge, though her wail reverberated through the urban canyonscape By the time I was able to look, she had vanished into the gloom below—whether caught by some net, splatted on pavement, or else grabbing some last-moment escape, I had no way to tell.

Damn, I really wanted to ask her about the others . . . about Guts and Nuts and Captain Olm.

About a strange life cycle that includes the parasitic undead.

Or if she knew anything about the fate of the Clever Gamble . . . or what any of this had to do with Crewman Wems.

Now? I would have to start investigating for myself. Only this time, I was determined not to be sidetracked by anything!

There only seemed to be one way out of here, a desperate and dangerous path, retracing the nomort's route in getting here. Cautiously, I reached out and tested the slender cable that Morell had used as a highway through the sky to reach my balcony.

Plucking it just once released a sudden throbbing pulse. A palpable wave of sound in the form of a clear harmonic chord!

Now I understood, at last, why it had seemed to be musically vibrating earlier!

Acoustically oriented active fiber. It absorbs energy if you ride it along a downward slant, turning most of your falling energy into stored sound waves. Cached energy that you can later recover, sending you back uphill the way you came.

No wonder the population of standards feared flying predators. In a way, this sonic dive-in was more impressive than any mythology of vampires transforming into bats. Though . . . now that I thought about it, there could be easy technological countermeasures, if only the standards knew about them.

Hurrying into the shabby room, I grabbed the candelabra and brought it outside, then stripped to the waist, removing my Alliance uniform tunic. Some of the woven-in circuits were torn and ruined, but many individual thread assemblies were intact. I removed one of the communications strips and chewed on the end to create a frayed contact-antenna that I then applied to the cable. With a little tinkering, I was able to create a probe that measured and tapped the stored sound . . .

. . . and rocked back from a veritable cacphony! A powerful and complex melange of wave forms that swarmed and enveloped me till I felt wrapped in sound, like some kind of pod person. It took some effort to rip away.

Hurrying back inside, I worked on the Squidish leather jacket and protective "dog collar" I had bought earlier, creating a harness of sorts. One that could ride along the cable, if only I found the trigger codes. My guess was that it would take some combination of tone and rhythm to activate a traveling wave, something with the right phase and group velocity combinations to propel me up-and-out, along the slight incline . . . toward wherever Morell came from. . . .

I avoided thinking about that while making final preparations. The important thing was that I was being dynamic again. Assertive. Whoever or whatever I found at the other side, they might be taken by surprise. And if they were nomorts? Well, maybe, with any luck, I might have another special sneeze or two inside me.

Soon the contraption was finished. I fastened it to the cable, slid my arms inside and made sure several of the leather garment's buttons were secure. Ready to go.

Indeed. I whispered urgently. "Go!"

But the tether only vibrated a little.

Well that wasn't much of a trigger. Probably needed more tonality.

Making sure of the electro-sonic connection and pressing my throat mike close, I tried to hum an even note.

The cable shuddered in response. I hummed louder . . . then much louder, but that made no difference. So, volume wasn't the key . . .

. . . nor was simply changing pitch. I had to stimulate self-amplifying wave forms. That would take complexity.

So I started to sing.

This didn't work when you tried it with the Licans, Lorg and Besh, I pondered glumly. What makes you think—

The strand started throbbing, then oscillating with chaotic ripples. Hmm. I must be on the right track.

I commenced a sample-medley, starting with opera, then working my way to bawdy ballads, to jazz riffs, to Orc-n-Roll, all of them eliciting various shakes and chaotic shudders that I took as rejection. Even displeasure. Once, the cable jerked violently and I found myself suddenly cast out, ten meters or so beyond the balcony, grimacing with a sharp pain in one shin from striking the stone railing along the way. Looking back, I saw the gargoyles grinning at me. Beyond them, through the open doors, one of those old, painted figures seemed to chide:

See? I told you so.

But I was learning. Evidently, the cord wanted something gentler, more melodic . . . maybe even nostalgic.

A little Streisand? I cleared my throat and tried belting some Babs.

That seemed almost to do the trick. "Memories" triggered a clear response! A throbbing pulse that carried me forward at least a dozen meters before petering out, though apparently still unsatisfied.

Hanging there in midair, vocalizing olde standards to charm a persnickety sonic serpent while my feet dangled above the squalid streets of Squid, I suddenly felt foolish as never before . . . (and you get plenty of opportunities when you work with Demmies.) Was it a last vestige of dignity that made me taper off and go silent, at last?

Foolish, yes. And yet, my situation also felt somewhat poignant and . . . well . . . hilarious. I had to chuckle at the absurdity of this predicament. In fact, it reminded me of the sort of thing you might see in some old-time comedic movie, from the days of flat-screen classics. Laurel and Hardy. The Stooges? No, a bit drier than that. Maybe something like Hope and Crosby.

I could tell my subconscious was busy. Connecting dots. At times like this, I knew better than to interfere.

Unleash. Let it flow.

Bob Hope, Bing Crosby . . . and Dorothy Lamour. They did all those "Road" Pictures together. The Road to Hong Kong, The Road to Morocco . . . and what was that unfinished film they hid away? It never got released till a hundred years had passed.

A weird thing. Ahead of its time. Oh yeah.

The Road To Transylvania.

No wonder it came to mind. All about darkly funny—but risque—adventures with Count Dracula and Wolfman and Duchess Sucubus . . .

I had to laugh, recalling that old treat. And yet, at the same time, I flashed on the more terrifying image of Lieutenant Morell, "vamping" me with her cleavage while preparing to drain me with those garish, deadly teeth.

Suddenly, I remembered. The theme song from that movie, a variation on their old standard. And one of the reasons that Road To Transylvania was banned, left unfinished, and hidden away, never to be seen till humanity reached another stage.

I cleared my throat . . . then started humming—

—and the sonic cord responded! First rippling nearby and then vibrating along its length, reacting to my voice by gradually unleashing pent-up energy. Wave-fringes crisscrossed, interfering and reinforcing . . . until a stable bulge formed, right behind me . . .

. . . a bulge that began pushing me forward, like some compliant sea creature. Gradually, but smoothly and without a hiccup, I began a long, steady glide into the night.

All right!

Only the pace stayed much too slow, no matter how loudly or forcefully I hummed the old melody. Evidently, the greedy cable wanted more.

So I added words, the ones that Crosby and Hope sang to Lamour. A crooning lament of fond—if kinky—recollection.

"Fangs . . . for the mammaries. . . ."

* * *

I cannot claim that I remembered them all correctly. The lyrics. It was, after all, an off-color and low-brow little ditty about three bosom buddies, trying to transcend dental jeopardies. But if I faked any stanzas, the finicky cable didn't seem to mind. Thrumming like a happy banjo string, it responded by launching me ever-faster across a dark cityscape, accelerating over the rooftops of a frightened populace who must have heard my poor ululation and doubtless thought me yet another terrifying predator. Another singing monster who, they hoped would pass them by.

Sleep tight, I thought, while crooning and zooming under the stars, toward where I knew not. It's only me, an Ancient One, but as mortal as you are.

And yet, I knew better. For history teaches a lesson, known by every other species on Old Earth.

Beware angering humans. Even those who are patient and grown up.

Especially that kind.

My destination loomed ahead. Something dark that squatted, big and formidable on the horizon, in front of a bright nebula. It would almost certainly be someplace desperately dangerous.

Only, for a moment, whatever lay in the foreground did not seem to matter much to me. Instead, my attention plunged beyond, to that milky, galactic vista, a vast nursing-ground of stars that—I knew—sang melodies far more imposing, yet more subtle and sustaining, than could ever be grasped by the unweaned planet-bound.

* * *

TO BE CONTINUED

David Brin is the author of many novels and short stories.

Slan Hunter, Part 1

Written by A. E. van Vogt and Kevin J. Anderson
Illustrated by Jennifer Miller
CHAPTER 1

The world was already falling apart when her first contractions hit.

"Perfect timing—" Anthea Stewart clenched her teeth to stop a hiss of pain, holding her rounded abdomen.

Beside her, driving recklessly, her husband Davis said, "Don't worry, Anth. I'll get you there in time." He took a hard right so that the wide whitewalled tires squealed on the asphalt. "Plenty of time. Don't you worry about a thing." The hospital was just ahead. He accelerated.

"Why are you telling me not to worry? Because you're doing all the work?"

"I'm doing every bit as much as I can." He flashed her a grin so full of love that she forgot the pain. Then Anthea gripped the handrest as she concentrated on the spasms, the clenching of her muscles, and the restless baby inside her.

She felt a strange, bittersweet anticipation. Soon, the healthy infant she had carried for nine months would emerge into the world. He would no longer be an integral part of her, and their lives would be permanently changed. But Anthea looked forward to it with anticipation as well as trepidation. She would stop being a "pregnant woman" and become a "mother"; they would stop being a "married couple" and become a "family." The thought brought a smile to her lips. So many changes ahead!

The AM radio blared, laced with occasional threads of static, as the edgy-sounding announcer talked about the current crisis. Davis had turned on the car radio as he drove, hoping for some soothing music for his wife, but the emergency broadcasts were not comforting. "Slan attack imminent. Radar images show the possibility of numerous enemy ships approaching."

Anthea wiped sweat from her forehead and turned to look at him. Davis was alarmingly pale, disturbed by the tense news as well as having the jitters of an expectant father. He turned the knob again, trying a different station.

"—President Kier Gray arrested. The world has been rocked to learn that their leader was secretly a slan in disguise. The noted slan hunter John Petty, chief of the secret police, has assumed provisional control of the government after making the arrest himself. Several of the President's cabinet members, also shown to be slans, were killed in the altercation. Gray's arrest raises the uncomfortable question of how many more of the telepathic mutants might be living among us, completely unnoticed."

Davis snapped off the radio in disgust. "I guess we'll just have to hum if we want music." A slow-moving car driven by an old man hunched over the steering wheel swerved out of the way as Davis rushed past.

"How could Kier Gray be a slan?" Anthea said, trying to distract herself. "I thought they all had tendrils coming out the back of their heads. He couldn't possibly have hidden what he was."

"Don't underestimate how devious they can be. They use makeup, prosthetics, hair pieces to cover up their tendrils. It really is a conspiracy." He stared intently ahead as he drove. "I wish we'd just wiped them all out during the Slan Wars."

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to sound conversational despite the spasms, but she failed miserably. "It's not . . . as if . . . we didn't try."

The telepathic humans were physically superior, with great strength and improved healing abilities; they considered themselves a master race. Long ago, the mutant slans had tried to dominate and enslave the rest of humanity. Centuries of warfare ensued as brave humans fought slans, defeated them, and drove the few survivors into hiding.

Though the media was rife with rumors about an expansive underground slan organization and numerous concealed bases, only a few loners were ever caught. Sinister slan ships occasionally flew over the great cities on Earth, sometimes dropping off messages, other times just gathering reconnaissance. Obviously, the slans were building their numbers, gearing up for some sort of concerted attack. No wonder humanity was terrified.

Somehow, though, being with Davis made her feel safe, no matter what the radio news said. Her husband had brown eyes in contrast with her blue ones, dark curly hair as opposed to her straight, strawberry blonde. But Anthea and Davis Stewart were not opposites: They had been soul mates since their first meeting. Some romantics called it "love at first sight"; others talked about chemistry and matching personalities. From the moment she had met Davis, it seemed their very heartbeats had synchronized. They had known they were meant for each other. Now with the coming baby, their love, their family, would be stronger than ever before.

Unbearable affection seeped through the concern on his face like fresh rain washing away a stain. "It won't be long now, Anth. Just hang on."

After riding through another contraction, she gave him a strange smile. "No, Davis . . . no, it won't. But I don't think I can concentrate on politics anymore . . . okay?"

Davis raced toward the tall, brown-brick Centropolis General Hospital, turning into the marked driveway for the emergency room entrance. He wasn't going to let even a planet-sized war get in the way of the medical attention his wife needed. He pulled up to the curb in front of the double doors, then jammed the shift lever into park and opened his door all in one gesture. "Just wait here. I'll get somebody."

Anthea was tempted to walk by herself into the emergency room, but then another contraction hit, harder than the previous ones. "All right," she gasped. "I'll just wait here."

Running into the hospital with his hair mussed, awkwardly waving his arms, Davis looked utterly adorable. She knew she would never forget that sight.

Anthea closed her eyes and counted, trying to time the contractions, though it was merely a trick to occupy her mind. She had always been able to shunt aside pain, to concentrate on her body. Did all mothers feel so connected to their babies? It wanted to come out—he wanted to be born, and she experienced an inexplicable confidence that the delivery would be smooth. She had nothing to worry about.

Davis returned in less than a minute, pushing a wheelchair. A gangly orderly jogged along beside her husband, scolding him and trying to wrest the wheelchair from him, but Davis wanted to do this himself. The two men quickly helped Anthea out of the car and into the emergency room waiting area. The orderly shouted for a nurse, who in turn shouted for a doctor, and they all rushed toward the delivery room.

Anthea looked up just long enough to see several policemen milling about in the emergency room. A grim-looking, dark-suited man wore an armband with the insignia of the secret police, a scarlet hammer across a web. A slan hunter here in the hospital? Her thoughts were fuzzy, but she realized that if the slans were going to attack Centropolis, many casualties would be pouring into this medical center. Slan terrorists probably thought the hospital would be a good place to sabotage. What if one of them took her baby? She had heard of the terrible things slans did to babies. . . .

The man with the armband was scolding a plump woman behind the reception desk. "I must insist, ma'am. The secret police have the legal authority to inspect all of your admissions records. I want your carbon copies."

While halfheartedly clacking away on her manual typewriter, she popped her pink gum with a sound like the shot from a toy gun. "Sir, don't you think that if we found a slan in our treatment rooms we would report it?"

"I need to look at blood tests and any x rays. Their internal organs are different from ours, you know. President Gray was a slan in disguise—we can't trust anyone. We have evidence that there may be a new breed of slans, ones that don't have tendrils."

The receptionist continued typing as she talked. "Surgically removed so that they can infiltrate our society better? I assure you, we would notice such scars."

The man from the secret police scowled. "That is not for you to decide, ma'am. These new mutations may even be born without the tendrils. In fact, some of them might not even know they're slans."

The receptionist chuckled nervously. "Oh, come now! How can they not know?"

With a grim expression, the man simply held out his hand. The plump receptionist heaved a put-upon sigh and turned in her swivel chair. She opened a gray metal filing cabinet and pulled out the curling carbon-copy records of all recent admissions. Her expression made it perfectly clear that she thought the secret policeman was wasting her precious time.

The gangly orderly ran back out into the waiting area. "Delivery Room 4 is ready." In a rush, he and Davis wheeled Anthea down the hall. A nurse opened the swinging door, but then she put out a stern hand. "Mr. Stewart, I'm afraid you'll have to wait out here."

"I want to be with my wife." Davis craned his neck to look after her.

"Sorry, sir. Men aren't allowed inside the delivery room. Go wait with the other nervous fathers. Hand out cigars to each other."

Anthea saw his deeply disappointed frown. "Don't worry, Davis. I'll be fine. I'll be here."

He gave her hand a squeeze. "I love you."

"You can prove it by changing more than your share of diapers," she joked. Then the contractions hit again, and she knew the baby was close.

The rest happened in a blur. She was on the delivery table, her feet up in stirrups. The doctor, an older man with owlish eyes behind round spectacles, muttered reassuringly, but the words sounded as if he had memorized them from a script, praises and encouragement that he used many times a week.

The nurses seemed concerned. Even the doctor was tense, no doubt because of the news on the radio. One of the nurses said in a quiet voice as if expecting that Anthea couldn't hear her, "I don't know what kind of world that poor baby's going to be born into. If the slans take over and enslave us all—"

"Enough of that, Nurse! We have our jobs to do. There are no slans here, only this woman and her baby, and I'm determined to see that it's born healthy—healthy enough to fight for the human race, if it comes to that." He patted Anthea on the shoulder. "Now don't you worry, young lady. Just push. I'm going to coach you through this."

She closed her eyes. She and Davis were both fit and strong. She couldn't remember the last time either of them had even been sick. Yes, the baby would be just fine.

"Now, push again," the doctor said.

The nurse leaned closer, encouraging. "Push, honey—as hard as you can."

Anthea did as she was told. It was what her body wanted to do.

The doctor leaned over. "That's perfect. Easy, now. I can see the top of the head. You're almost there."

Anthea felt a compulsion to press harder, not to let up. The rush of increased pain didn't matter. She wished Davis could be there holding her hand, but she reassured herself with the knowledge that he was just outside the delivery room door. She pushed and pushed again, and then she knew the baby was coming. Tears streamed through her shut eyes. With a rush of release, she felt it flow out—her son, a new life, a child emerging into the open air.

"That's it. Here it comes. I have him." The doctor held up a slick, red infant. She heard the baby start to cry as it gasped its first breath.

"Mrs. Stewart, you have a fine little boy—" The doctor halted in mid-sentence. "Good Lord!"

The nurse began to scream.

"How can this be?" The doctor still held up the baby, but now his face bore a look of disgust. "How can this happen?"

Anthea struggled to sit upright. She felt utterly exhausted and drained; her strawberry-blonde hair was plastered with sweat to her head. "What is it? I want my baby."

The doctor looked at her with an expression of horror, his mouth open. Anthea glanced up to see the newborn baby.

He had tiny twisting tendrils coming out the back of his head.

CHAPTER 2

The President of Earth, leader of billions, commanded a certain amount of respect. For decades Kier Gray had been a strong and charismatic ruler. He led with a mixture of sternness and compassion, guiding the citizenry along a dangerously narrow path between paranoid terror and complacency.

Now, though, as the secret police dragged him down the stone-walled hall, Gray was no longer treated with much respect. Until now, no one had ever suspected the President's true heritage as a hidden slan, his actual alliances, the covert work he had done among the surviving slans on Earth. The secret police grabbed him roughly by the arms and pulled him along. Gray knew exactly where they were taking him.

John Petty, the chief of the secret police and notorious slan hunter, waited for his deposed leader inside the primary command-and-control center deep beneath the grand palace. Around him, technicians studied cathode-ray tubes, receiving reports from all their operatives.

"Hail to the President," Petty said with feigned applause. He had short, dark hair, brows that looked like smudges of soot, and glittering eyes like the buttons on his dark uniform. The chief slan hunter seemed satisfied to see the great Kier Gray so helpless.

The guards shoved the President forward, catching his ankles and knocking him to his knees. Petty looked down at him as if he were no more than a discarded cigarette butt in the rain gutter. "We've already rooted out and killed dozens of slans working in the palace. Others have fled like rats in the night. Whatever you were planning, it's over—and I'm in charge now."

Gray didn't curse, didn't protest his innocence, but simply looked up at the bloodthirsty man who had long been his rival. During his long administration, he had weathered numerous conspiracies, assassination attempts, and back-stabbings. Only hours ago he had watched the guards shoot down three of his trusted advisors—true slans—in a shielded cabinet room. All of his quiet plans had crumbled in less than a day; he'd gone from great hope and optimism to this disaster.

Gray recovered his dignity. "I don't suppose you have any basis for these treasonous actions, Mr. Petty? Or is the rule of law simply an inconvenience you'd rather not bother with right now?"

"Law? Allow me to cite the Emergency Powers Act: 'In these times of perpetual crisis, any person suspected of being a slan or in league with slans is to be held for immediate questioning. The due process of law is suspended in such cases for the benefit of national security.'"

Gray's anger flared. His secret organization had worked so hard, been so careful . . . but not careful enough. Over the years, the President had even authorized quiet assassinations of people who posed a threat, advisors who accidentally discovered too much about the slans. He'd had no choice but to replace them with a small band of loyal comrades dedicated to changing the world and ending centuries of unnecessary witch hunts. He had thought his plans were secure. . . .

Petty crossed his arms over his chest. "We caught you meeting with the infamous slan rebel Jommy Cross in your private quarters. We have recordings in your own voice revealing that the slan specimen you kept in your palace, Kathleen Layton, is your own daughter."

"Where are Kathleen and Cross? Did you just shoot them, like you executed my cabinet members?"

The slan hunter paced inside the command-and-control center. "Oh, we didn't execute those two—not yet. They're too valuable. They have been taken to the detention cells in the lower levels of the palace. You need not worry about their welfare."

If you aren't careful, John Petty, Gray thought, you may need to worry more about your own welfare. Despite his obsessive fear, he would probably underestimate Jommy and Kathleen. Gray hoped that some of the unobtrusive slans working around the government center had managed to escape and disappear.

When he'd surreptitiously met with young Jommy Cross, Gray had explained the situation among slans and humans. Very few knew that the true danger came from a different group of mutants, slans born without tendrils, who had infiltrated society while preparing to launch their takeover. The tendrilless passionately hated both humans and slans and meant to exterminate both rival races, leaving themselves the sole inheritors of the Earth.

Jommy had infiltrated the main tendrilless base on Mars, where he had found startling information about an imminent invasion. Returning to Earth, he had slipped through the palace's defenses to warn the President. After they had begun to make plans, Jommy returned with his own highly advanced car and a deadly disintegrator weapon invented by his father. For only one day, President Gray had believed that he and his shadow government—including Jommy and Kathleen—could change the world.

Then the secret police had arrested them all.

"I myself confiscated Cross's unusual weapons—something he called a disintegrator tube and a ring with an embedded atomic generator. Amazing little things." Petty's lips quirked in a smile. He seemed in control of himself, in charge of the situation, but Gray could sense just a hint of uneasiness in his demeanor. "I gave the items to one of my isolated research teams, but as soon as they tampered with the ring, it dissolved. Now my people have strict orders to exercise extreme caution in their investigations of the disintegrator tube. Once we disassemble it, we'll add it to our own arsenal. My arsenal. Hmm, we might even use it to execute you. That would be quite an irony!"

The deposed President rose to his feet, squared his shoulders, and faced the slan hunter. "I'm surprised that I wasn't 'accidentally killed' resisting arrest. It would save you a great deal of time in your coup d'etat."

"A coup? I prefer to call it my transition to a new slan-free government." Petty scratched his blunt chin as he pretended to consider options. "Killing you would waste too much propaganda value. I look forward to hauling you before the world courts, exposing you as a slan, and discrediting all your works, all your supposed peace conferences with the enemy. Somehow, you have had your tendrils removed, or you were born without them—a mutant among mutants!—but I'm positive that genetics tests will reveal slan genes in your DNA."

Despite their vastly diminished numbers, slans were still feared as bogeymen. During his presidency, Gray himself had been forced to play upon that fear because it was the only way to survive politically, but he had managed to remove the teeth from the most vicious proposals.

Petty had stalked around behind the President, but Gray didn't turn to follow him. "You have had your theatrics, but you'll have a far more difficult time proving that any of my actions in office harmed the human race."

"Prove? Simply existing as a slan is a treasonous act. You knowingly deceived the people of Earth. I, on the other hand, will be held up as a hero of mankind for removing yet another terrible threat. Slans in our own government, in the presidency itself!" He gave another one of his smiles. "Your scheme is over, Gray. From now on, it's simply a mop-up operation. It will save me a lot of difficulty, and you a lot of pain, if you just confess and reveal how many members of your cabinet are secretly slans."

"There aren't any," Gray insisted.

The slan hunter rolled his eyes. "Your advisors and cabinet members were sound asleep with their wives or mistresses. We rounded them up and found out that several of them had slan tendrils in the backs of their heads, hidden by prosthetics. We've already killed them. Next, we'll dig through the records to find out who cooperated with your most destructive policies. It won't be difficult to prove collusion and thereby treason against humanity. You see, I have all the angles!"

When more men came into the command center and delivered their reports, Petty seemed upset, ready to strike the messenger. He turned back to the President. "We've just uncovered the identity of one of your main co-conspirators. I never would have suspected it." He scratched his head. "Then again, it makes a certain amount of sense."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Gray said.

"Your chief advisor, Jem Lorry, has vanished. He disappeared like a puff of smoke, as if he knew what we were planning." Petty balled his fists. "Could he read it in our minds? Did you send him a telepathic message?"

Gray did not need to pretend his confusion. He had appointed Jem Lorry years ago, after a particularly close assassination attempt. Lorry had served extremely well ever since, taking a hardline stance against slans. He had even proposed an innovative if preposterous scheme to marry lovely young Kathleen. Lorry wanted to breed with her in (according to him) an attempt to water down the slan genes, to gradually erase them over a few generations. Lorry had been very angry when Kathleen rebuffed his advances, but Gray was personally pleased that the girl managed to get out of the trap.

"Honestly, I had nothing to do with his disappearance." The President was far more concerned about his own survival and even above that, the survival of his daughter Kathleen and Jommy Cross, the hope of humanity. "You should know that Jommy Cross came to warn me—to warn all of us—of an impending attack on Earth. Another group of slans, tendrilless slans, have built a large base on Mars and recently launched their battle fleet against us. The tendrilless mean to destroy us all."

"Yes, yes, and you and Jommy Cross are our only hope." He yawned extravagantly. "I'm not buying it."

CHAPTER 3

Lying on the table in the hospital delivery room, Anthea struggled to comprehend what she had seen. Her baby had tendrils! Slan tendrils!

Impossible. Completely impossible.

The doctor, seemingly in shock, quickly cut the umbilical cord and tied it off. "Pay attention!" he snapped at the nurse, who stood staring. "Save the mother first. Then we'll take care of . . . of that abomination."

"No!" Anthea was weak, but she found the strength to prop herself up on her elbows. "What happened to my baby? Why is—" She tried to make sense of it, but all she could remember was the conversation between the plump receptionist and the man from the secret police. How can they not know that they're slans?

Two normal people wouldn't have a slan baby, would they? Anthea couldn't accept that she herself might have been one of those slans without tendrils, and probably Davis as well. Ridiculous! She had never imagined such a thing. They were both healthy, they both healed swiftly, and the two of them had felt a mutual bond that went beyond anything they shared with other humans. Normal humans. She felt sick.

"Doctor," she gasped. "What's going to happen?"

He ignored her question as he set the baby down. When he turned to the nurse, his voice was cold and brittle. "Get me a full syringe of hydroxylex-black."

"Yes, Doctor." The nurse looked hardened now, no longer hysterical. "It's what we have to do."

Anthea felt a surge of uneasiness within her. "Davis!" she called, but her voice was alarmingly thin.

The gangly orderly assisting with the delivery finally shook himself out of his surprise. "Doctor, the procedure is clear. We have to report this to the secret police."

"Yes, they're already here in the building," the doctor said, his voice shaky. "Alert security. John Petty himself might want to talk with these two. Make sure the father doesn't leave." He shot a sidelong glance at Anthea on the operating table, as if she were a particularly nauseating specimen. The doctor no longer seemed to consider her human at all. The nurse handed him a long syringe filled with a dark, oily substance.

"What are you going to do with that?" Anthea demanded, struggling to turn. "Answer me!" She heard a commotion outside the doors to the delivery room.

"Don't worry," the doctor said to her with cool reassurance. "This will be quick and painless. Your baby won't feel a thing." He bent over where her newborn baby lay helpless on the adjacent operating table, extending the ominous hypodermic needle.

A surge of panic shot through her heart and mind like a fire siren. It wasn't just her own fear, but something tangible, a wave of panic transmitted by the tendrils of her baby—her slan baby.

The shouts grew louder outside the delivery room, then the swinging doors crashed open. Davis stood there, looking both angry and terrified, his fists clenched. The gangly orderly tried to block him, but Davis knocked him aside with a roundhouse punch. She had never seen him hit anybody before in her life.

"Davis! They're trying to kill our baby." Another blast of emotions seemed to be directed at Anthea and at Davis. The newborn infant somehow understood that these two were his parents!

When Davis saw the doctor bending over the baby with the long, wicked syringe, he charged forward. "What do you think you're doing?"

Screaming again, the nurse tried to throw herself in the way, but Davis knocked her aside as if she were an empty cardboard box. The stunned orderly had gotten to his feet and staggered out of the delivery room, bawling for guards.

Davis fought with the owl-eyed doctor, grabbed the hand that held the poison-filled hypodermic needle and slowly twisted it away. "You're a doctor. You're not supposed to kill people! You're trying to murder a baby!"

"It's not human."

When Davis spotted the tendrils on the baby, his baby, he froze. His face became stony and then hardened into a determination that Anthea recognized. When Davis looked like that, no one was ever going to change his mind. "He's my son."

Then, with remarkable strength, he bent the doctor's hand backward, turned the syringe around. The other man gasped and struggled, but Davis easily directed the needle toward him.

Anthea fought to swing her legs over the table, wondering if her husband was using some vestige of . . . slan strength that had just now been unlocked within him. Though she was weak from giving birth, this emergency was making her recover faster. Was something awakening inside her, too? Her heart pounded.

The frantic nurse threw herself upon Davis again, but with a backhand he sent her sprawling into the tray of medical instruments. She and all of the tools fell to the floor with a loud clatter.

"I will not let you kill my son." With a flood of strength, he pushed the hypodermic needle into the doctor's throat and depressed the plunger. The doctor's eyes bulged behind his round spectacles. Judging from his gagging sounds and writhing spasms as he fell to the operating room floor, the poison was not quite as painless as the doctor had promised.

Davis looked in horror and disbelief at what he had done. The nurse scuttled back to the wall, hiding next to a respirator machine. "Don't kill me! Don't kill me."

Davis helped his wife off the table. "Can you stand? We've got to get out of here."

She clung to his neck for just a second. She wished she could hold him forever, but knew they didn't have the time. "Our baby's a slan, Davis! They're going to kill him."

"He's still our baby." Davis's grim voice was totally inflexible. "I know they want to kill him, and they'll kill us as well. We have no choice." He snatched one of the hospital blankets and quickly wrapped the baby.

Anthea swayed on her feet, found strength miraculously returning to her. She could stand because she had to stand. Her body knew what was required of her. All of her preconceptions and prejudices had changed. She and Davis had never intended to harm anyone. They weren't a threat to human society! And how could their innocent child deserve to die, just because he happened to be born with tendrils?

Anthea had always hated slans because she'd been told to hate them. She'd heard a distorted version of history, and now she wondered how many stories about slan atrocities were merely propaganda spread by people like John Petty.

With each step she seemed to grow stronger. "Let me hold him." She took the blanketed baby in her arms. Just touching the infant seemed to give her more strength. She couldn't tell if it was her imagination or genuine mental feedback from the little child.

Davis quickly led her out through the swinging doors of the delivery room, and they stumbled down the hall. Alarms had begun to sound. A harsh voice over the intercom shouted for security.

A flash of realization went through Davis's head. Anthea saw his expression go from stunned confusion to determination and then resigned anger. "You have to go, Anth." He pushed her sideways to another hall that went in the opposite direction. "Take our baby and run. Hide. Live."

"Davis, come with us!"

"If you don't get away, they'll kill both of you, and I'm sure they'll kill me. I murdered the doctor. I won't get a trial. With all the news about the slans ready to attack, they'll just gun me down and mount my head on the wall of secret police headquarters."

Suddenly, led by the flustered-looking orderly, three uniformed guards came charging toward them with their weapons drawn.

Davis took one glance at her hospital gown, at her weary features and bedraggled hair. He gave her a quick kiss, the most passionate kiss she had ever received. "Go! I'll buy you enough time to find a hiding place. Don't waste it."

"No, there's got to be another way!" In her arms, the baby began to cry.

Without listening to her, Davis ran into the main corridor, shouting at the guards. Anthea moaned, wanting to go to him, wanting to stand beside him, but the baby in her arms was her priority.

She allowed herself only a moment to look at Davis's back as he charged toward the guards, shouting wildly. Though they were armed, the guards were afraid of Davis, as if they expected him to sprout horns from his forehead and call down evil curses upon them. The man from the secret police had joined them. His face was red with anger.

With a hitch in her throat, Anthea ran barefoot away from the delivery room. Steadying herself against the heavily painted cinderblock walls, holding the baby, she worked her way down the side hall, no longer feeling weak—she couldn't afford to feel weak. The infant was calm in her arms, not sapping her strength, not distracting her.

She tried several locked doors and finally found a dark office. Inside, on a coat tree, a doctor had hung a long trench coat, wet from that day's misty rain. At least it would cover her hospital gown.

She pulled on the trench coat and found that it was baggy enough to cover the swell of the baby that she held close. Under his desk, the doctor had a pair of slip-on shoes, comfortable loafers that were too large for her, but she made do. Anthea hoped her disguise would be good enough to get her out of the hospital. Hurrying—but trying not to look like she was hurrying—she rushed down the hall, averting her gaze when nurses ran past her. Everyone looked terrified and confused.

Alarms continued to blare, and the intercoms were filled with overlapping voices that shouted contradictory orders. Security guards scrambled from room to room, as if expecting to find a slan hidden under every bed. Anthea took advantage of the momentary chaos, praying that Davis would delay the guards and the secret police long enough. Somehow, she still fooled herself into believing that he would get away as well.

From behind, she heard shouts, cries of fear, and then the rapid sharp staccato of gunshots. Four shots, a pause, three more . . . then complete silence.

Anthea nearly collapsed. The sounds themselves were like cold, leaden bullets striking her in the back. Part of her heart seemed to die, and she felt an emptiness in her mind. She hadn't realized until now how much Davis had filled her emptiness. Now that feeling was gone. He was gone. The guards and the secret police hadn't questioned him, hadn't sent him to trial; they simply gunned him down because he'd dared to defend his baby and his wife.

She felt as if her soul were torn in half. She wanted to run back, to throw herself upon his attackers, to pick up her husband's body and cradle him. But the warm baby in her arms kept her running toward safety. She had to get away. Davis had sacrificed himself so that she and the child could escape. She wouldn't lose that, for his sake.

Despite the alarms, no one knew where to find her. Police would be converging on the hospital from all quarters of the city. Teams would be scouring block after block, hunting for her. They'd assume Anthea would run as fast and as far from the hospital as she could go.

Biting back tears, she followed the exit signs, picked her way down a flight of stairs, and found a door that opened to a large parking garage, the hospital's motor pool. Several cars filled reserved spaces, expensive new models with large tailfins, extravagant hood ornaments, and white-walled tires. Two ambulance vehicles sat parked and waiting.

She had a sudden idea. If they expected Anthea to panic and run, then the safest thing she could do, the best place to hide, would be to remain here close to the hospital. While the slan hunters ranged far and wide, she crept over to one of the two ambulances and opened the back door.

The dim interior contained a soft pad, a stretcher, emergency medications, first-aid equipment—and plenty of shadows. It was a quiet and undisturbed place for her to hide, and recover, and grieve.

Holding her baby close, Anthea crawled inside, quietly closed the door behind her, and held her newborn baby as she wept silently for her lost husband.

CHAPTER 4

The barred door rolled on its tracks and slammed shut, sealing Jommy Cross in an isolated cell deep beneath the grand palace. Trapped, imprisoned—and unable to warn the rest of humanity of the impending attack. He was completely cut off from any hope of escape. Nobody trusted a slan.

With his tendrils, Jommy could sense that the guards' fear of him was greater than their confidence in their weapons. He considered himself lucky that they hadn't just killed him on sight, as the secret police usually did with slans . . . as they had done with President Gray's slan cabinet members.

When he was only nine, slan hunters had murdered Jommy's mother in the streets; she'd sacrificed herself so that her boy could get away and live to reach the potential that his parents knew he had inside him. After his mother's death, young Jommy had lived as a fugitive, first falling in with warped old Granny, who forced him to steal for her. When he'd come of age and discovered the treasures left hidden for him by his dead father, the great slan scientist Peter Cross, Jommy had vowed to discover where the rest of his race had gone into hiding. . . .

From across the hall, just one cell down, he heard Kathleen struggling with the guards. "You have no right to do this! We have the protection of the President himself. We—"

They showed her no kindness. "The President's been arrested. Shut your mouth."

"Better not let her talk at all," said a second guard. "These slans can hypnotize you with a word."

If only that were so . . . If slans were as powerful as people imagined them to be, neither he nor Kathleen would ever have been captured. Jommy was still reeling from the whole swirl of events.

The young girl had been raised in Kier Gray's palace, a slan specimen to be poked and prodded and analyzed so that the secret police could find ways to fight against a slan insurgency. Though she'd been scheduled for execution when she turned the age of eleven, the President had managed to keep her alive under various pretexts.

No one had guessed that Kathleen was actually Gray's own daughter. After discovering records of a hidden slan settlement, Kathleen had escaped from the palace, running for her life. Though the base was abandoned and empty, Kathleen had taken refuge there while Petty and his secret police launched a large manhunt.

Jommy had found her there in the protected redoubt. With the telepathic bonding of true slans, both he and Kathleen had instantly known each other, loved each other. That short time together in the underground hideaway had been the most perfect time of Jommy's life. Everything had seemed possible.

But Petty's slan hunters had attacked the hidden base, and Kathleen was shot in the head. Jommy barely escaped with his own life. Hardened by grief, sure she was dead, he had gone on a determined quest to find other slans, to understand the strange and ruthless "tendrilless" ones who hated both slans and humans, as well as to bring down the hated Petty. When he finally broke into Kier Gray's palace to warn of the imminent tendrilless attack, Jommy was astonished to find that Kathleen had been healed by ultra-advanced slan medical equipment. Alive again!

She and Jommy had spent a tense but glorious day with Gray and his advisors, working out ways to face the coming crisis. When Jommy had first slipped into the palace, he had parked his high-tech armored vehicle in the forest on the other side of the river near the palace, and he had also left his father's disintegrator weapon there.

Once he knew the President accepted his help, Jommy and Kathleen had returned together to his car to retrieve the disintegrator, which would be invaluable during the fight against the tendrilless. He had hardly believed that she was back, that she was with him again. Even with the brooding danger all around them, they had been swept up in each other's presence. Jommy and Kathleen barely had a moment to experience the joy of their reunion before everything crashed around them. . . .

All the while, John Petty had been eavesdropping on Gray, setting up a trap. When Jommy and Kathleen returned, his secret police had charged in, arresting all of them, dragging them away. Petty had confiscated the disintegrator, killed the other slan advisors, and then took over the government. No one would listen to them about the real imminent threat. . . .

As she struggled against the guards trying to push her into the cell, Jommy could tell the thugs were on the verge of violence. "Don't fight them, Kathleen. I don't want you to get hurt again." His voice was quiet and gentle, but it carried clearly in the enclosed corridors of the prison level; he wanted the guards to hear as well. "These men don't matter. We have greater enemies."

After she let them shove her inside, her own cell door rolled shut with a crash. She went to the bars, but their cells were on the same side of the hall, and he couldn't see her. "We will get out of here," Kathleen said. It was a promise.

"That's up to Mr. Petty and the law, Miss," a guard said. "And right now neither one appears to be on your side."

Jommy longed to stretch his arm through the bars to touch her fingers, but the separation was too great. That was a crueler punishment than the imprisonment itself.

The guard captain stood in front of the bars, glaring in at Jommy. "Don't try anything. We'll have two men stationed here on this level, and these cells were designed to hold the worst political criminals."

Jommy sat down on his cot, looking defeated. The secret police probably had hidden cameras somewhere. "Then obviously, it's useless for us to try to escape."

"Glad you figured that out, Cross." The guard walked briskly away, eager to break eye contact.

Jommy had not given up, though. He wished he knew where his disintegrator weapon had been taken. That invention had saved Jommy's life more than once; no doubt the secret police would disassemble it, analyze it, try to figure out how the weapon worked . . . but even Jommy had never been able to decipher his father's intricate invention.

Jommy suspected President Gray was in dire straits of his own right now, facing John Petty. But the arrest of the President wasn't the worst crisis—the attack from the tendrilless slans was imminent. Jommy had risked everything to come to Gray's palace in the first place, to deliver a warning. While humans wasted time and energy hunting down true slans, fearing the wrong enemy, the tendrilless ones moved freely in society, preparing for a complete and violent takeover. The attack would occur very soon. Pleased with his little victory, Petty would not be watching for another danger coming from the skies. Earth would be completely unprepared.

Therefore, he and Kathleen would have to do something about it.

He closed his eyes and felt his golden tendrils move at the back of his head, rising into the air. He concentrated, broadcasting his thoughts like radio signals. Kathleen, can you hear me? He waited, felt a tingle, then a familiar presence.

Yes, Jommy. I'm here. I'm close. But I can't see you or touch you.

Jommy felt the urgency build within him. We've got to get out of here. We have to find President Gray, and we have to alert the Earth defenses about the tendrilless attack.

Kathleen's mind was also in turmoil. We can't do anything trapped in these cells.

Kathleen's presence in his mind strengthened him. He looked around his cell, saw nothing he could use as a weapon. He had only a cot, a sink, and a hygiene station; no mirror, no table, nothing else. Though his body was stronger than an average human's, Jommy could not break his way out. The cell was impregnable. Therefore, the weakest point was the human factor. Jommy would have to "encourage" the two guards to open the door.

He sent a thought message, summarizing what he wanted to do. Kathleen, follow my lead and transmit the same image. It's got to be convincing.

Together, separated by thick block walls, Jommy and Kathleen sent the same thunderous idea. It struck the two already frightened and suspicious guards. It took Jommy a moment to find their muddled centers of thought. The brains of the two guards were so closed off by walls of paranoia that he could barely get inside. But finally he played upon that irrational fear, sending an image of Jommy Cross using slan strength to tear a hole in the cell wall, ready to escape.

The guards came running. "Open the door! We have to stop him."

"I told you slans were dangerous!"

The lock clicked. The two men pulled the rattling bars aside, expecting to see a gaping hole and the prisoner escaping. Before the deceptive image could fade, Jommy launched himself forward like a boulder from a medieval catapult. He was not a brutal fighter, but he did have great physical strength and the element of surprise. He knocked the guards aside. As they squawked and tried to reconcile what they saw with what they'd been sure was happening, Jommy punched them both.

He grabbed one man's arm and yanked him inside the cell. He punched the other guard in the ear and then swung him into a heap atop his partner inside the small cell. Shouting, the two guards tried to disentangle themselves, but Jommy pulled the rattling cell door shut on them, and the lock dutifully clicked home.

He sprinted partway down the corridor. From behind the bars, the guards had pulled out their large-caliber pistols and fired at him, but they could not aim well because of the extreme angle. Out of view, Jommy pressed himself against the bars of Kathleen's cell, and the bullets simply struck the walls, whining and ricocheting. She rushed forward, and he put his hands through the bars to clasp hers.

"I told you I'd get us out of here." Using the outside controls, he worked the simple cell lock, and in moments, Kathleen was free beside him. "Come on. We've got to figure out a way through these levels."

The two began to run, still hugging the walls, out of range of the guards. The locked-up men continued to shout after them, firing their guns several more times, but the bullets hit nothing.

At the end of the hall Jommy and Kathleen found a door that led to a steep set of concrete stairs. Before they could open it, loud alarm klaxons rang out inside the palace, sounding a Level One emergency.

"How could they have discovered we've escaped?" Kathleen said, waiting for another surge of guards to come charging after them. "It's only been a few minutes."

Jommy froze. "The emergency's not because of us. Not us at all." Next, the alarms were accompanied by the bone-grating sound of an air-raid siren. "It's the tendrilless slans. Their attack has begun."

CHAPTER 5

Jem Lorry had lived among humans for most of his life, pretending to be one of them. His mind shields were perfect. Strategically placed in the Earth government, working his way up by way of his own intelligence (and the occasional necessary assassination), he became the closest, most influential advisor to Kier Gray. In the sure progress of the tendrilless plans, he should soon have been the President himself.

Now, from Mars, Jem was engineering the downfall of Earth.

Here on the red planet, the tendrilless had created more than just a strategic base and a hideout. The third breed of humanity had forged an entire civilization with outposts, settlements, and industrial complexes ringing the central canyon city of Cimmerium. From where Jem stood inside the large vaulted chamber, the distant sun streamed through the glass ceiling that covered the whole, expansive canyon. A large armored city crowded the habitable flatlands on the edge of the deep gorge, but the highest-ranked and richest tendrilless had built a warren of structures into the stark cliff wall, beneath the transparent canopy.

His people had superior mental capacity to humans, though greatly limited telepathic abilities compared with true slans. No one—not Jem Lorry, not the Tendrilless Authority, probably not even the slans themselves—knew where or how the tendrilless ones had originated. The true slans had turned against them, launching what amounted to a genocide to eradicate their genetic stepbrothers. Jem didn't know why true slans hated them so much, but the feeling was certainly mutual. He didn't need explanations.

Pleased that the full-fledged attack on Earth was finally about to commence, Jem stood before the seven members of the Tendrilless Authority, expecting to receive well-deserved applause. This entire attack had been his brainchild. He had sacrificed much to reach this point, and he intended to get what he had earned. The council members peered down at him with stony faces.

The Authority chamber was like an ancient Roman arena. When all the tendrilless citizens gathered for primary meetings, thousands would sit on ringed seats staring down at the main podium, listening to petitions and plans, watching the Authority issue its judgment.

Today, though, Jem was by himself in the vast room, staring up at the seven men. He would have preferred a cheering audience; after his guaranteed victory, the tendrilless would certainly applaud his dreams and ambitions. They had waited, lurked, and planned for far too long. Only a few, like the stodgy Authority members, bled away that enthusiasm with "caution" and "patience"—thinly disguised words for "cowardice."

"The initial attack has commenced," Jem announced. "Our heavily armed vanguard ships have arrived at Earth in the past hour. At this very moment, our warriors should be bombarding their cities. It is time for us to launch the much larger occupation fleet. All those ships and personnel will require a week to get to Earth. The victory is all but assured."

"Nothing is ever assured, my son, until it has happened," answered Altus Lorry, Jem's father. The old Authority Chief had a head that seemed too large to balance on the wattled stalk of his neck. His hair was shaggy, giving him a leonine appearance. Altus Lorry was a grandiose leader who had spent his lifetime playing politics among the most influential tendrilless in Cimmerium. But he had no real understanding of the human enemy.

Jem struggled to keep his expression neutral. "I urge you to hear my recommendations, Father. Have I not earned it? I lived for years among humans. I know all the systems we have put in place." He could not entirely hide his impatience. "It's no surprise that after years of living comfortably on Mars, you and the other Authority members have grown complacent. You are afraid of things you need not fear and suspicious of that which poses no threat. You give the humans far too much credit."

Altus laughed without humor. "Better safe than sorry, my son, as you well know."

"Actually, I don't! You have always been safe here, but I have never been sorry for what I did or accomplished." Jem sensed an uneasiness among the Authority members, and it made him angry. If they didn't act soon, their swift advantage would begin to trickle away. "While the first stage of the attack shatters the government and breaks their ability to resist, we must launch the main occupation fleet. We need the big ships and our overwhelming ground forces in place to consolidate our hold on Earth."

Not long ago, Jem had watched as hundreds upon hundreds of sleek vanguard warships launched from Mars, kicking up crumbled red dust, spewing clouds of steam and fuel exhaust. They had risen to the sky and out into orbit, streaking across space like sharks scenting blood in the water. The blood of normal humans.

And that was only the first wave of the attack.

The initial volley of devastating bombs would be dropping upon the main cities of Earth right now. At last, Jem would feel vengeance for his people, who had been forced to run here centuries ago and hide. The tendrilless would finally get what they were owed. So why delay the occupation fleet?

"Patience, my son." The old man was unintentionally condescending. "We intend to do so. The occupation fleet will be on its way by tomorrow. Or the day after."

Jem took a deep breath. The Tendrilless Authority had always been a roadblock to his ambitions. Eventually, before he could accomplish anything worthwhile, he would need to replace the old members with a more proactive group. Or, he mused, he might have to do away with the Authority entirely. Who needed a seven-member council when one visionary leader—a king, for lack of a better term—could do the job much more efficiently?

"Another factor makes our timing impeccable." Jem had stopped thinking of himself as a petitioner seeking permission. He fancied himself a great general, and the tendrilless armies were under his control; he was simply delivering a report to the Authority. "Earth itself is in turmoil. President Kier Gray has just been arrested and exposed as a true slan. Even I never suspected it! The power vacuum weakens them even more. They will barely be able to mount a defense, I guarantee it. But only if we move now."

Jem's resentment toward Kier Gray was personal rather than political. He had been in love with Kathleen (or perhaps lust was a better term, though he used the words interchangeably). He had made persuasive arguments to the President, claiming (falsely, as he well knew) that interbreeding with slans would dilute their mutant traits and make their descendants into "real people" again. Instead, Jem knew that slan genetics were dominant, and he intended to bring Kathleen's superior powers directly into the tendrilless breed.

"What about this man named John Petty, the leader of the secret police?" said Altus. "You have described him as a powerful administrator. Perhaps he will rally the survivors."

"He's a thug with a tendency for brutality and excess. The people will never accept him as their leader. After seeing what Petty does, the humans will welcome us with open arms. Ha! I bet they'd prefer to be our slaves rather than live under his boot heel. Launch the occupation fleet, Father, and I will take care of the rest."

Without waiting to be dismissed by the ostensible leaders, Jem turned his back and marched out of the vast, echoing chamber. The Martian sun streaming through the ceiling of glass seemed very bright, very bright indeed.

CHAPTER 6

Huddled in the rear of the ambulance, Anthea held the baby close and pulled a reflective emergency blanket over herself. Poor, brave Davis! The infant stirred restlessly, as if he knew he shouldn't cry even though he felt his mother's powerful emotions with his delicate tendrils.

Anthea propped him up and for the first time looked closely at the newborn's face. His bright hazel eyes were wide open, as if the child could see her clearly and recognize her as his mother. Newborns weren't supposed to be capable of that . . . but a normal husband and wife shouldn't have had a baby with slan tendrils, either.

With a curious sense of wonder, Anthea reached out to touch the tiny strands like long threads of nerve fibers, antennae extending from the baby's superior brain. When she stroked the tendrils, they twitched and curled, making both her fingers and her mind tingle. How could she and Davis have had such a potential within them without knowing it? Had her own parents known they were different genetically? Had Davis'?

Anthea couldn't help but feel herself bonding with the infant. He was a blank slate, full of potential but without any experiences, knowledge, or personality. Given the right guidance and inspiration, her son could become a great man. She made a promise to herself, and to the memory of Davis, that she would do everything possible—give up her very life if necessary—to protect this baby so he could grow up and meet his destiny.

She and her husband had never even decided on a name for their son. Anthea remembered a candlelight dinner only a week ago, when they had both proposed names for the baby, alternatives for a boy or a girl. If they had a son, Davis preferred Raymond or maybe William.

"How about Geoffrey with a 'G'?" Anthea had suggested. "Or Elliott? Or Sam?"

"Could you live with Stefan?" Davis asked. "Or how about Leroy? It means 'the king.' "

"No, definitely not Leroy."

The more suggestions they made, the more impossible it seemed to find a name they could both agree to. Finally, at the end of that dinner, Anthea and Davis had set aside the discussion, deciding to wait until she had the baby. When they could actually hold it, look at it, and see its face, they were sure they could choose the perfect name.

Now they would never have that chance. Anthea didn't know how she could bear to choose a name all by herself.

Suddenly, she was startled out of her reverie by shouts and running footsteps in the hospital's garage. "Have you checked everywhere? We can't let the slans escape."

"The one we killed didn't even have tendrils."

"Without tendrils, his head won't make much of a trophy for John Petty's wall. But if he wasn't a slan, then he was a traitor helping them."

Anthea felt the burn of tears, but she drove them back, sitting up just enough so that she could see the round side mirror on the door of the ambulance. In the reflection she could view part of the underground parking garage.

Several uniformed security men spread out, searching, their revolvers drawn. The ominous man with the secret police armband stood at the doorway, looking into the shadows, scanning for any sign of her or the baby. "I will be very disappointed if you allow them to escape."

The methodical security men began to look in the cars. Anthea huddled down, pulling the blanket over her, sending out a desperate thought. We're not here. We're not here. The baby seemed to pick up and amplify the message.

She heard footsteps moving along, reports shouted from one man to another. They were going toward other cars nearer the exit ramp, away from her, without even checking the ambulance. She wondered if her son had actually influenced the guards, or if it was just a fortunate coincidence. Anthea held her breath.

Then the terrifying shrieks of air-raid sirens ratcheted up and down the streets, amplified by broadcast systems in the hospital, drowning out even the normal security alarms. The sounds of chaos outside greatly increased; she heard racing automobiles, squealing tires, then a series of distant explosions.

The searchers in the hospital's motor pool parking lot shouted to each other, then dashed back inside the building. Air raid sirens continued to wail, but now they were blurred by the drone of heavy jet engines. Unfamiliar flying craft cruised overhead approaching the heart of Centropolis. The slan attack! Then came the percussive flurry of anti-aircraft fire, large defensive guns that President Gray had installed on skyscraper roofs.

As the gunfire continued, she heard a thin whistle that grew louder and culminated in an ear-shattering eruption. More bombs dropped from above, smashing into the streets, setting buildings afire. Centuries ago, Earth's greatest cities had been leveled in the Slan Wars. Anthea hoped that the rebuilt skyscrapers had been reinforced to withstand an attack. Or had humanity grown too complacent?

Yet another explosion echoed down the block from the hospital. She heard brisk footsteps and more shouts as two men ran for the ambulance. Anthea cowered back down as two rescue squad techs jumped inside and slammed the doors. The driver started the engine with a roar, and the ambulance began to roll forward as soon as his partner threw himself into the seat.

Huddling in the back, she hoped they wouldn't look behind them to see the emergency blanket she had pulled down to cover her.

Its siren bawling, the medical vehicle shot out of the hospital's parking bay and into the chaos of the war-torn streets. The driver turned right and accelerated down the avenue into the city. Explosions peppered the buildings around them; bricks and shattered glass rained down onto the street. Traffic ground to a halt. Swerving cars smashed into each other, and the ambulance zig-zagged past the wrecks without slowing.

A falling bomb struck a car limping along on a flat tire, and the fuel tank detonated so close to the rushing ambulance that the side panels in the back rattled. Screaming pedestrians were running everywhere, trying to flag down the medical vehicle. The driver just drove past the flaming debris. Anthea wondered exactly which injured people the rescue squad intended to save.

The driver slammed the brakes hard just as half of a building slid down into the street, blocking their way. The violent lurch caused loose supplies to clatter forward from storage bins in the back of the ambulance. Anthea nearly tumbled to the floor of the vehicle, and the infant began to cry as the blankets slid off of her. Before she could shush him, before she could grab the blankets to hide them again, both the driver and his fellow rescue squad tech turned around, staring with saucer-like eyes.

"She's the one the secret police were looking for! She killed Dr. Elton."

With the ambulance blocked in the street, both men scrambled out of their seats and lunged toward the back of the ambulance.

Anthea held the baby defensively against her. She should have been weak and exhausted, barely able to move after giving birth only an hour ago. But her body had healed remarkably, and energy sang through her muscles. The unexpected strength had always been there, but it lay fallow. Now that Anthea knew what she was, now that she had a baby to protect, she could feel it awakening.

"Don't worry, she's trapped in here," said the driver. "There's two of us. We can easily grab her."

"Careful. Slans can wipe your brain."

The driver paused to open a first-aid kit, withdrew a long syringe. "This should knock her out."

His partner blinked. "That's three times the standard dose! It could kill her."

The other man shrugged. "The reward's the same either way, and she'll be a lot less trouble for us."

Anthea understood how animal mothers in the wild fought to protect their young. As the driver came close, looking for an opportunity to jab her with the syringe, Anthea reacted. She didn't think, didn't even understand what her body was capable of doing. She kicked him hard in the chest—and it was as if he'd tried to catch a cannonball. The man flew backward, struck the windshield with so much force that he crashed directly through and onto the hood of the ambulance. He sprawled there, bloody and motionless, most likely dead. Anthea didn't care. He had meant to murder her and the baby.

The other emergency tech recoiled, astonished at what he had seen. He grabbed a bright red fireman's axe mounted on the side panel of the ambulance. "All right. No more playing nice with the slans."

Anthea turned around and, using the same unknowable adrenaline force, she smashed open the back doors. Carrying the baby in one arm, she bounded out into the streets.

The emergency tech shouted curses after her, scrambled to the swinging door of the ambulance. "She's a slan! Stop her! Stop her!"

But the streets were full of blood-streaked people running for shelter, while overhead, strange angular spacecraft swooped low, dropping more bombs. Anthea ran out, disappearing into the frenzied battle zone.

CHAPTER 7

Inside Kier Gray's palace (technically, John Petty's palace at the moment) everything was in chaos. Even before the first bombs started dropping, perimeter alert systems and distant early warnings detected the enemies converging in Earth orbit.

"Mr. Petty, sir!" said a wide-eyed officer named Clarke. "There's a full fleet coming in—from space! Unidentified ship designs, definitely military." In the past hour, the chief of secret police had put Clarke in charge of monitoring the defensive systems and scanners in the command-and-control center. With so many dirty slans hidden among the government, Petty didn't trust anyone who wasn't already his own.

The young man bent over his curved screens, flicked toggle switches, and turned knobs to adjust the focus on the cathode-ray tube. Under the sweeping arc of a radar beam, blips showed up. "They're spacecraft, sir, battleships. Backtracking their trajectory . . . it looks as if they've come from Mars."

"Invaders from Mars?" All his career, the great slan hunter had been trying to track down their secret bases. He had uncovered and documented numerous slan redoubts, but knew he could not account for the entire vanished race of mutants. Now it all became clear: They must have fled Earth entirely and gone to Mars, leaving only a few stragglers—or spies—behind.

Since the devastating Slan Wars, human society—pure human society—had developed television and radar, jet aircraft, but only a fragmented space program, a few satellites and pie-in-the-sky plans for rocket ships. A long time ago, human civilization had been much more ambitious, stretching their boundaries and approaching the stars. The Slan Wars had wrecked all that, knocking human civilization back by many centuries.

But the insidious slans must have maintained their superior technology. All these years they had been hiding on Mars, building up their invasion force.

Just like Gray warned us! Before the first slan air strikes, guards had taken the deposed President to a secure holding cell in the interrogation sector. Not wanting to let Gray anywhere close to Jommy Cross, he had kept the President far removed from the other two slans, in a completely different detention level. But Petty hadn't decided what to do next with the prisoners. He had to take care of it himself.

"Mount all of our defenses. Now that we've exposed what Gray really is, the slans must be trying to free him."

"But we only just arrested President Gray," Clarke said. "If these ships came from Mars, they launched days ago—"

"Don't argue fine points with me. Just call out the military."

The technician fiddled with his switches and displayed the incredible oncoming force on the big screen. It took his breath away. "Um, sir—since we've arrested President Gray, and Jem Lorry has disappeared, who has the executive authority necessary? Who's in charge?"

"I'm in charge!" He lifted his chin. "It's about time that someone with common sense, a proven track record, and a hard fist started taking care of things." He sounded as if he were delivering a campaign speech.

Petty paced around the bustling stations in the command-and-control center, ignoring the racket of alarms. "Summon all our troops. Get our aircraft in the skies, put soldiers on the rooftops to man our anti-aircraft guns. Tell them to shoot down anything that moves." He ground his teeth together, then glanced again at the blips on the display. The enemy ships kept coming, as if Mars had an infinite supply.

As the bombs started dropping from the skies, detonating in the streets of Centropolis—possibly all across the world—Petty quickly saw that Earth didn't have a chance against this sort of attack. He would have to take unorthodox action, much as he hated to do so.

His face flushed with frustration, he chose the three largest and most muscular guards. "Follow me back to the President's cell. I'm going to make him see reason. And if I can't manage that, then you three are going to help change his mind." Perhaps they weren't the brightest men, little more than thugs, but Petty would do all the thinking. He just needed someone who could break a few bones, if necessary.

The sheer racket of the alarms probably caused more confusion and fear than the actual attack. Outside, the distant muffled rumble of explosions continued, barely heard over the obnoxious, incessant alarms. The enemy intended a full-fledged invasion, and no doubt they wouldn't stop until most of the city was destroyed.

In the upper levels of the palace, functionaries, staff, and even a few political visitors ran about in a panic. The streets were a stew of chaos. The surveillance cameras and periscope viewers showed much of Centropolis already in flames.

He hurried along brightly lit tunnels and narrow passageways, accompanied by the guards. If John Petty was going to rule the world, he wanted it to last longer than an hour or two.

His guards were armed with blunt-muzzled, large-caliber pistols. One slug fired from such a weapon would tear a hole the size of a grapefruit in a victim; the secret police rarely worried about simply wounding a slan prisoner. Right now, the guards would have to content themselves with using blunt clubs, perhaps even sharp-pointed electrical prods. He needed the "slan President" alive.

The burly guards stopped as Petty faced the other man's holding chamber. Inside, Gray paced and sweated, desperate to get out. Seeing the chief of secret police, he rushed to the bars. "Why didn't you listen to me? You have to let me out."

"I don't have to do anything, but you do. Remember who's holding the cards here."

"You'll just be holding a handful of rubble if we don't solve this."

Grudgingly, Petty gestured for the guards to activate the cell's unlocking mechanism. The barred door rattled aside, and the slan hunter stepped into the chamber with his three guards close behind him. "The slans are bombarding our city. Tell me how we fight against them."

"They aren't true slans. They are our step-brothers, tendrilless slans bred centuries ago to move undetected among humanity. Now they mean to destroy both races." When Petty gave him a skeptical frown, the deposed President insisted, "It is the tendrilless ones you should fear, not us. They have infiltrated your news media, your utility companies, your transportation systems."

"You're trying to make me paranoid."

"You had a head start on that all by yourself."

"Why should slans hate other slans, whether or not they've got tendrils?"

"Many shameful acts have been committed by both sides, and all the while humans were blind to it. Samuel Lann, the father of all slans, would disown every one of us if he were here."

A small-statured mousy man dashed down the hall, panting. He wore the crisp gray uniform and a blue armband of the palace service personnel, a courier. He clutched a scrap of paper in his hand. "Mr. Petty, President Gray . . . uh, whoever's in charge. I have an urgent message! News." He skidded to a stop and heaved great breaths. His face was red from the effort of running.

The three guards glared at the mousy courier. Petty said, "Well, out with it, man!"

"Jommy Cross and Kathleen Layton have escaped. Those two slans are on the loose!"

The President saw his chance. While the others were startled by the announcement, he lunged from the cot and wrapped his hands around Petty's thick neck. The momentum knocked the burly slan hunter back. "You fool, you've brought us all to ruin! We could have set up defenses in time. Now how many thousands, maybe millions, are going to die?"

Two of Petty's thugs grabbed the President's arms, fighting so hard they ripped his shirt, but finally they tore his hands free from the chief's throat. Petty coughed and choked. Thick red marks stood out on his neck. "How . . . dare you!"

"In order to achieve true victory, one must dare a great deal." It was the voice of one of the three brutish guards. He sounded unexpectedly erudite.

Rubbing away his blurred vision, Petty turned to look at the man who now stood in a broad-shouldered fighting stance, his heavy-caliber pistol drawn from its holster. The wide, blunt muzzle pointed directly at John Petty.

"What's going on?" His damaged voicebox allowed no more than a rasp.

The guard continued to act strangely. "Once I kill you and Kier Gray, the humans won't have even a thread of hope. No one can lead them." The pistol never wavered.

"You—you're one of them!" Petty squawked.

"A tendrilless victory is assured."

With an explosive sound, the gunshot echoed in the cell, but the burly guard merely staggered, then stared in astonishment at the wet red hole the size of a grapefruit that had been blown through his chest.

Outside, trembling at the door of the cell, the meek courier held his own gun in shaking hands. The blast seemed to have deafened him, while the recoil had nearly knocking him backward off his feet. "They . . . they said I was supposed to come armed before I delivered my message." The man blinked, not sure who he was supposed to explain himself to.

Petty dropped to his knees, weak and disoriented. "A slan—among my own secret police!"

"Not a slan," Gray insisted. "Don't be an even bigger fool than you already are. He wanted to kill me as well as you. Look at the back of his head. It's one of the tendrilless."

The other two shaken guards grabbed the traitor's head, probed among his bristly dark hair, but could find no prosthetics, no makeup, nothing that covered the telltale signs of a hidden slan.

As the guard lay choking in his own blood, he exhibited great strength, slan healing powers. "You don't have a chance against my people." Then he died.

Petty glared at the remaining two guards, as if afraid they might pull their weapons and open fire, too. He brushed at the droplets of blood that had sprayed on his clean uniform, then whirled toward Gray sitting on his cot. "You were telling the truth." It sounded like an accusation. "You were telling the truth! There are tendrilless slans."

"They are the ones you've always needed to fear," Gray said.

Petty backed out of the cell and gestured to his guards. "Get the body out of there, and lock him in again." He turned to the surprised and meek courier. "All three of you, stay here and guard Gray." This information changed everything. "I have to get back to the command-and-control center. We're going to need new battle plans."

CHAPTER 8

Jommy and Kathleen ran. Outside, the attack seemed to be growing worse.

The underground levels of the grand palace were a labyrinth of corridors, subterranean chambers, shielded self-contained rooms like small bank vaults. Ages ago, slan conquerors had designed and constructed the immense structure during their brief reign over humanity. After so many subsequent administrations, Jommy doubted that anyone—even President Gray—knew the extent of all the passageways and secret underground rooms.

He wondered if there were also interrogation rooms and torture chambers down here. How often had Gray himself used these detention cells?

Each of the innumerable underground sectors was accessed by a different security protocol. Even veteran workers could easily get lost in the confusing monumental structure that was as large as a small city. The two escapees used that to their advantage now.

After breaking out of their cells, they ran along, peering around corners, dashing down open stretches, trying doors that were either locked or led to empty rooms or simple offices. Klaxons blared and magenta warning lights flashed in the halls, sounding an evacuation, summoning security, unnecessarily warning of the invasion.

"We have to find President Gray." Kathleen hesitated, then added, "We have to find my father."

"We'll find him." Jommy squeezed her hand. "It may seem an impossible task, but people have always feared slans for our abilities. We may as well give them something to fear."

One large room had windows for walls. Inside, fifteen chairs surrounded a long boardroom table; black-and-white computer screens were embedded in the flat wood surface. "This must be a secondary command and control center." Jommy looked around, perplexed. "But it's empty, not even a backup team. What about the emergency?"

Kathleen studied the room. "The palace probably has at least twenty rooms like this. The government is compartmentalized, everyone with their separate areas of responsibility. The President and his various advisors don't trust each other during the best of times, and now that we're being attacked . . ." She let her voice trail off. "I'll bet there's plenty that even John Petty doesn't know about the palace."

He was about to continue the search for Kier Gray's location, but Kathleen called him back. She pulled up a rolling chair in front of one of the black-and-white screens. "Wait, Jommy—help me. The two of us can figure out these systems. We'll search for where they've taken my father."

He joined her at the head of the table, looking down at the largest cathode-ray tube. Text scrolled down the screens, reports of damage, estimated enemy strengths, suggested numbers of casualties. Paper tape rattled through a reader and a status report in block letters appeared on the curved screen.

Kathleen flicked toggle switches, then typed long strings of commands into the keyboard. A bird's nest of lines appeared on the screen, and Kathleen turned a knob, adjusting the focus. "There! A blueprint." Diagrams of floor after floor of the huge building complex appeared, all superimposed on top of each other.

She spread them out until she had found hundreds of images, each one filling a full computer screen, each one showing one floor of one wing. She flicked from screen to screen, searching so rapidly that the blueprints became a blur. Thanks to the eidetic memory possessed by all slans, he and Kathleen were able to take a mental snapshot of each image.

Jommy stared in amazement. "I never realized the extent of this place. The grand palace covers the whole skyline of Centropolis. After my mother was killed and I went to live with old Granny, I used to look across the rooftops and see the beautiful palace. It was like something out of a fairytale with its beautiful lights and towers. It made me think of what great things people could accomplish if they worked together . . . how much more wonderful it was to build something than to destroy."

Jommy leaned closer to the screen. "But this is unbelievable. What I could see above ground is barely the tip of an iceberg. It spreads down like the roots of a huge tree. There are tunnels and access shafts, like the ones I used to get in here." He glanced sideways at Kathleen. "My vehicle is waiting for us in the forest across the river. If we can only get to it . . ."

Kathleen toggled to another screen image, then another, still searching for the secret police lockdown zones. "Not without my father. We've got to save the President. Who else could lead us through this time of crisis?"

Jommy reached over and gave her a hug. "I'm proud of you for saying that." Then he glanced down, disheartened at the hundreds of screens of blueprints. "But how are we going to find him in all this? His cell was nowhere close to ours."

Kathleen rattled her fingers across the keyboard. Metal pins chattered through paper tape. When a tongue of paper spat out from the printer slot, she tore it off, looked at the numbers, then nodded. "At least Petty's men are efficient—they've logged in my father's incarceration. This is the blueprint we need. I'll find the exact sector."

As Jommy zeroed in on the appropriate diagram, Kathleen determined the floor number, the corridor, and even the cell number where President Gray had been taken. Collating through the information in his head, he settled on the best route to get there. "We can take the internal transport cars."

He and Kathleen dashed down the hall, found an exit door that led to a set of steep metal stairs. He counted the floors, looked at the painted numbers on the fire doors, and emerged four levels below. They cautiously poked their heads through the doorway and saw no one, only a single flickering light that marked the internal transport station. Jommy pushed the call button to summon the rapid oval car used for shuttling people throughout the vast palace. Within minutes they heard a rattling hum, and a white egg-shaped vessel swept toward them along magnetic rails.

After the door hissed open, Jommy and Kathleen climbed inside, punched their destination request, and sat back as the bullet car shot along. The two sat close to each other in a brief moment of privacy where they could feel safe, where they could just be together. Jommy knew they should use the time to make plans, to discuss what they would do once they found and freed the President. On the other hand, he just wanted to be with Kathleen, now that they had found each other again. Alas, the swift car reached the destination station much too soon, barely giving the two of them time to catch their breath.

The transport car came to a stop, and the door slid open. "Not far now," Kathleen said.

"Let's hope our luck holds. We'll get him free, soon." Jommy still had no idea how they were going to manage it.

He grabbed her hand, and they dashed out. Jommy half expected to see a group of secret police waiting for them with weapons drawn. One man did rush across the corridor, startling them, but he hurled himself into a room, then slammed the door shut, locking it with a loud click. They saw no one else.

Up another two flights of stairs, they emerged into a complex of cubical offices. People hunched over heavy black telephones, clacked on manual typewriters, and rushed reports and documents to each other. None of the workers paid attention to Jommy and Kathleen. The two hurried past the cubicles, opened another double door and saw a long, straight hallway before them.

Kathleen paused. "That leads to the high-security detention area. My father is there." The hammer-and-web symbol of the secret police marked the wall.

Bright overhead lights gave the long passage a sterile appearance, and six metal doors set into the painted cinderblock walls were closed tight. Isolation cells? Torture chambers? They would be incredibly exposed running down that long hall. Jommy reviewed the memorized blueprints in his mind, but he could see no other way to where they had to go. "It looks like a gauntlet we have to traverse."

As they sprinted down the endless empty corridor, he was sure camera eyes must be watching them. By now John Petty must have learned of their escape and would be searching the whole palace for them. Jommy doubted even the tendrilless attack would distract the slan hunter from that.

When they were halfway down the long corridor, far from any hiding place, the double doors at the far end of the hall began to swing open. Jommy and Kathleen threw themselves against one of the recessed metal doors. He tried to turn the knob so they could duck inside and hide, but it was locked. Even using slan strength, he could not break it open.

At the far end of the corridor, three men wearing secret police uniforms pushed through the double doors. All of the men were armed with heavy pistols. Jommy and Kathleen pressed themselves into the small indentation of the doorwell, knowing they couldn't possibly remain out of sight. They were trapped, right out in the open. The guards would see them any moment.

"We have to make them not see us," Kathleen said in a quick whisper that was little more than a hiss. Then she squeezed her eyes shut and concentrated. Don't see us. You don't see us.

With his tendrils, Jommy immediately picked up on what she was trying to do. Jommy would have preferred to use one of his hypnotism crystals to enhance the output from his tendrils, but he had lost the last of them on Mars. Instead, he and Kathleen would have to use their powers jointly to send out a camouflaging suggestion. He joined her thoughts. You don't see us. Don't see us.

The secret police hurried along the corridor at a brisk pace, intent on their own mission, enthusiastically discussing the crisis amongst themselves. You don't see us.

The three men strode directly past them, looking straight ahead, not bothering to glance from side to side. They passed within two feet of Kathleen, but her concentration was fixed. The slan tendrils at the back of Jommy's head waved gently as he continued to send out his thoughts. The armed men reached the far end of the corridor without looking back, and they exited into another part of the palace.

Kathleen let out a long sigh of relief, and Jommy realized he was trembling from the tension. He shook his head in amazement, then grabbed her hand again. "All right, the easy part's over now." The two of them ran to the far end of the long hall, reaching the doors into the high-security sector where Kier Gray was being held.

"We don't have any disguise or any weapons," she said. "We're just going to walk into the secret police zone?"

"I was planning to move faster than a walk." Jommy knew their chances were slim, and he was sure it would only get worse from this point forward. "That last little trick worked very well, and they're awfully preoccupied right now. I can't even imagine what's going on out in the streets."

"All right, I'll think calming thoughts. Don't let them be suspicious. We need to get close enough to my father that we can fight them. Once we open the door of his cell, he can help us fight."

"I'm counting on it," Jommy said.

Steeling themselves, they ran forward. Most of the holding chambers were empty; no prisoners extended beseeching hands through the bars, clamoring to be set free during the tendrilless attack. Ahead on the left, two guards and a mousy-looking courier waited in front of a sealed cell. All three of them were armed with blunt-nosed pistols.

"That's got to be the right place," Kathleen said.

She and Jommy marched determinedly forward. He focused on his thoughts. We belong here. Don't be suspicious. Don't raise the alarm. We're no threat to you. Nothing to worry about.

The guards glanced at them, then looked away, seemingly dismissing the two. The meek courier appeared perplexed and confused at his whole situation.

Nothing to worry about. We belong here.

As Jommy and Kathleen approached, the guards looked at each other again with questions starting to form on their lips, and troubled expressions slowly began to dawn on their faces. It wasn't working anymore!

Knowing their control was slipping, he and Kathleen threw themselves forward in unison with all the speed they could muster. Jommy seized the first guard's pistol and shot the second man, while Kathleen knocked away the skinny courier's arm. Because the man's hands were already slick with nervous sweat, the pistol slipped out of his grip and clattered to the floor.

Gray reached through the bars of his cell. "Kathleen! Jommy! You shouldn't be here. You're going to get caught."

"No, sir—we're going to free you," Jommy said.

Kathleen snatched the courier's pistol from the floor and pointed it at the remaining two men. "Step away from the bars."

Jommy found the controls and opened the cell door. Breathless with relief and grim-faced with urgency, Gray stumbled out into the corridor. He said, "Petty has seized control of the government, but he has no clue what he's up against. We've got no time to lose."

Before they could get away, though, four uniformed guards threw open the double doors through which Jommy and Kathleen had entered. At the opposite end of the security wing, another group of secret police barged in, led by John Petty himself. A trap! Kathleen, holding the pistol in her hands, pointed from the two men they had disarmed, then toward the oncoming guards.

"Don't shoot, Kathleen," Jommy warned. From both sides, the secret police closed in.

Gray's shoulders slumped, and the slan hunter came forward. "Well, well, look at the two fish I caught in my net!" He looked down at the dead guard whom Jommy had shot. "I seem to be losing a lot of guards today."

Petty disarmed Kathleen himself. The meek courier looked woefully embarrassed, and the other thug at the cell looked sheepish for having been duped.

The slan hunter shook his head. "We've been watching this pathetic little escape attempt unfold. After one of my own guards almost shot me, you didn't honestly think I would leave your cell unmonitored? You could have spies everywhere."

"Then what took you so long?" Jommy asked.

"I found it amusing, but time pressure forced me to act. I require your access codes and your command knowledge, Mr. President."

Gray straightened. "Then you finally believe me about the extent of our current crisis? How deeply the tendrilless infiltration goes?"

Petty looked as if he had just swallowed a lemon whole. "I don't trust you, Gray, any more than I trust these other two dirty slans. But I have no choice at the moment." He gestured to the guards. "Bring the three of them to the command-and-control center. Even with all the resources of the secret police, I can only destroy one enemy at a time."

CHAPTER 9

Even though the enemy spacecraft continued to drop their bombs all across the city, the looters were already out. They wouldn't miss an opportunity like this.

Ducking instinctively against the concussions of explosions and showers of dust and debris, Anthea ran alongside the trembling buildings in search of a place where she could protect herself and her infant son. She still wore only her hospital gown, the loose overcoat, and too-large shoes stolen from the doctor's office.

In an upscale shopping district she found several department stores with smashed display windows, brick and stone fallen onto the sidewalk. Before this, Anthea had never stolen anything in her life, but many things had changed. She clung to the baby and picked her way over the rubble, venturing into one of the stores.

A young man loomed in front of her. He had bad teeth, frizzy black hair, and dust all over his face. "This is my store! Don't you even think about coming in here to steal." His clothes hung awkwardly on him—a new and expensive leather jacket, suit pants, a formal shirt. She noticed tags still dangling from the garments. He squared his shoulders and leaned closer, as if to frighten her away with his bad breath. "The police have orders to shoot looters, you know."

"I just need some clothes. That's all."

"Steal clothes from somewhere else. Don't take mine. These are all mine!"

Remembering how she had sent the ambulance driver crashing through the windshield with a single kick, Anthea knew that she could easily subdue this overblown creep. But she did not want to draw attention to herself, and she was afraid of what she might do to him. "I'll go somewhere else, then."

"That's for sure." The young man puffed out his chest and pretended to threaten her again.

She continued along the street, dodging debris as a nearby building exploded. Four of the angular attack craft swooped toward one of the Centropolis defense planes as soon as it took off, blasting it out of the sky. A fireball erupted in a skyscraper directly across the street, sending a shower of broken windows and shattered concrete. Anthea ducked under the green-and-white awning of a deserted coffee shop as shards of glass rained down, stabbing into the stretched canvas.

Farther down the street, Anthea found another clothing store, as yet unclaimed by scrawny looters. She kicked open the door. Inside the dim shadows, she ransacked the hangers and racks until she found a serviceable dress and comfortable shoes. She also tried on a beige overcoat and rounded up a soft powder-blue blanket for the baby. She wrapped him carefully to hide his fine tendrils.

Now they appeared normal, even if the rest of the world had gone crazy. She felt a faint hope that she and her baby might actually have a fighting chance. "I won't let you down, Davis," she whispered.

Anthea longed to go back to the brownstone apartment she had called home, but after the alarms in the hospital, the secret police would have tracked down Davis's address. They had his body, his wallet. Even during the ongoing attack, the ruthless slan hunters might have sent operatives to her home.

Neither she nor her husband had ever done anything that might threaten the security of Earth, but the secret police weren't going to ask for explanations or alibis. If they found her and the slan baby, they would simply open fire and chalk up the victims as another victory.

She kept looking for a place where she and the baby could hole up and wait. The city itself was on fire. Curls of black smoke rose like chimneys to the sky. Attacking spacecraft and Centropolis defense planes engaged in dogfights overhead.

Then she came upon a building made of thick, reinforced stone. So far it had withstood the air attacks. Chiseled in crisp letters above the entrance were comforting words: Main Public Library.

Anthea dashed inside the large building. Due to the attack, all the patrons had fled, and the library was like a hollow mausoleum. The homey, familiar scent of books surrounded them. "Hello?" Her voice echoed among the stacks.

Hearing her voice, a pot-bellied man with a blue-striped necktie strutted out of an office and came to greet them with open hands and a broad smile. "Hello, hello! Welcome to the library."

"Are you open? Can we come in here?"

"Oh, ma'am, we're certainly open for business. Didn't you see the library hours posted on the door?"

"I was afraid with the air-raid sirens and everything—"

The man made a dismissive gesture. "Tut, tut! The library hours are set in stone and have been followed for many years. We can't change things just because of an external distraction. Is there something in particular you were looking for? A reference book, perhaps? A good novel?"

Relief rushed through her. "Sanctuary. My baby and I need a place to . . . to wait out the attack. We can't go home."

"Ah, of course. I was hoping you might want to browse the shelves, but you're certainly welcome here. All are welcome."

The librarian had large, expressive eyes and heavy jowls that looked like hanging suitcases of extra skin. His straight hair was chestnut brown, but an inch or so near the roots was grayish-white, as if he had once regularly dyed his hair but had given up because it was too much effort. Round spectacles made his eyes seem larger.

"I'm Mr. Reynolds, the head librarian—apparently the only librarian who puts his responsibilities above personal fear." Reynolds scratched the jowl on his right cheek. "As soon as the bombs began to fall, my fellow workers became ill and had to go home. Apparently, something called an 'air-raid flu.' I intend to research it when I have a spare moment." He pushed his glasses up on his face. "Come into the central stacks and my administrative office. It's safest there."

They reached a room filled with shelves of bound reference books, neatly organized volumes of records and transcripts. "I keep our history section here. Fiction is on Floor 1, periodicals and study carrels located on Floor 2. Is there anything in particular I can assist you with right now? Since all of my co-workers have disappeared, I have gotten behind on my shelving work. But the patron always comes first."

Anthea felt intolerably weary. "I'd just like a chair to sit in and maybe a glass of water." Soon she would have to breast-feed the infant. She had no supplies, no diapers or bottles. I'm not a very prepared new mother, she realized. Then again, she hadn't expected to be hunted down like an animal, or for enemy ships to bombard the city.

Reynolds showed her a comfortable chair and dutifully brought her a cone-shaped paper cup from the gurgling water cooler. She took a grateful sip. Outside they could hear the rumbles of continued bomb strikes.

The librarian looked toward the window with indignation. "The enemy can destroy our buildings and kill our people, but so long as they do not eliminate our books, they cannot destroy our civilization." He smiled at her. "Without our historical and scientific knowledge, without our great tales and brave heroes, we would be giving up our very humanity."

Humanity, she thought, suppressing a shudder.

He saw the desperation on her face, the helpless baby wrapped in a powder-blue blanket. "Of course I will help you. Stay here, and I'll do whatever I can."

Then, as if to spite him, all the power went out. The racks of fluorescent lights died, plunging the stacks into darkness relieved only by the faint light from outside windows. The baby fussed and cried, picking up on Anthea's own anxiety.

Untroubled, Mr. Reynolds moved chairs and a metal cart like a blind man perfectly familiar with the layout of the room. Before long, he returned, struck a long wooden match, and lit several candles, which he placed in holders on the table. "Always be prepared, that's what I say. I would never want to be without the ability to read."

Carrying a candle in one hand, he rolled a book-laden cart through the stacks and, squinting in the dimness, continued to shelve volumes where they belonged. He piled reference tomes in the middle of a table so that all could peruse them.

Within moments, surrounded by unread books in the glow of candlelight, Anthea felt warm and cozy and safe for the first time in hours. She held the baby on her lap, kissed his forehead. He began to coo and make noises, not crying but simply experimenting with his vocal cords, his lungs.

"I hate to be a bother, but I must remind you that this is a library, ma'am." Mr. Reynolds pushed a battered old book back into place. "I will allow you to stay, but only if your baby remains quiet. We abide by strict rules here."

As soon as Reynolds had half-jokingly stated his conditions, the baby in her arms instantly fell silent.

CHAPTER 10

Guards and emergency-response personnel ran through the halls of the grand palace. Panicked civil servants scrambled for bomb shelters or tried to evacuate from the huge building, streaming to designated rendezvous points. Others frantically grabbed telephones to call their families and loved ones.

Despite the evacuation signal, many functionaries and bureaucrats remained at their desks, deluded into believing that their jobs were important to the survival of Earth. There was nothing they could do, but they remained at their posts transmitting orders, forwarding reports, filing forms, and monitoring the destruction outside.

In the midst of this, Jommy, Kathleen, and President Kier Gray were escorted under heavy guard to the main command-and-control center.

On the main display screens radar blips showed the swarm of invading ships. The size of the battle group was breathtaking. The enemy had been planning this assault for years, decades, even generations while they quietly assumed positions of power on Earth. The tendrilless had long held an impossible grudge against both true slans and humans, and they meant to wipe out their rivals.

"Give me a status report!" Petty called. His people inside the control room snapped to attention.

"Sir!" said technician Clarke. "We've tried to rally our forces, but it's mass confusion out there. We can't establish contact with our main power centers. The landing zones are hopelessly muddled, and we can't even launch most of our ships. The Air Center control towers are off-line. News stations are making their own announcements without even waiting for official word from us, so the public is completely confused."

The slan hunter regarded the President as if this were somehow all his fault. For years, staged air raids had sent the citizens of Centropolis into frenzied evacuations. Anti-aircraft guns mounted to skyscraper rooftops prepared to open fire against imaginary slan spaceships. "I thought you had defensive armaments and response squadrons in place."

"That doesn't help if the tendrilless have infiltrated our radio towers, the Air Center, and the news media. One or two disloyal commanding officers can easily sabotage the entire plan."

Clarke looked harried and dismayed as he stared at the readouts. He pressed a bulky padded headphone against his ear, listening to reports as they came in from the field. "Half of our rooftop anti-aircraft guns are non-operational. Several squads assigned to fire at the attacking ships have deserted their posts. Sixteen of the main batteries have failed disastrously—the big-bore guns exploded the first time they were used. Outright sabotage."

"That is the taste of betrayal," Gray said to Petty with a bitter smile. "I'm very familiar with it myself of late." He looked pointedly at the shackles on his wrists.

"We have to fight fire with fire." Petty stalked back and forth in the command-and-control center. "Launch Earth's best military forces—now."

"They still don't respond, sir."

"Then shout yourself hoarse. Make them hear. Make them respond. Find a way to get us out of this trap."

Gray stepped up next to Petty as if he could simply resume his role as President. "What about our ground forces? Have the tendrilless landed yet? We need to keep them from getting a foothold."

"A foothold?" Petty blinked at him. "They're blowing up every defense we have. We don't have any way—"

"Contact our space division. As President I set up a full-fledged military force with orbital and even interplanetary combat abilities. I planned ahead."

The slan hunter raised his dark eyebrows. "A space division? But we don't have the technology for—"

Gray looked at him mildly. "I'm the President. I have access to technologies that the public doesn't necessarily know about. Even your secret police couldn't keep watch over everything. Use this command authorization." He spouted a string of code phrases and numbers. Seeing nothing else he could do, Petty told the technicians to do as Gray suggested.

Across the continent, special sharp-winged ships rose up on lifting platforms from hidden underground bunkers. Heavy circular doors slid aside from unmarked paved areas to expose launchpads. The new ships carried the best weapons that humans had developed over the past fifty years.

During his administration, President Gray had secretly used black money in the budget to build defenses against the threat that he knew was out there, the threat he could never admit publicly. He trusted very few people, but he did use a handful of slan advisors and he did control the strings of many classified programs. While he staged enemy air-raids, while he pretended to receive communiqués from the mysterious leaders of underground slan forces, Gray had built his own space fleet. Just in case.

Wide-eyed, John Petty watched the live images piped into the command center's screens. He was both astonished and delighted to see hundreds of well-armed spaceships ready to launch. Earth spaceships.

Gray was pleased to note the man's surprise. "I knew you were spying on my every move, whether I was protecting Kathleen or maintaining the constant state-of-emergency. But I also knew how you were prone to the abuses of power, Mr. Petty. I wasn't going to let you in on all of the emergency preparations."

"Abuses? I did what was necessary."

"If we're supposed to cooperate for the time being, then let's not mince words. I had no choice but to take precautions without your knowledge. I needed some assistance from my small circle of slan advisors, and they designed these ships. It's decent technology, but probably not good enough. Our knowledge is out of date, compared to what all the tendrilless scientists have developed over the years."

As they watched, the heroic human spacecraft leaped into the sky like a school of angry fish, weapons primed and ready to take out the tendrilless vanguard. On the radar screen, the new set of blips rose toward the myriad targets still in orbit.

Jommy was thrilled to see this unexpected fleet of defenders. "For so long, we've been stuck on the ground with our space program decimated. That was why I built my own ship and used it to spy on the tendrilless preparations. I thought I was the only one who could figure it out."

The slan hunter shook his head, seeking a target for his anxiety. "Listen to the boy genius."

Jommy's eyes flashed. "This boy genius has flown away from Earth, infiltrated the enemy headquarters on Mars, and dealt with their representatives. I knew more about this threat than you ever imagined, Mr. Petty. That's why I came back here with a warning."

"And you arrested him," Kathleen said accusingly.

Jommy nodded. "You spent far too much time chasing pebbles while I was trying to stop a whole avalanche."

Petty seemed embarrassed. "I'd watch what you're saying, slan boy. You're still my prisoner."

"Only until the palace blows up around us," Kathleen muttered.

Jommy emphasized his point. "The tendrilless have taken over interplanetary space, and I know they've placed traps there. I ran into a deadly mine field myself during my explorations." He spun to the President. "Mr. President, you should warn your forces about the mines. The tendrilless won't allow you to simply—"

With a cry of shock, Kathleen pointed to the screen. The blips showing Earth's defensive spaceships began to flicker and flare. Over a quarter of them winked out in only a few seconds.

"Looks like they found the mine field," Petty said.

Jommy groaned. "Even I didn't think the tendrilless had distributed so many. They knew we had no real space program. What could they have been so afraid of?"

"Slans," Gray said. "They're worried about how much the hidden slans will fight back. They're not concerned about humans."

Jommy stared at the afterimages, knowing that each set of glowing phosphors represented a fully armed ship, now destroyed. Over a thousand human vessels had just been wiped out in a single blow!

But then the Earth forces fought back, blasting away with weapons built into their fleet. Even the human pilots did not know that some of their defenses were secret slan innovations; at the moment, they probably didn't care. Once the pilots learned how to detect and avoid the space mines, they launched into an incredible dogfight, plowing into the vanguard forces. It looked like a snowstorm of symbols swirling in incomprehensible patterns. Ships clashed with ships, and many of the tendrilless vessels were damaged or wrecked.

But not enough of them.

Knocking Clarke aside, Petty seated himself in the technician's swivel chair, as if he didn't believe his knees would continue to support his weight. To their continued horror, the blips showing the tendrilless fleet looped around and went after the remaining human defenses.

Many of the Earth ships' weapons failed, inexplicably. Their pilots shouted that navigation systems had just shorted out. They flew blind, but still pursued the numerous enemy vessels. Engines gave out, armaments failed to fire, guidance systems died, leaving the Earth space navy helpless.

"Do the tendrilless have some kind of jamming system?" Kathleen asked. "Can we get them on line again?"

As he listened to the cries of surprise and frustration—then the static of destruction—Jommy could only conclude that the answer had to do with sabotage. "If you kept this fleet secret from Petty, who was in charge of it?"

"Jem Lorry. My chief advisor." Gray looked deeply troubled. "Who has now vanished. Could he have been a tendrilless spy? Could his shields have been so powerful that even I didn't suspect him?" He could not tear his eyes from the screens.

The fleet from Mars still outnumbered Gray's surprise space force more than three-to-one, and the battle swiftly turned into a rout. The Earth ships fought to the last, knowing that they could not surrender. On the screens, blip after blip vanished.

The sweep of the radar arc showed little detail, but Jommy didn't need any explanation as the pinpoints of human spacecraft brightened like stars going nova, then faded into darkness. Dozens more of the tendrilless attack ships were destroyed, and then the Earth defenders were gone. Completely gone.

Gray looked astonished. "It's a massacre. I didn't think . . . I never knew the enemy was so powerful. Our best defenses are no more effective then leaves blown in the wind. The tendrilless have undermined us, disconnected our weapons, sabotaged our plans."

Kathleen put her arms around her father. Gray's shoulders drooped. He found a seat by one of the empty diagnostic stations and slumped into it, brushing aside the torn rolls of printouts, ignoring the chattering computers that still attempted to analyze the situation. "I have failed us all."

With the ground forces neutralized and the last vestiges of the Earth space navy annihilated, the tendrilless ships were ready to complete their destruction. The inbound ships came down, unhindered now, and streaked across the skies of the capital city. Earth was completely at the mercy of the tendrilless.

Jommy barked his words so loudly that even the stunned technicians and disoriented leaders took heed. "The grand palace is sure to be a target. Now that our defenses are gone, they're going to turn this entire place into rubble."

"The palace is the most secure structure in all of Centropolis. We're ten levels underground, and these rooms are reinforced against any aerial attack," said Petty, though he didn't sound convinced.

"Not reinforced enough. The tendrilless can level this whole structure. Once they've decapitated the government, they won't even need to bother with negotiating peace terms. They'll want to stand victorious on the rubble of the great government center."

Kathleen stepped close. "Jommy's right. We've got to get out of here, all of us."

Despite his handcuffs and his disheveled appearance, Gray still looked presidential. "There is no defeat while we still live. We must escape from the palace—now. We can become a government in exile."

"A government of what?" asked Petty.

"That is for us to define." Looking at his frantic rival, Gray extended a hand, letting it hang there in the air. "I suggest an alliance, Mr. Petty. I know of your plan to overthrow me. I know of your power plays with the secret police. But right now we face an enemy greater than either of us."

Kathleen chimed in. "It'll be the humans and the true slans against the tendrilless."

Jommy boldly pushed his way toward the door of the command-and-control center. "I have a means of escape—my advanced car is hidden in the forest on the other side of the river. Trust me."

"A car?" Petty looked at him in disbelief. "But Centropolis is under attack."

"The whole planet's under attack, and the tendrilless won't stop until they've crushed our cities. But my car is armored with ten-point steel and full of new inventions. If anything can withstand the bombardment, that vehicle can. But if we don't act soon, we'll all just be bloodstains in the rubble."

When another terrific explosion shook the reinforced walls of the palace, it was enough to help make up Petty's mind. Gray thrust his hands forward. "Uncuff me, and let's get out of here." The slan hunter grudgingly did so.

As they left the command-and-control center, Petty yelled for his guards to get to safety. He wanted to be sure that his supporters—the men who would do whatever brutal action he required—were not all killed in a single attack. The slan hunter was sure to need them later on, and he could summon any remnants that remained from around the country.

Overhead, the attacking tendrilless forces began their full-scale bombardment to destroy the palace.

CHAPTER 11

Though she was herself a tendrilless, Joanna Hillory was not part of the vanguard fleet during the attack. An operative trained to live and work among human beings, she excelled in being a spy, not a soldier. Her people had used her well, and she had helped them set up their plans for this conquest.

But that was before Jommy Cross had changed her mind. Now, remaining behind on Mars, Joanna had other plans of her own.

She was an attractive woman with a full figure, as tall as most men. Her brown hair was kept short and curled, close to her head. She wore clothes that gave her freedom of movement, with few concessions to human standards of beauty. As a spy, it had been important for her to keep a low profile, though her appearance was enough to turn heads and even earn her an occasional wolf whistle from men on the streets of Earth.

While the bombardment continued on Earth's primary cities, Joanna received a summons to stand before the seven-member council in the glass-ceilinged Martian city. Cimmerium seemed practically empty as she walked along the wide balcony roads along the edges of the cliffs. Towers extended out into the sheer gulf of the canyon, rising up toward the flat crystalline ceiling.

Joanna touched a pearlescent ID scanner mounted outside the vaulted doorway to the Authority chamber. Recognizing and approving her, the door controls unlocked with a hiss, then silently swung inward, beckoning her inside. She had always been a favorite of Altus Lorry, the head of the Tendrilless Authority.

Inside the rainbow-filled chamber, dim sunlight was intensified by prismatic angles, flooding the chamber with warmth and reminders of paradise, the way Earth would be once they conquered it.

Centuries ago, during the first Golden Age of Mankind and before the devastating Slan Wars, true pioneers had begun terraforming Mars. Humans had bombarded the red planet with comets, thickened the atmosphere, added liquid water in the low-lying canyons, filling Mare Cimmerium with enough liquid to turn it into a small, shallow sea. They had released algaes and bacteria, which worked on the once-sterile environment for more than a thousand years as the breeds of humanity fought against each other, tried to destroy each other.

By the time the tendrilless slans came seeking refuge, Mars was a much more hospitable place. The air was thick enough to capture the sun's distant heat. Water vapor long locked in frozen layers underground began to percolate upward. The bacteria and algae continued to convert hydrated water molecules and break down minerals to release oxygen.

Cimmerium became a complex settlement. Buildings were made from reinforced glass produced by melting the inexhaustible supplies of Martian sand, and before long a shining metropolis clung to the walls of the deep canyon.

While it was comfortable here, the half-terraformed Martian environment was still less hospitable than Earth. In a half-facetious comment, Jem Lorry had once growled a suggestion that President Gray and some of the more intractable humans should be sent back here in exile, so they would know what had made the tendrilless strong for so many generations.

The biggest mystery concerning the tendrilless civilization, Joanna knew, lay in finding their hated step-brothers, the hidden slans, who had persecuted and tried to eradicate the tendrilless. All that had changed however, when she'd met Jommy.

Back when she'd been on assignment on Earth, Jommy had broken into the secret tendrilless headquarters at the Air Center. On the run from the law, Jommy and an old crone he called Granny had the sheer unexpected bravado to steal a tendrilless spacecraft, but Joanna had intercepted them.

Jommy was a clever young man, certainly her equal in strength and mental abilities. She had interrogated him, sure that Jommy worked for a large enclave of true slans, though he insisted he was acting alone, that his mother had been shot dead by slan hunters when he was only nine years old; his father, a great slan scientist, had been killed when he was six.

When Jommy told her that there didn't need to be war between the races, she had thought him incredibly naïve. But his earnestness was infectious, and he was fervently convinced. Afterward, the more Joanna thought about what he'd said, the more she considered his plans and his determination to follow them, she actually started to believe that he might have a chance to achieve his utopian dreams.

Maybe the tendrilless were wrong, after all. When Jommy was nearly caught again after sneaking inside Cimmerium, Joanna herself arranged for him to get away, to race back to Earth and warn President Gray of the imminent attack. She had remained behind, hoping to convert a few more allies among the tendrilless.

That had been Joanna's desperate secret, which she'd kept close to her heart for days now. The Tendrilless Authority would command her immediate execution if they suspected her involvement. Jem Lorry had launched his major attack before she could make any headway against his stubborn beliefs.

Joanna had learned not to underestimate Jommy, however. She hadn't yet admitted even to herself that she was in love with him.

As she walked forward to face the council members behind their high bench, she drove back her fear and anxiety. They couldn't possibly know what she had done.

Ahead of her, she heard a shrill, petulant voice challenging the more ponderous, deeper tones of Altus Lorry. "You miss the primary question, Father. The occupation fleet has just launched, but by the time they get to Earth, the vanguard ships and our tendrilless ground troops will have completed much of the work. Think about the next step. We must decide whether to leave a handful of humans alive as our slaves and perhaps even experimental subjects—or should we just save ourselves the trouble and exterminate them all?"

"Those are not the only two options," Altus said with maddening calm. "Your hatred blinds you. If we mean to take over Earth, it makes no sense to destroy everything. What is the sense in that? Why should we rebuild from scratch, pick up every broken piece?"

Another Authority member added, "The humans must be resoundingly defeated, we agree, but mass extermination is not logical."

"It would be logical if you'd bothered to live among them," Jem grumbled. "Try watching them every day, smelling them, observing their habits, knowing that you must keep your true identity a secret or else they would lynch you! They are like animals living in a primitive society that long ago went stagnant."

Hearing her approach, Jem turned, and his eyes lit up with a fervor he had kept carefully hidden while playing his political role in the President's palace. "Joanna, you can speak on my behalf! You've lived among them as much as I have. Explain to my"—he struggled with his words—"my esteemed father and his fellow Authority members that we can assure our future only by ensuring that humans are not part of it."

She gave him a calm smile. "How can I speak on your behalf, when you are fundamentally wrong? Such a wholesale slaughter would accomplish nothing but give you a brief rush of personal vengeance." Amused by the shocked expression on his face, she turned her gray-eyed gaze up at the seven council members. "Authority Chief Lorry, you are wise to advocate caution and forethought."

Old Altus gave her a kindly and satisfied nod, while Jem fumed, as if she had just betrayed him.

Joanna continued, "Would you rather spend our efforts consolidating a new government for tendrilless slans—or engage in an endless pursuit to eradicate all of the humans in hiding? You would force them into creating resistance cells, possibly even drive them into an alliance with the true slans. Imagine the debacle."

"They would still never be strong enough against us!" Jem insisted.

"Irrelevant. Either way, it would waste a great deal of our time."

Realizing he would never convince them, Jem stalked out of the Authority chambers with a disappointed glare at Joanna.

When she saw how the council reacted to her, Joanna convinced herself that they did not suspect her collusion with Jommy Cross. Her secret was safe.

"Please forgive my son," Altus said. "He has obsessed on humans for too long. I still hold out hope for him, and I give him chance after chance, but sadly we may have to remove him before he causes irreparable damage."

She gave a noncommittal nod. The Authority Chief had always been kind toward her, even to the point of expressing his desire for political matchmaking between Joanna and his son, though she had recoiled at the notion. "You summoned me here, sirs?"

"We need you to take care of a very specific threat," Altus said. "An important threat."

"What threat is that?"

"His name is Jommy Cross."

Her heart skipped a beat, and she was sure she paled, but Joanna fought not to show any reaction. "He is just one slan, a young man presumably working alone."

"Cross has quite remarkable talents. He was here in our city, as you well know, but he escaped. He escaped you, he escaped us, he escaped the greatest security measures in all of Cimmerium."

Another Authority member interrupted, "That in itself proves he is a danger. Cross returned to Earth in time to warn them of our attack, and it was only sheer luck that political turmoil there kept the humans from preparing themselves. We do not wish to trust to such luck again. Cross must be stopped."

Realizing she hadn't been breathing, Joanna inhaled, waited a long second to calm herself, then exhaled. They weren't accusing her of anything. "And what is it you would like me to do?"

"Take one of our fastest scout ships and go to Earth. In the midst of our assault, we order you to hunt down and seize Jommy Cross."

CHAPTER 12

By the warm candlelight in the shelter of the library, Anthea held her baby, quietly breast-feeding him as she listened to the buzzing roar of attacking aircraft outside. But she was more afraid of people than falling bombs. She closed her eyes and tried to figure out what to do next. She had no one in whom she could confide. The candles flickered, casting a warm but somehow medieval glow throughout the stacks of thick tomes.

Today she had been confronted with the unexpected and unreasoning hatred of total strangers. All her life she had heard news broadcasts about the insidious schemes of "evil slans." The secret police had spread hatred and fear.

Before, it had all meant little to her. She and Davis were just a normal married couple with good jobs—Anthea in a bank, her husband in a sporting goods store. They'd been happy with each other, and they anticipated a long and fruitful life, looked forward to starting a family.

After the birth of the baby, though, she had stepped on a landmine of prejudice and murderous anger.

When a bomb shattered the stone lion statues in front of the library, the pudgy Mr. Reynolds grabbed two of the flickering candles and gestured for Anthea to do the same. "Come with me. We have to go to the inner vault. There's better shelter inside, and an emergency generator."

Before leaving, he diligently and conscientiously blew out the remaining candles and led Anthea through a maze of bookshelves to an office at the heart of the building. Their flickering lights were like bobbing will-o'-the-wisps.

The walls here were thick and entirely without windows. The baby stirred in her arms, and she bent down to shush him, holding the candle in her other hand. "Is this the rare book section?"

"I have the distinct privilege and honor of being the chief librarian at one of the few designated True Archives commissioned by the government. President Gray himself came for the ribbon-cutting ceremony fifteen years ago."

"What's a True Archive?"

The librarian beamed, delighted to find a willing listener. "During the Slan Wars and centuries of guerilla warfare and wanton destruction, much history has been lost. Most people don't even know what the truth is anymore."

Anthea looked hard at him. "Do you know the truth? About the slans?"

Mr. Reynolds fumbled a little and turned his back, marching farther down the hall into a larger, open lobby. "This library is one of the repositories of genuine information about the Slan Wars and Dr. Samuel Lann. Many of the reports are contradictory, of course. A few are written by eyewitnesses, while some are rather clumsy government propaganda. But that's the way it usually is. With so much information, you have to separate opinion from fact, exaggeration from documentation."

He stopped in front of a great metal door and set his candles down on a small table. The thick hatch was steel-gray, polished to a dull luster, reinforced with riveted panels and a locking mechanism of gears and dials. The combination wheels themselves were secured with a steel padlock. The thick door seemed as impregnable as a bank vault.

"Inside this vault are original papers, some of the notebooks of Dr. Lann and actual correspondence from previous presidents who fought in the Slan Wars."

Since the birth of her unexpected slan baby, she felt a desperate need to know. All of the background material in that vault would reveal the answers. "I'd like to see them. I'm sure it's fascinating."

The librarian seemed befuddled. "Oh, I'm afraid that's not possible, ma'am. Those records are classified."

"But if this is a True Archive, why can't people see the truth?"

"Most people are not ready for it," Reynolds said sadly. "Possessing information and distributing it are two different things. Even President Gray wanted to control how much the public knew." He shook his head, his jowls sagging like a hound dog's. "From what I heard on the wireless this morning, it seems the President has been secretly in league with the slans all along. What has he brought us to?"

The distant thunderous rumble of more explosions rattled the ceiling.

"I think there's a great deal we don't understand," Anthea said. "But those records might help us unravel it. Besides, didn't you say there was a backup generator inside? We'd have electricity again, and we'd be safe."

The baby squirmed in his mother's arms and she saw just a hint of the fine golden tendrils rising out like long strands of hair from the powder-blue blanket. She quickly tucked them back.

Reynolds was more agitated now, loosening his necktie. "Only I know the combination to unseal this door, ma'am. I have strict instructions not to open it for anyone who doesn't have Presidential authorization."

"You're the only one with the combination? How can you be sure you remember it?"

"Oh, the numbers are very clear in my mind." Reynolds tapped his forehead.

The baby remained very still as if he had fallen asleep, but suddenly Anthea saw numerals sharply in her brain, as if someone had painted them in bold ink behind her eyelids. 4 . . . 26 . . . 19 . . . 12. She caught her breath as she realized what must have happened. The slan baby had easily read those numbers as Mr. Reynolds had recalled them, and the infant had shared them with his mother's mind as well. Anthea knew exactly how to open the vault.

Making an excuse, the librarian scuttled back to a long wooden table just outside the armored vault door. "However, these volumes are available to the general public, though not often requested, I'm afraid. Many people instinctively hate the slans, but don't want to understand anything about the reasons for doing so. The slans did terrible things to human society, oh yes. The Slan Wars were the greatest holocaust in our civilization's history, like the burning of a thousand libraries of Alexandria."

He heaved a great, grieving breath. "The endless centuries of destruction leveled our cities, brought us down to the level of barbarism. It took the human race a long time to rebuild, and even now our society has returned only to the equivalent of the United States of America back in the 1940s, as calculated in the old-style calendar." He gestured for Anthea to take a seat and began arranging books on the table. "Some of the cultural similarities to that time period are quite striking. It's as if we've been set on a well-worn path. We're following technology, styles, and habits that were forgotten long-ago, but are now coincidentally commonplace."

Anthea arranged some of the books to make a support, like a cradle, in which she could tuck the blanket-wrapped baby. Then she pulled other volumes toward her. "But these books are not classified? I can read them?"

"They're the official records of the Slan Wars. I hope they hold your interest. When all this messy business outside is over, maybe we can submit a request to whichever government is in charge next? I would so enjoy having a real scholar look over the True Archives with me."

"So, you've read them yourself?"

He seemed embarrassed. "Not . . . entirely. Just enough to make a cursory inventory. There's always so much to do in the library itself, you know."

"Thank you very much. These will do fine for now." Anthea found newspaper clippings, reprinted letters, and many books describing the "slan peril" and the "terrible threat of the evil super-humans." She brought one of the candles closer.

Reynolds made disapproving sounds as he stood in front of a cart full of books. "Some of these are in sections 820.951 through 825.664, right down here in the sheltered area. Will you be all right for a little while?" After she reassured him, Reynolds rattled off with his heavy cart, balancing one of the thick candles to light his way.

Alone now, Anthea opened the books and began to skim them. She had always enjoyed reading, but now—after having the baby, after realizing who and what she was—a key had opened in her mind. She was astonished to discover that in only a few minutes she had completely skimmed—and absorbed, and remembered—a full five-hundred-page volume!

The reports carried some surprises, but generally they were the same inflammatory stories she'd been told all her life. She skimmed the spines of other books, selected a second one, and raced through the pages as well, flipping them so swiftly she nearly tore the paper. Then she read a third book, and a fourth. She felt like a dry sponge plunged into a bucket of water.

Anthea learned how the first slan mutations had appeared, babies born with tendrils that amplified their telepathic abilities. They could read minds, influence people; their bodies were stronger.

The most prominent figure in all of the records was Dr. Lann. Some portrayed him as a genius, others as a victim of his own hubris, still others called him an evil mastermind who had caused an evolutionary avalanche that resulted in the deaths of billions. The records were unclear as to whether the slan mutations had occurred naturally, or if Samuel Lann had created a machine or special ray that invoked the changes in his own three children, turning them into the first slans.

Contradictory reports hinted that tendrilled babies had been born spontaneously all around the planet, from civilized countries to rough wastelands. Before long, slans began to appear everywhere. They found each other and bore children. Within a few generations, their numbers had grown great enough that their leaders quietly made plans. Slans infiltrated important positions in government and industry, and then they took over the world, insisting that they were meant to be the masters of "mere humans."

Anthea shuddered as she continued to read. Nearby, warm and comfortable, wrapped in blankets, the baby seemed capable of absorbing everything his mother knew, assimilating all the new knowledge she learned.

Mr. Reynolds, whistling happily to be doing something productive, trundled an empty cart back into the protected room outside the thick vault door. He took another loaded book cart and went about his business. Anthea barely noticed him as she eagerly devoured the records in front of her. . . .

From the point that the slans had made their first move against humanity, the news reports became much less objective. She doubted any of them was entirely true. Previously, a handful of conspiracy theorists denounced the slans as freaks and monsters. Then, when one hundred thousand slans took over the world, they proved to everyone that the paranoid fears had been correct. The slans did mean to enslave humanity.

But the angered humans formed a powerful resistance. The slans might have been supermen, but one hundred thousand could not stand against a vengeful population of billions.

The devastation on both sides was horrendous. As the wars flared up, died down, then burst into flames again, Earth itself was rocked. Eventually, after centuries of bloodshed, the slans were defeated. The survivors went into hiding, built secret enclaves, protected bases from which they could continue their insidious scheming (or so the reports claimed). Some said the slans went out into space, perhaps to Mars, where they bided their time, rebuilt their numbers and prepared for a further attack. Earth's technology had been set back so far, the survivors could not even dream of launching a concerted space program.

Every once in a while, a slan was caught and killed in Centropolis, lending credence to the fears that hundreds or thousands more remained in hiding. The secret police crowed about each such victory, proud to be rooting out the evil infiltrators.

It seemed indisputable that those first megalomaniacal slans had indeed meant to dominate humanity, had tried to take over the world and enslave others. But that was so many centuries ago. Did the few wild survivors still mean such harm? What about the "accidents," like her own baby? Could every innocent child born with tendrils be sentenced to death for the sins of long-forgotten fathers? She shook her head and looked up, startled to realize that she had finished reading fourteen of the books on the table.

Mr. Reynolds had come back, having emptied his carts. He now stood smiling, bent over her baby. He whispered and cooed, stroking the boy's nose, his forehead. Before Anthea could react, he pushed the blanket back, revealing the baby's head. "Look at you. Such a cute little—"

Then he gasped in horror.

The baby's tendrils rose like tiny antennae in the air, wafting as if in a gentle breeze. Reynolds stumbled backward, gaping at the slan tendrils. "Oh, my!"

CHAPTER 13

The tendrilless bombers were already on their final approach.

"Deep underground will be the safest," Kathleen said. "Jommy, can we get to your vehicle from there?"

"Yes, there are transverse tunnels." With his perfect recall, he could envision all the tangled passageways and routes from the blueprints he had seen. "I know of an old slan passageway that goes all the way beneath the river."

After the guards and secret police had scattered following their chief's orders, Petty easily kept pace with the other three. Jommy wished the slan hunter had abandoned them, but apparently he trusted the slans to know a better escape than his own people. Petty directed them to a high-speed lift, but the doors were sealed and the controls refused to operate. The secret police chief pounded the wall in frustration. "We've got to get down to shelter!"

Gray nudged him aside. "This is one of the palace's private elevators, high-security, limited access." He slid aside a hidden metal covering to expose a translucent plate and several code buttons. He pressed his open left eye against the scanner and keyed in a code. A bright beam played across his retina, mapped the patterns there, and confirmed his identity. The lift hummed, then whisked open. "I am the President, after all—no matter what Mr. Petty says."

The slan hunter glowered at him.

Jommy urged them all inside, then turned to the control plate. "Thirty-eighth level would be our best starting point." He punched the number. The doors closed, and the private car shot downward.

Only seconds later, the palace was engulfed in a roar of light and fire.

Shockwaves slammed into the descending elevator car, making a sound as if they were trapped within a bronze church bell. The bright ceiling light went out, and the car shuddered to a stop, dislodged from its tracks. More explosions thundered overhead. The walls trembled.

"Brilliant idea, Cross," Petty said in the darkness. "Now we're stuck here."

"We would have all been happier if you'd stayed in the command-and-control center," Kathleen retorted. "Why did you bother coming along with us?"

"I couldn't let three slans get away. That would be shirking my duty."

Trying to solve the problem he faced, ignoring the heated conversation, Jommy felt with his fingertips along the metal wall of the chamber. He found the crack in the sealed lift door. "We have to pry it open, get out of this elevator car, then climb to an access hatch." Gripping with his fingers and palms, he pressed with all his enhanced strength, straining until the doors began to peel apart. "There . . . making progress!"

Then, with a squeal and a groan, the stalled elevator dropped farther down the shaft, grinding along its tracks with a spray of sparks. They were in free fall for a moment, plunging out of control. Through the crack he'd been able to open in the door, Jommy watched one floor, then another and another streak past as the detached elevator picked up speed. Then it slammed to a clamorous halt, caught again in precarious balance.

"Have we hit the bottom?" Kathleen asked after a moment of stunned silence. "Why didn't we crash?"

"We're jammed in the shaft again," Jommy said. "But it's unstable."

"We could figure that out for ourselves," Petty added sarcastically. "Maybe we're almost to the bottom."

"There's at least sixty more levels down," Gray said. "I suggest we get out of here before we drop the rest of the way."

Applying all his strength, Jommy wrenched the door open farther. The tracks in the elevator shaft had been knocked severely out of alignment from the bombardment high above. One of the broken rails had twisted to one side, and the falling car had wedged to an unstable balance. Two feet above them, Jommy saw another hatch that opened to a floor—their way out. "Kathleen, I'll boost you up. You can open the door from within the elevator shaft."

She didn't hesitate, and Jommy was surprised at how easily he could support her weight. As she reached out through the open door, though, the elevator groaned uncertainly. If the car fell now, Kathleen would be sheared in half.

Kier Gray moved to the other side of the elevator to compensate for the weight shift. They all knew the car could drop at any time and plunge screeching and sparking for sixty floors until it struck the bottom like an asteroid impact.

Kathleen stretched out her hand, and with the barest tip of her finger she managed to hit the emergency hatch control. Lights blinked and, with a sedate hum, the emergency hatch slid aside to reveal a corridor well-lit by flickering ceiling lights.

Jommy gave Kathleen another boost, and she scrambled out of the elevator and through the hatch. Once safely inside, she called for her father to come up. As Gray moved to the open door and the emergency hatch, the readjusting weight made the elevator groan ominously again.

Showing no sign of fear, Gray accepted Jommy's assistance to climb out, leaving the young man trapped in the elevator with the slan hunter. Anxious not to be last, Petty lurched toward the door. He was sure they meant to abandon him—and with good reason. Petty could shield his thoughts well enough, but even so Jommy sensed the building panic in the secret police chief.

As Petty stepped across the floor, the elevator gave a sickening lurch and dropped eighteen inches. The man froze, terrified, refusing to take another step.

Jommy stared at him. "Are we going to just look at each other until the elevator falls to the bottom, or do you intend to move and get out of here?"

Petty didn't need to be encouraged again. When Jommy offered him a hand, the other man refused. "I don't need help from one of your kind." He reached up for the bottom of the emergency hatch in the shaft wall, which was now more difficult to reach. From the safety of the hall, Kier Gray looked down at the man who had overthrown him. A simple slip, a nudge at just the right moment, and the slan hunter would fall to his death.

Nevertheless, Gray grabbed his rival's arm and hauled him up.

Now mostly empty, the elevator creaked, began to work itself loose from the tracks. "Jommy, hurry!" Kathleen reached down beside her father, both of them trying to grab him, stretching out their hands.

The binding metal began to slip, grinding away the twisted track. With only a second left, Jommy tensed and sprang upward. His leap carried him at least two feet higher than a normal man could have jumped, and he hooked his elbows inside the emergency hatch. Gray and Kathleen seized his shoulders, his shirt, and pulled him into the hall. Jommy squirmed out of the shaft and pulled himself into the corridor just as the elevator jarred loose. When the last obstruction broke away, the elevator plummeted in a wail of sparks and grinding gears, falling down into the depths.

Panting, Jommy recovered and got to his feet. He glanced up. Petty was just standing there, arms crossed, watching, then the slan hunter turned around and began marching down the hall, as if nothing unusual had happened. "Well, now where do we go?"

Jommy studied a numbered plate on the wall to determine where they were. "We still have to go down seven levels." The President again used his ID to provide access to a restricted stairwell, and they hurried down the metal steps, one flight after another.

Petty continued to find reasons to question. "If you're an outsider, Cross, how is it that you found a secure passage to get into the palace? Even my secret police weren't aware of hidden tunnels down here."

"The slans built them long ago. I received information, partly from old records, partly from certain telepathic broadcasts in the palace specifically attuned for someone able to hear them. Someone with tendrils, I mean."

He opened the door at the appropriate level. The hall looked like any other, but inside his head he could detect the thin, dull tone, a guiding beacon his slan senses could pick up. Kathleen looked at him, amazed. "I can hear it."

Gray nodded. "I was aware of these, but I didn't investigate because I feared being observed. I couldn't let anyone—especially Petty—know what was down here."

"Just like you kept a full space navy secret from me?" Petty snorted. "I still should have kept a better eye on you, and on Jem Lorry."

"Lorry isn't one of us," Gray insisted.

"Seems like he did a good job sabotaging the Earth space ships, from what we saw on the battle screens."

Not knowing what trials they might face once they worked their way into the besieged city itself, Jommy wished he still had his father's disintegrator weapon. That invention would provide options they wouldn't otherwise have, but Petty had locked the confiscated device in a secure vault for secret police analysis. It was probably still intact, even with the collapse of the palace, but it could be buried anywhere. Long ago, he had added a tiny tracer to the disintegrator, but he had no time to construct a detector to pick up the signal. Right now, they had to get safely away from the ruins of the palace. And for that, they needed his special vehicle.

Jommy moved down the hall, trailing his fingers along the painted cement blocks. He found a spot that looked no different from the rest, but when he depressed the blocks in a certain sequence, a hidden door slid inward and then aside to reveal a well-lit tunnel that extended a great distance.

"Inside there, not far down, is the old maintenance tunnel that goes all the way under the river. The slans commandeered it for their own purposes a long time ago, and it's been completely forgotten. We can follow it outside and get to the forest where I left my armored vehicle. I'm sure it's still there and safe."

The embedded detectors recognized him as a slan, and Jommy felt a rush of relief. Once Jommy had opened the secret door to the tunnel, Petty did not wait for the others. He pushed forward, taking the lead. No one but slans had entered this tunnel for many years.

Jommy's tendrils suddenly picked up a shrill vibration, a distinct sensation of uneasiness that built to panic. A Porgrave transmitter, one of the special broadcasters that only slans could hear. The signal focused, and he could understand the words: an automated warning installed by long-forgotten slan inventors. The Porgrave signal shouted in his head: Non-slan detected. Unauthorized presence.

Jommy felt a thrumming in the air as retaliation devices swung into action. Also recognizing the signal, Kathleen backed abruptly into her father. Petty, though, was unaware of anything unusual. He strode forward.

Defense systems activating. Targeting . . . now.

"Petty, look out!" Jommy lunged forward, grabbed the slan hunter by the back of his shirt, and yanked him off his feet.

The burly man stumbled and cried out angrily just as a spiderweb of searing yellow-white beams criss-crossed the air where he had been. A smell of ozone accompanied the whip-crack sound of deadly defenses.

Nonplussed, the slan hunter got back to his feet and brushed himself off, shocked and then angry. "You saved my life." He seemed more upset than relieved that Jommy had saved him. He lowered his voice. "Don't think you bought yourself any mercy from me because of that, Cross."

Kathleen let out a quick, bitter laugh. "If you think mercy is something that can be bought, Mr. Petty, then you don't understand mercy at all."

The slan hunter gave her a dismissive wave. "Oh, you're just angry because I shot you in the head."

They followed the dim passage for at least a mile, trending always upward. Jommy remained alert for other booby traps and defensive measures, deactivating several, though part of him longed to just let the evil slan hunter get himself fried by the systems. It would have been what he deserved, a poetic justice.

"Explain again why we should bring you along, Petty?" Jommy asked, pausing before he deactivated another security system. "As far as I'm concerned, you don't have any redeeming qualities."

Buried far underground, and now lost inside a labyrinth of booby-trapped tunnels, the slan hunter looked alarmed. "You need me. I can be useful."

"Exactly how?" Gray said. "You overthrew my presidency."

"And killed my mother," Jommy said.

"And shot me," Kathleen added. "You haven't done much to endear yourself to us. I say we should just leave him here." She looked to her father for support. "There's a slight chance he could make his way out and deactivate the security systems himself."

Turning pale, Petty quickly said, "Wait! My network of secret police is distributed all across the country. We have emergency procedures, too—and you can bet they were better prepared than most other people. We always expected something terrible to happen."

"The advantages of being paranoid," Jommy said.

"We have contact protocols. I can help you bring them together, maybe mount a resistance. Who else is going to be organized enough to fight for Earth? You couldn't have a better starting point, once the dust settles here."

"If he does have that network," Kathleen realized, "then it's better to have him with us, where we can keep an eye on him, rather than off by himself where he can turn the secret police against us."

"If nothing else, he might make a good hostage," Jommy said. The slan hunter didn't seem to know whether to be pleased or annoyed with their assessment of his value.

"For the time being, you have your uses, Mr. Petty," Gray said. "Now let's get out of here before the whole thing comes down on our heads."

Finally, they emerged into the shadowy forest, swinging open a vine-covered grate that would have been all but invisible to anyone wandering among the trees. Getting his bearings, Jommy cast around for where he had left the car, then he led them on an hour-long search until they at last discovered the dark machine hidden in the underbrush.

Jommy had never seen anything so beautiful in his life (with the exception of Kathleen). He had designed and built the vehicle using all the best technologies and materials he had been able to put together. Petty had encountered the car once before, just after his secret police had shot Kathleen in the slan hideout. Even so, he had a difficult time pretending that he wasn't impressed.

Gray went immediately to the vehicle's door. "We've got to get out of here, and it's best if the tendrilless think we're all dead."

They all climbed inside, and Jommy sat behind the driving controls, which were keyed to him alone. The engine powered up, and the guidance responded to his touch. "I can drive us out of here, and fast."

"But where will we go?" Kathleen called from the back seat. "If Centropolis is under attack and the tendrilless are looking for us—"

"I know the perfect secluded place, a distant valley where we can all be safe." As he accelerated out of the shielded tunnel and burst into the open smoke-filled sky, Jommy quirked his lips in a wry smile. "I just hope Granny will take us in."

* * *

To Be Continued

Kevin J. Anderson is the author of many books and stories. A. E. van Vogt died in 2000 and was the author of Slan as well as many other books and stories.

Fish Story, Episode 4

Written by Eric Flint, Andrew Dennis, Dave Freer
Illustrated by Barb Jernigan

So back into the churnel we went—which, from this side as well as the one we'd entered in South London, took the form of a broom closet.

When I commented on the fact, Dryck Spivey made a little moue of distaste. "I'm afraid it's essential," he said, as he led the way into the closet. He had to duck his head steeply in order not to disarrange his turban. "The use of any other camouflage is unwise, in this solar system. If there are agents of the Ostracoderm Equality League anywhere within four astronomical units, they will most likely come to investigate. Fortunately, they cannot abide the smell of ammonia."

"Huh?" said Sheila, as she followed Spivey into the closet.

The pub owner James Watters came third, with me after him and Dexter Guptill on my heels. "They've not been cleared for this yet," muttered Watters. I don't think he intended me to hear that.

I thought the statement nonsensical myself, but wasn't sober enough to worry about it. It was my turn to undergo again the bizarre experience of traveling through the churnel.

More bizarre still, this time around. While everything around me was still black, with that unsettling sense of being somehow digested, I suddenly heard shouts and cries . . .

Behind me, I suppose. It was hard to say.

I recognized Dexter's voice, and thought I recognized that of Steven Speairs also, although I wasn't positive. But all I could hear were fragments of whatever they were shouting.

"—is it doing here?"

"—told you that submersible would—" That was definitely Guptill.

"—no sense at all—"

"—your fucking fault—" Guptill again.

The rest was lost. Just an inchoate series of unrecognizable sharp sounds. Curses? Wails? Who could say?

In my defense, I did give some thought to going to their rescue from whatever it was that was besetting them. But the idea was hopeless. There was no way to tell directions in the churnel. I had no idea where they were.

The thought was admittedly brief. Once I saw that slight crack of light I'd been looking for, I was desperate to reach it. In whatever manner one moves in the churnel—it seems to be an odd sort of wriggling scramble, as if one were a bit of food attempting to escape a swallowing gullet—I made my way to the light and burst through into the room beyond.

Another pub. I let out a groan. More precisely, another misbegotten "theme pub"—English, this time, not Irish—about as authentic as a movie star's teeth.

I turned around and stared at the churnel exit. Another broom closet, sure enough. The door was closed, however, and though I watched intently, it remained closed.

"Where are Steven and Dexter?" I demanded. "And the others?"

"Give it up," said Watters. "If they're not out by now, they're lost. The churnel does have its perils and misfortunes."

"A pity, indeed," said Spivey. His headshake was a careful thing, perhaps because he feared he might disarrange the turban. "But if one insists on feuding with submersibles, what can one expect?"

He turned away and bestowed a gleaming smile on the man standing behind the bar. "Mario! How nice to see you again!"

The bartender was a squat fellow dressed in leather and a scowl. "Fuck you, Dryck." He'd been wiping the bar with a small towel, which he now waved at me and Sheila. "Did I invite you to bring these Neanderthals into my pub?"

I laughed. Quite gaily.

Not because I was immune to insult, but because I had Sheila Rowen at my side.

Her scowl was to the bartender's as the great maelstrom of Norse legend is to the pitiful swirl of a toilet flush. Three strides and she was at the bar, reaching over with a left hand whose reasonably feminine size was a complete mismatch with the forearm from which it extended. A clutch, a heave, and the squat loudmouth was being hauled into harm's way. The harm itself taking the form of Sheila's purse, whose strap was even now sliding easily—oh, yes, it was a well-practiced motion—from her shoulder, down her arm, into her other hand, the great weight-lifter biceps and triceps and whatnot bringing the purse back for a death-dealing wallop . . .

Did I mention the weight of the thing? Rowen frequently won bar bets by challenging feeble men to lift it with only one hand.

The purse had reached the full extent of the backswing, now. It was coming forward . . .

Alas. One of the patrons intervened. A redhead, even burlier than Sheila. He came out of his seat much faster than you'd expect from a man of his size. Laughing, he caught the purse by the strap just as it was starting its downswing and held it fixed in place.

"Leave off, girl! If you obliterate the dolt, we'll have to mix our own drinks."

He had a slight accent, which I couldn't quite place. Not any variety of American dialect, though, I was sure of that.

Sheila glared at him, but the redhead's grin never wavered. "Do you want to have to mix your own drinks? The state you're in, who knows what horror you'd come up with. Nice tattoos, by the way. The one on the bicep. Got that in Liverpool, didn't you?"

Sheila looked down. "Yes, as a matter of fact. How'd you know?"

"Recognize the work. Got one there myself." The huge redhead let go of the purse strap and lifted the sleeve of his T-shirt. On his shoulder was a tattoo whose lettering did in fact look very much like Rowen's All Men Are Mortal.

His was less refined, though. Giants and Wolves Suck. It's amazing the lengths to which sports fans will take their silly rivalries.

At least Sheila had been diverted from her homicidal purpose. She heaved the bartender back across the bar. "Watch your mouth in the future, shorty."

Scowling at her, Mario rubbed his throat. "Fucking lady weight-lifter."

"Yes. Exactly."

Spivey had reached the bar, his gleaming and mustachioed smile in place. "I believe the introductions were never properly completed. Sheila Rowen, Mario Jori. Mario, Sheila Rowen."

They glared at each other. Dryck ignored it all. "Some drink, Mario! We've just been through the churnel."

Mario now glared at him. "Have they been cleared? I want a straight answer, Spivey, none of your Hindoo gobbledygook."

"Such a lowbrow." Spivey reached up and felt around for a moment in the folds of his turban. His hand emerged holding a thin card of some sort, about the size of a business card but seeming to be a lot glossier.

He held it up right in front of Jori's beady eyes.

"You can read?"

"Fuck you. Of course I can read." From the time it took him to finish reading whatever was on the card, though—not to mention the way his lips moved—it seemed clear enough that though Jori possessed the skill he was none too adept at it.

Eventually, he was done. Still scowling, he went back to wiping the bar top. "Fine. So you're an authorized recruiter. Ask me if I'm impressed."

He might not have been, but I was. Alarmed, rather.

So was Rowen.

"And what's this?" she demanded.

We were both lawyers, after all, as inebriated as we might have been at the time. No lawyer above the level of the lowliest ambulance chaser, no matter how drunk, would not instantly recognize the implications of the term "recruiter."

The stem is the verb to recruit, after all, and the verb cries out for both subject and object. Recruit whom, and to what?

Sheila had been in the process of sliding her purse strap over her shoulder. Now, as if by a volition of its own, the strap was back in her hand, the purse beginning to swing back and forth much like a cobra's head sways as it fixes its target.

I cleared my throat, the process reminding me of life's priorities. "I need a drink," I said forcefully. No quite as forcefully: "I must insist on an explanation, Mr. Spivey. You are an authorized recruiter for . . ."

By now, Watters was at the table where the big redhead had resumed his seat. He pulled out a chair and joined him.

"Don't be stupid," he growled. "The Ancient Order of the Angle, what else? Also known as the Brotherhood. Although"—he gave Sheila a respectful glance—"that's more in the way of a nickname than what you'd call a real formality."

She sneered at him. "Ask me if I care—since I've no more intention of joining this fishy club of yours than I do of joining the Temperance League." She pulled out a chair at the same table and sat down. "I need a drink. And don't anyone tell me it's my round. I'm not in a friendly mood." If proof of that were needed, the Purse of Death was planted right on the table, not down by the chair legs where Sheila normally kept the hideous thing while in convivial company.

"I'll buy," said the redhead cheerfully. "Beers all around, Mario!" he boomed. "The best the house has."

Jori's scowl, I'd concluded by now, wasn't so much an expression as the permanent fix of his face. He started filling beer steins from a spigot. "What the house has is tap beer. Take it or leave it."

I took a chair, digging into a pocket for my cigarettes. Having extracted one, I proceeded to light it.

"No smoking!" cried out Mario. "You're in Los Angeles now, buddy. We got laws. We care about the environment and our personal health."

I stared at him, dumbfounded. "This is a pub."

"So?"

"A place where men and women come to ingest a toxic substance, of their own free will. A substance called alcohol; known to science and recognized in law as being dangerous under any circumstances, deadly under some, and potentially addictive. Are you seriously advancing the claim that you have a right to poison yourself in a healthful manner?"

"Absurd," Sheila agreed. She'd extracted her own coffin nail and was lighting it up. "Like passing a law permitting suicide so long as you use a razor blade instead of a gun. The illogic makes my head hurt."

By now, Mario had finished filling the steins and was bringing them over to the table. "Look, I don't make the laws," he growled. "You can't smoke in here."

Sheila was still not quite over her temper. "And who's going to make me stop, shorty? You?"

Jori plunked down the steins and sneered right back at her. "Don't need to. The Harpies'll be along any minute. If we were just a little ways up the road, near their lair in Santa Monica, they'd have been here already."

"Here they come, in fact," said Watters, wincing.

The redhead reached back over his shoulder and hauled something off the backrest of the chair. I hadn't noticed it before. It was a great heavy leather thing, about the size of Sheila's purse. When he lifted it onto the table, however, I saw that it was simply a carpenter's tool belt, albeit much larger than the average.

He was pulling out some earplugs from one of the pouches. "Got some extra pairs, Dryck, James. Want 'em?"

"Please," said Spivey, shuddering a bit. He took the small devices from the redhead, quickly lifted the edge of his turban, and shoved them into his ears. By the time he was done, Watters already had his in place.

I wasn't paying much attention, however. I wasn't even paying much attention to my mug of beer. Because, to the side, I'd spotted the most horrible apparitions seeming to emerge from nowhere.

Like ghosts, if ghosts could be pickled.

There were three of the horrors. The first bore the appearance of a middle-aged man dressed in a suit, his face heavy with stern condemnation. The second, dressed in exercise clothing, that of a woman on the verge of middle-age whose taut face and muscle tone indicated that she was devoting half her waking life to denying the fact. The third, a young man of perhaps twenty dressed in shorts, flip-flop sandals and a tank top. His hair was blond, his eyes were blue, his nose was snub, and his expression that of vacant self-approval.

I recognized them, of course, from the legends. The dread Harpies indeed, the fearful trio.

Official Disapproval. Mature Self-Discipline. Untainted Youth.

"Youuuuu caaaaaaaaan't smooooooke in heeeeeere. . . ." they wailed in unison. "It's forbiiiiiiddddennnnnn. . . ."

"My boooooooody is a temmmmmmple," came a little coda from Untainted Youth.

As one, Rowen and I puffed vigorously.

Mature Self-Discipline shoved her face forward. Ghastly thing, the flesh so tight over the bones I would have suspected cosmetic surgery if she were anything other than a Health Harpy. In her case, though, it was surely due to an hour's worth of face exercises every day.

"Your second-hand smooooooooke is shorrrrrrrtening my liiiiiiife. . . ." she moaned.

"Oh, I hope so," said Sheila, blowing smoke at her.

Mature Self-Discipline wailed and drew back. Official Disapproval billowed to the fore.

"It's a seeeeeeeeeerious menace to society and the enviiiiiiiiiiironment. . . ."

"Oh, that's nonsense!" I snapped. "I can't imagine a sorrier exhibition of ecological ignorance. For look you, sir—what is, without doubt or question, the single greatest peril to the global environment?"

The three Harpies stared at me.

Untainted Youth began a tentative moan. "Secccccccond-hand smoooo—"

"Ridiculous!" I waved a finger under his insubstantial little nose. "Ask any biologist, any ecologist. Any educated and informed environmentalist."

I took the time for a quaff of beer. Then—as I feared, it was American beer, as thin as a politician's virtue—I sneered at Youthful Vigor. "Idiot. The great threat to the environment is people. We're breeding like rabbits, multiplying with wild abandon, overflowing the globe."

"Filling every ecological zone and niche," added Sheila. "No, say better—wrecking and ruining every ecological zone and niche."

"Absolutely correct," I said. "We are the ultimate alien invasive species. Destroying all life forms in our path. And why?"

Sheila picked it up perfectly. "No natural enemies."

"Exactly," I said. "But nature is crafty and cunning. So, in self-defense, she created tobacco—and thus, the cure from within: the disease."

As one, Sheila and I blew smoke over the hideous shapes. "Think of us as thinning the herd," I said.

"A newly evolved top predator," Sheila agreed, along with a smoke ring. "A boon and a blessing, from the standpoint of the overall ecology, however gory and gruesome be the immediate effects."

With a despairing wail, the Harpies vanished.

Jori stared after them. For once, the scowl on his face was gone, replaced by astonishment.

"You did it!" he cried. "I didn't think it was possible."

Spivey, Watters and the redhead were pulling out their earplugs. "Impressive, I admit," said Dryck.

The redhead chuckled. "I think that calls for a round of drinks on the house, Mario."

"Sure does." He was already headed back to the bar, pulling out a hidden cigarette on his way.

The intervention of the Harpies had diverted us momentarily, but Sheila and I were both lawyers. Minds like steel traps. So we returned immediately to the important issue at hand.

"Ancient order be damned," I announced. "I don't care if you've got mystic symbols and insignia, secret handshake, the lot. I'm not volunteering for anything."

"Me neither," said Sheila.

Spivey smiled. Watters and the big redhead grinned.

"Chumps," sneered Jori, around his cigarette butt. The bartender had finished pouring the steins and brought over the beers. Then he went back and rummaged behind the bar, emerging with a large ashtray. When he placed it on the table I saw that a large label was wrapped all around the side.

SURGEON GENERAL'S WARNING. The traces of second-hand smoke emanating from this device may ruin your home team's chance of winning the pennant race and encourage the rise of false messiahs.

Jori dragged a chair from a nearby table over to our own. For some reason, the movement caused me to notice for the first time that the bar was empty except for us.

"Ha!" I sneered back. "Your idiot English theme pub décor doesn't exactly pull in the customers, I take it."

"Don't be stupid. We're in Venice, California."

"I thought you said this was Los Angeles," protested Sheila.

The sneer now seemed as permanently fixed on Mario's face as the scowl had been earlier. "It is Los Angeles. Stupid Brit tourist. Never been here before, I take it? Los Angeles is a mystic entity. A virtual city, as it were. It's got a name, true enough—even got elected politicians—but no actual existence in the material world."

"Certainly not!" chuckled Spivey. "I have never met a person yet who was from Los Angeles. No, they are from Venice or Chatsworth or Hollywood or West Los Angeles or South Central—anywhere but 'Los Angeles.'"

"Well, sure," said the redhead. "Even Southern Californians have a sense of shame. Only a trace, of course. The climate saps shame the way a desert saps water."

Mario chimed in, still sneering. "Any other time of the day or night this joint is jumping." He hauled the cigarette out of his mouth and used it to point at the redhead. "The bikers left the moment he came in. They're scared of him."

The redhead's grin widened. "Don't know why."

Mario grunted. "Ask the EMTs, they'll tell you." His cigarette was now waved in Spivey's direction. "And the druggies split the minute I told them he was coming."

Sheila peered at Dryck. "Why are they afraid of him? Is it something about the turban? They think he's a terrorist?"

Spivey got a pained look on his face. Mario barked a laugh.

"No, it ain't that," he said, shaking his head. "I told you, lady. You're in Los Angeles, not some hick town in the Midwest. Any druggie here can parse the difference between a Hindoo and any variety of Moslem in a heartbeat, especially Sufis. God help you if they get started on Christians."

He jabbed the cigarette toward Spivey. "It's that he drives them nuts. Starts reciting the Upanishads to show them why they're a bunch of ignorant airheads."

"Letter perfect," agreed Dryck. "Being, first, as I have a fluency in Sanskrit and they do not. Being, second, as I have a brain and they do not."

Sheila shook her head. "Recite from the Upanishads all you want. I'm still not volunteering for anything."

"Me neither," I echoed. Rowen and I have never been a romantic item—not even close—but on some matters we are like man and wife. A horror of pro bono work being one of them.

Mario barked another laugh. A series of them, rather. The sneer never wavered throughout. "Don't get it, do you?"

The redhead cleared his throat. "I'm afraid the issue of 'volunteering' is a moot one. The Brotherhood of the Angle doesn't accept volunteers, anyway."

"Certainly not!" exclaimed Dryck. "A most untrustworthy lot, volunteers. First, because what is freely offered can also be freely withdrawn. Second, because they are patently mad. No, no, my dear friends. You've been drafted."

Sheila and I stared at him.

"We're conscripts?" she asked.

"Exactly so."

She and I now stared at each other. After a few seconds, she shrugged. "Well, I suppose that's all right, then. Since my ethical principles haven't been violated. I warn you, though. Conscript or not, I bill by the hour."

I was no longer exactly drunk, since one of the churnel's side effects is the peculiar ability to leech alcohol from a human body. So it seemed, at any rate. But I was certainly not what you'd call sober. So, though I wracked my brain trying to find a coherent argument against allowing ourselves to be conscripted, I was unable to come up with anything.

Except "it's not just," of course. But no British lawyer will speak those words aloud, fearing the instant public ridicule. In the United States, I've been told, the phrase is sufficient cause for being disbarred from the profession.

"Drafted for what?" I asked. "And why us?"

"As to the second question," said Spivey, "you fit the three principle criteria for inclusion in membership in the Ancient Order. First, you are drunkards."

"Hey, wait a min—" began Sheila.

"Plain as the nose in front of your face," stated Watters. "Second, you trail behind you—radiate before you—the miasma of Those Who Have Known Fish."

The redhead belched. "And finally, you've got a particular skill the Order has need of, at the moment." He waggled his still half-full beer mug in a manner that was vaguely apologetic. "Bad luck for you, of course, that last bit. But there it is. The Brotherhood's not a charitable organization, after all."

"What skill?" I demanded. The cigarette was back in the corner of my mouth. The smoke was causing my eyes to water but my soul to feel cleansed. It's a horrid business, this grubby scrabbling to gain an extra month of two of life. Compared to it, simple greed is practically a virtue.

"You're lawyers, what else?" snorted Watters. "You think we normally consort with attorneys?"

Dryck, Mario and the redhead all got pained looks. So did Sheila and I, for that matter.

"It's a living," Sheila muttered.

"It's a disgrace," said Watters.

"Well, yes, of course. That's why we make up for it by smoking."

"A point," averred Dryck, "a veritable point."

But I wasn't letting my attention get diverted. This had the sulfurous reek of pro bono work.

"We're not licensed to practice in California," I pointed out. "Sorry, lads, but—"

"Oh, twaddle," said James. "No one's asking you to plead before a court or file papers or whatever such. A simple matter of interrogation. Squeezing the truth from a recalcitrant witness."

"Witness to what?" asked Sheila.

"Exactly what we're trying to find out." The redhead waved a big hand at Jori. "Bring the critter forward, Mario."

"Why me?" demanded the bartender. "That damn aquarium's heavy. You're the muscle man. You're the—"

The redhead growled. Mario practically sprang from the table.

He headed off toward a corner of the pub. For the first time, I noticed that there was an aquarium sitting on a table there. A rather large one, at that. It fit quite badly with the fake English décor, fortunately.

"I'll need a hand with all the gadgetry," Mario said, over his shoulder. Watters rose and went over.

Within a minute, they were hauling the aquarium and its appended air filters—water filters? whatever—back to the center of the pub where the rest of us were waiting. With a heavy thump, Mario set it down on the table next to ours, then headed for a door at the back of the pub.

"I'll need to get an extension cord. I had to unplug everything. Give it five minutes and the bastard will accuse us of trying to suffocate him."

I stared at the aquarium. The bottom was covered with sand, rocks, the usual, with the inevitable garish faux shipwreck at the very center. A bigger plastic piece of crap than the usual, but not otherwise interesting. "There's no fish in it."

"Well, sure. Not any more." The redhead rapped a big knuckle on the glass. "The little fucker eats everything he can gets his mouth on. And it's a big mouth. Come out, you wretch. Come out, I say!"

My eyes went to the plastic shipwreck, that being the only object in the aquarium large enough for a fish—or whatever—to be hiding within.

Nothing. No movement at all.

The redhead wrapped the glass again. "Come out, I say. Or I'll put on my belt and squeeze you good, I will."

That did the trick. The faux shipwreck began wobbling back and forth. A moment later, a very blunt fish head began to squeeze its way out of the hatch. Within a few seconds, the entire body had emerged.

Weird fish. Completely white—bone white—and I'd never seen a fish with that shape. There was also the oddity that a goodly portion of its body seemed wound about with some sort of thread.

Then I saw the tail. Flukes, rather.

"That's not a fish!" I exclaimed. "That's a whale!"

"So he claims," said Watters grimly. "But that's what you're here to find out."

The redhead rose, held up his T-shirt sleeve with one hand while he thrust the other into the water, seized the miniature albino whale and hauled it out of the tank. Then, none too gently, he plopped it onto the table top. When the miniwhale landed, the meaty impact sent a little spray of water over the rest of the table, with a few drops landing on those of us sitting about. From the smell, it was seawater.

"Brute!" yelped the whale.

"Just be glad I didn't squeeze you," said the redhead. "Now talk, fish."

"I'm not a fish! I'm a whale! Whales are part of the mammal class, you ignoramus."

"I said, talk," hissed the redhead. All of sudden, the jovial fellow seemed a lot meaner than he had theretofore.

Sheila interrupted the proceedings. I'd half-noticed that she seemed to be ogling something on the other side of the whale, that was out of my sight.

She pointed a finger at it. "What the hell! There's a tiny little man strapped to the fish. Whale, whatever. And its no plastic toy, either. He's waving his arms and it looks like he's hollering something."

I half-rose out of my chair to get a better look. A bit gingerly, Sheila took hold of one of the creature's flukes and half-spun it around, so I could see the other side.

Sure enough. There was a miniature man there. I could now see that he was bound to the whale's flank by the thread I'd noticed earlier. One of his legs was half-missing, replaced by a wooden peg, and he was—sure enough—gesticulating like mad and did indeed seem to be yelling something.

I could hear the sound he was making, but couldn't distinguish any words.

"Hold the creature down," I commanded, to no one in particular. I leaned over and turned my head, bringing my ear close to the jabbering homunculus.

Now, I could make out the words. Some of them anyway. The accent was peculiar. Like that of a Bostonian I'd once known, but on steroids.

"—but I shall go stark raving mad— " Here I couldn't make out the words, then:

"Say, why dost thou not go mad? How can'st though endure without being mad? Do the heavens yet hate thee, that thou can'st go mad?"

I sat back down. "Which one is my client? If it's the homunculus, I'm entering a plea of not guilty by reason of insanity."

"That's what I told you!" yelped the miniwhale, glaring at the redhead. "The little bastard's nuts. You can't believe anything he says. It's all ranting, raving nonsense."

The creature wriggled about a bit, to bring one of its eyes to bear on Sheila. After studying the tattoos for a moment, it said: "Will no one rid me of this troublesome captain?"

Sheila smiled coolly. "Don't look at me. I'm a lawyer."

The miniwhale wriggled about again, to level a reproachful look onto the redhead. "That's cruel. That's low. Even for you."

The redhead's smile was even cooler than Sheila's. "I warned you, didn't I? After you made jibes at my threats of a bastinado."

"Well, of course I did!" The miniwhale flapped its flukes against the tabletop. "Got no feet, you idiot."

"Fine, then. So I did as I said I would. Brought in the lawyers."

It was hard to be sure, given that the creature's "face" bore no resemblance to a human's. But I was pretty sure that was a ferocious glare the creature was giving the redhead. Then, wriggling about again, swept it across everyone at the table.

"They're smoking, too! I thought that was illegal in California."

Mario blew smoke on it. "Only in public establishments. And I'm closed for the day."

"You haven't read me my rights!"

"You don't have any," said Watters. "You're a fish."

"A mammal!"

"A mammal that swims," qualified Spivey. "Which therefore automatically makes you an object of suspicion—as you well know."

"That's just natural selection!" yelped the whale. Its eyes seemed to squint a little, examining Dryck. "Funny. You don't look like one of those nitwit Christian fundamentalists."

"Stop playing the innocent," replied Spivey. "You know perfectly well that natural selection is a favored tool of at least three of the piscine cabals. The Magellans have developed it into a fine art."

"So talk, fish," said the redhead.

The miniwhale flopped its head back and forth, studying first me and then Sheila. The motion finally nudged my memory. That big head—proportionately, anyway—that was one-third the total length of the body; the long and narrow jaw, the teeth rather than baleen...

"You're a sperm whale!" I exclaimed. "Sort of. Allowing for shrinkage."

The narrow jaw gaped. "Okay, then. I want this one for my lawyer. At least he can tell the difference between a fish and whale. Or are any of you dumb enough to think there's such a thing as a 'sperm fish'?"

The redhead shrugged heavily. "As you wish. Ishmael, you're now the creature's attorney."

The miniwhale ogled me. "Ishmael? Oh, no thank you, then!" It wriggled and flopped about again, bringing Sheila into its sight. "And this one's got tattoos! You rigged the deck!"

"Don't be stupid," said the redhead. "Just because our agent who brought you in was tattooed? He was also male, and black, and a savage cannibal. Whereas she's female, white, and . . . Well, yes. She's a lawyer."

He rose up, seized the whale by its tail and lifted it off the table. "And enough of this! Start talking!"

He dropped the creature back down. There was the same meaty flop, but less in the way of water strewn about. By now, the thing was half-dry.

"Fine!" snapped the miniwhale. Literally, snapped. That was actually quite an impressive jaw, even if the whole creature wasn't more than thirty centimeters long. I made a note to myself not to lean close again. That jaw could take off an ear, quite easily.

The miniwhale took a deep breath. Then:

"It's like I told you the first time. There I was, looking for—"

"Let's start with my client's name," said Sheila. "What is it, anyway?"

"Moby Dick," supplied Mario.

The miniwhale slapped its flukes. "That's a lie! That stupid Melville couldn't even get the name right, in that fable of his. Whoever heard of a silly name like 'Moby Dick,' anyway?"

I cleared my throat. "Actually, a goodly percentage of the English-speaking world. Being as how that fable, as you call it, is now considered classic literature."

"If that's not your name," interjected Sheila, "what is it?"

"Dick Moby," said the miniwhale sullenly. "Although I prefer Richard."

"Richard it is, then," said Sheila. "Please continue with your account."

"As I was saying, there I was just minding my own business seeking revenge on the Great Sea Serpent"—here Richard gave the redhead another look of reproach—"and while I'm on the subject, I'd like to know why you're persecuting a fellow mammal instead of going after that vile seagoing snake—"

"I've been after him for eons," said the redhead mildly, "as you well know. Stop complaining and keep talking."

The miniwhale snapped its jaw at him angrily. Then:

"On account of how the evil sea serpent ate my beloved wife Alice."

"There's an Alice Dick, too?" I asked.

"Alicia, actually. Her family and friends called her Alice. So there I was, hot on the tracks of the snake, when—when—"

The miniwhale flopped about again, onto one side, bringing the homunculus up into sight of everyone at the table.

"When this maniac started hounding me! For no reason whatsoever! Unless you believe that pack of lies told by Melville, in prose so bad his name is a scandal and a hissing amongst school children the world over."

"English-speaking world, anyway," Sheila said. "A point, there. I ask the jury—is this a jury, by the way, or a court of any kind?—to note that my client has accurately depicted the nature of his accuser."

"No, we're not a jury," said the redhead. "Nor is this a court, except in the most informal sense of the term."

"More in the way of a lynch mob," added Watters. "Think of us carrying torches and pitchforks, and you won't go far wrong."

"That said"—this from Dryck—"I'll agree the point is valid. Even in my native land, the name 'Melville' is used to frighten children into obedience."

The miniwhale somehow managed to look smug. I decided the beer was so bad that I might as well exert some professional effort. So, stubbing out my cigarette, I pointed to the homunculus.

"I think it's time we heard from my client. If anyone can figure out how to make him audible."

"I came prepared," said the redhead. "But first—"

He twisted in his chair, rummaged about in one of the pouches in his carpenter's-belt-on-steroids, and came up with a pair of needle-nose pliers. Holding down Richard with his left hand, he slid one of the jaws under the thread and snipped it.

The line began to unravel. Thrashing feverishly, the homunculus worked himself loose and fell onto the table top.

He rose awkwardly, on account of the wooden leg, then started waving his arms about and resumed—judging from the mouth, anyway; you could barely hear anything—his ranting and raving.

"Can't make out a word," said Mario.

"Just hang on a second," said the redhead. He'd returned the pliers to their pouch and was digging about in a different one.

This time, he brought forth . . .

A miniature bullhorn, no less.

"You did come prepared," said Sheila.

"Damn right I did," said the redhead. "I've been tracking this scumbag for years. The white whale, I mean. The captain's just a harmless lunatic."

Sheila spotted her chance. "If you admit he's a lunatic, then I must insist the court—excuse me, the sans-culotte mob—is required to discount his testimony."

"And I reiterate my client's plea of being not guilty on grounds on insanity," I added. "Whatever he's accused of."

"He's not accused of anything," said Dryck. He smiled at Sheila. "And I am afraid the lunatic nature of the witness is irrelevant. Seeing as how at least ninety percent of the universe is lunatic also."

Watters grunted. "What your cosmologists call 'dark matter.' It's actually particulate madness."

By now, the redhead had handed the bullhorn over to the homunculus. The tiny one-legged man raised it to his lips, and we could finally hear his words.

"Quick! forge me the harpoon! I want it of the true death-temper!"

"I told you!" yelped Richard. "He's a spermicidal maniac!"

"Say better, piscicidal maniac," growled the redhead.

Watters nodded. "I still say you're a fish."

The homunculus seemed to grow more excited still. He jabbed a finger, pointing first at the redhead and then at James.

"I have here two pledges that I shall yet slay Richard M. Dick and survive it! I am immortal then, on land and on sea."

Sheila cocked an eye at the miniwhale. "M?"

"Milhous. It's my middle name. Whales are all pretty much hardcore Republicans."

"Stupid," grunted Mario. "Wasn't Republicans put a stop to commercial whaling."

Somehow, Richard M. Dick managed to form a sneer on that sperm whale mouth. "Who cares? We're the biggest and mightiest animals on the planet. You expect us to support those wimps in the Democratic Party?"

Angrily, he slapped his flukes on the table again. "But who are you going to believe? This gibbering madman? I say again: I'm a mammal. All of science is united on the opinion."

That seemed to throw the homunculus into a veritable frenzy. "Science! Curse thee, thou vain toy; and cursed be all the things that cast man's eyes aloft to the heavens, whose live vividness but scorches him! Level by nature to this earth's horizon are the glances of man's eyes; not shot from the crown of his head, as if God had meant him to gaze on his firmament!"

"Enough of this," said the redhead. He brought a huge forefinger under the nose of the homunculus.

"Are you Captain Ahab, or not?"

"Aye, that I am!"

"Then give us the truth about this fish, and cease the preaching!"

The homunculus suddenly looked a bit worried. "Avast!" he cried. "Let's have fair play here, though we be the weaker side. No fearless fool now fronts thee."

"The truth!" bellowed the redhead. Unleashed, his voice seemed to rattle the whole room. Ahab reeled back.

"The lightning flashes through my skull! Mine eyeballs ache and ache; my whole beaten brain seems as beheaded, and rolling on some stunning ground."

Dryck laid a restraining hand on the redhead's big shoulder. "Easy, there. But, Captain Ahab—we will have the truth."

His mild tone settled the homunculus down. Ahab peered up at Dryck's turbaned head.

"There is some unsuffusing thing beyond thee, thou clear spirit, to whom all thy eternity is but time, all thy creativeness mechanical. Through thee, my scorched eyes do dimly see it. Thou hermit immemorial, thou too hast thy incommunicable riddle, thy—"

"That's it!" roared the redhead. Again, the whole room shook. "Incommunicable, is it? We'll see about that!"

His hand went back to the carpenter's belt, bringing out the pliers again. He snatched up Ahab and brought the jaws to bear on his good leg.

"The truth, lunatic! Or you'll be stumping about on both legs!"

I began to protest—the captain was my client, and we were now clearly beyond any legal definition of "interrogation"—but, fortunately, the redhead's wrath seemed to have finally registered on Ahab.

"Desist! Desist!" The homunculus jabbed a frantic finger at the miniwhale. "Your oaths to hunt the White Fish are as binding as mine! Look ye there, inside of the beast! Thus I blow out the last disguise!"

The redhead stared at Richard M. Dick. Then, with a muffled exclamation, he released Ahab and took up the miniwhale by the tail again.

"Cough it up!" he demanded.

"I have the right to remain silent!" yelped Richard. "Undisgorged, too! I am not a crook!"

"Bah!" The redhead seized the miniwhale with a huge hand and squeezed. I mean to say, really squeezed.

The narrow jaw gaped open. Richard's eyes bulged.

Another homunculus appeared, emerging from the miniwhale's mouth, this one dressed in tattered rags.

He plopped out onto the table. Then, after shaking his head, he staggered to his feet.

"Well, it's about time!" Perhaps because he was a bit larger than Captain Ahab, his words were faint but could be understood easily enough.

The homunculus swiveled his head, examining all of us around the table. When he was done, he smiled widely.

"Hi, everybody. My name's Jonah and I'm an alcoholic. And, boy, do I have a story to tell."

TO BE CONTINUED

Eric Flint is the author of many novels and some short fiction. He has also edited a number of anthologies. Dave Freer has written a number of novels and short stories. Andrew Dennis has co-authored books with Eric Flint. This is the first time the three have worked together.

To read more work by these authors, visit the Baen Free Library at: http://www.baen.com/library/

INTRODUCING NEW AUTHORS

The Girl With the Killer Eyes

Written by B. B. Kristopher
Illustrated by Ural Akyuz

"Look, Roy, I'm telling you—"

"Yeah, Mike, I got it. A really hot redhead who shoots laser beams out of her eyes."

Jodie looked up from the guest register she was filling out intending to make a scathing comment about sexism in the work place and men who treated women like sex objects, but the two men who were talking weren't even looking in her direction. One was a tall man with graying brown hair and the other was a shorter man with thick curly brown hair and olive skin. Both men seemed completely oblivious to anything but their conversation, at least if the flailing arms were any indication.

"Dude, don't start."

"Start?" the taller man said. "Mike, we've been having this same conversation for years. You can't see the future."

The shorter one, Mike, raised his index finger. "Then how do you explain Amber?"

"If that makes you able to see the future, then our entire high school qualifies. I'm the only person in the school who didn't think she'd cheat on me."

"But—" Mike said.

"And then there's football."

"Don't go there," Mike said in a warning tone.

"We've made the same bet every year for sixteen years . . ."

"Dude, this is Buffalo's year."

". . . and every year you lose."

"But—" Mike said.

"You owe me twelve hundred bucks."

"That much? Really?"

"Yes!"

"But—"

"I don't even watch football!"

The conversation trailed off as the two walked through the security checkpoint. Jodie shook her head, trying to get rid of the headache that had been building steadily through the bureaucratic nightmare that was the last two days, and turned back to the latest bit of paperwork. Once she finished signing her life away, the guard handed her a visitor's badge with a small, blurry, reddish picture of her printed on it.

"Just follow the green line, darling, and Special Agent Peterson will meet you," the guard said.

Jodie started to bristle but she stepped on it. In the last forty-eight hours, she'd been called honey, darling, baby, and sugar more times than in the entire rest of her life, but mostly it had been by women who were either older, African-American, or who had a heavy southern accent. Near as she could tell, it was just normal around Atlanta. Knowing that didn't do anything for her headache, however.

"Thank you," she said, doing her best to take it in the spirit in which it was offered. She picked up her purse and headed for the security checkpoint.

The checkpoint was the usual elaborate affair with thick walls, lots of guns and even more guards. She extended the visitor's pass to an armored man who was about 6'6" and built like a professional football player.

"Energy projector, huh?" the guard said as he read her badge. He pointed at the blast tank off to the side. "Try not to punch through the gizmo."

Jodie walked over and put her arm in the tube. "I'll be careful," she said. She took a deep breath and fired a blast into the tank and true to her word, she was very careful about just how much power she let out. First time she'd used a profile tank, she'd punched through the very expensive "gizmo," the bottom of the tank, the floor and a foot of concrete foundation. The guard at the Superhuman Registry Office had been less than amused.

Unfortunately, being careful didn't stop the blast from filling the hall with the rotten egg smell of sulfur.

"She's a match," a woman said from the other side of the barricade.

The guard, his eyes watering slightly, offered her the visitor's pass back.

"Welcome to the Atlanta office, Special Agent Adan," the guard said as the door swung open.

She glanced at his badge. "Thank you, Sergeant Miller."

"Call me Frank. Everybody else does."

* * *

She was surprised at how short the wait was before a tall woman with straight black hair and a hint of Native American in her features and coloring stepped through the Barricade.

"Hey, Frank," she said.

"Hey, Mary," Frank replied.

Mary turned to face Jodie. "Special Agent Mary Peterson," she said, holding out her hand.

Jodie took it. "Special Agent Jodie Adan."

"Welcome to the Atlanta Office."

"Thanks."

"Well, come on. It's best not to keep HR waiting. They sign the paychecks."

"Right."

* * *

Two hours, a stack of forms, three hand cramps, a splitting headache and two aspirin later Mary lead Jodie out of the HR office.

"Your head doing any better?" Mary asked.

"No," Jodie said. "It always gets like this when I'm irritated. Airport security, movers, Superhuman Registry Office and HR all in one week . . ."

"Yeah, that would irritate anyone. Come on." They rode the elevator down to the main office and Mary led her into the cube farm where most of the Agents worked.

"Interrogation rooms for normals are off to the left," Mary said, pointing at a series of doors on one side of the farm. She turned and pointed at a massive bank vault style door that stood open off to the right. "The armored interrogation rooms are through that door for the übers."

Jodie flinched at the term and felt another throb of irritation. She hadn't heard anyone use anything other than 'empowered humans' since she was about eight. Mary didn't even seem to notice, she just kept talking, so Jodie decided to let it go.

"If there's ever a breakout, stay clear of the door though. It weighs eleven tons and the rams drive it shut in about two seconds."

Jodie nodded even though she knew all about blast doors. At the academy, they'd shown her a video of an agent who hadn't gotten clear during a breakout. It had been more than enough to drive the lesson home.

"Oh, and you'll want to keep a warm coat at your desk," Mary said. "It gets really hot in the city during the summer, so you'll want to wear lightweight suits, but the office is cut into a vein of granite that shoots off of Stone Mountain, and we've never been able to keep it warm enough."

"I'll keep that in mind," Jodie said. She was honestly grateful for the tip, but it meant shopping. She only had a couple of really lightweight suits. One more adjustment to make, she supposed.

They'd gotten about half way across the cube farm when a carefully folded paper helicopter complete with spinning rotors rose up from one of the cubicles ahead of her, sailed across the aisle and fired a pair of paper missiles through the entrance to another cube.

"Damn it, Roy, I didn't need to know that!"

Jodie groaned as she recognized the voice. It was Mike from the lobby.

Mary sighed and called out, "Am I going to have to separate you two?"

"What?" Roy asked. "All I did—"

Mike stood up and stomped out of his cubical. "All you did was load those stupid missiles with memories of . . ." He stopped and looked right at Jodie.

"What is it, Mike?" Roy asked. He stuck his head around the wall of his cubical and looked at Jodie. His jaw dropped.

"Dude," Mike said.

Jodie held up her hands "Don't say it!"

"But—"

"I mean it," she said. "I do not shoot laser beams out of my eyes."

Roy looked at Mike, who looked absolutely crestfallen, and started laughing. Hard. Pretty soon, other people were sticking their heads over the walls of their cubes to see what was so funny.

Mary gave Jodie an apologetic look and said, "Sorry." Then a long black tentacle stretched out from the shoulder of her suit and gave Roy a shove.

He squawked as he fell out of his chair.

It didn't do much good. Roy shut up, but Mike took one look at him lying on the floor and doubled over laughing.

Jodie reached up and started rubbing her temples, trying to ease her head, "Maybe I'll dye my hair."

* * *

Special Agent In Charge Scott Coolidge wasn't what Jodie expected. Somehow, she'd expected a man with his reputation to be taller. At 5'10", she had a good two inches on him. Worse, he seemed perky, and one wall of his office was almost covered with photos of women in various mildly suggestive poses.

"So, what brings you to our little corner of the world?"

"Well, sir, I graduated top of my class at Quantico so I got my choice of assignments, and the chance to work with, well, you, sir . . ."

"Ah," he said. He opened a desk drawer and pulled out an old, well worn pipe with a curved stem and slightly fluted bowl. The pipe was a dark yellow, but judging by the ivory white near where the black mouthpiece was attached, the yellow color was mostly a result of age and heavy use. He filled it from a small tin and packed it down with some kind of pocketknife-like tool.

She couldn't help but be surprised. The Bureau had a strict no smoking policy, and as the Special Agent In Charge, seeing that it was enforced was one of his jobs.

"You smoke, Ms. Adan?"

"No, sir."

He touched the tip of his finger to the tobacco and it glowed bright red. As the office filled with the smell of it she felt a flicker of irritation at the fact that he hadn't even asked her if she minded, but he didn't seem to notice. Instead, he took a long pull of the pipe, leaned back and blew the smoke in the general direction of an exhaust fan.

"You shouldn't believe everything you hear, agent," he said mildly. "Most of the stories about me are—"

The door swung open and Mary stuck her head in.

"Sir, we've got a live one."

Coolidge's chair snapped upright and he set the pipe into a shallow indentation in the ashtray on his desk.

"What is it?" he asked, suddenly all business.

"Bank robbery."

"That's a little low end, isn't it?" he asked.

"The perp tunneled into the vault, sir. Cleaned out all the safety deposit boxes and about ten million in cash. Thing is, the vault was cleared in five minutes."

"That does sound like one of ours. I take it team six is up in the rotation?"

"Yes, sir."

Coolidge turned back to look at Jodie.

"What about it, Agent, you feel like working a case today?"

She thought about it for a second. What she really wanted was a couple of more aspirin and a dark room where she could sleep off her headache. She hadn't been properly briefed on her teammate's abilities, or local comm. procedures, or local law enforcement or any of a dozen other things she should know before she went into the field, but Coolidge seemed to expect her to jump at the chance and she didn't want him to think she wasn't up to the job. Not only was he one of the best agents the Bureau had ever fielded, he was also the youngest Special Agent in Charge in Bureau history.

That, and he could sink her career before it even started.

"Yes, sir," she said, not entirely sure she was ready, but deciding there was no way she was going to disappoint Scott Coolidge on her first day.

"Got your badge and gun?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good girl. I hereby dub you Federal Bureau of Superhuman Investigation Enforcement Team ATL—06's official ranged attack specialist. Mary here can fill you in on the way." He turned to Mary. "And Mary . . ."

"Yeah?"

"Try to keep Tweedledum and Tweedledee in line."

She snorted. "Right. Me and what army?"

Before Jodie had time to ask what she meant, Mary turned to her and said, "Come on, kid."

* * *

The motor pool smelled faintly of diesel, but Jodie was use to that. The bureau always used diesels. They figured the extra pollution was an acceptable trade off for a fuel that was less explosive. After the first time she blew up a car on the training range, she had to admit they had a point.

"First time out on a case?" Mary asked.

"Yeah," Jodie answered.

"Don't worry about it. You'll do fine."

"Right. Who are the other members of . . . oh no."

Mike and Roy were standing by the black Ford Excursion Diesel.

"See what you did?" Roy said. "On the team less than a day, and she already hates you."

"Me?" Mike said. "What makes you so sure it isn't you she hates?"

"Boys," Mary said. "She hates both of you. Now, can we go before APD taints the scene for Mike?"

"Right," Mike said. "I'm driving."

"Like hell," Roy said. "I want to live until dinner."

"Fine," Mary said. "I'll drive, and Jodie here gets shotgun."

"D'oh!" Mike said.

* * *

Atlanta traffic on a Monday afternoon was different from the L.A. traffic she'd grown up with, the Boston traffic she'd dealt with during her college years and the D.C. traffic she'd gotten use to at the Academy. She'd expected it to be tamer, slower. A bit more genteel. Heck, she'd expected people to yield for the siren and the dome lights.

Instead, she'd spent the last twenty-five minutes clinging to the handle strap above the passenger door of the Excursion as Mary whipped the SUV in and out of traffic and tried to hide her amazement at the number of pickup trucks, minivans, and junkers doing eighty on the midtown connector.

And if the traffic was bad, it was nothing compared to the arguing.

"We should take the Peachtree Street exit and avoid the traffic on the connector."

"You're nuts. If we take the surface streets, the perps will be in Mexico by the time we get there."

"No, don't take the Williams Street exit, go down to the Georgia State exit."

"Dude, she's not going ten minutes out of the way so you can ogle the co-eds."

"Fine, let her get stuck in traffic."

"Both of you shut up!"

By the time they pulled up outside of Peachtree Center, Jodie was convinced she'd been assigned to the worst team in the Bureau. Mike and Roy were idiots, and Mary must have done something spectacularly stupid to get stuck with them.

She also had something close to a full-blown migraine. The light and sound sensitivity hadn't started yet, but she felt like someone was pounding on her head with a sledgehammer, from the inside.

She tried not to think about it. She just put her headset on, set her comm. to the right frequency, got out of the truck and followed them to the bank entrance.

"Sorry, folks, this is a crime scene," the uniformed officer at the entrance said.

Mike held up his badge. "Special Agent Beyer, FBSI. Special Agents Barnett, Peterson, and Adan. Who's in charge?"

"Detective Warner."

"Well, that figures," Roy said.

"Roy," Mike said in a warning tone. "Where is the detective?"

"He's in the vault, sir," the uniform said.

"Thanks."

The uniform stepped aside but his shoulder brushed up against Mike as he walked through door and Mike stopped so suddenly Roy walked right into his back.

"Officer, do you own a Mustang?"

"Yes, sir," the officer said in confusion.

"You've been smelling gas, haven't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"I don't know much about cars, but I can't imagine a leak that's spraying hot gas on your engine block is very safe. You might want to get it towed to the mechanic."

"Yes, sir!"

* * *

Jodie was still a little stunned by Mike's behavior when they entered the vault. She'd assumed Mary was the senior agent, but the way Mike had taken charge had corrected that impression, and he'd been much more professional than she'd expected too. It was calming, both to her nerves and to the pain in her head.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't—" a man in a bad tan suit started.

"Don't say it," Roy said, cutting him off.

"Say what?" the bad suit asked.

"'If it isn't Nostradamus.'" Roy said in a mocking tone.

"Hey, you stay out of my head."

"Dick," Mary said, "He doesn't have to read your mind to know you're going to spout the same tired jokes that weren't funny the first time. He just has to smell your cheap cologne."

"What, a psychic boyfriend wasn't enough, now he's got a psychic nose too?"

"Warner," Mike said, "You want to fill us in on what happened, or should I start by ordering your people off my crime scene?"

"There's no evidence that this was done by a freak job."

"Hey," Jodie snapped, both her temper and her headache flaring. "Who are you—"

"Adan," Roy said, "leave it. 'Detective' Warner here isn't worth your breath."

Mike stepped past Warner and knelt down next to a large hole in the floor. "Tell you what," he said, "why don't we find out."

"Hey, don't contaminate my . . ." Warner never finished.

Mike touched the edge of the hole and his eyes glazed over. He stayed like that for almost a minute, then stood up.

"Three guys," Mike said. "One was a digger, one's a Telekinetic and one looks to be muscle. The digger got them into the vault. The TK picked the locks and the muscle collected the goods. All three were übers."

"And I'm just supposed to take your word for it?" Warner said.

"You know what," Mike said in an offhand manner, "I'm tired of having this argument with you, Richard. If you think your men can handle three übers, go ahead and send them out. Just don't expect us to clean them up. In the meantime, we're going to do our jobs. Mary, if you would?"

Mary nodded and her suit began to melt and shrink. The white shirt completely vanished as the black, shinny liquid that had been the suit closed up and wrapped around her neck and covered her hands. It stopped for a second while she raised a hand and waved to Warner.

"Buh bye," she said in a cheerful tone before the suit flowed again, covering her hair and face before it finally settled into a dry, seamless matte black bodysuit with what looked like inset armor plates. Her head turned to the left, then the right and she nodded to herself. Four thick tentacles grew out of her back, planted themselves around the hole and lifted her up, then lowered her down into the black.

A minute later, her voice crackled over the radio.

"Looks clean. Come on down."

Mike looked at Roy.

"Roy, you're up."

Roy nodded and rose up off the ground and just floated down the hole.

"Showoffs," Warner muttered.

"How are we supposed to get down?" Jodie asked.

"TK assist," Mike said.

Jodie winced.

"You ready, Mike?" Roy asked over the radio.

"Yeah, go for it."

Mike rose up and floated down the tunnel, just like Roy had.

"Jodie," Mike's voice came over the radio, "it's about thirty feet down and the bottom's sloped. Roy's going to lift you down, but be careful when you land."

"Got it."

Jodie braced herself. TK assisted lifts were standard training at the academy, but she wasn't that fond of the experience. She felt something wrap around her like a pair of arms in a loose hug before she felt the pressure against the bottom of her feet. It was unusual. With the instructor at the academy it was like riding an elevator without walls and she always felt like she was going to fall over. Roy seemed to be focusing on holding her upright as well as carrying her down the tunnel.

Mike was right. She almost slipped on the floor.

Mary was standing up at the end of the tunnel, her tentacles gone, but looking for all the world like a ninja in body armor. Roy stood behind her and a pair of Mag-lights floated overhead illuminating the tunnel and the spot where Mike stood, hands on the wall.

"This was well planned," he said. "They've been working the tunnel for weeks. I think . . . MARTA."

"What?" Jodie asked.

"Metro Atlanta Rapid Transit Authority," Mike said. "They abbreviate it MARTA. There's a train station under Peachtree Center, and the digger and TK both had MARTA badges."

"So they were posing as subway employees and using it as a cover to tunnel into the bank from a train station?" Jodie asked. "Wouldn't someone notice?"

Roy laughed. "Wait until you see the train station."

"Let's go," Mike said.

Mary started forward and Roy and Mike followed. Jodie noticed Mike kept his hand in contact with the wall as they walked.

"Heh."

"What is it?" Roy asked.

"They've just been dumping the rock right into the construction debris," Mike said.

Roy shook his head. "You know, I thought this kind of thing was going to stop when that idiot Campbell was voted out of office."

"What kind of thing?" Jodie asked.

"The Peachtree Center station has been under construction, constantly, for about five years." Mike said.

"Ah."

The tunnel let out into a supply closet. A large metal shelving unit had been shoved in front of the mouth of the tunnel. Mary picked it up and set it aside while Jodie and Roy covered her, ready to attack, but there was nothing in the closet but cleaning supplies. Once they were sure it was clear, Mike stepped forward and touched the door.

"We didn't miss them by much," he said. "They had to change their . . . Oh, ewww . . ."

"What?" Roy asked.

"Skid marks," Mike said in a disgusted tone.

"Okay, from now on, no one asks for details of Mike's visions," Mary said.

"Right," Roy said. "I should know better by now."

"Um, not to be a party pooper . . ." Jodie stopped when Mike and Roy both burst out laughing. Then she realized what she'd said and looked at Mary.

"Are they always like this?"

"No, sometimes they act childish," she said. "Boss, we've got a job."

"Right," Mike said, still holding his sides. "Yeah. They changed clothes and tossed the goods in one of those Rubbermaid dumpster things."

Mary nodded and her bodysuit melted back into a black and gray pinstripe number right out of the Macy's catalogue. Jodie decided the strangest part of the process was watching her gun and badge crawl from her hip and belt up under the coat and tuck into the shoulder holster and inside breast pocket.

"That's a neat trick," Jodie said.

"Yeah," Roy said, "but it makes her a pain to shop for."

"Admit it," Mike said, "you love working with a chick who shows up to work naked every day."

Before anyone could say a word, Mike opened the door of the closet and stepped out.

They got a lot of odd looks, including one from the cop with the "MARTA Police" patch on his shoulder. Mike waved him over as he took out his badge.

"Special Agent Beyer, FBSI," he said. "I'm looking for three men. At least two of them are in Marta uniforms. One's a short fellow, lots of hair, swarthy with big eyes, looks kind of like a mole. The next one is tall, blond, looks kind of like a surfer dude. The last one is big and kinda dumb looking."

"The first two sound like Julio and Dave," the cop said.

"Have you seen them lately?"

"Yeah, they went up to the dumpsters about fifteen minutes ago."

"Which way?"

"Elevators on the other end of the platform," the cop said.

"Thanks," Mike said. "That closet is now a crime scene. I need you to keep it sealed."

"Um . . ."

Mike didn't wait for the rest of his response, he just took off in the direction of the escalators and led them down a flight of stairs, across the train platform and up another flight of stairs at very near a dead run. Sure enough, the first thing Jodie noticed when they reached the top was that end of the station was under construction and a large section was barricaded off with plywood and two by fours.

Mike started to turn toward the elevators but stopped. He eyed the plywood.

"What?" Roy asked.

Mike walked over to the plywood and touched it.

"There's another tunnel," he said. "Come on. I think we can beat them if we hurry." He turned away from the elevator and toward escalators that were off to the right.

Mary just shrugged. "You heard the man," she said before she and Roy took off after him. Jodie followed.

The escalators had to be the longest she'd ever seen. They were at least four stories and by the time she hit the bottom, Mike was halfway up. At the top, Mike turned right and Jodie lost sight of him.

"Slow down, Mike," Roy said over the radio.

"Dude, they're getting away," Mike said.

"Yeah, but you're not exactly combat effective are you?" Roy asked

"So catch up," Mike said

"Idiot."

"Heard that."

"Meant you too," Roy said.

Jodie turned the corner and ran up a couple of steps and found herself in a food court. Her stomach reminded her that she hadn't had lunch, but she ignored it and focused on catching up to Mike, Roy, and Mary.

The problem was, Mike and Roy were nowhere to be seen. Jodie skidded to a halt next to Mary.

"Which way?" Mary asked into her headset.

"The Hyatt, motor lobby" Mike replied over the radio.

Mary cornered at an Orange Julius stand and Jodie followed. They went through a short glass covered walkway and were in the hotel.

"Where's the motor lobby?" Jodie asked.

"Four floors down," Mary said and they ran across the lobby for the escalators. "Hold on," Mary said, and before Jodie could ask what she meant, Mary picked her up and instead of taking the escalators, she jumped over the railing. Jodie screamed, but the tentacles reappeared, shooting down to the floor below and slowing their fall. Mary set her on her feet.

"This way," she said and headed for another bank of escalators. Since there was no opening around these, they were forced to take the next three flights on foot, but the last escalator put them out right by the motor lobby. They burst through the doors from the lobby into the parking garage just in time to see a van swing around the corner at speed. Roy was standing right in front of it, arms raised while Mike stood off to the side with his gun drawn.

The front of the van crumpled as it hit an invisible wall.

"I said stop!" Roy yelled.

Mary stepped forward and her suit melted into armor again, but this time, her badge was fixed to the left side of her chest.

"FBSI," she shouted. "Step out of the vehicle with your hands raised. Any attempt to use your powers will result in charges of resisting arrest."

Jodie shoved the sleeves of her suit up to her elbows and pointed her fists at the van. No need to take chances, or ruin a good suit.

It turned out to be a good decision. The side of the van blew off and sailed toward her. She blasted it aside and started searching for targets.

A big guy with long, stringy blonde hair, a mustache and a beard who looked like a pro-wrestler charged Mary and before Jodie could fire on him, Mary leapt at him and they started trading blows. She looked around and Roy was fighting the guy who could only be the digger. His hands ended in long, blunt claws that he was trying to use to gut Roy, but Roy had a telekinetic shield up and the digger couldn't get at him. That left the TK.

"Where's the third one?" she asked.

"I don't know," Mike said.

"How can you not know?" she asked.

"This place is loaded with images. It would take too long to sort them."

"Fine," Jodie said. "Roy, give him a shove."

Roy raised his hand and pushed toward the digger. The digger sailed back about ten feet and Jodie pointed her fist at him. The air rippled and slammed into the digger hard enough to knock him into the wall. He fell to the ground, out cold. She turned.

"Mary, get clear of Blondie there."

"Got it," Mary said. She rolled onto her back and slammed both of her feet into his gut, sending him sailing. Jodie gave him just enough lead and let loose with a blast. He hit the wall near where the digger had and fell to the ground, unmoving.

"Mike, we've got you covered," Jodie said.

"Good job," Mike said as he stepped back and put his hand against the wall.

"Roy," Mary said, "can you feel him?"

"Not a thing," Roy said.

"You think he's a telepath too?" Mary asked.

"Yeah, probably," Roy said.

"Look out," Mike shouted.

Jodie turned and saw the chunk of van she'd blasted earlier sailing toward her. She raised her hands and fired, blasting it aside easily.

"The perp!" Mary shouted.

Jodie turned and all three of her teammates were running for the parking garage exit. She ran after them cursing under her breath. One of the first things they'd drummed into her at the academy was to avoid street fights. Too easy to hit innocent bystanders, too many potential hostages, way too much collateral damage, the public always pitched a fit and there were almost always letters of censure.

She didn't want a letter of censure. Her first day was going badly enough as it was.

People were screaming and running by the time Jodie hit the street. It wasn't hard to see why, either. Roy was standing in the middle of the street and a large delivery van was rising and falling on top of him like a hammer trying to drive a nail. Mary was about thirty feet up a wall, screaming in rage with tentacles flaying, but the TK obviously had her pinned. Mike was emptying a gun the size of a Cadillac at the TK, but the bullets kept flattening themselves against an invisible wall.

Jodie raised both fists, checked her line of fire, and was about to blast him when he suddenly turned on her. She was snatched up and slammed back against the wall and her hands pinned down.

The TK turned his attention back to Mike and walked right into the hail of bullets. Mike never flinched. He just fed magazine after magazine into his pistol until he shot himself dry, then pulled out a snap baton and flicked it open.

Roy kept yelling, telling Mike to run, but he couldn't get way from the delivery van. Mary screamed and a single long, spiked tentacle shot toward the TK.

He yelled and looked down when it speared his leg. He waved his hand and the spike pulled back out of his leg and Mary shot up the side of the building a good twenty stories.

He turned back to Mike.

"Time to die, little man," the TK said.

Jodie pulled against the invisible force holding her. She couldn't let this happen. She couldn't let a member of her team be killed. She couldn't let Mike be killed. She just needed to focus, to get one hand up, but she couldn't. All she could do was glare and growl.

One shot. All she needed was one shot.

The TK drove Mike to his knees.

Just one shot.

Mike's hands went to his throat.

Jodie felt the blood pounding behind her eyes, the headache she'd all but forgotten during the heat of the chase flared again and for a second, she was sure her skull would split open.

Mike's face started to turn blue.

The world suddenly turned red and the TK folded nearly in half as two thick red beams shot out of Jodie's eyes and slammed into him, sending him sailing into the large golden sphere suspended above the fountain in front of the hotel across the street. The thing rang like a bell and Jodie, suddenly free of the invisible force holding her up, fell to her knees. She stayed there for a second, looking at the crumpled body of the TK, then passed out.

* * *

"It's no big deal," Mary said.

Jodie tried to look up at Mary and instantly regretted opening her eyes. Even with all the lights out in the interrogation room, the light getting in past the closed blinds was enough to hurt.

"I passed out during a fight," Jodie groaned.

"Come on, Jodie," Mary said, "it's not that uncommon to pass out the first time a new power manifests."

"Have you?" Jodie asked.

"No, but then I'm just a one."

Jodie groaned as she realized she'd gone from a one to a two. She'd have to get the signature of her new power cataloged and re-file her registration papers.

"Roy, on the other hand, is a three."

Jodie dropped the ice pack and looked at Mary, then winced and shut her eyes as the light registered. Mary handed her the ice pack again.

"He's really a three?" she asked.

"Yeah," Mary said. "TK manifested first, but he was in the middle of a chemistry class when the Telepath manifested. It was a bit embarrassing for him really. Apparently the girl sitting behind his was thinking dirty thoughts about the professor and it bled through."

Jodie chuckled, then winced as the movement upset her stomach.

"That isn't the really funny one though," Mary said.

"Really, what is?"

"Well, before he went to the Academy, Roy got his PhD. Poor boy has a thing about public speaking. Don't know why. He used to do community theater all the time, and he was one of the best teachers Georgia State ever put in a classroom, but ask the boy to present a paper and he breaks out into a cold sweat."

"Oh no," Jodie said, suddenly having a pretty good idea where this was going.

"Well, he's suppose to present a paper on the use of telekinesis to manipulate light in the optics lab, so he walks out onto the stage, looks at a crowd of about a thousand physicists, and just vanishes."

Jodie laughed, and then clutched her head.

"Oh, God," she said, not sure herself if she was referring to the pain or the image of Roy vanishing from behind a podium.

"Yeah, it gets worse. The poor guy didn't even realize it. He just stood there and presented his entire paper while he was invisible."

"Please stop," Jodie said.

"Aw, come on. Don't you want to hear the part about how it took him three weeks to figure out how to become visible again?"

Jodie laughed even harder.

The door opened and a balding man in his late thirties stuck his head in.

"Scott wants to know if she's ready to debrief," he asked.

"How about it?" Mary asked.

"Yeah," Jodie said. "Just hand me my sunglasses."

Mary handed her the sunglasses. She put them on and stood up. Mary took her arm and led her out of the interrogation room.

At which point, they ran smack into Roy and Mike.

Mike looked at her, then at Roy. "Dude, I told you. I frickin' told you . . ."

Jodie looked up at both of them and shook her head.

"Yeah, fine," she said. "I shoot laser beams out of my eyes."

"Don't forget, he thinks you're hot," Roy said.

"Please shut up," Jodie said.

Mike smiled. "Told you she hated you."

"No, Mary's right. I hate both of you."

* * *

Pastry Run

Written by Nancy Fulda
llustrated by Ural Akyuz

It's a killer job, but the old lady pays good.

Charles de Gaulle to the Sea of Tranquility in three hours flat. You can't come late, and you can't bring yesterday's. She tastes the difference.

The air is crisp at 5:00 a.m.

From my seat in the cockpit I can see Chazz coming down the A1 motorway. He's pushing 200 km/h, weaving between cars on his motorcycle. He screeches to a halt at the launchpad and sprints up the stairs with our cargo.

We get the all clear from the tower, and I'm gunning the engines before Chazz finishes strapping in. We lift out of the city skyline, a dark wedge against the brightening clouds.

Back in the old days, they used to fly pastries from Paris to New York every morning in the Concorde. Heck of a grocery bill, but the connoisseurs said it was worth it. A New Yorker just can't make a real French pastry, no matter how hard he tries. It has to come from France.

Madame Rousseau takes the game a step farther. She hasn't eaten an éclair in her life that wasn't made in the pastry shop near her childhood home. The clock starts ticking as soon as Madame's little treasures come out of the oven, and it doesn't stop until we touch down on Luna. If the goods aren't delivered by the time she sits down to tea, we don't get paid.

We're out of French airspace now, up in the lower stratosphere, just a few minutes out from the slingshot. It has a fancy name, suborbital Lunar something-or-other, but what it really is is a floating ring of plasma and metal that plays games with relativity. You fly through the middle and—bang!—your velocity relative to the earth gets a kick in the pants, and you're headed toward the moon at .2 cee. If you aim right, you pass through a second ring at the other end and get speed-shifted back, all without feeling so much as a tap against the hull.

The angle is critical. Come in crooked, and you'll shoot right past the moonside device. Happens every once in a while: some drunk pilot doesn't watch his v-vector and gets booted out past Pluto. Sometimes the ships make it back. The pilots never do.

The whole shebang is owned and operated by the LTS—the Lunar Transportation Society. They run their contraption on a strictly first-come first-served basis, and they don't take bribes, which means you're always stuck behind a line of twenty to thirty lumbering freight ships waiting for a boost to the cheese ball. I suppose if you're just a celebrity or an important diplomat you can afford to kick your heels for a few hours and wait for your turn. But not if you're delivering Madame Rousseau's raspberry croissants.

Up at the ring I see the LTS watchdogs waiting for us, looking like big black manta rays with the fins curled down. Their engines flare sullenly as they pull into formation.

Watchdogs are muscle ships—lots of guns, lots of shield plates—but in the end it's mostly show. The only thing they're allowed to fire at civilians are gobs of circuit-chomping nanobots. I run my fingers across the controls and wait for the fun to start.

Chazz calculates our entry angle for the ring. Today's flight path shows up in blue on my nav board. We'll have to cut pretty tight around the nose of the freighter lining up at the ring, but that's nothing our pussycat can't handle.

A warning buzzer sounds, the nav board flickers and I pull hard to starboard. The corvette jumps like a frightened rabbit. A fine green line on the screen shows me the trajectory of the nanoshot as it rushes past my portside thruster.

A second buzzer sounds, interrupted by a third, and the dance begins in earnest. The corvette darts and spins like a ribbon in a wind tunnel. The stars reel and lurch in time with my stomach, but that doesn't bother me. I'm high on adrenaline, thrilling in the corvette's responsiveness, ears pricked for the next buzzer. It's moments like this when I feel most alive.

When the buzzer sounds again I'm already cutting port before I realize that the pitch is different. I see a flicker of yellow to my left. It's the EM detector spiking in the soft x-ray range; the type of surge that precedes a—

"Solar flare!" I shout, and pull hard about.

Chazz uses one of the words he saves for special occasions.

Flares are notorious for shorting circuitry up here past the Van Allen belts, and since we've stripped our external shielding for extra speed, something busts every time. Not usually a problem; our nanotech lives in a cozy little shield box, and it can overhaul the electronics in a few hours. But right now, everything depends on seconds.

I'm thrusting full on for the nearest freighter, putting a lot more gees on Madame's pastries than the contract strictly allows. Their travel case whines ominously as its acceleration dampers reach maximum power, but I don't slow down. I'm thinking if we can get behind that freighter before the flare hits full intensity, we might not take any damage.

We almost make it. Just as we slip into the freighter's shadow I see a little flicker, and the nav board goes dead. I backthrust until we're drifting at a soft null-v relative to the freighter and tap the nav board's power switch. Nothing.

It's my turn to use one of Chazz's special-occasion words. The nav board is our primary interface with the ship's sensors and computation package. Without it, we're flying blind and brainless.

"Bots are working on nav," Chazz tells me, tapping away at the nanotech controls. "We lose anything else?"

Belatedly, I scan the readouts above our lifeless navigation system. It would be just our luck to lose the oxy pumps, too . . . but the lights all show green.

"No, just the board," I answer. "You got a time estimate on it?"

"I don't even have a diagnostic yet," he says. Chazz hates being rushed. "Half hour, maybe."

I swear again. If we aren't through the ring in less than ten minutes, we'll miss our deadline for sure. I can already hear the sound of Madame's electronic credits slipping through my fingers and back into her bank account. My mouth tastes sour.

"Looks like an abort," Chazz says.

Chazz always did have a streak of quitter in him. I hate to admit it, but I'm thinking this time he might be right. Without the nav board, I have no entry vector for the ring. Without an entry vector, I can't line us up with the moonside device. We'd shoot straight past Luna and out of the solar system. One-way trip. Finis.

Still, it knots me up inside to think of dropping a job.

It's not about the money, really, although I won't deny we need it. It's something else; some sort of stubborn pride. It's the same drive, I think, that pushed Madame to Luna. Folks say she went because of her heart, or because of her osteoporosis, or because she needed a change. But if I know the old lady, it wasn't any of that at all. She went to Luna because it was the only place left where she couldn't tell everyone what to do. She went to tame it.

Chazz clears his throat. I look through the front viewplate and see the first watchdog rising over the freighter like a black moon.

Then I get an idea.

I'm gunning the engines before I realize I have a plan, darting around to the bottom of the freighter to buy some time. I snatch Chazz's scribblepad and slap it on the console in front of him.

"Chazz," I say, "I want you to recalculate that entry vector."

"Using this?" My copilot's tone is incredulous. "Have you ever tried to do complex math on one of these things? It's near impossible. Besides, I'm missing half the base numbers . . ."

"Our comsat still works, doesn't it? Call someone."

Chazz throws me an angry look, but he presses the comsat earpiece to his head and dials a number. "Hi, Sheila? Oh, fine, fine. Hey, listen, I need a favor. Can you pull up the online astronomics database and get me the moon's current RA/dec coordinates? Yeah, it's kind of urgent . . ."

The watchdog is angling around, trying to get a clean shot at us: if he hits the freighter, its pilot is sure to sue. I skim back and forth, doing my best to convince the watchdog that if he fires, I'll dodge like always, and he'll disable the freighter.

A second watchdog pulls up past the side of the freighter, followed by a third, and my life becomes a complex maneuvering game with two teams and four players. Chazz grumbles to himself and taps the stylus back and forth across his scribblepad. The EM detector shows that the flare is dying down.

"OK, I've got it," Chazz says.

"You sure?"

"I'm always sure."

I groan, but there's no point in arguing. Chazz never checks his math. He says it's a waste of time, and I have to admit I haven't caught him in a mistake yet.

He slides the scribblepad toward me and leans back in his chair. "So now you have your number," he says. "How are you going to fly it?"

It's a good question.

On a normal day the nav board does all the work. Our v-vector shows up as a set of real numbers: I just fly a path that makes them match the entry angle for the ring. Working without the board, I could probably eyeball something close to the right vector, but it wouldn't be nearly precise enough to make us hit the moonside device. Half a degree makes a big difference when you're traveling at 384,000 km per hour.

Chazz is watching me with a triumphant sort of expression. He's waiting for me to grit my teeth, bite the bullet, and head home. And that's probably what I'd have done if he hadn't looked so smug about it. I don't think Chazz realizes how many times his pessimism has driven me to new heights of insanity.

I rummage one-handed in the cockpit's junk drawer.

"Here," I say, handing him a broken-off ruler and a nearly inkless permanent marker. "Calculate the height and width of the ring's projection on our viewplate when we're twenty meters out at the correct angle."

Chazz sees where I'm going with this. His eyes brighten with genuine enthusiasm, and he takes the scribblepad back. That's Chazz for you. The first to jump on a new idea as well as the first to bail when the water gets cold.

I play gingerbread man with the watchdogs while Chazz crunches numbers. After a minute he leans across my control board and sketches four little x's on the viewplate. If I imagine a curve running through all four marks, it looks oblong, like a circle that's been squashed and rolled on its side.

"OK," I say, blowing out most of my breath on the word. "Hold on tight."

Chazz grips the side rails as I rev the engine and shoot out from behind the comforting bulk of the freighter, out into the big, wide-open spaces waiting to be filled with nanoshots. There are no warning buzzers to tell me they're coming, so I fly a crazy path, backthrusting, twisting, and corkscrewing like a ladybug in a hurricane. I hope the watchdog pilots are dense enough to keep targeting us and don't just start flooding the area with randomly fired shots. I try to swallow the extra saliva out of my mouth, but my stomach got left several corkscrews back, so it doesn't work very well.

I zigzag in front of the ring until its foreshortened outline matches the x's on the viewplate, just smaller. About twenty meters out I pull to a near stop and nudge the aft thrusters until the ring's glowing silhouette touches the center of each mark. This is the critical moment. A nanoshot fired right now will hit us for sure, but I'm gambling that it will take the watchdogs' gunmen a moment to reorient and realize they've got a sitting duck.

To my relief, no muffled splats sound against the hull.

I murmur a prayer to the gods of higher math, bring the engines to full throttle, and send the corvette from 0 to 520 in .3 seconds. A delicate cellophane crackling and a flicker of orange light mark our passage through the ring.

* * *

One hour later we're gliding over the Sea of Tranquility. These days there's real water in it, and a landscaped coastline with silicon-based no-oxy vegetation. The view is breathtaking.

Madame Rousseau's mansion sits right on the edge of the lake, the best outlook in town. The butler comes out in a pressure suit as we touch down on the space pad. He retrieves our cargo through the airlock and gives us a cheery wave as he walks it toward the security gate. Through the tinted lunar windows, I can just make out Madame's figure sitting down to tea in the top-story sitting room.

We lift off and head home.

Chazz logs into our bank account, grunts, and tells me our pay was docked 30 percent for "damaged merchandise." That's rich people for you. No appreciation for the realities of life.

I hear Madame tried to buy the Louvre last year. She wanted to view the paintings without being annoyed by tourists and students. I can imagine the old woman's face, the wrinkled lips pressed tightly together as she placed bill after bill on some stodgy bureaucrat's desk, trying to get him to sell. Must have been terribly frustrating for her. But hey, it's like they say: money can't buy everything.

* * *

Fishing

Written by Thea Hutcheson
Illustrated by Kelley Hensing

Maruka slid a grasping tentacle through the slit into another universe and fished around. The fluid, a mild surfactant, meant she could do without a protective sheath, allowing her to feel viscously instead of groping blindly. Her timing was perfect; the fluid was calm and the agitation cycle was some moments away.

The exploration was disappointing again. The human in the other universe had begun clipping the fashion sheaths together, rendering them too big to pull through. Doubly sad, Maruka thought, flushing green. The fashion sheaths had been paying her survival debts.

The sheaths were a perfect fit for a Cleemlik's courting appendage, creating a veil from which it glowed demurely. The humans in the other universe wore them on the ends of their lower mobility appendages, inside their exterior protectors, so they became worn and stained, but odd was as odd does and universes were odd.

That thought brought her back around to Benizeer's recent oddness. All Maruka wanted was a dark umber relationship that ultimately ran deep cobalt through parenthood. And Benizeer, like that other being, insisted on clipping things to it. Certainly they should have offspring, but why two litters, and why so quickly?

"Of course," she thought, "it's the same thing, macro and micro." She quoted her mentor, Quemish. "You're looking at the bottom side of another universe. What do you think you're seeing, Maruka?"

Her grasping tentacle had shaded to black distaste in the liquid, which, she realized, was exactly how Benizeer made her feel. "You're looking at Benizeer's bottom side," she said. "What do you think you're seeing?"

She withdrew her appendage and wiped it off. She'd worked both relationship and claim very productively until recently when they both started to go puce. Now the claim seemed played out, which also described her relationship with Benizeer. Together, these thoughts made a gadabout an appealing idea. Her timing was good, too. The universe fabric was puckered here, forming a big suck at her top right as she faced the universe's underside. Scholars theorized that pressure differential between the two sides of the universe created a low pressure system, which sucked matter through the dimple. It was going to commence shortly and she was dangerously close.

She moved away from the claim, closed her visuals and centered herself with a wan chi breathing ritual before spreading her awareness over the land. Drawn to face northwest, she focused and saw bluffs that were suffused red with the wealth of their slits.

Maruka felt drawn past them and concentrated. Yes, nestled two ridges over, a warm rainbow spelled an interesting community. She heard ticking. The suck hole dimple was beginning to draw. Its strength had increased since the last interval, drawing even her toward its mouth. She had told the universe cartographers and they had promised to send someone to look. She picked up her pack and began to move away. It would open quickly and suck anything in its radius into its maw. Cleemish knew where it would end up. She felt the suck's wind pull as she hit a ground-eating stride.

Maruka gadded throughout the day, reading the geography of the land, checking the color of any slits, laying stakes and marking sucks for placement on the great universe underbelly map. She went to register two small exploratory claims at the closest community. While she waited in line, two peace sentries went by with a bedraggled male.

"Geodan have mercy, there's another that can't meet his survival debts. How they let it get that far is beyond me."

She turned to see a handsome male.

"Name's Shaderjak." His voice was rich and friendly. He offered a grasping tentacle, which glowed a lovely rust. She blushed peach and noticed his courting appendage beaming brightly through a very attractive fashion sheath. She wondered if he'd fished it near here.

"Maruka," she replied, taking the tentacle. "Why did they take him?"

"His survival debt is very high and he couldn't make his promised litters to pay it off."

Maruka barely remembered to let go of Shaderjak's tentacle. His answer made her realize that survival debt explained all of Benizeer's oddness. The geography of Benizeer's underbelly was suddenly mapped in burning white.

She looked to Shaderjak, who was preening his courting appendage. She flushed orange with appreciation, maroon with pleasure at finding this place.

But she must go back and break off with Benizeer first. If Shaderjak was still available when she got back, a relationship would be worth exploring

"I have to go," she said when she had the claim titles. Shaderjak's courting appendage faded.

"But I'll be back." She blushed dark peach as his appendage brightened.

She loped back to her claim at an easy pace, arriving in darkest night to see Benizeer approaching it, rather stealthily, it seemed to her. She rounded on him, panting. He seemed surprised to see her.

"Maruka, I was coming to see you," he said, his courting appendage creating a dim rusty glow through his fashion sheath.

"About what?"

"About our impending union."

"Yes, about our union."

"We should do it as quickly as possible."

"Do you want this arrangement so you can provide litters for survival obligations?"

Looking down at her, he turned a queer bright yellow. "I chose you because you were such a slow thing, but sweet."

How could she have been so intent on her claim yet so blind to the folds and curves of Benizeer's deception? Maruka blanched in the bright, clean white light that revealed the map of Benizeer's plans for her. Then the thought that she had nearly succumbed turned her puce down to the tips of her mobility appendages. She was free to go back to the northwest and explore her new claims and Shaderjak with good color and a fresher eye for underbellies.

The familiar ticking began. She hitched her pack up, ready to go. "This constitutes a formal dismissal of your suit. I won't say thanks, but I will say goodbye."

"No," he said, coming at her, evidently too focused on her to recognize the danger the ticking signaled. "You'll have my two litters and as many others as I need."

She scrambled away from him and the mouth of the suck. Benizeer started to chase her. The ticking grew louder; the suck opened. Benizeer stood right in front of it. That close he had no chance. He was pulled through, flailing. Maruka stood out of range, flushing with shock at his fate.

She adjusted her pack and set off at a gallop back to the northwest. There waited the bottom side of a universe in all its wealthiest red. There was also the promise of umber to be mapped in Shaderjak's geography, and maybe a bit of parenting cobalt. She was sure there was much fishing to be done in both of them.

* * *

COLUMNS

Jim Baen
October 22, 1943 - June 28, 2006

Written by David Drake

Jim Baen called me on the afternoon of June 11. He generally phoned on weekends, and we'd usually talk a couple more times in the course of a week; but this was the last time.

In the course of the conversation he said, "You've got to write my obituary, you know." I laughed (I'll get to that) and said, "Sure, if I'm around--but remember, I'm the one who rides the motorcycle."

So I'm writing this. Part of it's adapted from the profile I did in 2000 for the program book of the Chicago Worldcon at which Jim was Editor Guest of Honor. They cut my original title, which Jim loved: The God of Baendom. I guess they thought it was undignified and whimsical.

The title was undignified and whimsical. So was Jim.

James Patrick Baen was born October 22, 1943, on the Pennsylvania - New York border, a long way by road or in culture from New York City . He was introduced to SF early through the magazines in a step-uncle's attic, including the November, 1957, issue of Astounding with The Gentle Earth by Christopher Anvil.

The two books Jim most remembered as formative influences were Fire-Hunter by Jim Kjelgaard and Against the Fall of Night by Arthur C Clarke. The theme of both short novels is that a youth from a decaying culture escapes the trap of accepted wisdom and saves his people despite themselves. This is a fair description of Jim's life in SF: he was always his own man, always a maverick, and very often brilliantly successful because he didn't listen to what other people thought.

For example, the traditional model of electronic publishing required that the works be encrypted. Jim thought that just made it hard for people to read books, the worst mistake a publisher could make. His e-texts were clear and in a variety of common formats.

While e-publishing has been a costly waste of effort for others, Baen Books quickly began earning more from electronic sales than it did from Canada . By the time of Jim's death, the figure had risen to ten times that.

Jim didn't forget his friends. In later years he arranged for the expansion of Fire-Hunter so that he could republish it (as The Hunter Returns , originally the title of the Charles R Knight painting Jim put on the cover).

Though Clarke didn't need help to keep his books in print the way Kjelgaard did, Jim didn't forget him either. Jim called me for help a week before his stroke, because Amazon.com had asked him to list the ten SF novels that everyone needed to read to understand the field. Against the Fall of Night was one of the titles that we settled on.

Jim's father died at age fifty; he and his stepfather didn't warm to one another. Jim left home at 17 and lived on the streets for several months, losing weight that he couldn't at the time afford. He enlisted in the army as the only available alternative to starving to death.

Jim spent his military career in Bavaria where he worked for the Army Security Agency as a Morse Code Intercept Operator, monitoring transmissions from a Soviet callsign that was probably a armored corps. One night he determined that 'his' Soviet formation was moving swiftly toward the border. This turned out to be an unannounced training exercise--but if World War III had broken out in 1960, Jim would've been the person who announced it.

Jim entered CCNY on the GI Bill and became a Hippie. Among other jobs he managed a Greenwich Village coffee house, sometimes acting as barker as well: 'Come in and see tomorrow's stars today!' None of the entertainers became tomorrow's stars, but that experience of unabashed huckstering is part of the reason that Jim himself did.

Jim's first job in publishing was as an assistant in the Complaints Department of Ace Books. He was good at it--so good that management tried to promote him to running the department. He turned the offer down, however, because he really wanted to be an SF editor.

In 1973 Jim was hired at Galaxy and If magazines when Judy-Lynn Benjamin left. He became assistant to Ejler Jakobson, who with Bernie Williams taught Jim the elements of slash and burn editing.

Unfortunately, this was a necessary skill for an editor in Jim's position. The publisher wasn't in a hurry to pay authors, so established writers who could sell elsewhere preferred to do so. Galaxy and If published a lot of first stories and not a few rejects by major names. Material like that had to be edited for intelligibility and the printer's deadline, not nuances of prose style.

Apart from basic technique Jim had very little to learn from his senior, who shortly thereafter left to pursue other opportunities. Jim's first act as editor was to recall stories that his predecessor had rejected over Jim's recommendation. When in later years I thanked him for retrieving the first two Hammer stories, Jim responded, ''Oh, David--Jake rejected much better stories than yours!" (Among them was Ursula K LeGuin's Nebula winner, The Day Before the Revolution .)

Ace Books, in many ways the standard bearer of SF paperback publishing in the Fifties, had fallen on hard times in the Seventies. Charter Communications bought the company and installed Tom Doherty as publisher. Tom hired Jim to run the SF line. The first thing the new team did was to pay Ace's back (and in some cases, way back) royalties. By the time the famous SFWA audit of Ace Books was complete, the money had already been paid to the authors; a matter of some embarrassment to the SFWA officers who were aware of the facts.

Ace regained its position as an SF line where readers could depend on getting a good story. (To Homer, that was the essence of art; not all writers and editors of more recent times would have agreed.) As well as pleasing readers, the Ace SF line made money for the company; unfortunately (due to decisions from far above the level of publisher) SF came to be the only part of the company that did make money. Tom left Ace in 1980, founded Tor Books, and hired Jim to set up the Tor SF line.

Which Jim did, following the same pattern that had revived Ace: a focus on story and a mix of established authors with first-timers whom Jim thought just might have what it took. It worked again.

In fact it worked so well that when Simon and Schuster went through a series of upheavals in its Pocket Books line in 1983, management decided to hire Jim as their new SF editor. Jim thought about the offer, then made a counter-offer: with the backing of two friends, he would form a separate company which would provide S&S with an SF line to distribute. S&S agreed and Baen Books was born.

Jim used the same formulas with his new line as he had at Ace and Tor, and again he succeeded. If that were easy, then past decades wouldn't be littered with the detritus of so many other people's attempts to do the same thing.

Even more than had been the case at Ace and Tor, Jim was his own art director at Baen Books--and he really directed rather than viewing his job as one of coddling artists. Baen Books gained a distinct look. Like the book contents, the covers weren't to everyone's taste--but they worked.

Jim had the advantage over some editors in that he knew what a story is. He had the advantage over most editors in being able to spot talent before somebody else had published it. (Lois Bujold, Eric Flint, John Ringo and Dave Weber were all Baen discoveries whom Jim promoted to stardom.)

Furthermore, he never stopped developing new writers. The week before his stroke, Jim bought a first novel from a writer whom Baen Books had been grooming through short stories over the past year.

The most important thing of all which Jim brought to his company was a personal vision. Baen Books didn't try to be for everybody, but it wa s always true to itself. In that as in so many other ways, the company mirrored Jim himself.

When Jim called me on June 11, he told me he was dying. I thought he was simply having a bad interaction among prescription drugs. Though the stroke that killed him occurred the next day in hospital, Jim was right and I was wrong--again.

After that opening, Jim said, "I'm just going to say it: we've known each other all these years and you seem to like me. Why?"

That's a hell of a thing to be hit with out of the blue. Jim had always known that he was socially awkward and that he not infrequently rubbed people the wrong way, but it wasn't something we discussed. (And it's obviously not a subject on which I could be of much help.)

If I'd been a different person, I'd have started out by listing the things he did right: for example, that I'd never met a more loving father than Jim was to his children (Jessica Baen, 29, Jim's daughter with Madeline Gleich, and Katherine Baen, 14, Jim's daughter with Toni Weisskopf). Being me, I instead answered the question a number of us ask ourselves: "How can you like a person who's behaved the way you know I have?"

I said that his flaws were childish ones, tantrums and sulking; not, never in my experience, studied cruelty. He agreed with that.

And then I thought further and said that when I was sure my career was tanking--

" You thought that? When was that?"

In the mid '90s, I explained, when Military SF was going down the tubes with the downsizing of the military. But when I was at my lowest point, which was very low, I thought, "I can write two books a year. And Jim will pay me $20K apiece for them--"

"I'd have paid a lot more than that!"

And I explained that this wasn't about reality: this was me in the irrational depths of real depression. And even when I was most depressed and most irrational, I knew in my heart that Jim Baen would pay me enough to keep me alive, because he was that sort of person. He'd done that for Keith Laumer whom he disliked, because Laumer had been an author Jim looked for when he was starting to read SF.

I could not get so crazy and depressed that I didn't trust Jim Baen to stand by me if I needed him. I don't know a better statement than that to sum up what was important about Jim, as a man and as a friend.

--Dave Drake

Toni Weisskopf and Dave suggest that people who wish to make a memorial donation purchase copies of THE WORLD TURNED UPSIDE DOWN and donate them to libraries or teenagers of their acquaintance.

Comments and remembrances may be left at:

Baen's Bar (http://bar.baen.com) in the "In Memorium" conference or

The Universe forums (http://www.baensuniverse.com/bbs) in the "In memorium" forum.

A Pocket History of MacroEngineering: The First Millennium

Written by Gregory Benford
Illustrated by Adam Burch

From the standpoint of a person in that distant past age around the year 2000, the central issues of the next thousand years would seem bizarre. But then, the previous millennium would have looked outrageous to either a king or a peasant peering forward from the year 1000. This Pocket History contains Historical Highlights, in a form intelligible to all forms of humans, even down to Traditional Classic Body Types of circa 2000.

The ebb and sway of political factions, and then of species-based opinion, should not obscure humanity's steady march. There was an ebb and sway to the human prospect, mostly about how much we should weigh upon our world. As the centuries rolled on from 2000 A.D., the multiplying human forms moved toward greater control of their environment. But they did not do this without constant voices that doubted the wisdom of it.

This has been a theme of our species since we separated from the chimpanzees some six million years ago:

* * *

2000-2150: The Earth Stewardship Era

In the latter half of the 21st Century the runaway greenhouse effect caught everyone's attention, especially after a billion died of the effects. This forced Green Puritans to consider planetary management. Warmed-over TwenCen objections to wise, planned human intervention faded as the true, already existing impact of human actions became obvious.

Humanity had been unthinkingly altering its world for millennia. Ice core samples showed that this began around 1000 B.C. with agriculture, which destroyed forests, released carbon dioxide and cut off the ice age that had kept humanity in poverty. To be sure, the early empires destroyed much of their rich lands. Northern Africa and what was once called the Fertile Crescent all became deserts. But the urge to make the world better, or at least distant, was strong. We were the breed of chimpanzee that restlessly moved over the horizon, after all, seeking fresh vistas.

Even so, resistance was strong. The Kyoto Accords of the early 21st Century had utterly failed to constrain the rising load of greenhouse gases. By 2060, amid storms and droughts that afflicted so many, the only argument was over whether thoughtful action was better than rash measures.

In any case, Stewardship soon became essential, following the several human diebacks in the tropical nations. Most of the oil was gone and replacement oil drawn from tar sands loomed as a mega-polluter. The planet needed cooling, fast.

Changes of cities' reflectivity eliminated their "heat island" effect, cutting air conditioning costs—simply by using white roofs and streets, and planting trees. The next Stewardship Stages stimulated cloud generation over tropical oceans, where reflected sunlight efficiency is highest. This went hand in hand with political necessity. The economic uplifting of poverty regions followed, and tropical manufacturing plants sent particle-rich plumes downwind, to grow clouds in daytime and fade at night.

Capturing carbon dioxide from the air, principally by depositing farm crop waste in the deep oceans, offset the fossil fuel burning of the developing nations. The crisis seemed to ebb.

Climate management became routine by 2140, but there was no rest for those weary of Stewardship. Other effects came into play, altering the planetary balance. Just as in the early 21st Century, early signs of a coming shift in climate—this time toward an ice age—met with disbelief. Radicals demanded new measures. Conservatives who profited from the current ideas opposed them.

Another long battle got fought out in the scientific community. Then government got involved, slowing down the debate. Yet another crisis loomed, the opposite of the last one. To avert this cooling trend and advancing glaciers meant reversing the solution—by spreading dark soil on polar caps. New atmospheric engineers suppressed the once billowy clouds in the tropics, letting those lands warm again.

The lesson was now clear. Earth had lurched first in one direction, then another. Human beings were the dominant ecological agent, like it or not.

Once taken up, guidance of the biosphere supporting 12 gigafolk could not be renounced, or else face the demise of whole societies. Geospheric Stewardship became the greatest moral imperative.

The Green Puritan movement was outlawed—but only for a while.

* * *

2200-2500: New Atmospheres on Two Worlds

Since Stewardship worked on Earth, why not afar?

As part of the general uplifting of humanity, we had begun gathering resources from beyond our moon. By 2100 metals had become harder to find in the Earth's crust, and more costly and damaging to extract. There were plenty of metals in the asteroid belt. Inevitably, we went to get them. Bringing them to Earth, smelting them in high orbits—all this helped fuel an expansion of the global economy.

But to support this industry demanded resupply of the Asteroid Anarchy from nearer that Earth—that is, from Mars. But working there was difficult, under a thin atmosphere and with little water.

Stewardship could apply there, as well.

* * *

The renegade Green Puritans tried to stage a revolt against the idea. The Red Mars Brigades used dire warnings and then terror to fend off the planetary engineers, but they were hopelessly outnumbered. Rocks, it turned out in the end, did not have rights.

Using the same dark soil deposition strategy on Mars melted the poles, releasing carbon dioxide and water. Discovery of Martian water reserves not too far beneath the red crust stimulated widespread pumping. These caused a quick greenhouse buildup in the thin atmosphere. That further melted some surface deposits, driving a slow accumulation of gases. Funded by the Fogg Foundation, this work continued until people could walk the surface wearing only pressure masks.

The Martian population spread across their arid lands, an area equal to the continents of Earth, with fresh vigor. They hunkered down each time a fresh, piloted comet came arcing in with new water. Robotic craft liberated these from the perpetual icebox of the far outer solar system. They fell down gravity's long gradient and came slamming into the upper Martian air, spreading moist wealth.

Good enough, but chilly Mars gets only half the sunlight of Earth. There is another spot at just the right distance from the sun, and near Earth, too. But with no air at all: the Moon.

For some time, lunar pioneers had been drilling their shelters. and uncovered deep ice beds. Venting of these made a thin atmosphere. Filmy clouds formed, the first in four billion years. This gave the pioneers an idea.

By that time the most valuable bulk commodity in the inner solar system had become light elements, gathered from cometary nuclei. The inner system is dry and at the bottom of a gravitational well, while at the top of the well, the outer system is wet with frozen ices. These swing in slow orbits between the vast cold bodies of Uranus, Neptune and Pluto. Slightly changing the velocity of an orbiting chunk of mostly ice and dirt could send it plunging down the well.

Harvesting such icebergs led to the "wild west" phase of water prospectors. For a small investment of velocity change, far "uphill" from the parched inner worlds, they could get rich. Their infalling rock and icebergs lit Earth's night skies with thousands of outgassing tails. Traders quickly sold these to development firms. Flown by their own gas pressures to landing sites, the dirty bergs dropped into the thin atmospheres of Mars and the Moon, blasting crater-basins. The new air of mostly water vapor changed quickly under the pelting of solar ultraviolet. Water gave hydrogen, which quickly escaped into space, leaving a growing bounty of oxygen. Add other active gases, released from the world's crust, and presto!—a new technology of atmosphere building.

Martian entrepreneurs quickly blew bubble domes, using the rims of impact craters as starters. These domes got outfitted with soils and cultured with nanotech and bacteria. Moisture came to the red plains that had not known running streams for billions of years. Designer plants sprouted beneath skies that roiled with their own evolving clouds. Where the sky had been black and star-filled, ruddy sunsets spread.

Earthside, in the desert nations now drained of their oil, immigrants looked skyward. They were used to dry lands and had little prospect on Earth now. Islam found a new frontier. In the scarred craters recently blasted by comets, domes rose with mosques at their centers. Condominiums opened within 100 days of impact. Miners, manufacturers and even tourists bought them. They even had real estate agents.

On the Moon, hundreds of comet heads slammed into the ancient plains of dark lava. The atmosphere grew from the billowing splash and spray of massive icy chunks. To have an Earthly sea level atmospheric pressure demanded deep, brooding cloudbanks. Since the moon's gravity is a sixth of Earth's, its atmosphere had to be six times thicker. Contracts penalized anything that reduced atmospheric pressure. The low gravity meant that gasses blew off readily into space; that was how the primordial Moon lost its first atmosphere in ten thousand years.

Throughout these decades of furious work, debates rose again about megaengineering. For many the issues were hoary with age. Hadn't humans settled this? But such debates dug deep into the collective psyches of these recent smart primates. The issues would never truly be settled.

The Human Hubris Party urged their Precautionary Principle and won elections for a while, but only on Earth. Moonies disliked being told what to do by the Big Brother in their sky. Earth had oceans; why couldn't Luna have at least seas?

Soon, it did. The water-rich Lunar air quickly evolved, helped along by new kinds of plants that could thrive in the dry moon's gravel. Still, the atmosphere leaked away with distressing speed. They could not keep resupplying moisture from the dwindling store in the icebox of the outer solar system.

An entrepreneur solved this with a spherical Lunar Monolayer. This transparent skin was a millimeter thick and enveloped the whole world. Capping of the atmosphere trapped it, keeping the maverick hydrogen anchored. The heady, tropical lunar air steadied. The moon was now a beautiful sphere charming Earth's night sky, its low gravity beckoning to the retired. It was a whole world whose tropical belt extended all the way to the poles: an enormous Florida.

But how to get spacecraft through the Lunar Monolayer? Moonie Technologies found that part of the Monolayer could be made smart, able to iris open for a passing craft. Through these gate-gaps, ships bearing metals from the asteroid belt competed for passage rights with fat Earthside barges, packed thick with eager immigrants. The solar system had a Twin Planet paradise.

* * *

2345: The Supernova Catastrophe

Thanks to the Sentinel Astronomy program, humanity got an early warning that a brimming star 92 light years away soon was to go supernova. The news prompted a solar-system wide panic.

The bright flash of visible light was strikingly beautiful, leaving a glowing ember hanging in the sky for years. The slower high energy particles arrived just as most people were forgetting about the whole thing. This particle flood heated the upper atmosphere of all worlds as interstellar debris came hailing down through the atmospheres, changing their chemistry. On Earth, the Moon and Mars, the ozone layers evaporated away. The sun's ultraviolet poured down. Radiation levels climbed.

On Mars and Luna, people dug vast caverns that later turned into useful living space. In the asteroid belt, miners burrowed deeper into their rocky homes. Extensive measures to defend Earth's biosphere rushed ahead. The supernova flux heated the upper atmospheres for months. Spaceships stayed grounded. The fluxes brought the greatest accidental change ever seen in the atmospheres of Mars, Earth and Luna, performing in effect experiments no one would have approved. From scientific study of this, new Stewardship measures emerged. A disaster had turned into a bonanza of insight.

* * *

2600-2700: The Hydrogen Wall

Earth had spent several million years serenely gliding through the low density Local Bubble, a hot balloon in the interstellar gas blown by an ancient supernova. It was not to last, as our sun orbited in the galactic plane. Abruptly crossing this edge into a high density molecular cloud brought a sudden intrusion of interstellar hydrogen into the inner solar system. Neutral hydrogen loves oxygen, which it met in Earth's upper atmosphere. Marrying these atoms gave a burst of heat and birthed water. In turn the water condensed into thick clouds, cooling the planet. Oxygen levels dropped, leaving humanity gasping for breath.

Vast changes came. Mars. The entire asteroid complexes suffered great damage as well. Spacecraft hulls reacted with the drifting clouds of hydrogen, suffering gnawing erosion. This threatened imminent disruption of commerce with the outer solar system's water-rich provinces. The entire system could fail. Humanity had fathomed the atmospheres of worlds; now it has to learn of the particle and magnetic pressures throughout the solar volume.

This prompted the discovery that the electrodynamic forces of large magnetospheres, principally of the Sun and Jupiter, could be tuned to "short circuit" currents. Jupiter's moon Io was an enormous electrical generator, cutting across the Jovian magnetic field. Io orbits, Jupiter rotates, and the plasma between them conducts electricity very well along its magnetic field lines, which act as if they were wires connecting Io and the planet. Several million Amperes flowed there, and humanity's greatest engineering project stole the current away. The continuous current flow created a magnetic shield, feeding on Io's orbital energy.

Harnessed, the Jupiter-Io electromagnetic loop screened out much of the invading hydrogen by sucking it into an interplanetary dumpster. Megaengineers also used the energy to cleanse and mine valuable ices from the Jovian moons, while regulating hydrogen intrusion. This brought the flowering of magnetospheric engineering. A side benefit came from imposing signals on the currents, creating a powerful SETI signaling machine.

Similar capture of cosmic current loops brought protection to the Martian Free States and saved the Asteroid Anarchy. Plasma physicists became wealthy. The Electrodynamic Union became humanity's most powerful clan. Physicists were sexy again. They had wealth, power, fame, and could get dates.

* * *

2800-present: Solar Stewardship

The puzzling lack of neutrinos from the solar core had lingered, unexplained, for centuries. The sun was so hot at its center that furiously hot nuclei colliding there should shed neutrino storms, easily seen in experiments on Earth. But the observed flux was low. This seemed to say that the sun was running cooler than expected, deep down in the fiery furnace.

Then it did cool off. Sunlight ebbed. Plasma hurricanes and magnetic tornadoes peppered its face as a cooling front percolated to the surface. Winters deepened, snow stayed into May, and summers lost their warm charms. This finally forced a reexamination of theories of our sun's evolution. Sage Nobel laureates lost their jobs in embarrassment.

Young turks burrowed into the theory and soon showed that a major damping of the sun's interior fires lay ahead. Only intervention could avert disaster. Fresh from their Hydrogen Wall triumph, the Electrodynamic Union gurus fashioned a still larger project—a plasma donut.

Construction of a torus inside Mercury's orbit took a century of advanced plasma engineering. Activation of inductive currents in the torus produced a magnetic field centering on the solar core, the engine where nuclear processes were ebbing. Then they rippled the magnetic flux, creating a pump. Cyclic tuning of these fields drove surging circulation between the core and our star's outer shells. This brought differing masses into play, particularly fresh hydrogen.

These refreshed the solar furnace. The star ran hotter again. But a photon born at the core took a thousand years to work free, banging its way up through the layers under the surface. Humans couldn't wait that long.

So they pulsed the magnetic pump system harder still. Vast flows surged from core to surface, stirring a whole star. The sun's new magnetic heartbeat moved these furious energies to the surface. Warming of the corona appeared within months. Summer returned.

From there it was a short step to finer tuning, so that emissions could be directed at specific targets in the solar system. This allowed further warming of Mars, and of the cometary communities which had set up housekeeping in the inner solar system, greatly expanding the human prospect.

* * *

Whither the Species?

Interstellar travel now promises to extend the human habit of stewardship to the galaxy as a whole. The radical edge of the Mega engineering community advocates further experiments in the solar system. Against them the resurgent Puritan Enviros vehemently oppose tinkering with the planetary equilibria already struck. This much, they say, fine—but no more.

In particular, the recent proposal of a Day Without Sun—turning off sunlight as a laboratory experiment, to test new theories—faces widespread opposition. Perhaps here the Puritan Enviros are right. And yet . . . as a species, we have learned to walk by falling forward and then catching ourselves, turning a plunge into a stride.

As always, the boundaries of the human reach remain our most vexing moral problem.

Yet somehow, the human perimeter keeps increasing.

Perhaps that is the most enduring lesson.

* * *

Gregory Benford is the author of many novels and short stories, and has edited a number of anthologies.

The Essay with No Title (until its end)

Written by Stephen Euin Cobb

Based on what we have seen of the rise of life on our planet, one can extrapolate that there are three basic needs for life to develop elsewhere in the universe. Only if all three of these things are present can life form, thrive and become diverse enough that it evolves to fill all the possible niches within its locally available volume.

First: an energy source. For us this is the sun. In the darkness at the bottom of the ocean this can be unstable sulfates constantly spewed from the ocean floor. In other places in the universe the energy may take a different form; but energy must be available, it must be abundant, and its availability must not be interrupted too thoroughly or for too long.

Second: complicated chemistry. There may be ways for life to form without chemistry but we have no proof of it as yet. All the life forms we have examined so far are chemical, and their chemistry is astoundingly complicated.

The third requirement is time; lots and lots of time. Time measured in many, many millions of years.

All three of these things must come together to allow for life to develop. If any one of them is lacking life is unlikely to form.

For this essay I would like to examine only one of these three. Time hardly needs any explanation; even the concept of an energy source is relatively straightforward; but complex chemistry has a billion possible permutations. Fortunately I will only talk about one: expediting it.

To expedite means to facilitate, to make something more efficient, more effective, or just plain faster. For complex chemistry solvents do exactly that. The solvent of choice on earth is of course water. The earth is positively awash in it.

But let's pause to define solvent. Solvents are liquids (usually, though sometimes they are dense gasses) which are capable of dissolving or absorbing one or more other chemical substances. To the eye, the dissolved substance magically disappears into the solvent. In reality it has been completely disassembled into its individual component molecules which are busily bouncing among the individual component molecules of the solvent.

By separating the dissolved substance into individual molecules the solvent gives the dissolved substance the opportunity for its molecules to mix and interact with the individual molecules of other dissolved substances, thus expediting their chemical reactions.

This is a powerfully useful situation, but there is no reason why the solvent must be water. Other liquids are common in this universe: ammonia, methane, hydrogen, even iron is a good solvent. It can dissolve huge quantities of carbon.

But while the solvent does not have to be water, it does have to remain liquid. If it freezes solid the substances dissolved in it are no longer free to mingle with other dissolved substances and can no longer undergo chemical reactions; in which case the expediting grinds to a halt.

In order to exist in a liquid state, a substance must be above its melting point and under enough pressure to keep it from boiling away. For most substances the amount of pressure needed for this is never zero. That is, in order to exist as a liquid, and therefore work as a solvent, the solvent must be under pressure. On earth the atmosphere provides the pressure; same on Jupiter and Saturn and the other gas giant planets. On some of the larger moons in this solar system, the outer crust provides the pressure to maintain oceans of liquid deep underground. When these liquids manage to squeeze up to the surface through a crack they instantly boil away to vapor because they are no longer under pressure.

Every ocean in this universe is under pressure, either from an atmosphere or from a thick covering of some kind of crust. And since atmospheres are tricky, finicky things for planets to produce and maintain, and crusts are easy—indeed, just about unavoidable—there will be far more oceans under crusts in this universe than under atmospheres. The ratio may be as much as a hundred to one.

With the recent discovery of so many hot Jupiters—planets with a mass similar to that of Jupiter but orbiting so close to their star that their planetary surface temperature is several thousand degrees—it has occurred to me (and probably many others) that, throughout the universe, oceans of iron may be very common. Iron is, after all, the nineth most abundant chemical element in the universe. Iron oceans may prove to be as common as oceans of water.

Since iron is such an excellent solvent, especially for carbon and carbon compounds, it stands to reason that life-forms should be able to develop and evolve in oceans of iron just as easily as in oceans of water—if not more so. Thus it can also be said that life in this universe may be as common in iron oceans as in water oceans.

But if this is true, it begs a question that is both intriguing and (perhaps only to me) disturbing. You see, the earth doesn't actually have only one kind of ocean, it has two. On the surface it has an ocean of water, and deep inside it has a much larger ocean of iron—one ocean under an atmosphere, and one ocean under its crust.

Furthermore, all three of the requirements needed for life to arise and thrive exist in both.

Curiously, if there are single or multi-cellular animals swimming in earth's iron ocean hundreds of miles beneath our feet, regardless of their size or abundance or the vastness of their range, we would not be able to know it. Neither we nor our machines are capable of surviving the heat of the iron ocean long enough to search or explore, or even take a peek.

Only by examining the most iron rich volcanic rocks might we even hope to see their remains. And even that may not let us see them, because the depth where volcanic rock comes from may be far too close to the surface, and therefore far too cold a place, for them to visit.

So even if they exist in variety and vastness to rival the creatures of the rain forest we may never see them. And of course if we never see them, do they really exist?

And now I will tell you the real (and secret) title of this little essay. . .

Speculations on life in the ocean of iron beneath Earth's crust

Shhhh. Don't tell anyone.

Listen to Steve's podcast at http://www.thefutureandyou.com.

* * *

Stephen Euin Cobb is an author and the producer of the award-winning podcast The Future And You.

Schlock Cover for Dec 2006

Written by Howard Tayler

Welcome to the 31st Century! Humans entered the galactic age over 900 years ago, and now do business with all manner of alien folk.

For more about Schlock and Howard Taylor visit http://www.schlockmercenary.com

In the meantime, here's an intro to his namesake character....

Basic Training: Sergeant Schlock

Some of the very MOST alien of those folk are the carbosilicate amorphs, like Sergeant Schlock here. He's extremely strong, reasonably intelligent, and much, much faster than he looks. He also has a penchant for violence, and couldn't be happier with his job as a mercenary. Just keep him supplied with enemies, ammo, and Genuine Imitation Ovalkwik, and he'll stay happy.

Or, you know, he could just sit in the bathtub and surf the Infomercial channel on the hypernet. There are few things he likes more than a good bathtub, or one of those epic infomercials like "Getting Your Doctorate in Engineering from Popeil University."

What is Fair Use

Written by Eric Flint

Although this column addresses the controversy surrounding so-called Digital Rights Management, I devoted my first three essays to a discussion of the general principles concerning copyright as such. As I explained, I did that because it's impossible to discuss DRM intelligently without understanding that all the issues involved are couched within—derive from, actually—the general principles in our society that govern copyright as a whole.

Copyright is not an issue sitting over here, with DRM being a different issue sitting over there. In reality, DRM sits right inside of copyright.

The link between the two—the cushion that DRM sits on, if you will allow me to develop this into a metaphor—is called "fair use." It is one of the most critical aspects of copyright law, and has been since the inception of the copyright era in the early eighteenth century. And my metaphor is actually a good one, because "fair use" is exactly that—a cushion. It's the provision in copyright law—I'm about to lower the bar for this metaphor—that keeps society's buttocks from getting too badly bruised by the hard limits that copyright places on society's ability to benefit from creative intellectual or artistic work.

But DRM is too heavy. It's steadily squeezing all of the real substance out of society's fair use cushion. By now, that cushion isn't much more than a skimpy little pad. Before too long, the way things are going, it will be gone entirely.

The definition of "fair use" is slippery in copyright law, and always has been. In the nature of things, it's a gray area rather than a sharp line. Trying to define it precisely, in legal terms, poses much the same problem that trying to define pornography does. One person's filthy disgusting story is another person's literary masterpiece. Terms which have both been applied, to give just one example, to James Joyce's famous novel Ulysses.

Whatever the judges come up with in their various decisions, however—and those decisions are vast in number—society as a whole long ago settled comfortably into a definition of fair use that pretty much parallels Chief Justice Potter Stewart's famous comment regarding the definition of pornography. When pressed about it, Justice Stewart said that coming up with a precise definition of pornography was probably impossible, "but I know it when I see it."

For three centuries, now, until the advent of DRM, that was pretty much the way society as a whole handled the problem of fair use. And it worked just fine, in all but a tiny handful of instances. Just about everybody understood—closely enough for almost all purposes—what was a legitimate "infringement" of someone's copyright and what wasn't.

That's what fair use is, by the way. It's an infringement of copyright that is considered legitimate, and therefore not subject to legal penalty.

Here is a good example of the difference between the two—at least, it would have been a good example before giant corporations started shoving DRM down everyone's throat:

If you enjoy a cartoon strip you see in your morning newspaper, clip it out, and post it on a bulletin board or your tool box or your office door at work, that's fair use. Keep in mind that you have in fact "infringed" the cartoonist's copyright. Oh, yes, no doubt about it. A number of people will now be able to see and enjoy the cartoon strip without paying a penny to either the cartoonist or the newspaper which holds the right to distribute the cartoonist's work.

But nobody would have objected, in times past—including the cartoonist, unless he was an idiot. They didn't object for two reasons:

First, because it wouldn't have done them any good to object, anyway. The law was on the fair user's side. Traditional copyright law was based on the understanding that society's intellectual discourse would grind to a halt if you didn't allow fair use. Or, at the very least, it would greatly impede that discourse. The reason is because literary and artistic intellectual work does in fact enter the public domain, regardless of what the law says. The traditional concept of "fair use" simply recognized that fact, and gave it sufficient legal protection that copyright law remained a benefit to society, instead of a hindrance.

Consider, for instance, how frequently you've seen or heard someone—in print, not just verbally—refer to a situation as "a Catch-22." That notion, originally presented to the world in Joseph Heller's novel Catch-22—a book which is still under copyright—has long since entered the public domain. Not legally, but in reality. It has, quite literally, become the common intellectual property of the human race. Or that part of it, at least, that speaks and reads English.

But neither Joseph Heller nor any publisher who paid for the rights to publish his novel, ever sued anyone for doing so. Nor, if they had been dumb enough to do so, would they have won the case in court.

Although . . .

They might be able to win such a case today, if someone used the term in a digital format. The ongoing destruction of fair use by the ever-increasing application of DRM has just about reached that level of insanity. And if you think I'm kidding, there was a case not too long ago when a director of a documentary film was forced to pay a record company for "use of copyright" because, in her film, a teenager received a phone call on her cell phone, and the signal was a few notes from a popular song the rights to which were held by that record company.

(And the music recording industry wonders why everyone despises them . . .)

Those few notes took only about two or three seconds to be heard—which is just about as long as it would take you to write "Catch-22."

In fairness to the letter of the law, even as it stands today, if that film maker had challenged the record company in court, she would probably have won. She'd probably have won hands down, in fact. The reason she chose not to contest the record company's demand and pay them instead was a practical one. She was an independent film maker with a limited budget, and the company demanding their Danegeld was a giant corporation with a huge staff of lawyers and a huge bank account.

Today, with society's wealth being increasingly monopolized by giant corporations and the legislators who stooge for those corporations passing ever greater restrictions on fair use, this has become standard operating procedure. Giant corporations who have the rights to intellectual property will file law suits or threaten legal penalties even in cases which are patently absurd—knowing full well that they're far more likely to get a private settlement than they ever are to face a courtroom, because of the tremendous disparity in wealth and power between them and their victims.

When gangsters do this, it's called "extortion" and the police will come after them. When giant corporations do it, it's called "defending copyright"—and the police will do nothing. Even if they lose the case in court, on the rare occasions when a small fry challenges them, these giant corporations pay no significant penalties.

To go back to my example of the cartoon strip, it's also clear enough what would not constitute fair use. If, for instance, you started making decorative magnets for refrigerator doors using that strip and putting them up for sale on the market, you would clearly be infringing the cartoonist's copyright, or the rights held by a distributor.

That's because insofar as there is any single thing that marks the boundary between fair use and genuine copyright infringement, it's money. It's one thing for you to "borrow" an intellectual creator's work for personal or purely intellectual purposes. That's fair use. It's another thing entirely if you try to make money from his work without paying him for the right to do so, as long as his work is still under copyright.

Is this complicated, for Pete's sake?

No, it isn't. Sure, sure, there are some gray areas here and there. Big deal. There exists no law on the books concerning any subject that doesn't have some gray areas, here and there.

And, until DRM started sinking its vampire fangs into society's throat, even those gray areas were not all that hard to sort out legally. To give an example, if a student or scholar made a copy of a scholarly article on a duplicating machine for his or her own purposes, that's traditionally been considered fair use. On the other hand, if the same person or a group of persons started duplicating large quantities of that same article for the clear and obvious purposes of not having to pay to get the legal copy, the courts were likely to rule that copyright infringement had occurred.

I'd have preferred using the simpler expression "xeroxed" a copy in the paragraph above, rather than the clumsier formulation I used. In the real world, where people actually live, the term "xerox" has been a common verb that long ago entered the public domain as a matter of fact, regardless of what the law says. I did not use it, however, because under the increasingly restrictive modern laws concerning all forms of intellectual property, Xerox Corporation might sue me for "trademark infringement."

Yes, I know it seems silly, but that's where our society is headed. And don't let anyone tell you that what's involved are deep and profound legal principles—no, it's just greed—or that any of this is a new problem created by the digital era.

Hogwash. The practice of turning very familiar proper names, trademarks and copyrighted phrases into common words and terms is one that humanity has used for a long time, because it serves our purposes well. Some examples:

Using the term "spam" to refer to unwanted email is a new one, true enough, and was occasioned by the advent of computers.

But here's one that goes back a century:

Using the term "ping pong" either as a shorter version of "table tennis" or simply as a quick phrase that nicely depicts any number of situations. (As in: "That poor kid. In the process of getting a divorce, his parents are batting him back and forth like a ping pong ball.")

I'm concentrating in this column on issues of copyright, but issues concerning the proper use of trademarks and patents are closely related. The basic principle involved is the same: If you don't allow a reasonable amount of fair use of these things, you might as well be tossing sand into a machine. The reason society values the work of its intellectual creators in the first place is because that work—or the best of it, at least—is valuable. But the only way it can be valuable is if there aren't too many burdensome restrictions placed in the way of actually using the work.

Yes, certainly, part of that requires making sure that intellectual creators get paid for the work in the first place. I'll deal with that in a moment. But the end goal, as I discussed in my first three essays, is society's benefit. Remove that end goal, and all forms of intellectual protection like copyright, trademarks and patents start sliding into that black hole known as "natural property right."

What's "natural property right"? It's the logic behind things like the increasingly vicious manner in which giant corporations are suing anyone else who uses their name for their own business—even if they name their business after themselves or were in operation before Gargantua Inc. was.

Many of these cases are utterly preposterous—but that doesn't stop them from happening. First, because of the huge disparity in wealth and power that usually exists between the predator corporation and its prey. And, secondly, because the trend in modern intellectual rights legislation has been increasingly more restrictive of fair use, and increasingly friendlier to giant corporations and their ongoing intellectual land grab.

And what's been leading the way in that land grab?

So-called "Digital Rights Management."

For three centuries, there's always been a seesaw both in society and the courts over the proper definition of fair use. It's the advent of DRM that has tipped the balance so heavily against fair use.

Giant corporations have always been predators, it's in the nature of the beast. You might as well expect a great white shark to become a vegetarian as expect Megacorp to run its affairs with any goal in mind other than maximizing their profits and to hell with anyone else or society as a whole. In fact, most economists going all the way back to Adam Smith will argue that's what businesses should do.

Well, maybe. I won't get into that, because the subject as a whole would take us far afield of the specific purpose of this column. But I will say this:

Be careful what you wish for. You may get it.

I read an amusing article once, written by a psychologist, in which he examined corporations as if the legal status they enjoy as "individuals" were actually true. His conclusion was that although small corporations usually had the personality imprint of their owners, who directly managed the business themselves, once corporations got big enough that connection became severed and "the corporation" developed a distinct personality of its own.

And it was, almost always, the personality of a sociopath.

Quite literally. Giant corporations have all the defining character traits of a classic sociopath. The main ones being:

a) An inability to see other human beings as human beings, instead of objects. (In New Corporatespeak, these objects are called "consumers" if they are customers, and "associates" if they are employees—especially employees being paid minimum wage.)

b) An inability to empathize with any pain another person might be suffering.

c) In particular, an inability to empathize with any pain another person might be suffering as a result of the sociopath's own actions.

d) A bottomless capacity for self-justification, no matter how absurd.

d) Finally, the willingness to inflict any level of pain on others, including extreme pain, for the pettiest gain. Just as a sociopath is willing to shoot someone to get $15 from their wallet.

So it is. But until DRM came along, these titanic sociopaths were kept fairly well leashed and muzzled, when it came to copyright.

No longer. Giant corporations seized on the advent of digital media as an excuse to launch a massive assault on the fundamental principles of copyright that have served our society well for three centuries, in order to replace it with concepts derived from the theory of "natural property right" that benefit no one except themselves, and are an increasing burden on society.

How did they do it? By advancing the claim that digital media eliminates the second of the two reasons that, traditionally, kept copyright owners from being too concerned about fair use.

Remember my cartoonist, toward the beginning of this essay? I said that there were two reasons he wouldn't object to someone posting a copy of one of his cartoon strips on their office door.

The first was because, given the former state of copyright law, he couldn't have done anything about it anyway. That kind of "infringement" was well understood to be fair use.

But the second reason was much simpler. It was to his personal benefit in the first place. He'd have to be a cretin to object.

Unless they are absolutely incapable of thinking clearly—which some are, admittedly—cartoonists and writers have always understood that, from a commercial standpoint, the principal effect of fair use has been to increase their public visibility. And thereby, indirectly if not directly, increase their income.

I mean, this is not rocket science. If a cartoonist's strips start appearing regularly on office doors, or bulletins boards, or tool boxes, what happens? A certain percentage of the people who look at it for free like it so much they start following that cartoonist regularly. And would not have done so, without that fair use, for the good and simple reason that they didn't even know the cartoonist and his work existed in the first place.

If an author's books are readily available in public libraries, what happens? Well, gee, it doesn't require a knowledge of advanced mathematics to figure it out. Some of the people who first get exposed to an author from library books, or used books, or books lent by a friend—all of which are traditional examples of fair use—will start buying that author's work.

If not immediately, then at some point in the future. Fair use is and always has been most important for those members of society who are strapped for resources. Youngsters, first and foremost, who usually can't afford to buy books at all, or at least not very many.

I do not know a single person who regularly buys fiction—including me—for whom the following statement is not true:

They got introduced to many of their favorite authors through fair use. Most commonly, from reading a library book.

Let's take me as an example. I first developed an interest in science fiction at the age of twelve, from reading three novels: A Citizen of the Galaxy, by Robert Heinlein; Space Prison (originally published as The Survivors), by Tom Godwin; and Star Rangers, by Andre Norton.

Of those three titles, only one of them was purchased in a way that generated direct income for the author. That was Heinlein's A Citizen of the Galaxy, which my mother bought and gave me as a birthday present. Heinlein would have derived a small amount of his royalties from that sale. (Very small, to be sure, but that's how authors make their living, from the small royalties from a lot of sales.)

The other two I acquired through fair use. I found Norton's Star Rangers in my high school library, and I bought a used copy of Godwin's Space Prison.

I want to spend some time on the last of these examples, the Godwin title, because it's a perfect illustration of the way that fair use has a serendipitous effect that, in the long run, greatly benefits intellectual creators like authors. In fact, as I will argue in a later essay, fair use is absolutely vital to an author's income.

I first read Tom Godwin's novel at the age of twelve. I had as much influence and power over society's workings in those days as any twelve year old has. Which is not quite zero, but so close to it you'd need the social equivalent of an electron microscope to find it.

Forty years later, things had changed. I certainly wasn't what you'd call one of the world's movers and shakers, but at least in the field of science fiction I now had a measurable amount of influence. By then, I was a successful author and editor, and publishers—Jim Baen, anyway—were willing to provide me the money I needed to do something I'd wanted to do for a very long time.

That was to reissue the works of those authors I most liked, whose works had largely gone out of print, that I had first encountered as a teenager—all of whom I first encountered through fair use.

The project began in the year 2000, with the first of what would eventually be a seven-volume reissue of the complete works of James H. Schmitz: Telzey Amberdon. That book is still in print, by the way, as are all seven of the volumes. Yes, that's a shameless plug, which I am cheerfully using this essay to make in my own personal interest. As editor of the reissue, I get a small share of the royalties from every sale of that book.

If anybody reading these essays thinks I'm not a working author and editor who is fully and completely aware that my livelihood depends entirely on copyright, you're not living on this planet. I'm writing these essays for two reasons. First—and foremost, yes—because I think the issue is important for society. But the other reason I'm doing it is because, like all intellectual work of this kind, there are thousands of avenues by which income trickles into an author's wallet. And this is one of them—even though I'm not directly earning anything from these essays.

Not only did I, as an editor, reissue all of James Schmitz's writings—almost all of which were out of print, and the few stories still in print were in small print run collector's editions. As an author, I also wrote (with Mercedes Lackey and Dave Freer) a sequel to Schmitz's best-known novel, The Witches of Karres.

Yes, that's also still in print. Selling quite well, in fact. The title of it is The Wizard of Karres and you can find it in almost any major bookstore in the United States. It'll be filed under Misty Lackey's name, since the credits read Mercedes Lackey, Eric Flint and Dave Freer.

(I love shameless plugs. Yes, I can do that—because I'm writing this essay. That's how it works. With intellectual labor that can be easily duplicated, the distinction between "I got paid" and "I didn't" is a lot more complicated than it is for someone who sells hardware.)

Keep in mind that because Schmitz's original novel is still under copyright, his estate receives a portion of the royalties that Wizard of Karres earns, even though Schmitz himself didn't write a word of it. And the book is selling well enough that Baen Books gave Dave Freer and me a contract to do another sequel. That will be titled The Sorceress of Karres, and—yup—the Schmitz estate will get some money from that too.

I'm also in the process of editing a resissue of most of the works of Christopher Anvil, at least four volumes of the works of Murray Leinster, almost everything Keith Laumer wrote before he suffered his stroke and the quality of his writing went to pieces—and, in 2003, Baen Books published a one volume reissue of Tom Godwin's best writings, which I edited. (That's The Cold Equations & Other Stories and it's still in print also.)

As I said, that's how it works. A book read by a twelve year old who could only read it because of the fair use provision in copyright law, became translated four decades later into a reissue of the best works of an author who'd been almost forgotten by the world at large, and almost none of whose works had remained in print after his death in 1980.

Of course, someone can now object that I'm cherry-picking my examples.

No, actually, I'm not. To be sure, these examples are very improbable, taken by themselves. How many twelve year old boys, after all, become authors and editors successful enough forty years later that they can do something like this?

"Like this," in the sense of these specific authors, very few. But if you step back and look at publishing as a whole, the answer is that all editors—and probably all publishers—started off as twelve year old readers. And all of them, except for perhaps a tiny handful who were born into wealthy families who gave them very large allowances, first developed their reading interests using one or another of the fair use provisions of copyright law.

It's true that you can't predict the way any given little stream of water will flow across a sloping landscape, if there aren't any pre-existing waterbeds. But you can predict with absolute certainty that if you pour water onto a sloping landscape, featureless as it may be, it will all flow downhill.

So it is with fair use. No author—nor the cartoonist of my opening example—can know ahead of time which specific instance of fair use of his work will wind up personally benefiting him. But what all authors—and all cartoonists—can know for sure is that a society that allows a generous and expansive amount of fair use will produce the most expansive market for them all.

To be sure, lately many authors have gotten panicked enough by the endless drumbeat concerning "digital piracy" that they've abandoned that solid old-fashioned logic and are today following the Pied Piper of DRM. But that's their problem, not mine.

This essay is now long enough that I need to break off. Here's the closing point. The claim made by the giant corporations who launched the assault on copyright and have been the mainstay of the campaign is this:

The advent of digital media makes it so effortless to copy an intellectual creator's work that traditional notions of "fair use" have to be abandoned. In today's world, any sort of "fair use" will inexorably and inevitably lead to wholesale violation of copyright.

Therefore, fair use must be banned entirely—or, at a bare minimum, have tremendous restrictions placed on it.

To paraphrase the charming words of Mary McCarthy, every word in the above statement is a lie, including "the" and "and."

I will spend many essays on this subject—that is, the practical side of dealing with the challenges of electronic publication. In the course of them, I will demonstrate that the advent of the digital era poses no genuine threat to legitimate copyright and there is absolutely no reason to abandon the practice of fair use as it has developed in our society over the past three hundred years.

"Digital Rights Management" is itself a lie. All three words in it.

The term "digital" is an excuse—a scapegoat, rather—and the term "rights" is laughable, since what's really involved is quasi-feudal monopolistic privilege.

But the biggest lie is in the last word. "Management." The reality is that the only reason giant corporations insist on DRM is because they are run by grossly overpaid executives who have demonstrated over and over again that they are utterly incapable of properly managing their businesses.

The corporations themselves, psychologically speaking, have the mindset of sociopaths. What makes it still worse is that they are run by people who are either lazy, or stupid, or incompetent—and often enough, all three put together.

* * *

The Editor's Page December 2006

Written by Eric Flint
New members of the magazine's staff

Since our third issue came out a few weeks ago, we've expanded our staff by adding two new people. Beginning a few weeks ago, Stoney Compton became our assistant art director. And starting with this issue, Mike Resnick is going to be joining the magazine as our new executive editor, while my title changes from the former simple "editor" to "editor-in-chief." If you're wondering what those titles really mean, I'll explain in a moment.

I've known Stoney for thirteen years, since we met at the annual award presentation of the Writers of the Future contest in 1993. I'd won first place in the 1992 winter quarter's contest and Stoney had won second place. We became friends over the course of that weekend and have remained in touch ever since. Earlier this year, at my recommendation, Jim Baen bought Stoney's first novel Russian Amerika, an excellent alternate history that will be coming out in April 2007. (Yes, that's a plug. It really is good—and, better still, it doesn't retread the standard ground that so many alternate history novels do.)

Stoney started helping the magazine informally a few months ago, in all sorts of ways. Eventually, it simply made sense to officially add him to the staff. Stoney did and will wind up doing all sorts of things for the magazine. But since he's a professional graphics designer and will probably spend most of his time working with Dave Freer on the magazine's art work, we decided to give him the title of assistant art director.

My personal acquaintance with Mike Resnick is much more recent than that, although I've known who he was for . . . Jeez, I dunno. Three decades, something like that. In my years as an unpublished author—we won't dwell on that miserable period—there was no one in the field whose advice I listened to more carefully than Mike's, in the regular column he did for Speculations magazine called "Ask Bwana." So by the time I finally got to meet him earlier this year, I felt oddly familiar with him already.

Those distant impressions turned out to be quite accurate. In the course of working together as co-editors of an anthology for Baen titled The Dragon Done It, a collection of fantasy detective stories, Mike and I came to be good friends. Perhaps more to the point, we discovered that we shared very much the same attitude as editors. Mike and I are what you might call, for lack of a better term, old-fashioned story-tellers. For both of us, whether we're working as authors or editors, it's always the story that comes first and foremost, with literary style and technique a long ways second. At the same time, since we're also fairly free-wheeling souls, we're both willing to cut a writer a lot of slack in the way he or she gets around to presenting a given story, as long as we think the story itself is worth telling.

After we'd been working together for a while,. Mike asked me if there might be any room for him on the magazine's staff. He told me that the one major role in the field that he'd never taken on, even over the course of several decades, was seeing what editing a magazine was like. Mike's edited forty-four anthologies over the years, so he's a very experienced editor. But editing an anthology is a very different kettle of fish from editing a magazine, and he wanted to give that a shot as well.

I told him he was probably a damn fool, but if he really wanted to do it, I could certainly use the help. With experience, we've discovered that the single biggest problem the magazine faces when it comes to acquiring stories isn't a shortage of money so much as it is a shortage of my time. I make a living as an author, not an editor, and that means that periodically I have to more or less set the magazine's work aside while I concentrate on getting a novel finished. The end result is that the magazine's staff does a superb and quick job of sorting through the slush, and then . . . As often as not, the five percent of the stories (roughly) that they kick up to me for a final decision might languish on my desk for weeks or even months before I can get around to reading them.

That bothers me. A lot, in fact. I know exactly what it's like to be a writer, submitting a story and then having to wait for a long time to get a response. It sucks, to put it crudely but accurately—and I find I'm no more happy being the one on the editor's side of that equation than I was being on the author's side.

So, please welcome Mike Resnick. Don't take those respective titles any too seriously. The real relationship between the "executive editor" and the "editor-in-chief" will be exactly the relationship Mike and I have had working on our anthology. We're editing partners, simple as that. In the very unlikely event that we can't reach agreement on a specific story, I'll have the final sayso. But I don't expect to have to exercise that august power very often, if at all. I really wasn't kidding when I said that Mike and I look at these things very much the same way.

Mike makes his living as an author also, of course. In fact, he's one of the most successful authors in the field. (How successful? Well, fifty-one novels, thirteen short story collections—taken from one hundred and seventy-five stories published—two screenplays, and three non-fiction books. Not to mention that, at last count, I think he's piled up more science fiction awards than any but three other authors in the history of our genre.) So he'll run into the same problem that I do, from time to time. But the difference from now on is that there will be two of us doing the work, so I think we'll be able to swap it back and forth to match our writing schedules in such a way that the magazine's response time to authors with stories under final consideration gets a lot quicker than it has been.

The other thing that's new starting with this issue is that we've arranged with Stephen Cobb to establish a regular link with his very popular podcast program, "The Future and You." Steve has a short essay in this issue that explains the nature of his program—see "What's New in The Future And You"—as well as the first essay in what will be a regular column he'll be running in Universe magazine. Please check it out. I think you'll find both very interesting.

The Future and You December 2006

Written by Stephen Euin Cobb

I am pleased to announce that your beloved online magazine, Jim Baen's Universe, has teamed with the award-winning podcast The Future And You, in an effort to benefit the patrons of both. While each of these are very different, and innovative, forms of media, this is a particularly natural alliance because the creative people behind both share passions and optimism for many of the same things, such as science fiction & fantasy and the real future in which we all hope to live.

This alliance will take the form of a mild sharing of content. The host of The Future And You (that would be me) will have a regular column here within Jim Baen's Universe in which to write about the future as well as to mention which of your favorite authors you will have the opportunity to hear, and what topics you will hear them discuss, by downloading the show.

In addition to the opportunity to hear interviews with some of your favorite authors, each monthly episode of The Future And You, beginning December 1, 2006, will contain a ten minute segment devoted exclusively to the goings on here at Jim Baen's Universe. These ten minute segments will feature the voices of Bananaslug & Stoney (Walt Boyes & Stoney Compton) JBU's own Frick & Frack. Also featured in each of these segments will be one of JBU's many famous authors reading a sample of his or her fiction.

Perhaps you're wondering:
what is The Future And You?

The Future And You is an award-winning podcast about the future which you may download for free. Each episode contains several interviews with authors, scientists, celebrities and innovators about what they expect in the future. These forward-thinking people describe their widely differing ideas of the future and often go beyond what they expect into what they hope and what they fear.

David Drake, Greg Bear, Toni Weisskopf, Alan Dean Foster and Kim Stanley Robinson have all been guests; as have John Ringo, Spider Robinson, David Brin, Joe Haldeman, Vernor Vinge, Nancy Kress, Sarah A. Hoyt, Catherine Asaro and Travis S. Taylor.

Less famous guests have included Rudi Hoffman (a cryonics insurance agent), Mike Treder (CEO of the Center for Responsible Nanotechnology), Doctor Greg Matloff (an astronomer) and Lionel Vogt (a transhumanist and TV battle-robot builder).

Subjects have included: nanotechnology and molecular manufacturing, computers wired directly into the human brain, cryonics, exoplanets, faster-than-light travel, wormholes and black holes, cloning and stem cell research, global warming and the current interglacial period, genetic engineering of humans and other biotechnology, as well as transhumanism and the technology of living more-or-less forever.

What's in the latest episode?

The current episode contains all the following and more:

Eric Flint (author and editor-in-chief of Jim Baen's Universe) describes how, as a web based "e-magazine," Jim Baen's Universe compares to and competes with traditional SF&F magazines printed on paper.

Toni Weisskopf (the new head of Baen Books) describes her take on the singularity, technological immortality, global warming, the next fall of civilization, the Chinese going to the moon, faster-than-light travel, cryonics and SETI (the search for extraterrestrial intelligence).

Sarah A. Hoyt (author and polyglot) in her beautiful and exotic accent, explains why the future is proving to be weirder that we ever expected, and also talks about how increasing longevity will dramatically alter society.

David B. Coe (author and environmentalist—with a PhD in environmental history) risks his environmentalist street creds by insisting that passionate environmentalists—like himself—need to admit that nuclear power is the only logical compromise solution to the world's energy needs.

Catherine Asaro (author, physicist and former ballerina) who personally homeschools gifted children, provides surprising insights into the rising popularity of homeschooling.

Lucienne Diver (one of SF&F publishing's top agents) describes the trends within the publishing industry as well as her worries & hopes for the future outside the biz.

Marjorie M. Liu (N.Y. Times best selling author and former lawyer) describes several of the inevitable legal and judicial problems everyone will face, such as the growing temptation for parents to use eugenics technologies to drastically improve their own children—beginning, of course, in the womb. She also startles the host with her revelation that there are judges sitting on the bench right now who have not passed the bar, have never been lawyers and have no degree in law.

What about the old episodes?

All past episodes of The Future And You will remain available for your downloading pleasure for many, many years to come (at least if your host has anything to say about it). Here are a few randomly selected items from past episodes which you may listen to at your whim.

Cryonic SWAT teams, and what you should do before the body of your friend or loved one rots. David Pascal describes what to do in those critical hours between an unexpected death and cryosuspension. February 25, 2006 Episode

Gary Jones of Stargate SG-1: A celebrity interview. December 15, 2005 Episode

David Drake, who reads and translates ancient Latin for fun and relaxation, discusses lessons from antiquity; similarities between the USA and ancient Rome; and one of the host's favorite British miniseries: I Claudius. Stephen also asks David how he thinks the USA might meet its eventual and inevitable end. After all, someday the USA, like the Roman Empire, will no longer exist. August 1, 2006 Episode

Spider Robinson suggests that our next earth might be better than this one. He also admits that faster-than-light travel is impossible, but he's quick to point out that, as humans, impossible is what we do best. April 8, 2006 Episode

Joe Haldeman feels that computers wired directly into the human brain may sweep the developed world as quickly as cell phones since those without them will be at a competitive disadvantage. He also mentions that nanotechnological invisibility is being developed at MIT where he teaches. January 15, 2006 Episode

Robin Curtis worked with Leonard Nimoy and William Shatner as she played the Vulcan Starfleet officer Lieutenant Saavik in Star Trek III: The Search for Spock as well as (the host's favorite of the Star Trek movies) Star Trek IV: The Journey Home. A celebrity interview. February 11, 2006 Episode

Toni Weisskopf (the new head of Baen Books) describes what direction Baen Books will take into the future after the tragic loss of its visionary founder: Jim Baen. November 1, 2006 Episode

John Ringo makes a serious case for his conviction that global warming is a scientific hoax perpetrated by the desperate need of researchers for grant money, sustained through academic coercion, and fed to an accepting public by media outlets locked in an endless competition for the most sensational headline. August 1, 2006 Episode

Greg Bear warns that, once we all have our brains wired (or wifi'ed) directly into the internet we'd better have powerful firewalls protecting us from hackers, because anyone who doesn't may have to spend a lot of time with their brain in the shop. May 1, 2006 Episode

Jason's mother (the axe-murdering, Mrs. Voorhees) from the movie Friday The 13th. A celebrity interview with Betsy Palmer. January 15, 2006 Episode

Alan Dean Foster, author and world traveler, on the likelihood of technological immortality, why cryonics is better than cremation, and whether or not ecological preserves without armed enforcement against poachers have a meaningful future. November 1, 2006 Episode

Travis S. Taylor, who has discovered two planets which orbit stars other than our sun, talks about exoplanets and the anticipated discovery of many new earths. He also describes how amateur astronomers can now discover these extrasolar planets using off-the-shelf, store-bought equipment. July 1, 2006 Episode

Nancy Kress explains the growing controversy over the genetic engineering of crops, or as they call them in Europe "FrankenFoods." January 15, 2006 Episode

Erin Gray, the actress who played Colonel Wilma Deering in the TV series Buck Rogers in the 25th Century as well as Kate Summers in the TV series Silver Spoons. A celebrity interview. February 25, 2006 Episode

David Brin is convinced we are making dangerous mistakes in how we're conducting the search for extraterrestrial intelligence, and describes his own answer to the puzzle of why the universe seems so completely empty of intelligent life: a situation often referred to as the Fermi Paradox. February 25, 2006 Episode

Kim Stanley Robinson, a self-proclaimed science patriot, answers the host's question: is it possible for political science to become an actual science rather than a pretend science as it is now (one that embraces the scientific method)? November 1, 2006 Episode

Robert A. Heinlein passed away in 1988, yet his name will appear on a brand new novel due out in September of 2006. This novel is a collaborative effort between the late legend and a younger, newer talent: one of Mister Heinlein's greatest fans: the award winning author, Spider Robinson. I asked Spider how this unusual collaboration came to be. (Following his interview, as an added bonus, you will hear the title song from Spider's CD, "Belaboring the Obvious," which he wrote for his wife, Jeanne, eleven years ago while she was away in a Buddhist monastery for three months.) February 25, 2006 Episode

Pugsley and Wednesday Addams from the beloved old TV show, The Addams Family. A double celebrity interview with Ken Weatherwax and Lisa Loring. January 28, 2006 Episode

And what is to come for future episodes?

For that, Dear Reader, I ask that you return to this column on a regular basis. Many interviews are already recorded, many have been agreed to, and many are being pursued with enthusiasm and diligence. To me, and I hope to you too, the future has never looked so fascinating.

Listen to Steve's podcast at http://www.thefutureandyou.com.

THE END

For more great books visit

http://www.webscription.net

Jim Baen's Universe-Vol 1 Num 4

Table of Contents

STORIES

Incident on a Small Colony

Tesseract

Alone

Olaf and the Merchandisers

Murphy's Law

The Big Ice

The Nature of Things

Singing Them Back

Servants to the Dead

Caught Forever Between

CLASSICS

Home is the Hunter

SERIES

The Ancient Ones, Episode 3

Slan Hunter, Part 1

Fish Story, Episode 4

INTRODUCING NEW AUTHORS

The Girl With the Killer Eyes

Pastry Run

Fishing

COLUMNS

Jim Baen: October 22, 1943 - June 28, 2006

A Pocket History of MacroEngineering: The First Millennium

The Essay with No Title (until its end)

Schlock Cover for Dec 2006

What is Fair Use

The Editor's Page December 2006

The Future and You December 2006

eBook Info

Title:

Jim Baen's Universe-Vol 1 Num 4

Type:

Novel

Identifier:

1932-0930-04

Identifier:

978-1932-0930-01

Identifier:

10.1125/Baen.1932093004

Publisher:

Baen Books

Creator:

Eric Flint

Subject:

Science Fiction

Rights:

2006 by Eric Flint

Date:

2006-12-01

Language:

US English (en-us)