ALAN BRENNERT

THE REFUGE

WINTER SCREAMED ITS DIScontent. Another blast of frigid wind and freezing rain
lashed at the man wading through knee-deep snowdrifts; the icy rain,
needle-sharp, blinded and buffeted him, as it had for -- how long? He didn't
know. He had no way of telling how long he had been here, lost under sunless
skies, in the cold, brutal heart of the storm. The pearl-gray sheen of the
clouds hinted at daylight, but could not tell him how many hours he had
struggled, through snow draped like a pall across the coffin of the forest
floor. Hours of bitter wind that chafed and burned; of snow turning to sleet
turning to hail turning back to snow again. Nor could it tell him how he got
here, or where he was; his mind, it seemed, was as clouded, as opaque, as the
sky itself.

He did know some things: he knew that his name was Raymond Bava; could see his
mother's face, feel the rough tickle of his father's beard as he lifted young
Ray into his arms. He could see faces, hear voices, summon up names of lovers
and family and friends . . . but there was no progression to the images, no
order from which to construct a life, or a memory of a life. And at the moment,
it was hardly a priority. He had a vague recollection of growing up in winters
like these; he knew the signs of frostbite, of chilblains, as well as anyone. He
knew that if he did not find shelter soon, he would be dead--and then it
wouldn't matter who he was, or where he grew up, the work he had done or the
lovers he had known. And so he stumbled on, damning whatever fates had brought
him here so ill-prepared: as his bootless shoes sank foot-deep into the snow; as
the rain soaked through his light cotton jacket; as his frostbitten fingers grew
colder, harder, paler.

Suddenly another blast of wind caught him, tossing him off-handedly into a
snowbank, losing him some of his hard-won ground. He shouted an obscenity into
the air, but all it did was plunge an icy blade of air into his lungs and he
instantly regretted it. For a moment, his pain and despair got the better of him
-- how hard could it be, he wondered, to just close his eyes, to cease the
struggle? But the beginnings of delirium proved his salvation: he had begun to
think of the storm as a living thing-- a killing thing which existed to kill
him, which would take considerable joy in his slow, painful demise. "God damn
you," he whispered, once again taking in a gulp of frigid air, this time
invigorating him; "I'll be damned if I'll make it easy for you." Fueled by an
irrational, delirious hatred, he pushed himself to his feet and continued on.

The forest of dead skeletal trees -- gaunt sentries standing watch over some
long-lost redoubt -- gave way to a low rise. Reflexively he climbed it, skidding
more than once on the icy drifts, finally gaining its small summit. He expected,
frankly, to see nothing: nothing but denuded trees, icy rain, and drifted snow.

He was wrong.

Down below, in a clearing at least a hundred yards across...there was a house.

Ray stared, dumbstruck, at the sight: an enormous, two-story, Southern Colonial
mansion, fronted by a colonnade, a gabled roof crowning a white clapboard
facade...its balustrades and shuttered windows miraculously untouched by the
raging blizzard.

Elation quickly gave way to disbelief. This couldn't be real. Nothing so
fragile, so beautiful, could stand unravaged in this murderous storm. It had to
be part of his delirium: a hallucination, a winter's mirage.

He started to turn away from it, in disgust.

Turning, he caught a glimpse of something in the window.

It was a big, three-part window on the ground floor; warmly lit from within. It
stood at an angle to him, but there was a flash of movement, a shadow in the
glass, and he adjusted his position to get a better look.

There were people inside. At least two men; at least one woman. The woman had a
champagne glass in her hand; one of the men was taking a pull on a fat cigar;
another scarfed up a canape in one bite. They laughed, ate, drank. A fire burned
invitingly in the hearth.

They were having a party, for God's sake.

Slowly, Ray began to laugh. It was so absurd, so unlikely, that it was either
real. . .or a damned fine piece of delirium.Either way, he chose to embrace it.
Given a choice of dying with hope, or without it, he opted for the former. He
scrambled down the icy slope into the clearing, ready to embrace the illusion --
to let it swallow him whole. But strangely, the closer he got to the mansion,
the more real it seemed: he could make out faces behind the glass, could tell
what kind of hots d'oeuvres the partiers were nibbling, could almost taste the
wine in their fluted glasses. He was almost there now, a few dozen yards from
the rear porch --

Then, suddenly, something was screaming, and he realized it was him.

At first he thought he'd been hit by another blast of frozen rain and snow --
but no. This was different. This was worse. Not wet force, but dry; not cold but
not hot, either. Like sticking your finger in a light socket, only a hundred
times more intense. Dimly, through the pain, he became aware that he was hanging
suspended, a foot off the ground--impaled on the air itself-- while all around
him that air crackled and burned with something that was not quite electricity,
but close. His body shook like a rag doll caught on the spokes of a bicycle; his
clothes started to smoke, and smolder; he screamed, louder than any scream
forced from him by the storm, and he knew now that he had another enemy, a far
more terrible one.

All at once, that enemy threw him backward, and he fell, burning and freezing,
into a snowbank.

He fought to retain consciousness; to get to his feet. But his spasming body
wouldn't obey him. He looked up at the house, his vision blurry as rain off a
windshield, barely able to make out the partiers-- oblivious to his plight,
their smiles and laughter unknowingly mocking him.

He tried to call out to them, but could hardly make a sound. His head dropped
back onto a cold pillow of snow, and he finally surrendered, to old enemies and
new.

The first thing he felt, as he drifted back to consciousness, was warmth. He
couldn't recall having done anything to warrant going to Hell, but there was so
much he didn't remember, he couldn't rule out the possibility either. Still, it
was a moist warmth, gentle and comforting-- if anything, heavenly -- and,
slowly, he opened his eyes.

He was lying, naked, in a metal tub filled with warm water. There were whorls
and eddies of motion up one limb and down another --nanomachines, he guessed,
circulating the water, massaging those parts of him that needed it most. He
shifted slightly, then felt a gentle touch on his shoulder.

"Take it easy," a woman's voice said. "Don't try to sit up."

He looked up to find a woman in a nurse's uniform sitting beside him: brunette,
with glistening shoulder-length hair, and a sweet, sensitive face in which he
read concern, compassion, relief.

He tried to say something, but his voice was a hoarse rasp. She reached over to
a table, handed him some water; it tasted sweet, like glucose, and he drank it
thirstily. He looked at her again, managing a small smile. "What," he said, his
voice barely better than a croak, "no bubble bath?"

She returned the smile. "Believe it or not," and her voice was as sweet as her
face, "bubble bath is considered optional in cases of hypothermia."

He tried to laugh; it needed work. She gave him some more of the hydrating
solution, and as he drank it he took in his surroundings for the first time. He
was in what seemed to be a small infirmary-- three beds, an exam table, medical
telemetry along one wall. At the far end of the room were two doors, one marked
RADIOLOGY, the other SURGERY. And at the near end, an older man in a white
doctor's coat stood in a doorway which led into some sort of anteroom.

"Gina?" He was in his late fifties, Ray judged, his face deeply lined --a
nervous wisp of a man. "May I speak with you?"

The woman -- Gina? -- glanced at him with a trace of disdain, quickly covered
up. She kept her tone crisp; professional. "Of course, Doctor. Just let me get
him out of the immersion bath."

The man nodded once and retreated into the anteroom. Gina turned back to Ray.
"Think you can stand up?"

Ray nodded. As he stood, the whorls and eddies of water became ripples moving
away from him, as the nanos flocked together like a school of invisible fish,
retreating as one to a safe comer of the tub. As Gina began toweling him off, he
felt a sudden flush of self-consciousness; in the water, irrational as it
seemed, he'd somehow felt less -- exposed.

She asked him his name.

He told her, smiling a bit sheepishly. "I, uh, don't usually show quite this
much of myself to someone before I'm introduced."

She smiled back. "Never? Are you sure?"

He laughed, but in fact he wasn't sure. And now that he was no longer in danger
of losing his life, the gaps in his memory became more important -- and not a
little frightening. Suddenly he felt wobbly; weak on his feet.

Gina steadied him. "Lean on me." Her grip was strong and steady, and she led him
the four or five steps to one of the beds. "You're a lucky man, Mr. Bava. Most
of the frostbite was superficial; you'll have a few blisters, but that's all.
How long were you out there?"

Ray slipped his legs under the covers. "I...I don't know..."

"Where were you coming from? Another enclave?"

The more he tried to remember, the less he was sure of, but he fought back a
stab of panic and said, calmly, "I...don't know that, either. I'm having
trouble...remembering things..."

She nodded, unsurprised. "Side effect of the infection. We all have it to
varying degrees."

"Infection?"

"The bacteria? You remember that?"

He looked at her, rather blankly, he imagined. "No," he said, "I guess I don't."

"Don't worry about it just now," she said gently. Her fingers touched him
lightly on the arm, and he felt a tingle that had nothing to do with the warm
water or the cool air.

"Hold still, now." She pressed a blunt-edged hypo against his bare shoulder; he
felt a sharp jab, then the familiar, and oddly erotic, sensation of a nanochip
entering his bloodstream. He dimly recalled reading that something like eighty
percent of men and women found it peculiarly sensual, having a tiny stranger
moving inside them...

Gina was saying, "The chip's manufacturing an antibiotic to ward off infection
in the damaged tissues, as well as a mild sedative. You looked like you needed
it." She touched his arm again. "It should also help balance your electrolytes.
Now sit tight, I'll be back in a minute."

As she started to leave, Ray called out, "You didn't tell me your name."

She smiled. "Gina. Gina Beaumont." She closed the door behind her, and Ray
leaned back and closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth of the blankets against his
skin. The sedative started to take hold, relaxing him for the first time in God
knew how long -- but he was still alert enough to hear, moments later, the sound
of voices raised from the next room:

"-- What in God's name were you thinking of?" The older man's voice. Thin,
reedy, shrill with fear.

"I was thinking of saving his life." Gina. Angry. "Another ten minutes out there
and he'd probably be dead."

"He might've infected the entire refuge--"

"I implemented decontamination protocols in the airlock. There was never any
risk and you know it..."

Ray tried to follow the rest, but the combination of the sedative and his
complete exhaustion conspired to lull him to sleep. He didn't dream, exactly,
but again thought he heard voices -- Gina's again, and someone else's, a deeper
male voice with a hard, quiet edge to it, like steel inside silk:

--should have come to me before you let him in, Ms. Beaumont . . . certain
procedures we need to observe --

There was a man freezing to death out there. Frostbite, hypothermia. I had to do
something --

And now the old doctor's voice: I told her not to. I ordered her not to --

Oh, shut up, Franklin. The silken/steely voice again. Franklin quickly shut
up...

At length, the voices faded; when he awoke, he had no idea how much time had
passed, but Gina was standing above him, smiling gently, and Ray discovered that
that was all that mattered to him, just now. "Feeling better?" she asked.

Ray's body ached less, and he felt rested for the first time he could remember.
He nodded. "How long was I was out?"

"You took a ten-hour catnap," came a familiar voice beside her. Ray looked up at
the tall, powerfully built man towering by his bedside. "Give or take a few
days," he said with a laugh. He was a robust, handsome man in his sixties, his
face hardly lined, with a full head of silver-white hair; he was wearing an
impeccably cut gray three-piece suit. He smiled and extended a hand. "I'm
Sanford Valle. Welcome to the Refuge."

Ray took his hand. Valle had the kind of too-hard grip men of physical power
often used to gauge a stranger's mettle, or, alternately, to intimidate them;
Ray was still too weak to play the game, though he did wonder about the kind of
man who would play it with someone in a hospital bed.

"'Refuge'?" Ray said. Even in his bewildered condition he could hear the capital
R in Valle's voice when he said the word.

"I built it," Valle said proudly. "Before the collapse. It's totally
self-contained, self-supporting. Protected from the elements by that particle
barrier you encountered."

Ray blinked, trying once again to find something in his memory which would jibe
with anything he'd seen or heard so far. "What do you mean -'collapse'?"

Valle glanced at Gina and Franklin. "His memory loss is particularly severe,
isn't it?"

"Look," Ray said, more irritated than afraid now, "just where the hell am I?
Alaska?"

Valle, Gina, and Franklin exchanged rueful glances.

"Not quite," Valle said dryly. "Try Florida."

It began at an oil rig off the coast of Tierra del Fuego, and, name
notwithstanding, the world did not end in fire. The sonic drill used to sink the
well was old technology to OPEC, but to the owners of the platform -a small
Chilean petroleum combine -- it was proudly state of the art. They sank the well
deeper than anyone in the region ever had --a good two thousand feet below sea
level. So deep into the continental slope, in fact -gouging into Precambrian
bedrock -- that they inadvertently unearthed bacteria which hadn't seen the
light of day in billennia.

Not that anyone had known that, at first. The first hint of trouble didn't come
until a week later, when the workers on the oil rig awoke one morning to find
the waters surrounding them strangely transformed --into a gelatinous mass
stretching a hundred yards in every direction, and six hundred feet straight
down, to the ocean floor itself (asphyxiating all marine life unfortunate enough
to become trapped in it).

A gelatinous mass which seemed, moreover, to be expanding at an alarming rate .
. .

Tests quickly confirmed that the substance was, in fact, water--but a new kind
of water. The bacteria had apparently polymerized the sea water, altering its
molecular structure, creating a fourth state of water: not liquid, solid, or
gaseous, but something inbetween. Its properties were similar to conventional
water -- but significantly different in one respect:

Whereas normal water froze at thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit, polymerized water
"froze" -- that is to say, solidified -- at a relatively balmy fifty degrees.
And it didn't "thaw out" -- that is, revert to its gelatinous state -until the
water temperature hit sixty.

Inside of three days, there were massive "ice" floes in the Strait of Magellan.
Within a week, the bacteria had spread beyond the Strait into the Atlantic;
within two weeks, the Brazil Current had carried it into the Gulf Stream, and
from the Gulf Stream it drifted into the North Atlantic Current. Every drop of
water it touched turned into polywater, as it became known, and unless the
oceans and rivers were very warm, the polywater promptly "froze."

It was summer, and in the tropics it was warm enough for the polywater not to
freeze. Even warm enough, in places, that the polywater turned into its gaseous
state, carrying the ancient bacteria aloft on trade winds, into the Jet Stream,
and over land -- where it found its way to landlocked lakes, rivers, reservoirs.
Within six months, half the Earth's oceans, and virtually every source of fresh
water in North America, Europe, and Asia, had all had been polymerized.

Of course, it wasn't really "ice" in the conventional sense -- at fifty degrees,
it was warm ice at best. And as damaging as the transformation was to the
ecosphere, it was not a catastrophe. Yet.

Clouds, "seeded" by the bacteria, turned to "ice" crystals. Snow-- "hot snow,"
the media called it -- began falling over most of the world, carpeting both land
and solidified oceans with a thick dusting of white, "hot" snow.

Snow which only melted in warmer climates. Snow which, in unprecedented
quantities, reflected the sun's light and heat back into space -raising the
earth's albedo from thirty percent to over seventy percent. And with no easy way
for humanity to melt more than a fraction of the snow, the world plunged into a
new Ice Age.

Over the next several years, temperatures dropped, globally, over thirty
degrees. Power plants shut down; crops failed; those who didn't die of exposure,
died from hunger.

A long, endless winter. "The Earth," Valle said soberly, "would never see
another spring."

Ray listened to Valle's story with a mix of horror and disbelief. The two men
stood in the Refuge's conservatory, an elegantly furnished room the size of a
softball field, with high vaulted ceilings and enormous bay windows overlooking
the eternal storm raging outside.

"I saw the writing on the wall," Valle was saying, though Ray was too much in
shock by now to truly hear him. "Converted my winter home into a kind of
sanctuary. It uses geothermal power, and draws water from a well so deep it
hasn't been touched by the polymers." He turned to Ray. "The snow out there --
the icy rain -- it's all contaminated. So were you. Fortunately, the human body
manufactures antibodies which kill the bacteria and reverts the polywater to
normal, though not without side effects -- chills, fever, memory loss."

Ray struggled to assimilate everything he'd just heard. "If antibodies can kill
it," he said slowly, "can't you somehow --"

"Reverse the process ?" Valle shook his head. "Too much ice, and too few humans
left to manufacture antibodies."

Ray shuddered at the implications of that.

"Jesus Christ," he said softly. "How... how many others have... survived?"

"Worldwide? Hard to say. Atmosphere's so occluded radio reception's marginal at
best, but I hear reports of concentrations of population in places like Iceland
and Japan, where geothermal energy's been used longest. The U.S. and other
industrialized countries had the money and technology to build shelters, but
even so, I can't imagine that there are more than a hundred thousand people left
alive in all of North America."

All at once, Ray saw again the sad convocation of faces which was the closest
thing he had to a past: friends, family, lovers, a high school sweetheart, a
college roommate; each of them existing in a vacuum, divorced from time or
chronology, but each evoking a very specific emotion, each bringing a stab of
love or affection, anger or yearning. And now--all of them gone. Long dead; lost
in the storm. Tears sprang to his eyes; he wished that he had been lost as well,
rather than know what he now knew...

Valle placed a hand on Ray's arm with surprising gentleness. "I know what you're
going through. We've all lost a great deal...friends, family, careers. I was a
businessman, that was my whole life, perhaps too much so. That's all gone now,
obviously. But the pleasure in business comes, in no small part, from overcoming
resistance; from striving to overcome. That's what this refuge is all about.
Resisting. Resisting death. Not just our own, but the death of the race, the
death of striving itself. You understand?"

Ray thought of how he had survived the storm, and nodded. He did understand.
Valle smiled. "You've had a hell of a day. Let's get you to your room."

En route, Ray had to admit to himself that the Refuge was indeed everything
Valle made it out to be. There was a hydroponics garden for raising fresh
vegetables and fruit; Valle assured him there were enormous stores of other
foodstuffs as well, "everything from filet mignon to chocolate bars." There was
an exercise room, a games room, an indoor pool -- all outfitted with sun lamps
for the residents' daily dose of Vitamin D. The decor was opulent but not
offensively so, tasteful antiques and dark woods, artwork ranging from Picasso
to Andrew Wyeth. Oddly, Ray saw no servants, but he supposed that they must be
elsewhere; it was, after all, a big house.

Finally, Valle ushered him into what would be Ray's room -- a comfortable suite
with a window looking out on the low rise down which Ray had clambered so
desperately, so recently...

"I took the liberty of having some clothes brought up for you." Valle opened a
wardrobe closet; inside were half a dozen trousers, shirts, assorted socks and
underwear, and two sport coats. "You're about the same size and build as my son;
he generously donated a few of his outfits."

"Your son?" It was the first mention Valle had made of him. "How many others are
here? In the Refuge?"

"You make eight. You'll meet them all soon enough -- dinner's at seven. Main
dining room, downstairs to your left. Casual attire." He smiled ruefully. "We
like to think of this as an informal apocalypse."

"I . . . do appreciate your hospitality," Ray said, a bit awkwardly. "I realize
I'm not exactly here by invitation."

Valle smiled. "Nonsense. We needed new blood. See you at dinner." And he left,
leaving Ray to think about the things he'd said, and the things he hadn't. New
blood? Did he mean that literally? Unlikely; eight people wasn't a large enough
gene base to repopulate, not by a long shot. And why only eight people in a
mansion this size?

Ray rubbed at his eyes, feeling fatigue and depression wash over him. He tried,
fitfully, to get a few hours' sleep; but even as he lay on the comfortable
double bed, the faces of his past, the past he might never recover, still
haunted him. He actually found himself hoping that he didn't regain more of his
memory -- more of his life to be pronounced dead on arrival...

At six-thirty he showered, shaved, picked out slacks, shirt, and a sport coat,
and headed down the corridor toward the staircase to the first floor. As he did,
he heard a woman's voice -- slightly tinny; as though it were a recording--
coming from one of the suites just ahead. A voice punctuated by occasional --
applause?

He stopped at a half-open doorway at the end of the corridor, and cautiously
peeked inside. There was a TV playing in the middle of the large sitting room, a
tape running in the VCR. On the screen was a beautiful young woman in her late
thirties -- auburn hair, warm eyes, a kind gaze and infectious smile. She stood
on an auditorium stage, microphone in hand, addressing a large and enthusiastic
audience:

"Miracles do happen," she was saying, and, remarkably, there was nothing
unctuous in her tone as she said it. "Miracles live in your heart." A smattering
of applause from the crowd. "Every time you do a kindness for another person,"
she went on, "it's a miracle. Every time you throw a little light into a
darkened room, it's a miracle..."

Intrigued by the woman's easy manner and obvious charisma, Ray stepped forward
to get a closer look--

A woman suddenly appeared in the doorway. A haggard woman, with stringy hair and
wild unfocused eyes, her mouth a grim line of anger. She stared at Ray with
indignation, as though he were intruding on her privacy --which he supposed he
was.

"I -- I'm sorry," he said, "I didn't mean to --"

It took a moment before he recognized her: it was the woman from the tape...but
profoundly different. She was a ghost of her former self, a revenant in flesh --
the kindness gone from her eyes, the smile blasted from her face, her easy,
relaxed manner now rigid and almost --paranoiac.

He started to apologize again -- but she slammed shut the door before he could
finish. Good God, he thought: what had happened to her? Though on second
thought, he wasn't sure he really wanted to know. He moved on, shaken.

He descended a winding Gothic staircase into the main dining room -a large,
slightly ostentatious banquet hall. At the long dining table, five out of the
seven residents of the Refuge were already seated; an elaborate dinner of
pheasant, julienne potatoes, pate, and Caesar salad was already laid out, though
no one was yet eating, presumably waiting for Ray and -- that woman upstairs?
And who else?

Valle rose, gestured him over. "Mr. Bava. Let me make a few introductions.
You've met our resident physician, Franklin Dreeden . . . and Nurse Beaumont, of
course . . ."

Ray smiled, nodding a hello to them both. Gina smiled back, but Franklin just
gave him a cold glance and a short nod. Still annoyed, no doubt, at the
circumstances of Ray's arrival. Next, Valle gestured to a stylishly dressed
couple on the opposite side of the table: a young man in his early thirties,
sandy hair, pretty-boy handsome though with an unappealing curl to his lip and
narrowness to his eyes, wearing a dark blazer. Beside him was a beautiful woman,
also in her thirties, a chic gown draped over her model-thin body, her dark
blonde hair piled high in a loose French twist; the hairstyle accented her
sharp, angular, but undeniably alluring features. "My son, Thomas, and his
lovely wife, Justine . . ."

Ray extended a hand to the young man. "I guess you're the one I thank," he said.
"For giving me the shirt off your back."

Not only didn't Thomas smile, he waited just a moment too long to take Ray's
hand. "Yes. Well," he said, "thank my father. The source of all good things."

Justine sighed. "Graciousness is not among my husband's virtues, I'm afraid,"
she apologized. "Welcome to our little sanctuary, Mr. Bava."

She gestured him to sit in the empty seat beside her, which he did; her gaze
seemed to linger on him a bit longer than necessary. At first Ray thought he was
imagining it, but it was obviously not lost on Thomas, either, whose scowl
deepened.

The sixth guest now returned to the table: a stunning young woman with teased,
honey-blonde hair, sashaying in on stiletto heels, her impressive decolletage
accented by a tight, low-cut minidress. She glanced at Ray with a paradoxically
sweet smile. "Sorry," she said breathily. "Little girls' room."

As she sat at Valle's side, he placed a proprietary hand on her shoulder. "My
fiancee, Debi."

Debi giggled. "One B, one I."

Justine leaned in to Ray and muttered, "One for each brain cell," just loud
enough for all to hear. Debt tried not to show her hurt. Valle seemed either not
to hear, which was unlikely, or not to care. He glanced up. "And unless we have
another visitor of whom I'm unaware, I believe we're all here now..."

The haggard woman was descending the staircase, her expression stony, only her
eyes -- smoldering with the embers of some unknown rage -betraying anything of
her inner life. She wore a long, shroud-like gray dress, no makeup, her hair
perfunctorily clipped behind her. She walked slowly, mechanically, as though
uncomfortable in her own body --resentful of it, perhaps.

As she approached the table, Valle gestured toward Ray. "Sister Angelique. I'd
like you to meet --"

"We've met," Angelique said, her voice flat. She didn't even glance in Ray's
direction as she settled herself directly opposite Valle and his "fiancee."
Then, with no preamble, she looked at Debi and declared, "You dress like a
whore."

A chorus of groans erupted around the table -- mainly Thomas, Justine, and
Franklin; Gina just looked pained and embarrassed. Ray's eyes widened.

Debi drew herself up in her seat, her expression turning petulant. "Well, thank
you so much for the fashion advice, Ms. Sackcloth-and-Ashes..."

Valle cautioned, "Angelique, please, show some restraint. We have a new
guest..."

Thomas lit a cigarette and laughed ruefully. "Yes, Mr. Bava," he said, "aren't
you lucky to have found us?"

Ray's mouth opened a little in astonishment at the verbal firefight which seemed
to have erupted around him, but it was hardly over:

Valle looked at his son and sighed. "Who was it who said, 'Ingratitude is the
necessary curse of making things new'?"

Thomas glanced sharply at his father. "I'm supposed to be grateful?" he said, a
bitter light shining in his eyes. "As in, 'Some day, all this will be mine'?" He
looked around, as though to take in not just the room, but the entire
constricted world in which he found himself. "My God," he said with mock
enlightenment, "of course! This is so much better than owning a Fortune 500
company."

Valle's gaze was cold. "Thomas, you're making a fool of yourself."

"He's right, Thomas," Justine agreed. "Stop embarrassing me like this."

Thomas looked at her; looked at his father; and slowly rose. He tossed his
napkin down on the table.

"Fuck the both of you," he said. He turned and walked away, up the staircase and
out of sight...

Ray, dumbfounded, glanced at Gina, in whose face he saw disgust, embarrassment,
and -- helplessness?

"My apologies, Mr. Bava, for my son's churlish behavior --"

Sister Angelique leaned in, her tone dripping with self-righteous piety: "At
least Thomas acknowledges his greed, and envy," she said. "How many of you will
so readily admit to your own sins?"

Justine and Debi responded with some choice vulgarities; Angelique's tone became
shrill, less a sermon than a harangue: "Own up your sins! Only then can you find
forgiveness. Let me help! How long has it been since we gathered in meditation
--"

"Not long enough," snapped Justine.

"Quiet."

Valle's voice was suddenly the hard, blunt instrument of will which Ray had
heard in his half-dream; less silken than steel. His guests -- even Angelique --
fell silent. His stony gaze tracked across them all, as he said, quietly, "Show
some respect. Before the collapse, the good sister here was an inspiration to
millions. A best-selling author. I think we could all benefit from her counsel."

The silence around the table was profound. No one was more stunned by this turn
of events than Angelique herself, who stared cautiously at Valle, unsure how to
proceed. Clearly this was not the usual reaction her diatribes evoked.

Valle turned to her, solicitously. "What exactly did you have in mind,
Angelique? Some sort of...spiritual ceremony?"

A pleased little smile came to her, and for a moment, Ray thought he saw a faint
reminder of the woman on the videotape.

"Yes," she said eagerly. "Exactly..."

"I think getting in touch with our spiritual sides would do us all a world of
good," Valle declared. He glanced around the table, as though daring anyone to
disagree. Unsurprisingly, no one did. Ray, who would not have been willing to
bet a nickel that Valle had a spiritual side, much less desired to locate it,
puzzled over this turn of events.

Valle turned back to Angelique. "What would you say to tomorrow afternoon at
five? In the conservatory?"

"I'll bring my prayer book," Justine muttered under her breath, but no other
objections were noted.

The remainder of dinner went about as well. Ray tried to talk with Gina, but
Justine, drinking heavily, practically threw herself bodily between the two of
them -- leaning in with sly jokes at every opportunity, boldly resting her hand
on his leg, the curve of her long nails tracing small circles on the inside of
his thigh. Gina left early, and soon thereafter Ray made his apologies as well,
feigning exhaustion from his ordeal.

Back in his own room, lying shiftless on his bed, the gray light outside
alleging neither day nor night, he was just drifting off to sleep when a knock
on his door roused him. Answering it, he found Justine tottering in the doorway,
still quite looped.

She held up her glass in a small toast. "'Let he who is without sin...make up
for lost time.'"

Ray smiled thinly. "I, ah, think the good sister might be able to help you with
your Bible study."

Justine laughed shortly, ambling uninvited into the room. "Sister? She's
self-ordained, for God's sake -- one of those Glory Age, cosmological bullshit
cults. Give me a break."

Ray sighed. "Mrs. Valle...you do realize you're not entirely sober?"

She shrugged. "If you'd lived here for five years," she shot back, "would you
be?"

Not a bad point. Justine smiled seductively; put down her glass. "Though I must
admit -- things are looking up..."

She looped her arms around his neck, leaned in to kiss him -- but he pushed her
away, gently. She looked both baffled and offended. "Why not?"

"Two reasons. You're drunk and you're married. And I doubt there are many
divorce lawyers left alive."

She smiled crookedly. "See? Not such a bad world after all." Ray couldn't help
but laugh. She shrugged. "Your loss."

Ray saw her out of the room...then looked up to find Gina, apparently headed for
the staircase, staring at the two of them, first with surprise, then dismay --
as she made an incorrect, if understandable, assumption. Ray's discomfiture must
have been obvious -- as obvious as his attraction to Gina -- because Justine saw
her opportunity to make a little mischief. Abruptly, she grabbed Ray and gave
him a wet, passionate kiss, her tongue darting into his startled mouth. She
tasted like gin.

Ray quickly pushed her away -- but too late. He turned in time to see Gina
hurrying down the staircase. "Gina!" he called out, but she picked up her pace;
by the time he reached the stairwell, she was gone, and he had no idea which
room here was hers. Damn it!

He turned back to the smirking Justine, his temper flaring.

"What the hell is wrong with you people?" he shouted at her. "You act like
spoiled children -- like caged animals! Is it the bacteria? Can't you remember
what it means to be a civilized human being? Have you forgotten whatever
kindness and decency you ever had?"

His words seemed to give her pause; she looked suddenly confused, disoriented.
For an instant, something resembling shame and embarrassment flickered in her
eyes--

And vanished just as quickly. The smirk returned to her face, and she laughed.
"If I have," she said, "I'm better off for it." She turned and made her way
unsteadily down the hall, disappearing around a corner.

Wanting suddenly to be anywhere but where he was, Ray shrugged on a shirt and
started walking -- wandering the Refuge, trying to make sense of all he'd seen
and heard tonight. He descended the winding staircase, passed the exercise room,
then paused at the hydroponics lab. Like all the common areas, it was open, and
more importantly to Ray just now, it seemed peaceful. He drifted inside. The
room was a potpourri of familiar smells: sweet fruit, orange blossoms, the rich
odor of loam. He recalled most of them clearly, but wandering amid the beds of
fruits and vegetables he had the occasional lapse: were cantaloupes always this
soft, did roses come in shades of blue? Reflexively he picked a cherry tomato,
took a bite; it tasted good, tart and sweet, but did it taste like a tomato? How
could he know for sure?

Irritated, he turned to leave. The west wall was made entirely of glass, and now
he happened to glance at it, expecting to see only darkness, and snow.

Someone was standing outside

Ray started. At first he thought it might be another stranger -- then realized
it was Thomas. He was standing perhaps ten feet from the house, skipping stones
into the distance, watching them spark and fall as they struck the particle
field surrounding the mansion.

Thomas turned and, seeing Ray, motioned for him to join him. "It's all right,"
he called out, voice slightly muffled by the double-paned glass. "It's a sterile
field inside here." He nodded toward a half-open door at the far end of the
hydroponics lab; Ray shrugged to himself and walked through.

Outside, Thomas gestured toward the protective bubble of the particle field.
"Pretty, isn't it?" he said, looking more relaxed than Ray had yet seen him.
"Like one of those old snow globes, except all the snow is outside, not inside,
the glass."

He handed Ray a small flat stone. "Feel free," he said.

Ray tossed the stone. It hit the field, hung suspended a moment amid a halo of
sparks, then dropped to the ground, its inertia abruptly reduced to zero. Idly
Ray wondered what happened to air molecules from outside; were they repelled, or
somehow decontaminated?

Thomas nodded toward the dead forest in the distance. "This was all mangrove
trees, once," he said, a hint of sadness in his voice. "My parents and I came
here every winter until I was eighteen. There's a big chunk of tundra about two
miles to the south, used to be a golf course. Disney World's about a hundred
miles in that direction -- looks like some medieval city now, ramparts covered
in snow." He looked almost as though he could see it from here.

Ray studied him a moment, then said carefully, "Are you and your father usually
that --"

"Ohhh, yes," Thomas said with a small laugh. He glanced at Ray even as he threw
another stone; this one missed its mark by a good two feet. "We've been in
competition with one another since the day I was born. Starting with my mother's
affection, I suppose. I won that one -- I don't think he's ever forgiven me
that." He shrugged. "First and last one I did win. Stupidly, I keep trying to
beat him on his own terms, and all I have to show for it are failed businesses
and spectacularly bad investments." Tension crept back into his tone. "Moot
point, now. Game over. Playing field's been razed. He may have lost his business
empire, but his son's a failure, now and forever. Not a bad trade-off, eh?"

Ray tried to keep the dismay and pity from his voice. "Come on. Your life can't
be all about that --"

Thomas considered that a long moment. "But it is," he said quietly. "Maybe it
wasn't, once. But it is now." He snapped up a larger rock, sent it hurtling
toward the barrier; the field crackled and arced like fireworks. "This damned
bug" he said. "This bacteria. I feel --" He looked at Ray, his eyes angry and
haunted at once. "I feel like there's more to me than this. More than just
hunger. And envy. And anger. But I don't --"

He turned away. Stared out at the eternal storm. "Fuck it," he said softly.
"Just fuck it."

And, with that, he turned, brushed past Ray as though he no longer existed, and
returned to the house.

Shaken and confused, Ray followed. Christ -- was this his future, as well? Would
he eventually forget the best parts of himself, as these people seemed to have?
Gina hadn't -- at least she didn't appear to have -- but who knew? Was survival
worth it, to survive like this?

He ascended the staircase to the second floor. Preoccupied, he didn't notice
till he had rounded a comer that Justine was walking just ahead of him. When he
saw her he immediately backtracked, having no desire for a repeat performance.
Hanging back around the corner, he heard a knock on a door, followed by the
sound of the door opening. He waited a good thirty seconds, giving her time to
enter, then came back round the corner once again.

He came to an abrupt halt.

Justine and Valle stood in front of an open doorway, kissing passionately, with
no apparent thought for who might see them -- Valle's hands first caressing the
small of her back, then moving slowly down, cupping and squeezing her buttocks .
. .

Before Ray could move, Valle suddenly looked up.

His gaze met Ray's. He smiled briefly, then brought his mouth down to his
daughter-in-law's breasts.

Ray continued on his way, wordlessly passing them by, doing his best to ignore
Justine's moans and the somehow disturbing sound of Valle's breath. Halfway to
his room he heard a door snick shut behind him; heard faintly the sounds of
their illicit laughter behind closed doors. He entered his room, shut the door,
and started to lock it.

And only then discovered that, as with the common areas, there were apparently
no locks on any of the doors in the Refuge.

At breakfast the next morning Ray tried to speak privately to Gina, but she
ducked him, snapping up a bagel and orange juice on her way to the infirmary.
When Ray suggested he might stop by later, she looked at him coolly: "Oh, I
think you're fully recovered," she said. "You adapt quickly, Mr. Bava."

As Gina left, Justine straggled in, last to arrive save for the absent
Angelique. Debi shot Justine a chill look as she entered, but Thomas, already
seated, barely looked up from his coffee as his wife sat beside him. "Lost our
way last night, did we, darling?" he said acidly.

Justine smiled coldly, stabbed a piece of cantaloupe with her fork. "Oh, I knew
exactly where I was, Thomas. But thank you for your concern."

Valle, across the table, made a great show of studying his son. "Thomas, you
look tired. Are you getting enough sleep?"

"It was . . .fitful," Thomas said tightly.

Valle took a swallow of coffee, nodding with apparent sympathy. "Mm, I have that
problem myself sometimes. Usually only when I sleep alone, though. Last night I
slept like a baby." He glanced at his son's wife; smiled. "Justine, you look
particularly lovely this morning..."

Justine returned the smile, with all its none-too-subtle implications; Thomas,
looking about ready to pop a vein, concentrated very hard on buttering a scone.
Nor did Debi seem her usually bubbly self. Ray's revulsion was now increasing
geometrically with each passing minute.

"So," Justine said brightly, "where's our little tower of psychobabble today?"

"If by that you mean Angelique," Valle said, "I believe she's preparing for our
spiritual ceremony this afternoon."

Debi, petulant, declared, "I'm not going."

Valle shot her a stern look. "You most certainly are."

"Why should I? She thinks I'm a whore, why should I care what she says?"

Valle shrugged. "Maybe you are a whore."

Silence sharp as glass. Debi's eyes went wide.

"Maybe we all are," Valle went on. "Maybe the good Sister can rid us of our
pretensions otherwise."

Ray had had enough. He stood; tossed his napkin down, left his breakfast
uneaten. "Excuse me."

As he walked out of the room, he heard Valle's voice, mock-innocent, behind him:
"Was it something I said?"

Ray headed straight for the infirmary, where Gina was busying herself making a
checklist of supplies and medicines. He stood in the doorway until she noticed
him, then said calmly, "I didn't sleep with Justine. I'd rather sleep with
something more warm-blooded, like a rattlesnake."

Gina sighed. "Why do you care so much what I think?"

"Because," Ray said evenly, "you're the only person here -- maybe the only
person left in the world -- I feel like I can respect. I'd like to have yours,
too."

Her face softened. She smiled sadly. "Not exactly the family next door, are
they?"

He took a step inside. "Not that I'm complaining, mind you, but . . . what are
you doing in this group?"

She shrugged. "I worked for Valle. Still do, I suppose."

"Where? In one of his companies?"

She sighed, as if not quite certain of the answer herself. "I think so. There
are gaps for me, like there are for you." She rubbed one arm as though suddenly
cold. "Sometimes I think about my old life...about school; about my friends;
even my family...and I wonder if it ever happened at all. If the sun ever really
shone in the sky...if there really were such things as summers at the beach, or
hot June nights, or warm spring rain..."

She blinked back tears. Ray put a hand gently on her shoulder. "There were," he
said. "I remember them, too."

"Do you?" she said. She looked at him. "Ray...who are you? Do you even know?"

Struggling to articulate the confusion he felt, he said, "I -- I feel kind of
like a jigsaw puzzle that's still in the box. Lots of different pieces, but I
don't know what they add up to." She laughed a little at that; he smiled and
went on: "I seem to remember...moving around a lot. Job to job. City to city.
Never quite putting down roots. But I don't know that for sure. All I know for
certain --" He hesitated, then decided to say it: "-- is what I'm feeling now.
That's all I can trust, really."

She looked away, shyly, and changed the subject.

They talked, as best they could under Franklin's baleful eye, until it was time
for Angelique's "spiritual ceremony," entering the conservatory together (a fact
not lost on Justine, who threw them a dirty look). The other guests were all
there, gathered in a handful of folding chairs; an impromptu pulpit was set up
in front of the big bay windows looking out at the blizzard.

Moments after Ray and Gina sat down, Angelique entered. She was, surprisingly,
wearing a more stylish, lavender dress, and she carried herself with what Ray
could only think to call a careful dignity -- as though she were walking on
eggshells. She smiled at her tiny congregation; looked at them not fiercely, but
with a certain gentleness. "Thank you," she said softly. "For coming today..."

Having seen the videotape of her early sermon, Ray could see, with heartbreaking
clarity, how hard she was trying to recapture some echo of the woman she once
was. She cleared her throat; glanced down at her notes; then smiled and said, a
bit shakily, "Miracles... do happen. They...they live in your heart --"

"Sister?" came a voice from behind Ray. Valle's voice. Ray's stomach immediately
knotted up.

Angelique looked up; startled. "I...yes?"

"Would this be a miracle?" Valle said soberly.

Angelique looked confused. "'This'?"

"Our being here. Alive. When so many others are not. Is this a miracle?"

"In a . . . way, I suppose. But --"

"So all those others who died," Valle said, "they didn't deserve a miracle?"

Angelique was not prepared for this. Ray could see her groping, mentally, to
recapture her rhythm: "Whenever you do an...act of kindness for another person,"
she said, falling back on rote to carry her through, "it's a...a miracle..."

But by now the others had realized what Valle was up to, and knew that they had
leave to follow suit: "Oh," Thomas piped up, "like my father letting you in
here, you mean?"

"Oh, yes," Justine said. "Hallelujah for that."

Ray and Gina exchanged queasy looks as Angelique straggled to regain control of
the meeting. "Please...let me finish --"

"Now, now," Valle said to Thomas, "I could hardly have done anything else. The
poor woman had nowhere else to turn -- "

Debi, seeing her opportunity for revenge, leaned forward, voice sharp as a
blade: "Because her husband, the Congressman, took somebody else into the
government shelters!"

Ray flinched. Angelique looked as though she'd been physically struck.

"No," she said, the word an exhalation as much as a denial, "that's not --"

"Was she young?" Debi taunted. "Did she dress like a whore, too?"

"Stop it!" Ray shouted. "You have no right --"

Angelique, eyes tightly shut, was blocking it all out, reciting the familiar
words like a rosary: "Every...time...you throw a little light...into a darkened
room --"

Thomas jumped to his feet, as though at a revivalist meeting. "It's a miracle!"
he cried out. "Praise the Lord!"

Thomas, Justine, Debi, and Franklin laughed delightedly; Valle just smiled a
reptilian smile, clearly relishing this. Ray and Gina were on their feet and
rushing toward Angelique, who finally broke down into sobs, holding tightly onto
the podium as though it were the last remnant of some distant, cherished
world...

Ray reached her side first; he put an arm around her shoulders. "It's okay . . .
come on . . . come with me . . ."

Valle was not pleased. "Mr. Bava," he said coldly, "the service isn't over yet."

Ray glanced up at him. "I think it is."

Angelique buried her face in Ray's shoulder and sobbed uncontrollably; he and
Gina slowly led her through the makeshift nave toward the nearest exit. Valle
was quietly furious; as Ray passed him, the older man stared venomously at him,
and Ray did his best to reciprocate.

They took Angelique to the infirmary, where Ray watched as Gina put the shaken
woman to bed, then handed her a couple of pills and a cup of water. "Here," she
said. "This'll help you sleep."

Angelique stared at the pills in her hand a long moment, her eyes glassy.
"Should've taken these...when he left me," she said softly...

Gina put a hand gently on her arm. "Don't say that." Angelique swallowed the
pills dry, closed her eyes. Gina waited patiently until she drifted off to
sleep, then quietly retreated with Ray to the anteroom.

Shutting the door behind them, Gina said, "I know what you're thinking. But
there's nowhere to run."

"Valle said there were other enclaves -- other refuges --"

Gina shook her head. "Just rumors. Sometimes I think he makes them up, just to
tease us, give us false hope. But even if there were another enclave, and we
knew where it was -- how would we even get to it? On foot, across hundreds,
maybe thousands of miles?" Her voice broke; she looked down. "No," she said
softly. "There are no other refuges. Not for us."

Ray reached out, put her chin tenderly in his palm, gently forced her to look up
at him.

"There is one," he said.

As they made love, in the warmth and darkness of his room, it was possible, for
a moment, to believe that they were in another place and time entirely; that the
snow swirling in the dark well of the windows was a passing winter storm; that
they would wake to a light dusting of powder on the front lawn, and a bright,
thawing sun in the sky. It was possible, just for a moment, to believe in
seasons.

The woman's cry put an end to all that.

"Thomas! For God's sake!" Justine's voice, filled with uncharacteristic terror.
Ray and Gina scrambled out of bed, threw on some robes, and raced toward the
sound of Justine's voice, echoing from Valle's room: "Jesus, Tom, no!"

They rushed through Valle's door, through the sitting room to the palatial
bedroom suite in the rear -- to find Thomas Valle, disheveled, wild-eyed, and
more than a little drunk, standing five feet from the bed in which his father
and his wife lay naked. He was pointing a .45 automatic at Justine, who was
backed up against the headboard of the bed, her usual silky composure now
considerably frayed. Valle, sitting beside her, partially covered by satin
sheets, was much more composed; in fact, he showed no signs of fear whatsoever.

Ray and Gina froze in the doorway.

Thomas gave them only a moment's notice. "That's as close as you come," he
warned, the gun waggling dangerously in his hand.

Ray made no threatening movements, even as he tried to figure out how he might
be able to disarm Thomas without putting anyone else at risk. Thomas's
attentions returned to his wife.

"Bitch," he said, practically spitting out the word. "How long have you been
doing it? Since the beginning? Since we moved in here?" When Justine didn't
reply, he raised the gun and pointed it directly at her head, his whole arm
trembling. "Answer me, damn it!"

"Actually," Valle replied, cool and calm, "it was well before we moved in here.
Isn't that right, Justine?"

Justine looked at him as though he'd taken leave of his senses. For an instant,
Ray saw in Thomas' eyes a shock of betrayal greater than anything the son had
expected--anything he had ever wanted to hear--and then the shock turned to
acceptance, and the acceptance to rage. . .

But Valle just said, calmly, "Stop pointing that thing at your wife, Thomas.
It's me you really want to point it at, isn't it?" He smiled. "Go on. Go ahead."

Thomas held the gun steady a long moment. . .then, slowly, moved its muzzle a
few inches to the left. . .until he was aiming it directly at his father's
heart.

"You son of a bitch," he said. "I should've done this years ago. When you put
Mother in the hospital, the first time."

Valle laughed. "You didn't have the nerve. You still don't."

"And what do you call this?"

"I call it bravado. It usually goes hand in hand with failure."

"Shut up!"

But Valle did not let up. "You've been a failure, a coward, all your life;
you're not about to change now."

Ray snapped, "Valle, for God's sake --"

"Jesus Christ," Thomas yelled, "don't make me do this!"

Valle smiled. "Feel your finger on the trigger, Thomas? Feel the tension there?
That's power. That's what you've been afraid of, all your life. You've disdained
it, rejected it, run from it What are you going to do, now that you have it? Run
away again? Or embrace it?"

Thomas's hand suddenly stopped trembling.

He raised the gun; aiming between his father's eyes.

"Bastard," he whispered.

A shot rang out. . .but not from Thomas's gun.

Ray watched in horror as blood pooled inside Thomas's shirt, beginning as a
bubble the size of a quarter and quickly expanding to cover his entire chest --
like Poe's red death, come to claim him.

Ray spun to face Valle. There was a smoking hole in the satin sheets covering
Valle's arm; now he tossed them aside, revealing the pistol in his right hand. .
.

Thomas collapsed, the weight of the blood seeming almost to drag him down, and
lost consciousness.

Ray lunged at Valle, making a grab for his gun. They grappled for it, the pistol
discharging once -- harmlessly, thank God, into the air --before Ray, pounding
the flat of his hand repeatedly on Valle's wrist, managed to loosen his grip on
the weapon. They rolled off the bed, each wrestling for an advantage. Valle
grabbed Ray by the neck and began squeezing murderously, his strength surprising
for a man his age. Ray jabbed his two middle fingers into Valle's throat, the
soft tissue near the larynx, Valle cried out and let go of Ray's neck. Ray
grabbed Valle's arms and succeeded in pinning him to the floor. Ray kept his
arms stiff, unyielding, braced for a doubtlessly powerful counterattack--

But Valle suddenly yielded; his body went limp, he made no further resistance.
He looked up at Ray and grinned wolfishly.

It was, all at once, very bright in the room. Light seemed almost to be shining
through Valle's face.

And Ray felt cold. As cold as the storms as cold as he'd felt falling into the
snowdrift.

He let go of Valle. The entire room was filled with blinding light; Gina's form
was a white outline on a white background, slowly fading. Ray called out to her,
but his own voice sounded impossibly faint.

In moments, there was no room, no house, no Gina or Valle or poor dying Thomas;
only oblivion.

And then, just as suddenly, he was back in the dining room.

A fire burned in the hearths a hearty breakfast was laid out on the table. The
room was warm, and, except for Ray, empty. He was seated, fully clothed, at the
table. . .with no idea how he had gotten here, or even gotten dressed. What the
hell was happening? Where was Valle? And Gina? And--

"You look like a man with a problem," came a voice off to his right. Ray turned
to find Franklin, nattily dressed in blazer and slacks, standing a few feet
away, opening a bottle of wine.

But it was a radically different Franklin who inserted the corkscrew and gave it
a sharp twist: no longer a nervous wisp of a man in his fifties -- but a
handsome young hunk in his thirties. And there was something else, too:
something unpleasant in the curl of his mouth, something narrow and guarded
about his eyes. . .

"There's very little, in my experience," he said, popping the cork, "that can't
be cured with a drink." He poured a splash of chablis into Ray's water glass.
"Melinots, 1997. My father does have excellent taste in wine. . ."

Father! Ray stared at him in disbelief. "Doctor. . .what the hell's going on?"

Franklin laughed. "'Doctor'? Hell, I barely got my B.A." He glanced to his
right. "Here comes the only doctor in' this house. . ."

Ray looked up.

Thomas entered the room. Hale. Hearty. Without so much as a powder bum on him.

And twenty years older.

Face deeply lined, eyes bagged, he walked with the nervous, hesitant shuffle of
an even older man. Franklin's walk. He saw Ray, threw him a cold look, just the
way Franklin always had, and sat down at the table.

"Dr. Dreeden," Franklin said. "Some wine?"

"At this hour? I think not." Even his voice was different: still Thomas's voice,
but thinner, reedy, drained of even the dark vitality of Thomas's anger; he
sounded tired, resigned.

Things got even stranger.

Justine descended the staircase--wearing Gina's white nurse's uniform. Her hair
now fell to her shoulders, softening her face somehow, and even her eyes no
longer seemed hard and glittery, but warm and open.

She smiled when she saw Ray. "Mr. Bava," and her voice was warm as well, "how
are you feeling?"

Ray, completely disoriented, managed to stammer out, "Actually, I -think I may
be taking a turn for the worse. . ."

Justine looked genuinely concerned. "I'm sorry to hear that. Perhaps you should
come down to the infirmary, after breakfast --"

And now Debi entered the room. Debi, whose honey-blonde hair was now done up in
a French twist. Who was wearing one of Justine's chic gowns, and Justine's
diamond jewelry. Who walked to the table with Justine's slow, languorous stride.
. .

Franklin barely looked up at her as she sat beside him. "Lost our way last
night, did we, darling?" he said acidly.

Debi stabbed a piece of cantaloupe with her fork. "Oh, I knew exactly where I
was, Franklin. But thank you for your concern. . ."

Ray's head was spinning. It was all the same; and yet it was all different. What
the hell was going on ? Another side-effect of the bacterial infection? But that
hardly explained Thomas, his miraculous recovery from the bullet wound --

"Morning, all."

Valle entered the room, unchanged as far as Ray could tell, but on his arm now
was -- Angelique. An Angelique with teased hair, wearing a tight minidress, hips
swaying as she sashayed in on stiletto heels. Valle caught Ray staring at hers
he smiled that wolfish smile again. "Mr. Bava. You remember my fiancee --
Angelique?"

Angelique giggled. "Call me Angel."

"And of course," Valle went on, "you know the good sister."

Ray was suddenly afraid. He knew who this had to be.

He looked up -- as Gina descended the staircase. She was wearing the gray,
shroud-like dress, but that was the least of the changes that had been wrought
in her: her face, once open and accessible, was now hard and closed, and her
eyes now smoldered with barely contained rage and paranoia. . .

Gina sat down opposite Angelique and declared, "You dress like a whore."

As before, groans and insults flew across the table. Ray's heart was pounding;
seeing Gina like this, twisted, corrupted, to baffling purpose, filled him with
helpless rage.

"The only way to rid yourselves of sin is to own up to it," Gina cried, shrill
as Angelique had ever been. "Let me help you --"

"Perhaps the good sister has a point," Valle said. Was it Ray's imagination, or
was he looking at Ray, was there a secret edge to his voice meant just for him?
"I think we could all benefit from her counsel. Perhaps some sort of. .
.spiritual ceremony --"

"No!" Ray shouted, a reflex. He jumped to his feet, spilling his drink in the
process.

"Mr. Bava, what's wrong?" Valle's knowing smile belied his question.

He was not about to let Valle do it again; not to Gina. He went to her side;
took her hand. "Gina, come with --"

But Gina yanked back her hand, eyes burning with indignation. "How dare you!"
she snapped at him.

"Gina, please --"

"Don't touch me!"

Debi smiled sardonically. "Yes, Ray, didn't you know? She's the bloody Virgin
Mary -- unless your sex is absolutely immaculate, she's not interested."

"Blasphemer!" Gina shouted. Her wild eyes tracked from one guest to the other.
"All of you, you wallowin evil, you bask in your own wickedness!"

All save Justine and Ray were rocking with laughter. "Now I ask you," Debi
addressed the air, "with entertainment like this, who misses television?"

His heart aching for Gina, for what she'd become, Ray reached out to touch her.
"Gina --"

She threw off his hand, her tone was ferocious. "Keep away from me!" She ran as
though the devil itself were at her heels, pounding up the staircase to the
laughter and applause of the others.

Ray watched her go, overwhelmed with horror, sadness, loss. . .and an
ever-increasing rage.

"Frankly," Debi said, mock-confidential, "I think Our Lady of Perpetual
Abstinence could really benefit from getting her sackcloth-and-ashes hauled. .
."

Ray turned angrily to Valle.

Valle looked at him and smiled.

A memory suddenly broke the surface of Ray's mind, as though long suppressed and
just now being made conscious: He had a sudden, jolting image of himself hitting
someone, pounding away at their flesh without hesitation or guilt or emotion of
any kind.

Valle's gaze was calm; steady.

Ray found himself overwhelmed by the memories that now came flooding back to
him:

Ray, deliberately and methodically breaking someone's arm, he heard the snap of
bone as clearly as if it were taking place in this very room. It meant no more
to him than if he were snapping a pencil in two.

Ray, barely wrinkling his gray three-piece suit, tossing a man to the floor of
Valle's office, then kicking him in the stomach, as Valle nodded approvingly.

Ray, feeling a rush of pride and pleasure at Valle's approval.

No, he told himself. It's not true! Valle was doing this. Trying to turn him
into something he wasn't. He looked up to face him.

Valle grinned wolfishly at him.

Ray's anger evaporated. Suddenly, all he felt for Valle. . .was admiration. The
admiration of one predator for another. He felt a grin, Valle's grin, spread
across his own face, like a snake under his skin, cold and venomous and welcome.
Suddenly, all he wanted from life was Valle's approval, his cold benediction.

"Ray," Valle said casually, "I've just learned that my son is planning to murder
me. Restrain him, would you?"

Franklin went white. He stood shakily. "What the hell --"

Ray was upon him before he could move from the table, grabbing him viciously by
the collar, half-lifting Franklin off his feet. Ray didn't think about his
sudden strength other than to enjoy it. Power at rest is pointless, a voice
inside him said. Power exercised is pleasure. Ray laughed, eager to exercise his
power.

Franklin's face was pallid. "Please," and his voice was trembling, afraid,
"please don't --"

Instead of scorn, Ray felt a twinge of pity; of empathy. He fought it; tried to
ignore it. Valle would be ashamed of him for feeling it, Valle would never
approve --

But it wouldn't go away. He stared into Franklin's terrified eyes. . .and
slowly, his mind began to clear.

The false memories shattered like stale candy--brittle, and bitter to the taste.

Ray let go of Franklin. He turned to Valle, feeling no admiration, only
anger--even more so than before, now that he had had a taste of the violation
the others were experiencing. "You son of a bitch," he said.

Valle seemed surprised, and not a little fascinated. Franklin too was startled
by Ray's turnaround -- and relieved. Debi looked vaguely disappointed.

Valle stood. "I think, Mr. Bava," he said, "we need to talk." He smiled at the
other guests. "Excuse us, won't you?"

They found privacy in the conservatory, alone but for the storm just beyond the
glass. Valle lit a cigar, studied Ray closely. "I must admit, I am intrigued.
None of the others have been able to resist my--'alterations.' Why you?"

"You tell me. This 'infection' -- did you create it? Are you using it, somehow?
How the hell are you doing this?"

Valle shrugged. "Let's just say I can, and let it go at that."

After a moment, Ray said, "Fine. Keep your little secrets. Just change Gina back
to what she was. Her true personality."

Valle laughed. "And what makes you so sure that was her true personality? Maybe
you fell in love with a facade -- a mask -- that I created. Maybe your beloved
Gina is really as cold and conniving as my son's wife."

"I don't believe that."

"But you don't know for sure, do you? You on't know anything for sure."

Ray seethed, knowing he was right. Valle's tone hardened further. "I don't know
why you won't bend to my will, Mr. Bava. But the reality --the only reality that
matters to you -- is that I am the master of this house. And if you're going to
remain here, you're going to have to play by the house rules."

"If that means standing by and watch you jerk these people around like puppets,"
Ray snapped, "you can forget it."

Valle considered a moment. "In that case," he said evenly, "downstairs, next to
the hydroponics lab, you'll find a storage cabinet. Inside are several
heat-generating parkas, goggles, a medical kit, rations, an electronic
navigation device -- even a gun. Feel free to take any -- and everything you
might need."

"You're tossing me out?"

"I'm giving you the option of leaving. If the sight of my manipulations so
offends you, you can look for another refuge. Though I doubt seriously you'll
find one." His sly smile hinted at some knowledge Ray could only guess at.
"You'll find the airlock on the south lawn, once inside, follow the instructions
on the wall. The access door will close behind you, the particle field will be
neutralized at the point of exit, then reactivate thirty seconds later. If you
decide to return, you may -- but only on my terms."

He smiled and left the conservatory. Ray looked after, not doubting for a moment
that he was serious, then glanced out at the unforgiving storm. For a moment he
could feel it again -- the chilly embrace of a spurned lover, come to reclaim
him -- but even so, it didn't take him long to come to his decision.

He found Gina in the upstairs library, kneeling in prayer; though her eyes were
closed in what should have been repose, Ray could read the torture in her face,
the pain and sorrow of abandonment, loss of love and loss of faith. All of it
false. All of it imprinted on her, somehow, by Valle, her true past a palimpsest
beneath this lie of memory.

He stood in the doorway; cleared his throat.

She turned. Alarm in her eyes as she saw him.

"Excuse me, sister." Gently, as gently as he could manage. Her body was tensed,
as though braced for an attack. "I just wanted to apologize. For my behavior
earlier. It was. . .inappropriate."

The tension in her body eased a bit, but she still regarded him warily. "Well,
I. . .I've never felt you to be a man of evil intent, Mr. Bava," she said
quietly.

"I'm not."

She nodded. Looked at him approvingly, as at a penitent seeking absolution. "If
God can forgive our indiscretions," she said, dripping with piety, "so can I.
Your apology is accepted."

She looked so broken, so trusting. He hoped he would not someday have to pay
real penance for what he was about to do.

"Thank you," Ray said. He reached into his pocket.

"I just hope God is equally understanding of this."

He pulled out the automatic pistol from the storage cabinet and trained it at
her. Terrified, Gina took a step back, accidentally toppling over a small table.

"No one's going to hurt you," he promised. "But I do need you to come with me."

Incredibly, he could feel the bitter cold of the storm even through the thermal
field generated by the parka. The field did melt the frozen rain -- turning the
icy needles to wet slush before they struck his face --but nothing, it seemed,
could mitigate that raw, chafing wind that cut through their insulation like a
knife. It would have been far worse without the parkas, but even with them the
chill penetrated to their very bones.

"Sister" Gina waded through the snowdrifts a few steps ahead of him, less
accustomed to the cold than he was, probably feeling it even more sharply. He
felt, not for the first time in the last half hour, a stab of guilt -but he knew
he had to try this. If the source of Valle's power was his house, then perhaps
the farther they got from it, the less his influence on Gina. If not -- well,
there was a navigational beacon in the supply kit; they could always go back.

And then what? he asked himself. Spend the rest of their lives at Valle's mercy?
Pawns in Valle's mind games? And how long before Valle succeeded in controlling
him the way he already controlled the others --before he truly became Valle's
ruthless, remorseless acolyte? Unless he was lucky, and had time to use the gun
on himself, before it happened?

Gina abruptly stumbled, and with a small cry, fell into a snowdrift. Ray could
see, behind her goggles, tears welling up in her eyes. "Please --I have to stop
-- rest --"

He hated this, hated the fear in her eyes when she glanced at him, when once she
had looked at him with the first traces of love. "All right," he said. He
probably shouldn't, but he couldn't stand to see the fear turn to hatred when he
said no. "Just for a few minutes."

He burrowed into the side of the snowdrift, gouging out a small dimple in the
snow to act as a makeshift windbreak. As they settled into it, Ray took out a
thermos. "Would you like some coffee?"

She nodded. He unscrewed the thermos, poured her some steaming coffee. She took
a sip, then closed her eyes. "Dear God," she whispered. "I've never been so cold
in my life." She opened her eyes, looked at him imploringly. "Please take me
back."

Ray wanted to reach out and touch her -- reassure her he wouldn't let any harm
come to her -- but knew he didn't dare. "Not yet," he could only say. "I'm
sorry."

She looked away; took another swallow of coffee.

"Feeling better?" he asked hopefully.

She nodded slowly. "A little." She looked up into the blank sky mottled with
gray clouds. "No sun," she said quietly. "Never any sun." She shook her head.
"Sometimes I wonder if it ever really shone at all. . .it's been so long, I
wonder --"

Suddenly excited, Ray finished her thought for her:

"If there really was such a thing as summers at the beach," he said, "or hot
June nights, or. . .warm spring ram. . ."

She looked at him, startled. "How did you know that?"

He worked up his nerve and took her gloved hands in his. She flinched at first,
but he wouldn't let go. He looked into her eyes. "Gina -- look at me. Try to
remember. We were just starting to mean something to one another. Can you feel
that? Can you feel anything of that, when you look at me?"

Gina stared at him, searchingly. At first her expression was as clouded, as
sunless, as the sky above. . .then, slowly, a dim sort of light appeared in her
eyes.

Remembering, if not understanding, she said, "There. . .is no other refuge. . ."

Ray's heart leaped.

"There is one," he said quietly.

He leaned in and kissed her. Gently; briefly; tenderly. She didn't quite return
it, but didn't resist either; and as he drew back, her eyes widened with dawning
recognition.

"Ray. . .?" she said softly.

She saw him; she knew him. "Jesus!" he said, laughing. "Gina --"

And then everything went white.

At first he thought it was the storm -- snow obscuring his vision. Too late, he
recognized it as the same blinding light which had claimed him in Valle's
bedroom. "Gina!" he shouted, now as then, but she was gone, and he was gone,
drifting in some too-bright limbo --

And then he was back in the Refuge.

Seated in the same dining room chair he had found himself in earlier--as Valle's
mocking laughter filled the room.

Ray jumped up. Valle stood just a few feet away, enjoying himself hugely.
"Moving! Tremendously moving. I'm a better dramatist than I ever suspected."

"You bastard, I got through to her!"

"I allowed you to get through to her," Valle said, hard. "There's nothing here I
don't control, Bava. Nothing. You want proof?"

Valle outstretched his hand.

A woman came up from behind Ray; a woman, seen from behind, with teased hair,
poured into a tight minidress, hips swaying as she sashayed on stiletto heels to
Valle's side. At first Ray thought it was Debi, or Angelique -- then realized, a
second later, that her hair was not blonde, or auburn, but brown. . .

She turned around, a vacuous smile on her face.

Valle grinned. "Ray: Have you met my fiancee -- Gina?"

Gina looped an arm through Valle's -- and giggled. "That's Gina with a 'G.'"

Ray stared at the woman he loved, twisted and corrupted yet again. . .and lost
control. With an inchoate cry of rage, he lunged at Valle, knowing he might well
murder him, not caring if he did.

But after only a few steps, Ray's cry turned from one of rage to. . .pain. His
head exploded in agony; worse than a dozen migraines, a cold fire that seemed to
consume everything behind his eyes. His hands went reflexively to his head. He
lost his balance and fell to his knees.

Through a red fog of pain he looked up at Valle. "God damn it! What are you
doing to me?"

But through that fog, he could see that Valle, for once, was as surprised -- and
baffled -- as Ray himself.

This time, the blinding white light did not come.

This time, there was only darkness. Darkness and pain.

And then, as if from a distance but drawing closer with each word, voices:

-- BP one-ten over seventy --

-- pulse sixty beats per minute and climbing --

-- respiration normalizing --

Ray woke to cold. But not the cold of the storm.

He was naked; he could tell that immediately. Cool air brushed his legs, torso,
face.

He opened his eyes.

His life returned in a rush.

His name was Raymond Bava. Born in Detroit, Michigan; moved to Chicago when he
was five. Parents, Salvatore and Donna Bava; one sister, Lorraine; one brother,
Joseph. . .

He looked down at himself. He was lying, naked, on a gurney. Electrodes pasted
to his chest, neck, virtually every part of him. A plastic safety strap cut
across his mid-section, securing him to the gurney.

Graduated Northwestern University, class of '22, B.A. in journalism. Two years,
Chicago Sun-Times online edition; year and a half, WABC radio, New York City;
three years, Global Online News, Boston bureau, assignments editor. . .

A woman in a white med-tech uniform smiled down at him, her voice calm and
reassuring'. "It's all right, Mr. Bava. We've found a cure, you're going to be
fine." She glanced up at another, male, med-tech. "His BP's stabilizing; I think
we can move him now."

He remembered it, now; all of it. Remembered how his work had suffered first,
the difficulty in concentrating followed by loss of motivation --a complete lack
of desire to work. Then, even more frightening, the gradual aphasia, the
inability to recognize words -- and words had been at the heart of his life.
Finally, the diagnosis: a glioma -- a tumor the size of a golf ball on one of
his frontal lobes -- malignant, growing, an d encroaching so thoroughly on
vascular tissue that surgical removal was impossible, even by liquefaction or
laser. . .

The gurney hummed along on its magnetic treads, and in the midst of this metal
room, Ray caught a glint of light on glass. Chafing against the safety strap,
Ray turned his neck to get a better look.

He saw exactly what he expected to see: a glass tube, seven feet high by three
feet in diameter, its interior partially frosted over with ice crystals. Beside
it, computer screens displayed sluggish, almost nonexistent EKG and EEG
patterns, but Ray barely noticed them; he was looking at what was inside the
glass tube.

It was a man's body -- naked, presumably, though there was so much frost inside
the glass that much of him was merely a pink blur. The face, however -- that was
quite distinct. A face in calm repose, its eyes closed.

Valle's face.

As soon as he recognized it, the gurney had passed it; moved on to another tube,
another body, another face.

A woman's face. Beautiful, serene -- at least on the outside.

Angelique.

One by one they appeared, ghosts made flesh: Thomas. Debi. Franklin. Justine. .
.

Gina.

Suddenly his last memory of her -- happily perverted into Valle's personal sex
toy -- came back in vivid, horrifying detail. He saw her arm loop eagerly
through Valle's, and Ray struggled to talk, to make his long-unused voice work;
a dry rasp sounding vaguely like the word stop was all he could force out.

The female med-tech smiled at him, assured him again that everything would be
all right -- and pressed a hypo against his shoulder. He felt the cold kiss of
metal, a sharp jab, the familiar entry of a nanochip into his bloodstream. .
.and as the chip began manufacturing precisely the amount of anesthesia that
would be necessary for surgery, Ray's newly returned life and memory slipped
away from him, into darkness once more. For a while.

He had been in cold sleep less than two years.

The reconstructive technology necessary to save the veins encroached on by the
lesion had almost been perfected when he entered suspension. He had known that;
had been told it would probably be sooner rather than later that he would be
awakened. He was lucky, he knew -- some of these poor bastards had been in here
for decades, would be here for decades still.

He didn't feel lucky.

As soon as he was able to speak again, to put two words together coherently, he
began telling anyone who would listen that there was something wrong with the
cryonics equipment. He told them about Valle; about the nightmare landscape in
which Ray and the other sleepers found themselves, about Valle's manipulation of
that nightmare, and of the others.

He was told he'd been dreaming. That not only did people dream in cold sleep,
they needed to dream, for long-term psychological health, and so biofeedback
regulators were used to release serotonin into the bloodstream, and trigger REM
sleep.

He told them that it was more than a dream: that the sleepers were linked, maybe
by the same biofeedback devices that altered their brainwave patterns to induce
dreaming.

They assured him that wasn't possible.

I can tell you their damn names! he yelled, merely confirming their belief that
he was in a hyper-delusional state of some kind. Franklin Dreeden, Thomas Valle,
Justine Valle--

Thomas Lindley, they corrected him. Justine Lyons. That threw him; it hadn't
occurred to him, though it should have, that Thomas was not really Valle's son,
nor Justine his daughter-in-law. They pointed out to him that the sleepers'
chambers were each labeled, obviously he saw their names before he himself
entered suspension, garbling them in his dream.

They told him that people often said the dreams they had in cold sleep were more
vivid than any they had ever known -- despite the fact that the dream-process
was slowed down as much as their physical body-functions. And even if what Ray
suggested was possible -- why, they countered, would one person be able to
control this common dream?

After a day or so of paging through reference data on dreams via the WorldNet,
Ray came back with a theory: Maybe Valle knew that he was dreaming. "Lucid
dreaming," it was called -- the ability to control a dream by "waking up" to the
fact that you were in one. Because Valle knew that--and the others didn't--he
was able to wipe out their memories (as he couldn't do to Ray because of the
lesion in his brain?) and impose new personae, new pasts, on their sleeping
psyches.

His doctors exchanged worried looks and began talking about "cryonically-induced
delusional systems."

lust wake one of them up, dammit! Ray implored. lust long enough to find out for
yourselves!

He was told, quite firmly, that that was out of the question. It took a full day
to bring a person out of cold sleep, and as their body functions accelerated, so
too did their diseases. Without a cure waiting -- the doctors simply couldn't
take that risk.

They assigned him a psychological counselor, as they did all sleepers, to ease
the transition back into society. After a week of sojourns into the waking
world, the dream no longer seemed quite as palpable; even Gina's face became
indistinct, difficult to evoke.

Eventually, he began to wonder if it had been just a delusion, after all.

He was discharged not long after.

His attorneys had capably managed his living trust in the two years he'd been
asleep; his stock portfolio and savings had increased by almost forty percent in
that time -- tax-deferred, under the law, for anyone in cold sleep. Ray left the
cryonics facility in Maryland, took the maglev train to Boston, found an
apartment in a building only two blocks from his old one on Beacon Street, and
went to check his belongings out of storage.

Not that there was much in the way of belongings. A computer; a closet-full of
clothes, about a thousand cyberbooks, and at least as many paper ones; all of it
carried from one city to another, one furnished apartment to another, over the
past fifteen years. Looking at them now, occupying a ten by fifteen foot storage
space in Watertown, he winced at this meager encapsulation of a life. There'd
been relationships, of course -- he was no monk -- each inevitably ended by a
new job, a new town. He'd never put down roots; never wanted to, really.

And now he did. Despite everything, despite his uncertainty about whether it had
even happened at all. . .he found himself wanting to put down roots. . .in a
dream.

He should have been out looking for work; making some attempt at jump-starting
his life. Instead he found himself plugged into the WorldNet, trawling for data.
Using skills better used to support himself to chase a ghost. Or, more
accurately, to exorcise one: to demonstrate to himself that the woman in his
dream had no correlation to the real woman who had entered cold sleep at
Westland Cryonics. To get on with his life.

All he knew was her name. Everything else, the details of her life, her family
history, was probably fabrication -- his own, or (if this was real) Valle's. But
just for the hell of it, he accessed the latest edition of Who's Who in American
Medicine, initiated a search request, and entered her name.

To his surprise, within moments an entry flashed onto the screen:

BEAUMONT, GINA FRANCES, immunologist; b. Harrisburg, Pa., Nov 2, 2003; d.o.
William Charles and Eve (Madison) Beaumont. B.Sc., LaSalle College, Pa., 2024.
M.D., Harvard Medical School, 2028. Intern, resident, Presbyn. Hosp., Pa.,
2028-2030. . .

Good God, he thought; a doctor? What were the odds of his dreaming her to be in
the medical profession, even as a nurse? Fueled by a sudden rush of hope, he
accessed the Harrisburg, Pennsylvania phone book and ran a search for Beaumont,
William James, or Beaumont, Eve. It came up zero. He widened the search to all
of Pennsylvania; still nothing. New Jersey, New York, also zip. He realized how
futile this probably was; their number could be unpublished for all he knew.

He thought a moment and tried another tack. He went back to Who's Who in
American Medicine, this time entering her parents' names. After a moment, he was
rewarded with:

BEAUMONT, WILLIAM J(AMES), endocrinologist; b. Hartford, Ct., July 3, 1973, m.
Eve Madison Feb 2, 1998, d. Gina Frances Nov 2, 2003, s. Louis James b. Dec 1,
2005. . .

Excitedly he printed out the entry, including the information that Dr. Beaumont
was currently a research fellow at New York Hospital. He called, left word with
Dr. Beaumont's receptionist, then went back online and continued searching all
the while waiting anxiously until, two hours later, the phone rang.

"This is Dr. Beaumont," came a pleasant voice on the other end. "How can I help
you?"

Ray took a breath and, summoning his best professional tone, reeled off his
credentials. He said (his voice only slightly shaking) that he needed some
information on Beaumont's daughter, Gina, for a piece he was writing. He didn't
elaborate; either the man would inquire further, or make an assumption.

He made an assumption. "Is this about her work in Thailand?" Beau-mont asked.

"Exactly," Ray said. "When did your daughter first go to Thailand?"

There was a weariness, but also a certain pride in Beaumont's voice: "Just after
the first outbreak there of the Osaka virus," he said. "She was an immunologist,
and she believed a certain combination of anti-viral medications might boost the
immune system of Osaka victims. How much do you know about the virus, Mr. Bava?"

"Only that it's invariably fatal," Ray said, truthfully, "and that even after
ten years, it's barely been contained in Asia."

"I don't claim my daughter was" -- he caught himself -- "is a complete altruist;
a piaster saint. I think her dedication to her work was composed of equal parts
compassion and pure stubbornness -- a refusal to admit defeat. But it's true she
was moved by the plight of the victims, and stayed on longer than her research
really required. Eventually, as you know, she contracted the virus herself.

"Even then, she didn't return to the States until she was informed in no
uncertain terms -- by me, actually -- that if she didn't enter cold sleep
immediately, the damage to her body would be too extensive for any hope of
revival. I think she felt guilty, frankly, for leaving; she had the money, she
could go into suspension. But every day she saw hundreds of people who didn't
have that option, and it pained her."

The pain in Beaumont's voice was equally clear. Ray said, quietly, "You must be
very proud of her," and Beaumont's voice cracked a little when he said "Yes."
They spoke a little more about Gina's childhood, funny stories only a father
would know, and at the end, when Beaumont asked him when the article would
appear and Ray had to fudge a date, Ray felt a flash of guilt at the ruse, and
smoothly brought the interview to an end.

But his guilt was far eclipsed by his elation. This was the Gina he knew! True,
none of the details of her real life corresponded to those "invented" for her by
Valle -- but the essence of her personality, her courage and her character. .
.that was the same. The woman who went to Thailand was the same woman who had
defied Valle, who had put herself at risk to save Ray's life; he had no doubt of
that.

It had all been real. He was certain of that now.

And he had to save her from Valle's manipulations.

He spent the better part of a week trawling the WorldNet for data on the other
sleepers, not all of it as easy to come by as that for Gina. He spoke with
Thomas's wife; exchanged e-mail with Debi's parents; had a brief consultation
with Franklin's doctor. He accessed everything he could find on Valle, in fact
as well as in dream the owner of a successful bioengineering company. He even
had a short conversation with the cryonically "widowed" Moira Valle, who did not
sound in any way upset that her husband of thirty years -- thirty long years,
from the tone of her voice -- was currently on ice, courtesy an extensively
metastasized cancer of the lymph glands.

When he felt he had enough, he contacted his attorneys and told them his plan.

They told him he was crazy. He said that might well be, but there was nothing
unethical about what he was asking, and if they couldn't cooperate, he'd simply
find attorneys who would. Eventually they acquiesced, setting up the meeting he
requested with Westland Cryonics' chief of operations, John Cumberlin, a dour
administrator in his sixties, and Westland's legal counsel, an energetic young
man named Haas.

Ray sat quietly as his lead attorney, David Chang, went over Ray's story once
again; when he was finished, Cumberlin sighed indulgently and assured him that a
full systems check had been run upon Mr. Bava's complaint, and everything was
functioning flawlessly.

"That may well be," Chang said. "But this technology is still very new. There's
still so much we don't know about the workings of the human mind -- can you
discount the possibility the technology is affecting the sleepers in ways
science hasn't anticipated?"

"That's errant speculation, counselor," Cumberlin said with a trace of
irritation.

"Well then how do you explain my client's experience?"

"Mr. Bava has obviously had a dream. A very vivid, very disturbing dream."

"Yes," Chang said carefully, "I believe you told him there was reason to believe
cold sleepers dream more vividly than normal. . ."

"Exactly," Cumberlin said. "Mr. Bava is suffering from a cryonically induced
delusion, of sorts -- nothing more."

Haas's antennae went up, but it was too late; Ray's attorney pounced:

"So you're admitting," he said, "that this 'cryonically induced delusion' is a
result of your negligence?"

"He didn't say that," Haas said quickly.

Ray smiled.

Chang went on, "You knew sleepers were prone to these kind of nightmares, yet
you took no steps to guard against them. Sounds like negligence to me."

"You have no case, Mr. Chang."

"Whether we do or not," Chang said, "I hope you have your spin doctors ready to
handle the public fallout when this hits the media. A lot of people out there
still don't quite trust the whole concept of cold sleep. . ."

Haas and Cumberlin exchanged frustrated looks. Finally, Cumberlin made an almost
imperceptible nod to Haas, and the attorney turned back to Chang. He sighed.
"And what exactly would it take, counselor, to make your client. . . 'whole'?"

Ray smiled again. He spoke for the first time.

"Not much, really," he said calmly. "I just want to be put back into cold
sleep."

It was not, by a long shot, the answer they had expected.

It took less than a week for a new living trust to be drawn up, with some very
specific and (to everyone but Ray) baffling instructions, but soon Ray found
himself once again lying naked on a gurney as electrodes were pasted onto his
body -- and, shortly after that, climbing into the same sleep chamber from which
he had only just been released. He watched as the glass lid swung shut; listened
to the hiss of anesthesia and liquid nitrogen being pumped in. Shivering once at
the cold, he closed his eyes; the light behind his shut eyelids turned from red
to white.

For a long time, it seemed, he was conscious of nothing but whiteness, oblivion,
a sense of floating free without direction. He panicked a little: Would this
work again? What if it didn't, what if he couldn't find her again? What --

He heard the rising howl of the wind in the distance.

Felt the bitter cold of the storm.

He opened his eyes.

He was standing outside the Refuge -- the inverted "snow globe," as Thomas
described it -- the storm raging around him, the cold as bitter and palpable as
ever. But now he was no longer frightened of it. The airlock stood a few yards
away, the particle field neutralized; calmly Ray entered it, the field
activating behind him, the access door opening in front of him.

The door to the hydroponics lab was open; Ray crossed the grounds of the estate,
entered, and cut through the lab into the main corridor. The hallway was empty,
and, except for the distant moan of the wind, silent. Valle and his damned sense
of theatrics. He entered the dining hall; it, too, was empty. He was about to
ascend the staircase and head for the conservatory when he heard the familiar
silken/steel voice behind him:

"Mr. Bava. Welcome back."

Valle stood in the doorway, holding a wine glass; he raised it in a mock-toast.
"Dom Perignon, 2018. Join me?"

Ray shook his head. "Why bother? None of this is real."

"Oh, it's real enough to suit my taste." Valle smiled, taking a sip of the
champagne.

Unafraid, Ray took a step forward. "I looked you up, Valle: Fortune 500 company,
billions in assets. . .doesn't this all seem kind of low-rent, in comparison?"

Valle shrugged. "I didn't come here by choice, Mr. Bava, any more than you did.
But it has its compensations. True, in the real world the pleasures of
exercising power come from overcoming resistance. But it's also true that you
often exert that power indirectly, at best; it filters through so many levels,
so many people. Here, I exert power directly. No variables; no intermediaries.
The application of pure, brute force -- total and absolute control over another
human being. It's not without its intoxications."

"Recreational therapy for sociopaths," Ray said acidly.

Valle sighed. "At first, you know, I found you stimulating; a rogue element in a
game I controlled a little too completely. That's why I usually allow one player
to retain some sense of morality -- where's the sport in it otherwise?"

He finished his champagne, then tossed the glass aside; it shattered against the
wall.

"But frankly, Mr. Bava, you're beginning to bore the hell out of me." At the
word "hell" -- as though to demonstrate Valle's utter mastery of this world --
Ray suddenly found himself on a parched desert landscape, nothing but heaped
rock formations for as far as he could see, a huge swollen sun filling a burnt
orange sky. A blisteringly hot wind assaulted him, nearly knocking the breath
from him until he reminded himself that it was no more real than the cold of the
storm had been.

He heard a sound behind him. He turned to find the other "guests" -- all six of
them -- standing several feet away, their expressions curiously blank, eyes
glassy as mirrors.

"If someone dies in a dream," Valle mused, "do they die in reality? What do you
think, Ray?"

He glanced over at his guests.

As one, they began to change.

A more profound change, however, than Ray had ever witnessed: their bodies
rippled and expanded, muscles gaining so much mass that their clothes burst to
shreds. Their skin turned scarlet and leathery; their hands lengthened into
claws; they sprouted enormous, lizard-like tails. Their faces, still half-human,
were recognizable despite their red, slitted eyes, the crooked horns bulging
from their foreheads, and the satanic smiles creeping across their faces. . .

Valle turned to the demon who used to be Thomas and said, flatly, "Kill him."

Thomas grinned demonically and eagerly sought to comply. With a fevered hiss and
impossible swiftness, he lunged at Ray. Ray narrowly managed to dodge him by
jumping up onto a low outcropping of rock, briefly gaining some high ground.

Thomas swiped at him with his claw, grazing him, drawing blood. The others --
Justine, Franklin, Debi, Angelique, even Gina -- hissed and spat their approval.

Ray kicked Thomas in his huge chest, doing little more than irritate him: he
roared his displeasure and took another swipe at Ray, who escaped it only by
jumping off the rocks.

The desert sand seemed suddenly hotter; he could feel blisters forming on his
feet, even with his shoes on.

"Thomas, you were right: there is more to you than this," Ray said. "This is all
a dream, his dream -- you understand?"

Thomas snarled and lunged at him again; Ray, knowing he could never compete with
his demonic strength, backed away. . .

"You're not a demon! You're not his son! Your name is Thomas Lindley --you're a
teacher --"

"He's lying!" Valle called out. "You are Moloch, abomination of the Ammonites!
Kill him!"

Thomas smacked Ray across the face with his claw, sending him sprawling to the
desert floor. The sand seared his skin and his cheek split open like a bruised
peach, his ankle twisted as he went down.

Thomas/Moloch advanced on him.

Ray scrambled to his feet, but the pain in his ankle shot like lightning up his
leg. "You have a wife, and three children!" Ray shouted, despite the pain. "Your
wife's name is Anne, your children are Dennis, Kimberly, Michelle --"

Thomas slowed; some faint memory stirring in his fogged mind. Ray kept up the
volley of words: "You are more than hunger, and anger, and envy. You're a good
man, Thomas. Try to remember!"

Valle, growing alarmed now, cried out: "You are Moloch! Bringer of plagues,
slaughterer of men --"

"Anne," Ray countered, "Dennis. Kimberly. Michelle --"

Thomas stopped. Recognition glimmering in his blood-red eyes. . .

Shaken, Valle glanced at the others. "Get him! Get him!"

The others converged on Ray. Justine hissed and made a rush for him, which Ray
barely avoided; Franklin snapped up a heavy boulder and hurled it at him with a
roar. Ray fell to the ground, rolled out of the way, scrambled to his feet--

Gina was suddenly in front of him, a demonic smile on her once-sweet face. She
flexed her reptilian tail and sent it smashing into him, snarling with glee as
Ray fell backwards onto the sand again.

The demons began to advance on him, en masse.

Ray gathered his breath as best he could and shouted, "Justine! You're--you're
the eldest of three children -- your brother's name is Howard, your sister died
when she was five -- killed by a drunk driver! Her name -- her name was --"

Justine stopped in her tracks.

Her voice was distorted but soft as she said, "Marie. . ."

There was a tear in one of her slitted eyes.

Ray got to his feet. "Franklin! Your wife is Emma, she visits you in the sleep
chambers every week. Angelique -- you really were an author, you gave hope and
inspiration to people, you're not a murderer! Gina --"

He forced himself to look into her transformed face. "You tried to save
thousands. . . from the Osaka virus. . ."

All of them were stopped dead now, the veils of memory starting to lift, the
realization that this was just a dream beginning to sink in. "All of you, you
have minds and souls of your own! Try to remember. Remember the people you
loved--" He glanced at Gina and his voice caught: "The people who love you. . ."

Valle must have been furiously attempting to consolidate his control, because
the hellish desert landscape abruptly vanished, and Ray and the others were
suddenly back in the Refuge.

"No!" Valle shouted. "You are Belial, Lilith, Astaroth, Ishtar!"

But apparently his guests no longer believed that, as one by one they began
reverting to their human forms: leathery skin softening to normal flesh, slitted
eyes expanding, lizard-like tails vanishing. In moments, they were human again,
not demons -- but neither were they the same people Ray had known. Freed from
Valle's influence, their true personalities had reasserted themselves, in their
faces and in the clothing they envisioned themselves wearing.

Thomas was recognizably the same, still young and handsome -- but the unpleasant
curl to his lips, the narrowness to his eyes, had vanished. He actually had a
warm, open face -- and his smile had neither derision nor bitterness in it.

Justine's face, too, had lost its hard edges; there were faint laugh-lines
around her mouth and eyes. Angelique, no longer the haggard paranoiac, was
closer to the woman Ray had seen in the tape -- she held herself with
confidence, assurance. Debi, far from the bimbo Valle had desired, was a
sedate-looking businesswoman in a tailored suit-dress. Franklin looked a bit
sour and curmudgeonly, maybe not someone Ray would ever want to know, but
certainly not the spineless craven of Valle's fashioning. And Gina. . .

Ray was almost afraid to look. But, thank God, she was still the same woman he
had fallen in love with -- her hair shorter, her clothing more stylish, but
recognizably the same woman.

Ray turned to Valle, to see his reaction -- but Valle was gone.

Moments later, the dining room, the house, the Refuge was also gone.

For a moment they were all standing in the midst of the freezing storm -- and
then the storm was gone, as well.

The dead trees flickered and faded, replaced with the bright white limbo Ray
knew all too well.

Angelique smiled her silent gratitude at Ray, then she, too, faded like a snow
sculpture left in the thawing sun.

Franklin followed. Then Debi, and Justine.

Ray could guess what was happening: now that the individual sleepers were aware
that they were, in fact, asleep, they were returning to their own dreams -and
the common dreamscape they had shared was starting to break up.

Ray took Gina's hand. "Don't let go. We can still be together." But already he
could see light through the pale oval of Gina's face, and he knew she was
slipping away.

"Ray. . .when you left. . .was it because they found a cure?" Her voice sounded
faint, though she was right in front of him.

"Yes, but I'm not going anywhere. I made t he arrangements before I came back:
they'll thaw me out when they thaw you out -- when they find a cure for the
Osaka virus."

The light was shining through her eyes now.

"I can't let you do that," she said, dismayed. "Sleep away the years -maybe
decades--?"

Her voice was growing fainter still, like a train whistle dopplering into the
distance.

She put a hand, translucent as milk glass, to his cheek. "I. . .I love you, Ray,
but. . .if you really love me. . .please. Go back to your life."

Ray took her hand -- still warm, despite what was happening -- and cupped it
with both of his. "You don't understand," he said softly. "Life out there --
without you -- that's the dream. This is real."

She was staring at him with awe and wonder. "Ray. . .I. . .I can see light. .
.shining through your eyes."

Tears welled up in her own eyes, and the light behind them made them sparkle
like diamonds.

"Dream of me," he told her. "Dream me back to your side, as I'll dream of you.
We can do it."

She kissed him -- lightly; tenderly -- on the lips. "And if we can't?" she said.
Her voice was a million miles away.

He smiled. "Together or not. . .I'll never leave you."

And then the light burst through the delicate outline of her face, and she was
gone.

At night, when the noise and bustle from the research section directly above is
stilled, and the only sounds on Cryonics Level Seven are the soft trill of the
cardiac monitors and the low sigh of the respiratory supports, the med-techs who
work the graveyard shift gather for coffee and conversation, wondering sometimes
at what thoughts, if any, pass through the minds of their sleeping charges. Can
they hear sounds? Do they feel the cold? How long does it take for a nerve
impulse to cross a synapse? To travel from one hemisphere of the brain to the
other? If they think, do images and ideas move like glaciers across the
landscape of their minds -- does it take days, months, years to complete a
single thought? Do they dream?

Many years ago -- long before anyone here today was working at the center -- a
man, released from suspension, told not only of dreaming in cold sleep, but
sharing that dream with others. His story would have long since passed into the
realm of urban legend, of cryonics mythology, but for one thing: he was still
here. Sometimes, in the black hours of morning, the med-techs speculate about
what could possibly have motivated a young, healthy man to return to cold sleep.
Sometimes --though this is against all the regulations--one or two of them go
down to section five, corridor J, and look at him, trying to figure it out. Next
to the man is a woman who's been in suspension as long as he has, and the techs
gaze at them as Egyptologists study the remains of pharaohs, with awe and a
certain reverence. Most of them go away frustrated. Some of them claim to see
something. Some insist that they can make out, on the faces of both the man and
the woman, the trace of a smile. And they wonder if they shall live long enough,
any of them, to find out for sure.